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passivenovember · 3 years

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mama said to smile while I still have teeth : PART TWO

(part one)

(or) Billy gets his wisdom teeth removed and Steve understands things will not grow back in the spaces we leave for them.

Billy hops down from the passenger side like it’s written in a script or something. Part B of his master plan, logical in the journey of what happens next.

He swings the car door open and charges through wet grass. Neon green blades stick to the heel of his boot, lopsided smile drawn forward to inspect the ferns nestled on either side of a welcome mat that says Bless this Mess.

It’s as if he’s been here before.

As if he belongs.

Steve watches Billy collapse on the porch swing, arms and legs folded under him like a house of cards toppled over in the wind. He must not realize that it’s functional, or something, because Billy sits bolt upright and uses the toe of his boot to get the swing moving, once he does.

Really moving, like. Banging against the bay window his mother leaves clear for her azaleas, moving.

Billy hollers. Makes grabby hands, like, “Push me!”

“You’re gonna get sea sick.” Steve chuckles, watching Billy shrug and take it for a ride.

Billy brings the swing to a sudden halt, when. “How come you’re all the way down there?” he asks.

Catching on.

Steve watches him struggle to get his feet up on the swing. Feels his heart shudder in fondness, when Billy grins up at him triumphantly.

“Didn’t know there were other options.” Steve says.

“There aren’t. Come here.” Billy gestures to the porch when Steve’s legs decide to fizzle out. “It’s a carnival ride. You got one on your porch, at your house, and--”

Steve claims of the second cushion when Billy removes the thumb from his mouth long enough to spell it out for him. “Cuddles.” He says.

Simple.

And his eyes are so blue. Bright. Steve doesn’t have a choice because, really, they’ve swapped sides with the rope.

Up and left this dimension all together when the flea got squashed by the acrobat deciding that they could skip the apologies and get to the good part.

Steve realizes that he wants this.

Billy. Scooting impossibly closer and humming the bridge to Mama Mia. “You smell good, Stever.” Billy says around the pad of his thumb. Dripping more blood down the front of his hoodie, and. Trying to get his face in Steve’s neck.

Which should be gross, but.

Steve just clears a path. Makes room for the warm nose that sniffs a trail up and around one ear. “You said I smelled like ass,” He accuses, sounding shaky. Star struck.

Billy’s breath feels like fairy wings. “Wrong. I said you smell like sweet grass and have a sweet ass, didn’t you pay attention to my context clues?”

“Um.” There’s something warm on Steve’s throat. Going wet in the middle, parting and sucking and--

He pulls away.

Billy smiles at him. tries to get in Steve’s lap but the bench moves with him and when the bench moves with him, Steve’s got a brick wall glued to his side.

Shivering. Cold, or afraid. Nervous.

“You tired?”

Billy shakes his head. With his whole body. “Wanna hang out.”

“You can sleep for a little bit. I’ll still be there, when you--”

Billy grunts. Refuses, so. Steve rubs the side of Billy’s shoulder, instead. Fabric and muscle and heat living somewhere beneath his fingertips. “You don’t wanna go in?”

“Nope.” Billy somehow works his way under Steve’s arm.

Feels right, striking oil in the heartland.

It starts raining again. Somewhere along the way, it starts getting cold and Billy shivers, peering up at Steve like he made it happen.

Like the heavens split open and bleeding at his command.

Steve chuckles, pushing off the swing and laughing harder when Billy squawks like an angry rooster.

“Where are we going?” He demands.

“Inside.”

Billy seems to hate that, like. Instantly.

“Don’t make me carry you, Hargrove.”

“Oh, look who’s got Popeye arms all of a sudden.” Billy leans back on the porch swing, thighs spread like. He has no idea how fucking--

It doesn’t matter.

“You need to eat.”

“My stitches haven’t fallen out.”

“Yeah, and they won’t. Not for days.” Steve leans against one of the porch posts, trying not to crack a smile when Billy’s thumb finds his mouth again. “Unless you’re planning to eat your hand, we gotta get some mac and cheese--”

Billy’s off the swing before Steve realizes what’s happened. He wanders in between the ferns in their bright orange pots. Jamming a thumb at the number above the doorbell, like, “This door?”

And. “Yeah?”

“This is the one with the cheese?”

“And the mac too.” Steve winks at him, watching a warm blush spread across a sea of freckles. He cocks his head, like, “What’s up?”

“Maybe we can do inside.” Billy says harshly. “For a minute. To kiss the noodles, or something--”

“Kiss the?”

“Open the door.” Billy suggests. “Now.”

So Steve does, biting down on a smile when Billy clomps through the foyer, tracking dirt and grass and pieces of Steve’s heart across imported marble.

“This is so huge.” Billy says softly. His eyes go bright all of a sudden and he’s right in Steve’s face. “You probably have so many pillows here. And chairs. And blankets, too, like. The big ones--”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s build a fort, Stever.” Billy says desperately. He bounces a little, managing to knock more mud onto the floor beneath him. “Let’s build a house. For me and you, and the noodles if they wanna stay the night.”

Steve grins, untangling Billy’s fingers from his hair. “Yeah, I guess we could do that.”

“Really?”

“Sure.” Steve points to the ground. “Boots off first, though.”

Billy jerks away. “No.”

“Stop being a little shit for like, three seconds--”

“Stop being party pooper. For like. Your entire adulthood.” Billy shoots back, collapsing onto the staircase and holding his foot in one hand anyway.

Steve holds his breath.

Billy stares at the boot, and his foot inside the boot, like maybe the connection between them is lost.

Steve feels like an asshole for finding it adorable, but. Billy looks up at him through his eyelashes.

“I think I’m still high.” He theorizes.

“Yup.” Steve tugs his own shoes off, placing them on the rack by the door.

“I don’t think I can untangle the knots.” Billy says miserably. He tries, though, scowling like the laces have done it on purpose.

Steve watches him struggle, and laughs at the struggle, before holding out his hands. “Give me your foot.”

Billy stares at him. “Really?”

“Our only other option is to wait around until you figure it out, and who knows how long that’ll take.” Steve says, waiting for Billy to shoot back with something venomous.

He doesn’t.

He coos, instead. Like a little baby bird, pointing his toes in the air with a giggle. “I’m Cinderella and you’re the prince,” Billy declares, laughing harder when Steve drops to his knees and gets the boot off in one go. “Prince Charming, Prince--”

“You’re just saying that because I have amazing hair and you have little blonde princess curls.”

“Hey.” Billy deadpans, holding out his second foot. “It grows out of my hair like that.”

“Head.” Steve chuckles.

Billy’s mouth falls open in a silent O, brows drawn in confusion.

Steve puts both muddy boots on the rack next to his own, smiling down at Billy’s puzzled face. “Your hair grows out of your head like that.”

“It does?” Billy asks in wonder. “I like it. Do you like it?”

And. “Yeah. It’s cute.” Steve says, holding out his hand. “Come on. Lunch time.”

Billy lets Steve pull him up, swaying a little bit at their proximity.

He doesn’t pull away, and.

This close his eyes aren’t just blue, they’re green. And yellow. And brown, like a kaleidoscope.

“Am I a cute person, Stever?” Billy asks softly.

“The cutest.” Steve says. Without thinking, but.

It doesn’t seem to matter. Because Billy’s high as a fucking kite, wiggling his hips and saying, “I think you’re cuter than me. Softer. Like an opil painting, or maybe a box of raspberry macaroons.”

Steve chuckles, not even trying to pull away when Billy’s fingers try to force their way into his mouth. “When have you had macaroons?”

“I haven’t,” Billy admits easily. “But I always thought that maybe you tasted like one.”

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but. Billy’s gone after that. Running his fingers along the wall and disappearing around the corner.

“C’mon, Stever! I want cheese flavored kisses.”

And Steve.

Doesn’t think Billy will remember this.

They order pizza instead. Steve knows that Billy’s gotta be careful with his incision marks. Not go to heavy on the fat and grease less than three hours after his surgery, but.

Steve tries to hold blue eyes even as they slip through his fingers. Pools and rivers disappearing beneath the Earth.

He’s starting to think that maybe.

All it would take is bat of those stupid eyelash and Steve would throw every responsible thought out the window.

Billy says, “You got a laundry machine?” After the pizza performs its vanishing act.

And Steve says, “Yeah, why?”

Two seconds before Billy is stripping down naked.

“Woah, woah, hey--”

“There’s Kool-Aid on my hoodie.” Billy says from behind a wall of fabric. “I can’t walk around with red juice on my clothes, people will know I’m a vampire then.”

“You’re a vampire?” Steve tries to look away from Billy’s stomach.

The smooth planes of skin, soft just above a layer of muscle. He puts a hand over his eyes for good measure. Safe keeping when Billy gets the hoodie off in one go and he’s standing there.

Shirtless.

In the middle of the room like some kind of wet dream Steve never even realized he had.

Billy grins, curls sticking out in every direction. “They’d think it.”

And Steve’s brain is, fucking.

Offline. Distracted. He blinks, tearing his eyes way from Billy’s chest long enough to go, “Think what?”

“That I’m a vampire.”

And Steve thinks he couldn’t be. Too tan. Too--

Alive. Steve shrugs. “I don’t think it.”

“That’s because you don’t think.” Billy tosses the hoodie onto floor. He points at Steve, like, “Can I wear your sweater?”

And Steve looks down at himself. “This one?”

“Yeah.” Billy says. “Smells like you.”

And Steve doesn’t even have to think about it. Doesn’t even consider what it might mean, pulling the fabric over his head and handing it to an asshole who examines his Kate Bush tee shirt and says, “That one too.”

Like he’s trying to make Steve catch on fire.

Steve shakes his head. “What will I wear if you take all my clothes?”

Billy shrugs, like, “Not my problem.”

And he’s uncovering truths with those eyes. Getting a little too close to the root of it, the revelation, so.

Steve gives Billy the shirt too.

And tries not to think about the four seconds that they’re both shirtless. Standing in a room together, just. looking. Charting unmarked skin, eyes glazing silver springs on bronze soil.

Billy puts the tee shirt on, and the sweater over the top of that, until It’s just Steve.

Half naked in the living room.

“I’ll go grab another shirt, and then, um.” It feels like the walls are burning down. Steve’s thoughts fall like bullet points. “We should go outside,” He says. “Wanna go sit on the swing?”

Billy frowns. “’S cold outside.”

“Yeah, but.” Steve picks the hoodie off the ground. “I’ll keep you warm.”

Billy’s fingers don’t leave his skin. Don’t soothe, when they light trails of smoke over his collarbone.

Steve leans into the touch anyway.

Gives into the pull, anyway, when Billy grabs his cheek and brings their eyes together, looking every bit like he’s got something to say.

Something important.

“What?” Steve asks. Wanting to touch. Wanting to--

“You know my mom threw a plate at my old man,” Billy says, eyes resting on a scar they both know is there. Hidden, like gold beneath caverns of rock. “The day she left, she. Threw my Mickie Mouse at him.”

“Your plate?”

“It was a bowl.”

“I’m sure he deserved it.” Steve says easily. “I’m sure it was the only way to win.”

“There aren’t any winners with stuff like that.” Billy says gently. His eyes are watery again. Steve’s getting suspicious of it, like maybe that’s just how the world comes together for Billy. With water and sphere’s of blue.

God hovering over the surface of the deep.

Billy sighs, thumb twitching against his leg. “Neil would’ve killed her.”

And Steve hates Neil.

Knows more than be probably should. Pays attention, takes notes.

“That just means she’s resourceful, right?” Steve whispers. “Using the stuff around her to fight fair.”

“Wasn’t fair.” Billy whispers, finally looking away. Eyes studying the rain as it drips from the trees above.

“Clean, then.” Steve shifts, rocking the porch swing as he sits criss-cross with his knees pressed against Billy’s thigh. “Even fight. Clean break.”

He wonders how he can get those eyes on him again.

How he can be taken apart.

“No such thing.”

Steve doesn’t get it. “What do you mean?”

“All breaks sever the bone.”

And Steve thinks. Maybe. “Are you high?” He squints at Billy’s face, trying to see if it’s written on his forehead.

Billy smirks. “I think so.”

“Still high.” Steve says, wanting to lift his fingers. Prod at swollen cheeks. He doesn’t, when Billy’s eyes start welling up again. “Don’t cry.” Steve suggests, sliding closer. “Don’t cry, Billy--”

“I’m sorry about--”

“I know.”

“That night. It was. I never should’ve--”

“She’s your sister.” Steve says fiercely. Because. “We were trying to protect you.” And he was. At the root of it all, deep in the center of himself. Steve turns outward again, feet planted on the ground. “We didn’t want you to get roped into our shit. With the monsters, you were.”

Billy’s staring at him.

Watching. Steve can feel it, so. He closes his own eyes, just to even the score. To make it easier when his lips say, “You’re too beautiful to have your life cracked open like that.”

Billy doesn’t speak until he does, voice flickering like candle light behind a window covered in frost. “Life was already laying in pieces on the rug.”

And there are fingers in Steve’s hair. Brushing tears from his cheeks. Billy grabs him by the throat with more care, more.

Love.

Than Steve ever thought he would get in this life. Billy moves him until they’re right in each other’s space. Breathing the same air, no longer running races to escape one another.

It feels right.

Billy smiles at him. “Thank you.”

And Steve doesn’t know what for. Doesn’t care what for, but there’s a finger on his mouth, parting his lips. Billy’s eyes burn a hole in his tongue. Clear a path through muscle and bone, until Steve is pulled forward.

Into an embrace.

Into a trilogy of kisses; on the corner of his eye. On the bridge of his nose. On the bow of his lip that turns biting. And bruising.

Billy asks if he can lay on Steve’s chest, because.

“I’ve always wanted to do that.” He says shyly. Billy kisses him once more and and Steve.

Goes down easy.

#harringrove #wisdom teeth #part two #I was so touched at the requests!#so here she is.#I don't know #lol #I hope you enjoy it anyway!

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piningfor-pinestwins · 3 years

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Natural Attraction - Bruised Egos (Stan X Reader Slow Burn; Eventual Not SFW)

Your group makes it partway through the dense forest before you lose daylight, grateful for the four flashlights that Fiddleford had stowed away for this. You’re stepping unsteadily in the midst of thorny brushes and thick vines, grateful for your sturdy boots as you step on less-than-solid ground and sink into some mud. Grunting with effort as you make your way up the slippery hill, you hear Ford swear from behind you as he does the same.

“Where do you think the thing would even be at night? What kinda birds are active in the dark?” Stan’s voice comes from behind you a little loudly, leaning heavily on a stick he’d found somewhere during the trek, using it to support his weight as he goes. Ford’s head whips around to find his brother’s form in the dark, giving a harsh “Shh!” as he continues onward. Stan murmurs a quick, “Sheesh, just askin’,” as he continues onward. You follow Fiddleford’s steady light from ahead of you, trusting the man as he continues his walk, and turn to quietly answer the man anyway.

Owls, mostly. I think you have nighthawks in this part of the country, too, You inform him, shivering. You nearly run your nose into Fidd’s back, finding the lanky man had come to a stop ahead of you to hold up a branch for you, after apparently being hit in the face with it. Taking it in hand, you murmur a thank you, pointing your flashlight to the ground for the twins behind you to duck under the thing when they get closer.

Ford ducks easily beneath the thing, murmuring a thanks to you as he does. Stan isn’t far behind, though the man nearly stabs into your foot with his makeshift walking stick. “Sorry, hon,” he quickly apologizes, lifting the thing out of the soft dirt by the toe of your boot. You smile fondly despite yourself, motioning him ahead with the beam coming from your flashlight.

Get moving, slowpoke. I don’t want you to get lost behind the pack, you tease in a whisper. He catches your smile despite the dim light of the moon and chuckles himself, shifting his walking stick beneath his arm, and flashlight into the other hand. His fingers land at your elbow as he tugs you along, the warmth of the digits seeping through the teeny-tiny holes of your sweater.

“Yeah, you neither. With your luck, our superbird’ll think you’re some sorta prey.” Stan’s voice is playful, and this close you’re able to make out the features of his smile despite the darkness surrounding you. You chuckle, walking beside him with your twin flashlights and his hold leading the way. Me? What about you? You argue back, You’re the one with more meat on your bones.

He snorts at that (only to be shushed by his brother once more), careful to watch his step and not be too loud again as he moves alongside you. “What, me? Honey, I’m all muscle--the thing wouldn’t want something as chewy as me.” You laugh louder then, shaking your head, only to have the light of Ford’s flashlight pointed at you. You can make out his frown and--jeez, what is he, your older brother? Sheepishly, you give him a little wave, biting into your bottom lip.

When his light goes away from your face, Stan snickers, having found getting you in trouble amusing. You move to elbow him despite his hold on your arm, and he chuckles as he jostles you in response.

Still giggling, you take one step in the wrong direction, yelling out in fear as your heel slides the wrong way against the soft ground. The joint twists as your weight starts to fall backward, and you drop your flashlight, the sharp pain in your ankle now an afterthought to the fear of a fall down to an unseen point below.

Ford and Fiddleford turn at your cry, but Stan’s already there, the hand at your elbow quickly landing at your forearm instead. In one swift movement, he tugs you to his chest, grunting quietly at the impact of your face against his sternum, budging half a step backward with his own force.

“Fuck--are you alright?!” Stan asks breathlessly, looking down at you with worry as he pushes hair from your face. You pant as you wince, your weight coming back to your twisted ankle. Heart beating in your ears, you don’t hear him very well. Looking up at him wide-eyed, his worry only deepens. “Hon, you okay?” He repeats, and enough of your brain is back to you that you’re able to nod in response, shifting your weight against him to ease off your hurt ankle.

Stan says something to the duo coming closer, but you miss the bulk of it as you try to slow your breathing, glancing back to where you would have landed--and, as it turns out, where your flashlight has landed. The plastic thing lies muddied and flickering, left useless on some rocks nearly ten feet below. Shivering from the cool wind that blows through, and from the realization of just how lucky you’d been with Stan’s touch, you clutch a little tighter to the leather arm of the man’s jacket.

“Alright, that’s it. With me gettin’ my face smacked with a branch, and her nearly dyin’, we’re wrappin’ this walk up for the night. Soon as we get past this line o’trees, we’re hunkering down for the night.” Fiddleford insists, looking to you apologetically. “I’m sorry, I should’a said something about the drop. I saw it, but only just ‘cause my light was pointed just right.”

I-It’s fine, you stammer, ignoring your white-knuckle hold to Stan’s sleeve and shaky knees. Ford huffs a sigh, scrubbing lightly at his face, “I’m glad you’re okay. We’ll...need to make up the majority of our movement during the day, then. It’s safer that way, anyway. God forbid one of us had found that fall while chasing our creature.” Your colleague turns, murmuring something to Fidds as he points toward a clearing past the trees, the both of them pointing their flashlights to make their way.

Stan’s hand lands carefully at your lower back, guiding you as he points his flashlight to the ground. “C’mon, I’ve got you. Take a deep breath, okay?” He murmurs the words quietly, and you feel the warmth of his hand sliding up and down the fabric of your sweater. You do as he says, exhaling a shaky breath. S-Sorry, about all of this, you whisper, taking another breath as you carefully step away from him, wincing at the feeling in your twisted ankle.

To your surprise, however, the hand on your back slides down your arm, catching your wrist with a light, but firm touch. Stanley looks at you uncertainly, and your slowing heart rate decides to uptick once more at the way his cheeks darken in the moonlight. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like...W-Well, I wouldn’t mind holding onto you until we’re out of these trees. If something happens again, I can...be here. Plus, y-you’re hurt. Can’t risk a fall on a bum ankle.”

You chew into your bottom lip, grateful for the warmth of his hand enveloping your own cold digits. He’s looking to you as if asking permission, a softness in his gaze that you’ve now seen multiple times from the stubborn man, yet you can never quite get enough of. Nodding, you give him what you think he’d been waiting for, and he shifts your hand in his, his thumb and forefinger becoming snug bookends to the knuckles on your own hand.

Clearing his throat, Stan glances over his shoulder to spot the steadily moving lights of his brother and F. Shifting his weight to move toward them, he squeezes your hand to get your attention too (as though your attention wasn’t already on your joined hands).

“C’mon, we shouldn’t get too far from those two. Is your foot good enough to walk on?” Stan’s gaze searches your face for pain, the beam of his flashlight pointed to your boots before you wave his concern away with your free hand. I can walk, just...maybe a little slower than I was, you look at him apologetically and he nods, moving to reflect the change.

Now on your hurt side, Stan switches the flashlight into his other hand, quickly wiping his palm against the thigh of his jeans before he takes your hand once more. He sticks his elbow out just slightly, allowing a makeshift armrest for your forearm as he leads you to take one step, then another.

Being sure to point his flashlight to the ground, he avoids your eye, casting you a quick glance as he pulls you alongside him. You follow along easily, still trying to catch your breath from the excitement of the near-miss and the...current connection. You almost want to thank him, but from the way his eyes stay turned down from yours, he’s definitely both focusing on the ground and not looking at you.

“Easy here, honey. Lean on me while we step over this root,” Stan murmurs, and when you do as you’re told, he easily takes on your weight as you both continue walking. Legs still shaky from adrenaline, you limp at his side as he guides you toward your research partners, further into the trees.

As you step over a log, leaning into his broad shoulders to do so, you take an extra moment to adjust your hand in his by entwining your fingers. He stills the moment you do it, looking at you with an unreadable tint in his moonlit gaze, but he says nothing as you continue walking. Nerves flutter in your belly, wondering if you’ve pushed this too far--maybe this handholding really was only supposed to be out of convenience, or to make sure you aren’t any more of a klutzy nuisance during this trip…

You’re certain that you imagine it when his thumb brushes against the back of your hand. You flush when you feel him do it a second time, more pronounced than the first.

When you look at him from the corner of your eye, his profile is illuminated by the moon. His jaw is set tight, and you can make out the dark flush of his cheeks as he pulls you close once more. He notices you’re distracted, the smallest lift of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but Stan clears his throat to will it away as he murmurs something about watching your step. You hobble your way over another pair of tangled-up roots before you find yourself stepping out from the dense woods, finally finding the small clearing that Fiddleford and Ford are already preparing.

Fidds is working on a makeshift ‘campfire’ for light (made of one of the flashlights pointed at one of the large jugs of water), making the light shift like the bottom of a pool on a sunny summer day. Ford is sitting on his knees, grumbling in frustration as he wrestles with the plastic rods of the portable tent.

Despite the light (which you’re grateful for, don’t get you wrong), you wish it was closer to a real campfire. You’re cold, and the dew on the long grass around your ankles is soaking into your skin, making the chilled breezes even cooler.

“Gimme your tent and I’ll get’cha set up.” Stan mumbles, releasing your hand from his and holding it out to you expectantly. You aren’t focused on his words, looking down at his hand, meeting his eye, and then coming to the realization with a quick, Oh! as you reach to unclip the tent bag from the duffel bag on your shoulder.

He smiles a little as he takes it from you, looking at you with something like amusement in his gaze as he looms over you, just a little. “Are you going to hold up alright while I do this, honey?”

You aren’t sure if it’s the tone of his voice, or his close proximity, or the way his brow quirks as he smiles at you, but heat floods your cheeks as you nod, trying to keep your cool despite your fluster. I-I’ll be just fine, thank you.

The brunet wiggles his brows at you as he turns away, stomping down some taller grass in order to flatten the area he’s planning to prep your tent. You push your hair behind your ear, shaking your head as he drops to his knees to unzip the bag holding the tent.

Damn him. Sincerely, honestly, damn him. You’d come here to work, to focus on the astounding artifacts and creatures waiting for you in Gravity Falls. But no, instead you’re enamored by him. You rub at your face, feeling the way your mouth screws up as you try not to think too hard about it...especially when the target of your misplaced focus is just feet away, effortlessly putting together your tent for the night.

You fidget with your hands as you watch him for a moment, one thumb brushing over the palm. If you concentrate hard enough, you think as you look down at your hand, you can forget the lingering warmth of his palm against yours, or the way your fingers entwined into his, or how you’d imagine his touch would feel somewhere other than your hand...

“How’s your foot?” Ford’s voice startles you from where you’d stared off at your palm, and you nearly jolt from the tree you’d been leaning back against. A pair of polydactyl hands catch your elbows before you can lose your balance too much more, pulling you gently to rest more soundly against the bark at your back. The brunet ahead of you quirks a brow with a short chuckle, “Now, was that because of your foot, or because I scared you?

You can’t just sneak up on me! You half-laugh in response, feeling heat in your face. You hadn’t meant to be so distracted, really. Ford smiles a little wider at your words, and you can see that all-too-quiet analyzing gaze pointed your way. Despite the low light, you think he can see your flushed cheeks, and you bring your hands up to cover the warm patches on your face. He nods as if confirming something, cheeky grin only widening, “What has you so distracted, hm?” Ford asks, and you suspect he’s teasing you. The ass.

L-Looking for our mystery monster, obviously. Since the rest of you are so busy, I thought I’d keep lookout, you give one solid nod, feeling the heat only spread beneath your fingers as you lie. Nothing to report yet.

“Well, glad someone worries,” Fiddleford’s voice comes from the direction of where Ford had been not long ago, and you look over the brunet’s shoulder to see the lanky man and Stanley both hard at work to put together the unfinished tent Ford had left in poor shape.

Your tent, however, is perfectly set up and ready for what additions you have to bring into it. Ford sees the two working and gives you a secret sort of smile, offering you an arm to help you toward your shelter. “I do worry,” He argues back, careful to support your weight as you lean against your friend, “But I trust her to be our lookout. Are you saying you don’t?” He winks at you as you make your way across the clearing toward your shelter for the night, and you smile as you turn the teasing toward someone else, for once.

You really should be more upfront with your feelings, Fiddleford. Just be honest, do you trust me? You grin as you ask the playful question, turning to look as the honey-blond man sputters and flusters, “O-O’course I do! I’m not one’a those backwards thinkin’ hillbillies who--who..!”

“Easy, easy!” Stan laughs, reaching to pat the man’s shoulder, “She’s just givin’ you hell, buddy. You’re right though--it’s good to know someone cares, seeing as Ford’s too busy getting handsy with his new assistant.” Stan grins cockily toward both you and his brother, which only makes both of you fluster.

“M-Me?!” Ford sputters a little loudly, and you’d almost laugh if you didn’t know where he was going with this, “I’m not the one who’s asking about how she was in college, or--oof!” He quiets himself with a grunt, and you move to pat his back as though you hadn’t just elbowed him in the ribs.

W-Well, uh, good to know you all respect me, and...enjoy my company, you laugh a little, acting innocent even as Stan catches your eye. He’s very much fighting a laugh, having watched you silence his brother. Ford quirks a brow at you, grumbling as he rubs at a rib with his free hand, “And to think, I came over here to help you to your tent.”

And I thank you, you grin, giving the arm you’re holding onto a little pat as the man rolls his eyes. He’s smiling a little when you make it to your tent, and you take a moment to shift and hand him your duffle bag, thanking him quietly as he ducks alongside you to help you into the tent. You thank him again as he lowers you to the floor of the shelter, finally smiling your way even as he rubs at his side while dropping the duffle bag to you. “Get settled, I’ll see if Fidds’ first aid kit has one of those ammonium chloride ice pack things.”

Thank you, you repeat, fiddling with the zipper of your carryon to open the thing. As the man steps from the unzipped flap of your tent, you call a soft, Sorry for the elbow, which only makes him snort a laugh.

“I didn’t know it was a sore subject, jeez.” He teases over his shoulder.

It’s more of, uh...not a subject at all, you correct with a wave of your hand and a little laugh, quickly turning your attention to getting your folded quilt from the duffle bag. The brunet quirks a brow, but doesn’t say anything as he purses his lips and makes his way from your tent.

You hear the three chatting amongst themselves as you set up your space. It’s definitely darker in the tent than outside of it, but you manage well enough to situate your quilt and pillow in a corner of the tent, patting the blanket down to be sure it lays flat. You pat around in the duffle bag next, searching for your pj pants. When you’ve found them, you make quick work of your boots and pants, wincing as you try to keep standing with your aching ankle.

You hear a quiet swear and the sound of fumbling feet as a flashlight beam shines against the flap of your tent. “Y’decent?” Stan’s voice asks, and you yank more frantically onto your pajama pants to get them up. Y-Yeah, one sec--! You call out, tripping over your own pant leg and falling over with an ungraceful grunt.

“Shit, did you fall again, toots..?” Stan murmurs, taking the liberty to open the flap and make his way in despite the fact that there’s still fabric resting low on your thighs. By some miracle, the flashlight beam points at the back of the tent first, allowing you just enough time to yank the pants up to your hips just as the light points down to where you are on the floor. The light makes you squint up at Stan, your nose wrinkled a little as you give him a little smile. He’s smiling down at you, clearing his throat as he kneels down to meet you.

“Honey, you can’t go tripping in front of me every chance you get.” He teases lightly, putting down the flashlight near you while his gentle hands help you sit back up. You shake your head as you sit up, stretching your legs out in front of you with a bashful smile, I promise, it’s not on purpose.

“So you aren’t fallin’ for me?” Stan asks, his voice low as he searches your face, gaze meeting your own. Despite the playful smile on his face and the quirk of his brow, there’s something that makes your stomach flip. You frown despite your fluster, feeling almost like the butt of a joke. Be nice to me, I almost died, you grumble, pushing lightly against his shoulder. He leans with the push, chuckling as he moves to sit beside you. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I thought of the joke all the way back there, and...well, I couldn’t let it go.” Stan’s smile goes a little more tender, reaching over to pat your knee gently.

Stan perks up a little as he seems to remember something, patting behind him to find the plastic packet he’d brought in. “I brought you an ice pack for your ankle, if you think it’ll help. I think Fidds has some pain killers too, but you’ve gotta get some food in ya first.” You nod at his words, taking the thing from him and shaking it to activate the chemical reaction inside. I packed some snacks, actually, you look at him then, and his brows quirk as he reaches for the flashlight again to find the goodies.

In my bag, in a little tupperware with a green lid. It’s just peanut butter sandwiches, but food is food, you smile, stretching to put the finally-getting-cooler pack on your foot with a wince.

“Hopefully you packed enough,” he chuckles, tucking the flashlight beneath his chin to hold it as he digs into your duffle bag with both hands, “ ‘specially since I was your savior and all, back there, it’d be an honor for you t’share your dinner with me. So I don’t have to eat whatever F and Ford are inventing out there.” Stan teases with a glance to you and a grin. His hands stop their motion in the duffle bag, and you can see his cheeks darken in the low light of the tent.

You worry even without the confirmation of what he’s seen, sure that...well, something in that bag must have caught his attention. Y-You find the sandwiches? You question, moving slightly to check what’s in his hands before he quickly shuffles them into the duffle bag once more, “Shit--ah...Yeah!” Stan pulls the little plastic container from your bag, eyes widening at the neatly-folded pair of lacy underthings atop the box.

Your face heats as you quickly reach out to snatch the fabric away, crumpling it in hand and shoving it beneath your thigh, effectively sitting on it as you look at him wide-eyed. He fights a smile and loses, the grin on his face accompanied by its endearing dimple, both visible and tugging at your heartstrings even in the low light. “See, that’s what I was tryin’ not to do--sorry, honey,” Stan laughs, now passing the offending tupperware over for you to fidget with as he moves the flashlight to stand upright, pointing the light above the both of you to better light the tent.

Snooper, you scold him for the second time today, but this time it comes out in a mumble as you turn your attention to open the thing, a little smile on your face. You can’t be upset, you know it was an accident, but...well, despite the little embarrassment within you, there’s something else you can’t quite place.

He snorts a laugh, moving his hand up to cover his eyes, crooked smile still wide across his cheeks, “Here. Can’t snoop if I can’t see, happy now?” You glance up at him and smirk, picking up a cut half of the peanut butter sandwich and putting your hand out in his direction, waiting for him to uncover his eyes and take the makeshift meal.

“Y’know I can’t hear your head nodding, right? I need words, babe!” Teasing, Stan peeks at you from between his fingers, amber gaze falling to the sandwich half held out to him. “Oh, thanks--” He uncovers his eyes then, smiling still as he reaches for it and bites in greedily. You almost laugh, If you were so hungry, why didn’t you say anything before?

“‘Cause then one of those two would’ve told me to go hunt or somethin’,” He scoffs between bites, looking at you with humor, “Ford would’a picked me some sort of weird-looking thing to eat and said it’s ‘high in protein, just right for you Stanley’, an’ Fidds probably would’ve invented something for me to kill the thing with, like….I dunno, magic slingshot or somethin’,” Stan murmurs into his sandwich. You snort a laugh as you munch on your own half, kicking him lightly against one of his knees, They help in the best ways they can.

“Oh, sure--every way except actually hunting dinner themselves,” he laughs, moving his foot to nudge your leg back. You laugh too, shaking your head as the both of you eat. You eye him subtly, watching how he leans back against his palm, idly crossing his ankles as he looks around your (his) tent. “Y’know, ‘m glad this thing holds up good. I’d hate to think of you getting stuck with a bum tent, or just a little quilt on the ground, like you wanted,” Stan teases lightly, looking over to you with amusement as you both eat.

You shrug as you finish up, smiling as you wipe lightly at the corners of your mouth, I would have ended up fine, probably, you catch the way his gaze moves with your fingers at your lips, and you quickly glance away to warrant him the blessing of thinking he hadn’t been caught, Else fails, we’d all have just ended up cheek-to-cheek in one tent.

Stan scoffs a laugh, licking a stripe of leftover peanut butter from his thumb and sucking the remainder from the digit casually, releasing it with a quiet pop, “Like we were in the truck? I don’t think our cheeks could handle anymore squishin’ like that.” He glances over to you, catching your gaze as it drifts from his lips. Amber eyes crinkle in the corners when smirks, returning his thumb to his lips once more (you’re sure there’s no more peanut butter, and that he’s just torturing you). “Thanks for the snack, sugar, but I think I’m gonna turn in for th’night. Knowing those two, we’ll be awake way too early, and one of them will bitch all day because no one brought coffee--”

Already a step ahead of you, you grin, pointing toward your duffle bag. He casts a glance over and shakes his head, pointing that crooked smile your way, “Geez, you think of everything, don’tcha?” Stan winks at you as he moves to get up, standing hunched in the not-quite-tall-enough frame of the tent. He looks down at you, and you catch him look over your pajamas, smile giving himself away as he points down to your ankle, “Do you need any more help tonight, or are you alright?”

You shake your head, I think I’ll keep myself in for the rest of the night, thanks. As long as I don’t have to pee at some ungodly time, I’ll be fine. Stan snorts at that, taking the few steps toward the flap of the tent, “Just don’t cry to me if you end up dreaming of waterfalls,” He teases. You wrinkle your nose at the implication, but can’t hold back the laugh as you scold him for being gross, Stanley.

“Sorry, babe! You’re stuck with this gross man this whole trip.” Stan winks over his shoulder at you, grinning wider as he turns to leave, “Actually, reminds me--I should make a pitstop before I hit the boys’ tent for the night.”

Gross! You insist with a laugh, hearing him join in with a chuckle of his own. If you had a shoe nearby, you’d throw it at him. Goodnight, Stan. I’ll see you in the morning.

“See you then, babe. G’night.” He smiles in your direction, a genuine tenderness in his gaze as he ducks out from your tent. You shuffle your way to the flap to zip it closed, hearing the trio of boys giving each other hell as Stan returns to their shared sleeping space, but not being able to pick out individual words to hear what hell is being given.

Not that you mind, really; you are sleepy. A near-death experience and some….moderately embarrassing flirting will do that to a person. Using the flashlight Stan had left, you make your way to settling into your makeshift bed, remembering something from the general health class you had to take in college and using your duffle bag at the foot of your comforter as a way to raise your ankle. You fold yourself into the quilt easily, settling in for the night with a soft sigh that turns into a yawn on its way out.

Reaching behind your pillow, you pull out your journal, cracking the cover open and holding the flashlight beneath your chin as you write out some accounts of the day (and, when you remember it exists, adding the polaroid of the creature’s tracks over the terribly-drawn version you’d made). When you finish up with your entry for the day, you start to close the journal, instead seeing the pages open up to the one previous-- Stanley’s pages.

You glance to the flap in your tent, almost as if afraid he’d be standing there to catch you. You don’t know why it worries you--especially since you’ve added both a Fiddleford and Stanford page, to keep track of those two as well, but… There’s something akin to indulgence, you think, that stirs in your chest when you make an addition to this page. Today, it’s an addition to the ‘Likes’ list, (peanut butter, which truthfully doesn’t surprise you because the only food listed in the ‘Dislikes’ list is canned Spam), and today’s date with the simple, albeit shaky addition of Stanley caught me from falling into a ravine on our hike today.

Not wanting to go too into detail this late at night for fear of nightmares, you shut up the journal and return it to its place beneath the pillow, setting the flashlight beside the cushion as you turn the thing off. You settle in for real this time, tugging the blanket to your chin and exhaling a soft, slow breath to try and relax yourself into sleep. As your eyes start to drift closed, you have the inkling that you’ve forgotten something--though what it is, you’re unsure. It must not matter much anyway, as you’re pulled easily into the warm darkness of sleep.

It mattered.

A lot, actually.

You swear, Stan was either a medium without knowing it, or some sort of magical asshole who bestowed curses on you without you noticing. You’re swearing at him under your breath the whole way as you hobble into the woods to find a suitable spot to pee.

Much more relieved, you’re now making your way back to your tent, flashlight held tightly in one hand, a roll of toilet paper tucked beneath your arm, and your other hand outstretched to help you make your way through the trees and back toward the campgrounds. You shudder at the cool breeze that’s blown in, indicative of the upcoming cold front you’d overheard about on the television a night or two back. Finally seeing the campsite coming into view, you sigh, knowing you probably went further out into the greenery than you needed to, but….

Well, god forbid any of your research partners find you with your pants down.

Making your way closer to the campsite, you sigh, rubbing at your face sleepily. To say it had been a long day was a gross understatement; you were exhausted.

Which is why you worried that you were still in your tent dreaming, as you hear the fluttery sound of air moving somewhere near you. You look up just as quickly as you heard the noise, pointing the flashlight up to see better in the dim night light.

There’s nothing..?

Despite your rising nerves, you keep moving ahead, maybe a little quicker now as you point the flashlight to the campsite. You’re more aware of the life in Gravity Falls now; you know of the gnomes, the eyebats, the creatures who move in the dead of night who are, you think, moving with you even now. The familiar prickling feeling of being watched begins to scratch at the back of your neck, but when you glance behind your shoulder, only the darkness of the woods greets you.

A fluttering again, this time directly above you. You’re almost more hopeful than certain that you’re just hearing things, and instead of pointing the light to the sound, you motion toward your goal as best as you’re able to. You limp quickly, hearing the sound once more--closer, maybe just past your ear? You yelp in fear as your battered ankle gives way, falling into the plush grass mere feet from where you’re supposed to be sleeping. Pointing the flashlight up, you try to catch a glimpse of the thing that’s been chasing you, hoping to at least see the thing before it gets you.

Stan’s voice saying your name makes you jump from where you’re lying on the ground, whipping around to point the flashlight beam at him. He winces, blocking the light from his eyes as he moves closer to you. He must have been at least somewhat asleep, only in loose sweatpants, his hair mussed as it falls into his face. “Honey, what happened?” He asks, hurrying with his arms outstretched down to you. You’re trembling, but you hadn’t noticed, clutching close to the flashlight as you shake your head, Something was after me--i-it flies. I don’t know, you stammer, unable to get out one set sentence as his arms wrap around you. Stan lifts you easily, holding you to his chest as he looks up, trying to find the flying thing despite the dark.

“What’s going on--oh shit!” Ford’s voice calls, eyes following Stan’s gaze up just as your flashlight beam lands at the topmost branch of a tree. You feel the chest against you puff up, feeling Stan’s arms bracing around you as you hold your breath, too, looking up to try and find the source of the fluttering against your ears.

You spy the yellow eyes first, following them down to the large, feathery body of probably the biggest owl you’ve ever seen. Fuck, you whisper, all at once feeling foolish at the realization that it’s just… a common creature. Tears prick in your eyes, embarrassment and exhaustion melding into the response before you can stop yourself.

“Jesus, that damn thing--I thought I heard hootin’ somewhere in the woods, but...I dunno, I thought it’d be smaller,” Stan says, still holding you as he makes his way up the rest of the little hill that the campsite is situated on. “Even as big as this specimen may be, I don’t think it’s our offending creature at the Shack. Do you?” Ford’s voice asks you, and you shake your head, avoiding his gaze.

N-No, not at all. The tracks may be similar, but the ones back home are much bigger, you confirm, pointing the flashlight back down to watch the grass ahead. You realize that you haven’t put any weight back down onto your bad ankle, feeling the gentle brush of Stanley’s chest hair against your arm as he continues to hold you. You fight the urge to push out of his arms, especially when you feel your bottom lip wobble in protest to you trying not to cry.

You feel Stan shift his arms, the clearing of his throat echoing in his chest as he turns to face Ford. They seem to have some unspoken conversation about you while you’re pretending to ignore it altogether, and instead of listening, you hear the tree leaves rustle heavily overhead. The owl must have taken off.

“You poor dear,” Ford says, coming closer to where Stan stands with you in his arms. You’re not looking at either of them, waving Ford off with a little huff, I’m okay, it just scared me. I just need to crawl back into bed, today has b-been awful.

You bite into your trembling bottom lip, willing it still between your teeth as you give Stan a pat on his arm, signaling that you’d like to be put down. The brunet seems to understand, but hesitates, instead only slightly relaxing his grip of you. “Let’s get you back to your tent, then. You need the rest.” He soothes, taking a few steps in that direction. You give in, letting yourself be carried as you glance to see Ford (and now Fidds, who’d woken up sometime in the commotion) ducking into his own tent, rubbing at sleepy eyes and yawning all the same.

You don’t have to carry me, but thank you, you mumble quietly, stifling a sniffle as you rub your nose with the back of your hand. He shrugs, the motion shifting you as he pushes open the flaps of your tent, “No skin off my back, babe. Jus’ can’t risk you falling again. If you bust your head open, then I’ll only have these two assholes to deal with again, and I can’t let that happen.” Stan jokes, and despite your exhaustion it makes you smile, even if only a little bit. Still, the hot sting of tears wins out, and you’re only just able to wipe at your eye when the first one falls, just as Stan steps into the little tent with you. You feel him shift again to set you down, but he stops at the sound of a sniffle. “Hon, you alright?” He asks, and you can now hear the gravel that comes with sleep in his voice. You swear, you’ve never heard him be this tender, but it still sounds so familiar all the same.

Y-Yeah, you say, voice shakier than you want it to be, I just feel, uh...dumb, you laugh a little, and he frowns down at you, tilting his head to get a better look at you. You turn your head down slightly, still trying to hide under his attention, Thanks again for helping me. Again. The full situation washes over you in a wave, and you flush with your tears at the realization that he’s holding you to his chest--which would be embarrassing on its own, maybe, but he’s shirtless and you’re crying and, really, this isn’t a good look for you--

“Honey, y’gotta get outta that head sometimes,” He scolds gently, and you look up at him in confused surprise at his words. That almost makes him laugh, a little smile quirking at his lips as he guides you to your feet. “Careful,” He whispers, hands on your waist to keep you from putting too much weight on your bum ankle as you lower yourself to sit on your knees atop the blanket. You glance down, remembering the roll of toilet paper firmly tucked beneath your arm, and you toss the thing to the duffle bag, watching as it bounces off, and then lands haphazardly next to the thing.

“You had an iron grip on that thing, didn’t ya?” Stan asks, and you sniffle as you smile, After losing the flashlight the first time, I had to be sure to hold on tight.

It’s his turn to look at you with surprise, his little smile growing more genuine as he sits in the middle of the tent. He’s closer than he was when you ate together, but he isn’t imposing. He’s just...here. And that’s nice, you think.

“I’m not really the killjoy of this group, but you really should’ve said something before you left, toots. What if I wasn’t up, and you had to fight that thing all your own?” He asks, sleepy voice surprisingly a little stern. You glance over to him as you reach for your pillow, fluffing it idly before wiping a stray tear at your cheek. It’s your fault I had to go out, anyway, you argue lightly, sure his brow is quirked as soon as you say it, You’re the one who mentioned waterfalls.

“Aw, sorry, but you should know by now that I’m right about a lott’a things. It’s annoying as hell, I hear.” It is, you laugh with him, finally glancing up to meet his eye. You feel a little pitiful; foot and ego injured as you watch the kind man who both helped and hurt that cause.

Stan has this unreadable look in his eye, one you’re sure you’ve seen before, but it worries you all the same each time it happens. You glance down at your hands to avoid the shift in his gaze, but find yourself looking up again when he says your name like a quiet question, his brow furrowed at you with a tilt of his head.

“Are you doin’ okay? Today’s been...hell and a half for you, and I know you had t’be scared to death.” He reaches out, palm lying flat on the edge of the quilt beneath you, and though he leans to go with it, he doesn’t make any further move to touch you. You rub at your face with a sigh, pushing hair from your face as you start to nod.

I mean, the day wasn’t all bad, but...nearly falling however-many-feet down, and then being stalked by an owl weren’t the most fun parts, either, you admit, feeling the way your voice wavers when you do so. You shrug, smiling a little when you look at him now, and you try to ignore the way your heart pulls at his worried face, you do, but...with those amber eyes looking at you with such tender concern, you have to admit that it absolutely pulls, tugs, and twists at your heart. Damn him.

“I’d offer to take you back home, but I don’t think you’d like that. Plus, those two would get lost without you.” The brunet is careful in his word choice, something you appreciate. You reach to comfort him in the same way, reaching your hand out to lay atop his with a little rub of your thumb across the back of his hand, and his face softens a little when you reply, Absolutely they would, they don’t even know what kind of critter they’re going to face. Truthfully, neither did you, but you had theories. Though...somehow, you think, this isn’t the time to bring them up.

You can feel the energy between you shift before you see it, his palm turning upward to meet your own. The warmth of his fingers glides against your hand, fingertips curling just under yours to cup your hand with his own. He’s watching down at your joined hands, thumb brushing lightly against your four knuckles when he speaks again. “Are you, uhm...unhappy, that I keep trying to help you?” Stanley’s voice is soft as he asks the question, and you almost need him to repeat himself with the way your heart is hammering in your ears. When you don’t answer immediately, he continues, “I-I know that you’re strong. You’re very smart--well, no shit you’re smart, you’ve done all this for gods’ sakes--anyway,” He breathes, and you swear there’s a deeper color to his cheeks even in the dark here.

“I like helpin’ you. I’m not nearly as smart as you ‘n Fidds and Sixer, but I gotta be useful somehow. And you’re just, uh...easier to help, than the other two. You’re marginally less annoying, and...prettier, too.” Stan glances up then, his gaze searching through yours with an air of desperation. You can tell, there’s maybe more to be said, but his adam’s apple gives a decisive bob when he closes his mouth into a thin line. Whatever else there is to be said, it isn’t for tonight.

I don’t mind, you finally say, looking down at the way your fingers have folded nicely over his own. Your heart thuds against your chest, so loud in your own ears that you’re afraid you might shout these next words. You take extra care, then, to whisper them. I...may not like being helped, or I may get embarrassed or frustrated and run off sometimes, but...I do like you. And I don’t mind when you’re the one helping me.

You turn your wrist at an almost-uncomfortable angle to put the back of his hand upright without breaking his hold of your fingers, leaning forward just so to press a little peck to the back of his hand. Turning your hands back the right way, you look up to him, almost afraid of what his reaction may be. What if he laughs at you? Or finds you stupid, to think you could resist his charm? What if he stands now and leaves into the darkness of the wood to leave you alone and embarrassed and in need to explain the situation to your colleagues?

“Hey,” he whispers, and you realize that you’re so afraid of the what-ifs that you’ve almost missed his reaction entirely, though that’s the whole reason you looked. Stan’s face is certainly flushed, vibrant eyes forgoing their sleepiness as he looks at you with such entranced sincerity. For a moment, you think he’s forgotten what he wanted to say, but he interrupts that thought with a firm tug at your arm. Before you know it, you’re pulled off-kilter, leaning toward him, then closer, before you reach to catch yourself with your other palm against his chest.

His lips land on yours then, the gentle scratch of stubble against your face as you lean into him. This close, with your hand on his chest, you can feel the way his pulse mimics yours. You have half the mind to tease him, but the idea stutters out when the palm of his free hand slides up to cup your jaw. Stan holds you there as you kiss him, tasting just slightly of peanut butter and feeling so warm, your noses bumping together gently before he pulls back for a breath. You open your eyes to find him already looking at you, his gaze still sliding up from where he’d been looking at your mouth.

“Y-You’ve gotta get some rest, sweetheart,” He whispers, the newest petname settling itself very terrifically into the space carved into your heart by the last one, “We both should, uh...sleep.” You feel yourself nod, though you still lean into his touch against your face until he pulls it away. Stan bites into his bottom lip, clearing his throat as he pats your hand on his chest, and for once, you realize, the jokester is near speechless.

Moving your hand away from his body, he pulls your joined hands close to his face, pressing one last kiss there before his fingers release your own. Watching as he stands, Stanley pushes his hair from his face, rubbing gingerly at the back of his neck as he turns away from you and toward the exit. He stands there a moment, almost like he’s forgotten what he’d gotten up for in the first place. Though you aren’t exactly itching to kick him out, you smile as you give him the reminder.

Goodnight, Stanley, you whisper, and your heart does turns when he looks at you from over his shoulder. He’s brushing his fingertips against his lip subconsciously, the movement stalling when he meets your gaze. His dimple reappears for an instant, his smile at you wide and inviting.

“Goodnight, sweetheart. I’ll see ya, first thing in the morning.”

I’ll see you then, loverboy, you tease, giving him your first pet name. It doesn’t go unnoticed (for as not-smart as he claims he is, nothing goes unnoticed with this man), and he looks absolutely giddy when he leaves out the front flap of your tent. You think that you hear him trip and swear to himself, but he doesn’t return. The boys in the tent next door begin to murmur, and you suppose he’s found his way back in there when you hear his tell-tale laugh amongst the other voices.

You touch your own lips, reminding yourself of the feeling of his own there, and your heart goes racing again. You huff a little laugh of your own, shaking your head, and realizing you haven’t stopped smiling since that man left your tent. You settle into your quilt again, still exhausted, but much less tired than the last time you’d been here. Reaching under your pillow, you find your hardback journal once again, turning easily to the pages about Stanley once more. In one swift curl of cursive, you make an addition, just under your large declaration of Stan’s name at the top of the page.

AKA: Loverboy.

#nic's fics #stan pines x reader #grunkle stan x reader #gravity falls x reader #stanley pines #[mr. mystery]#last update of the day! expect one more post announcing some stuff!

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pressedinthepages · 3 years

Text

Beneath Each Other's Bones

My fic entry for @eskelbigbang <3

Please also check out @drachedraws two amazing pieces of art that they made for this fic!

Relationship Tags: Eskel/Geralt

Character Tags: Eskel, Geralt, Lambert, Vesemir, Lil' Bleater

Other Tags: smut, established relationship, oral and anal intercourse (m/m), some very soft smut. what can i say.

Summary: Winter at Kaer Morhen can be brutal. But Eskel and Geralt find warmth in each other in an effort to stave off the cold.

The stones of Kaer Morhen sighed as the sun rose over the winter-frosted valley. The birds and harpies had long since traveled south for the cooler months, and the draconids had nestled themselves in the depths of the mountains around the aging keep. The castle itself was full of its Witchers, who were patiently waiting for the first snowfall to blanket their surroundings in layers of quiet white . With the last witcher having finally arrived a few evenings prior, the pack were all finally able to rest peacefully with the knowledge that all were safe.

The first thing that Geralt felt was cold. His nose, the tips of his ears. The rest of him was encompassed in warmth, but the chill rudely nipped him awake, undaunted by his furry woollen fortress. He squinted one eye open with a grimace, finding his bedroom washed in the cool sunlight that streamed in from the window. It was still early. The morning sun had barely breached the horizon. Lambert would still be snoozing away, cocooned in the safety of a warm and familiar bed, but Vesemir would likely already be down in the kitchen preparing for the day.

Geralt’s ears, barely poking out from under his blanket, picked up the steady thunks of wood being chopped, and he grunted as he sat up, letting the blanket pool around his waist. His chest was bare, pale, scarred skin reluctantly exposed to the early winter air as the witcher roused himself. Still sitting in his bed, he turned and scooted to the windowsill, peering at the courtyard below.

Ah, fuck. Geralt’s morning arousal became actively invested in the sight that met him. Eskel had a stack of freshly chopped logs at his side, with one propped up atop a large stone. Geralt could see his muscles strain against the thin linen of his shirt as he swung the sharp ax high over his head, its honed edge glinting with the emergence of the sun as it met its apex, only to fall again with breathtaking force. The log split in two, and Eskel gathered the halves off to the side, stacking them neatly with the others on a long piece of thick canvas with handles on either end.

The ax found a resting spot for a moment as Eskel wiped the sweat from his brow. Geralt set his chin in his hands and his elbows on the edge of the windowsill and held in a low groan. Eskel had reached for the neck of his tunic and lifted it up over his head, revealing the olive-toned flesh of his stomach and the dark curls of hair over his chest that drew a delicious line below the band of his trousers. It was clear he’d been the first to return to Kaer Morhen. A comfortable roll of belly fat protruded from the confines of his belt, proof he’d had plenty of time to rest and indulge over the past weeks. His skin shone with perspiration and his thighs flexed and pushed at the fabric when he lifted another heavy log onto the chopping stone. Hells, the haphazard seam of one of the trouser legs was coming loose as his thigh threatened to free itself.

Eskel breathed in and swung again, driving the ax all the way through the thick log in a single stroke. As the two halves hit the ground he turned, dropping the ax and facing the little patch of green that remained before the frost. Lil’ Bleater was happily bounding through the grass, pouncing off of crates and rubble like it was her sole duty in life. Eskel smiled wide as Geralt did the same from his perch. The sun glinted off of Eskel’s back, dancing over the drops of sweat that dripped into the hollows of his muscles. Geralt swallowed thickly, unable to look away when Eskel’s arms came up to sweep the hair out of his face. The muscles of his shoulders and down the line of his spine flexed and shifted beneath his olive skin as he moved his hands to his hips.

“Alright, Bleats,” Eskel laughed as she came bounding over to his feet. He leaned down and offered a few sweet pats to the top of her head, “Think we’ve given Geralt enough of a show?”

He glanced over his shoulder with a cheeky grin to where Geralt was watching from the window, jaw agape and gobsmacked. The goat bleated as Eskel turned back and waved, and Geralt truly couldn’t help the smile that crept up his face if he tried.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Geralt grumbled half-heartedly as he watched Eskel drape his tunic back over his head. He was picking up the straps to the carrier for the firewood when Geralt finally tore himself away from the window, willing himself calm.

It only took a moment of deep breathing and a lifetime’s worth of practice, but Geralt soon found himself presentable to pleasant company. He threw on his usual winter attire, soft trousers and an even softer loose-fitting tunic tucked into the waist of his pants, his lined boots, and his cloak thrown over his shoulder. He tied his hair back off his face and let the rest hang on his shoulders in long silver waves. Finally, Geralt grabbed his swords and scabbards before heading down the stairs to the small kitchen space.

As expected, Vesemir was there with a steaming mug, poring over a book that was almost certainly older than Geralt himself.. He grabbed an apple and plopped down on the bench next to Vesemir, the both of them wordlessly grunting a greeting at the other. Geralt ate in relative silence for a bit, only the latent thrumming of the older Witcher’s heart and the crackling of embers in the fire accompanying the crunch of apple between his teeth.

That is, until Eskel butted open the doors to the hall and dragged his firewood haul in with him. Lil’ Bleater was riding the pile of wood like a pirate would her ship, the stack being almost as high as Eskel’s shoulders. Speaking of Eskel’s shoulders, Geralt couldn’t tear his eyes away from the visible line of sweat that trailed its way down his back, darkening the linen of his shirt and making it stick in all the most tempting places. He felt his mouth water at the sight and the piece of apple still in his mouth felt thick and hard as he choked it down.

Eskel grunted as he got close enough to the fireplace to relinquish his load, letting the heavy pieces fall haphazardly as he dropped the canvas sheet. The apple slipped from Geralt’s hand and bounced on the table before falling to the floor. “Dammit,” he growled, pointedly ignoring the disappointed sigh that escaped Vesemir’s nostrils.

He picked the fruit up and dusted it off, slicing off another piece as Eskel approached the table. Eskel smelled...like he needed a bath. Salt and sweat clung to his skin and wood dusted the strands of his hair, but he still carried that deep, musky, earthy scent that shone with a hint of citrus. It was the scent that kept Geralt awake at night, kept him sane on the Path. It was everything.

Eskel reached over and plucked a handful of dried fruits and nuts, as well as the jar of honey. He dropped the fruits and nuts into a bowl and carefully swirled a generous portion of honey over top. His fingers shone with the golden, sticky sweetness as he grabbed a dried grape and popped it between his lips. The scar turned his mouth upwards at the edge and pulled oddly at his lip while he ate. Geralt remembered how long it took for Eskel to be comfortable eating in front of him again after he got that scar, and he treasures every moment that he gets to see.

“Geralt?” Vesemir peered over his mug at him.

Geralt hummed in response, already dreading the day’s assignment.

“Oh don’t give me that. I need you to go out and put salt on the training grounds before the dirt frosts, and freshen up the wards around it. I don’t need the goats going in and licking it all up again. After that, the day’s yours.”

“And me?” Eskel asked around his mouthful.

“You can be done, you’ve already chopped enough wood to last us a good few weeks. I’ll get Lambert to-”

“NO. Don’t go giving my assignments before I even get to the table, old fart,” Lambert called down the stairwell.

Vesemir blinked slowly and sighed once more. “I’ll get Lambert to do SOMETHING ELSE today, though if you want something to keep busy, I’m sure there are some books that need rebinding.”

Geralt watched Eskel nod and swallow, his adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yeah, alright. I may take some time later and see what I can do about those books. Lay them out for me?”

“Of course.”

Eskel smiled over at Geralt, his deep amber eyes meeting Geralt’s sunrise gold. Geralt’s moon and stars rested in those eyes, a whole universe tucked away in the depths of Eskel’s soul, bared just for him. They smiled at each other before Geralt tore himself away, draping his cloak over his shoulders and striding quietly towards the door.

Eskel watched him haul the heavy bag of salt up onto his shoulder with a grunt. He shook his head with a smile and polished off the last of his breakfast. The stool scraped on the floor as he pushed away from the table, ready to go fall into a warm bed somewhere. Eskel heard the door shut from Lambert’s room as his feet pounded down the stairs, so he made haste in avoiding that breakfast discussion.

***

Why’s Geralt back outside?

Eskel rounded the corner of the staircases, following the fresh scent of Geralt trailing out to the courtyard. It was far past noon by this point, and Geralt had already taken care of the training grounds. He had come back in right as the sun reached its highest point in the sky, climbing the spiral stairs in search of a snack.

Eskel shouldered open the heavy wooden doors and turned to the east, following the light footprints over the balding grass. He smiled to himself as he heard soft whispers coming from the stables, low and not meant for anothers’ ears. Well, another human’s ears.

He stopped just short of the doors, now close enough to make out the words being murmured.

“-n’t give me that look, I was just wanting to braid your mane.” Geralt’s honeyed tenor drifted over the heartbeats and huffed breaths behind the stall. “I know Eskel doesn’t normally do it, but it’ll help keep it from matting over the winter. I bet you’d hate for our big softie to have to cut off old chunks of your mane, wouldn’t you?”

Eskel heard Scorpion huff heavily from his nose and he chuckled, pulling on the cool steel handle and closing the door behind him. The whispers stopped as Geralt peered over the short wall between the stalls, his hair shimmering golden with the light of the fire roaring in the fireplace. He held a hardy brush in his right hand and had his other resting lightly on Scorpion’s flank, and his hair was tied up high and away from his face.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Eskel rumbled, crossing to where he could see into Scorpion’s stall. He let his back hit the wall behind him and slid down, his bottom thumping audibly onto the ground.

“Just gonna sit there and watch me?” Geralt grumbled, resuming his brushing of Scorpion’s mane. The great warhorse stamped his foot impatiently, butting his head into Geralt’s chest.

Eskel quirked his brow and nodded, “Figured you wouldn’t mind after you ogled me this morning.”

The tips of Geralt’s ears flushed a pretty pink as he hummed noncommittally in his chest. Not denying it.

“Your man’s a smartass,” Geralt mumbled to Scorpion, and the horse fucking snickered, I shit you not.

“Ay,” Eskel laughed, watching a little smile threaten to pull at Geralt’s lips, “no need to turn my horse against me, I’ll need him come Spring.”

“Don’t wanna talk about Spring,” Geralt sighed, carefully running his fingers, long and delicate, so unlike Eskel’s, through the wispy strands of Scorpion’s mane.

“Me neither.” Eskel pulled up his knees and rested his elbows atop them, his eyes drifting down Geralt’s body. Gods, but he’s so gorgeous.

If you asked him, Eskel would say that he couldn’t pick a favorite part of his Geralt. Everything was his favorite, it was impossible to choose. But Eskel did have a favorite, and he very well kept it to himself, thank you very much.

That damned waist. The way that Geralt’s shoulders, broad and sharp, sloped in and down over his stomach and into a glorious handful for Eskel. Nothing about Geralt was dainty, not in the slightest, but Eskel loved that he could wrap his arm over the soft line of his waist in the dead of night, or grasp desperately onto it while lost in the throes of passion.

Eskel sat there quietly, listening to Geralt mumble to Scorpion while he busied his hands. He leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the idle sounds of the castle and nearby woods overtake his mind and senses. He could hear Lambert’s heavy footfalls from beneath the castle, down in the labs. A pack of wolves patrolled the treeline past the castle walls, jaws snapping as they called to each other under the low afternoon sun.

He heard Geralt’s footsteps grow close to him, stopping just where Eskel’s hips met the floor. Geralt’s fingers brushed gently through Eskel’s thick, dark hair and Eskel couldn’t hold back the quiet moan that spilled from his lips. Geralt chuckled and knelt at his side, running his hand down Eskel’s cheek and thumbing over the line of his brow.

“I know you went down to the springs and got clean earlier,” Geralt rumbled lowly, “but maybe you’d want to join me for a bit?”

Eskel smiled and opened his eyes, two golds meeting and melding into one. He nodded and Geralt leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Geralt reached and grabbed onto Eskel’s hand, pulling him to stand and brushing the stray bits of straw from his backside.

Eskel chuckled as he batted Geralt’s hand away, though not before he got a solid squeeze in edgewise. “Hey, if you wanted to touch my ass, all you had to do was ask.”

Geralt shrugged as they walked through the doors to the castle and down the center spiral staircase that led to the hot springs, “I always want to touch your ass. Doesn’t really matter.”

Eskel shook his head and laughed heartily as he felt the air change. It felt thick, musty, warm with minerals and moss that grew in sharp brushstrokes up the walls. His lungs filled with the comfort of home, the air that was unique to this one spot of the castle, and only ever really meshed with his soul when Geralt was around to share in it.

He watched Geralt peel his shirt from his body, his pale skin a stark contrast to the dim caverns lit only by the stray candle or two sporadically placed in the cracks of the stones. Eskel reached out, his hand guided only by the raw urge to touch, to feel Geralt’s skin yield under his fingers, and he felt the warmth before he even made contact.

Geralt’s sigh tingled under his fingertips, vibrating through his bones with a summer long lost. Eskel stood flush to Geralt’s back, his hand resting over Geralt’s heart and his neck bent to rest his forehead at the nape of Geralt’s neck. He invaded Eskel’s every sense, every fiber of his being, just by existing in the same space. He smelled of sweat and horse and hay and happiness and home, and Eskel just wanted to...breathe him in. To take him into his lungs and never let him go. He felt Geralt’s fingers intertwine with his where they rested on Geralt’s chest, long and thin and pulling him up to Geralt’s lips. His lips were cool and chapped from the chill outside, but Eskel felt the warmth being pulled from his soul into the sweet press of Geralt’s lips.

“C’mon, let’s get into the baths,” Geralt mumbled, his lips still pressing into the pads of Eskel’s fingers. Eskel hummed noncommittally, honestly fine with just standing here, Geralt in his arms and close enough to finally feel. Geralt turned and stepped back, just out of Eskel’s reach with a grin as he reached for the ties on his trousers. “I’d like to get clean before I die of old age, so you best get naked.”

Eskel smirked and shucked his own shirt to the side, undoing the bright ties on his codpiece and letting the thick leather fall away. His trousers fell and were kicked away with his boots and the air embraced his skin with a welcoming grasp. He padded towards the pools, slipping into the water with a grateful sigh that one would expect from the sight of a long-lost friend.

He peeked over his shoulder and found Geralt standing where he was left, mouth slack-jawed and his hands hovering with his trousers half-undone. Geralt blinked and cleared his throat, adjusting himself through the leather of his trousers before untying them the rest of the way and letting them fall away. “I...it always surprises me just how much I can forget…”

Eskel crooked his head as Geralt stepped into the water beside him, rippling the waves over and up the stone sides. “What do you mean?”

“Just...you,” Geralt murmured, dipping under the water to soak his hair, “you are always so much more...real than I can ever keep in my mind. Whenever I think of you, it always pales in comparison to actually seeing you in front of me.”

Eskel felt his cheeks flush and he smiled, running his damp hands through his hair before lounging back into the edge of the pool. “I can never really get how you feel right. I know how good it makes me feel, but actually touching you? Or hearing your heart? My brain can’t replicate that. Not well enough, anyway.”

“Exactly. And it always is a bit of a shock. But a good one.” Geralt soaped up his hair quickly, batting away Eskel’s hands when he tried to help. “No, I want to get this part out of the way so we can relax. We can do that next time.”

Eskel thought back to a couple of winters prior, when Geralt had requested that he wash his hair for him. Albeit, with a bit of a caveat. Eskel spent an hour washing Geralt’s long, thick silver locks with his cock buried to the hilt in Geralt’s ass, the both of them gasping and clinging onto each other by the time his hair was rinsed. Eskel smiled at the memory as Geralt ducked back under the water, leaving his hair dripping wet and free of suds.

Geralt peered over at Eskel with a smirk playing at his lips as he reached his hand for Eskel’s thigh. He felt the muscle tense briefly under his fingers as he moved up slowly, his other hand sliding up and onto Eskel’s neck. Eskel sighed gently, a pull of air from deep in his lungs as Geralt played with the little curls of hair on the nape of his neck. Geralt’s hand moved over his hip, warm and soft and just a tad squishy beneath the water, and splayed over his stomach, tracing idle swirls through the hair that led down to his groin. Before he could get far, though, Eskel caught his errant hand with his own and brought them to his lips.

“We should eat first,” Eskel rumbled, his lips brushing the sensitive tips of Geralt’s fingers with every whispered word, “then I’d like to take you to bed properly.”

“Hmm,” Geralt traced down the scars on Eskel’s cheek and into his lip, watching the tiniest little shudder shoot over his nerves, “Lambert cooking tonight?”

Eskel nodded and ran his hands down Geralt’s spine and the swell of his backside. Not pushing or pulling with any direction, just feeling the skin that he so craved, even in his sleep. Geralt bent down, just barely pressing his forehead into Eskel’s and brushing their noses together. “You’ve kept me waiting all day,” Geralt sighed with a smile, “I suppose I could wait a bit longer. Not much though.”

Eskel chuckled and pecked Geralt on the cheek, “I promise. Once we’re both warm and comfortable and full, then I’ll take you upstairs and show you just how much I’ve needed you.”

“If you don’t let me go now, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself,” Geralt growled and nipped at Eskel’s chin. Eskel laughed and playfully shoved him back, watching the crystalline water drip down the dark hairs over his chest and into the dip of his waist. He had been feeling the stirrings of arousal all day, but it was getting more and more difficult to ignore.

Eskel followed Geralt as he clambered out of the springs, his hands and feet striking roughly against the weathered stone beneath them. He smirked at the quite obvious state of arousal that Geralt was in, his skin flushed and his cock straining upwards from between his thighs.

Geralt could feel Eskel’s eyes on him as he strode towards their pile of clothes and drying sheets. He peeked over his shoulder at him, finding Eskel hauling himself out of the bath with his arms, the muscles dipping and pulling as he rose to his full height, soaked to the bone and sporting a very pretty erection of his own. Geralt’s mouth watered as he wrapped a sheet to hang low on his hips before gathering his worn clothes into a bundle in his arms.

Eskel followed suit, feeling the drafty air whistle through his legs and cool the drips of water that still wore their path down to the floor below. They traveled through the halls together, still shoulder to shoulder even though the walls were just a tad too close together to accommodate them both comfortably. They didn't mind though, drawing their warmth together and letting their souls mingle in the approaching evening.

As they climbed the spiral staircase that led back to the main level of the keep, Eskel could smell the dinner that Lambert had been working on, something with chicken and hearty vegetables, along with bread and fresh butter and citrus chutney. They continued on up the stairs until they reached the door to Eskel’s chambers. They did typically end up sharing the room over the winter, but Geralt still liked to have his own little private space for himself. Eskel knew how loud the world could feel, and he liked having his own space too sometimes.

He kissed Geralt sweetly on the shoulder as he moved to continue up the stairs to his own room, leaving a tingle of his lips to keep him company. Geralt shook his head with a light hearted huff and slowly climbed up the spiral, and Eskel waited until he heard the heavy thud of his thick wooden door to open his own. He threw his clothes onto the chair by the fireplace before flicking his fingers out and up in the sign for Igni, feeling the warmth from the fire bloom from his palm and onto the wood, bathing the room in a pale glow.

Eskel dressed quickly, throwing soft trousers over his underthings, followed by a knit shirt that stretched across his chest and held tight. He left his swords propped by the door next to his boots before padding back down the stairs into the dining area. The three fires roared beneath bubbling pots and sizzling pans, sending rich scents swirling softly around the room. Lambert stood over one, giving it one last stir before grabbing onto the handles. Eskel lowered himself onto the bench at the table just as Lambert set the steaming cauldron down onto the nearly-black wood.

Vesemir grabbed the other pan and brought it over, lifting the lid to reveal several chicken breasts that had been seared and seasoned to perfection. Lambert began to ladle some of the stew from his pot onto his plate and tore a chunk of bread for himself before tossing the loaf to Eskel. It was warm in his palm and he smiled, the bread soft and yielding as he tore off some for himself as well. Vesemir declined, so he set the rest of the loaf in Geralt’s spot and began to heap his own plate with Lambert’s delicious looking dinner.

Geralt joined soon after they began to eat, dressed comfortably with his silvery hair pulled up and away from his face. Geralt swung his long legs over the bench and sat down next to Eskel, humming as he picked up the bread.

“Yeah, pretty boy, saved that bit for ya. Dig in before it all gets cold.” Lambert chucked the ladle down in Geralt’s direction, sending stray bits of stew flying to the walls. Vesemir rolled his eyes as Geralt caught it without looking and gave it a spin, rotating it flamboyantly around his fingers before plopping it straight into the great pot.

The four of them ate in relative silence, only the gentle scraping of utensils or grunts of acknowledgement breaking the fragile quiet. Vesemir was the first to be finished with his meal, leaning back in his seat and breathing in deeply. “Delicious as always, Lambert. Thank you. I'm headed to the library, gonna try and go through some of the old tomes.”

Lambert nodded and the others hummed, no one willing to part with their plates quite yet. Eskel wiped his plate down with the remainder of his bread, sopping up the stew and downing it all in one satisfying mouthful. Geralt watched with a raised brow and a smirk.

“Alright lovebirds, I’m off. Try to keep it down, at least a little, huh?” Lambert winked as he stood and wandered off, likely back down to the alchemy labs for more of his...experiments. Eskel chuckled as Geralt lobbed an old apple at the back of Lambert’s head, more for effect than anything else. Lambert batted it away into a corner and Eskel sighed. He stood and retrieved it, knowing that it would be long forgotten if he didn’t. He set it back onto the table before stretching his arms up above his head and turning to the door that led to the staircases.

Eskel held his hand out to Geralt, who looked at it through hooded lids. “Join me?”

Geralt smiled and lept to his feet, the last few bites of his dinner instantly forgotten. “Fuckin’ finally, you tease.”

Eskel laughed as the two of them bumbled up the stairs and into Eskel’s room. Geralt could feel the warmth emanating before they even swung open the door, his cheeks flushing and his arms shivering with the welcome change in temperature. Eskel shut the door behind him and led him to stand before the fireplace, his olive skin glowing in the flames.

Geralt sighed as he felt Eskel’s hands on his hips, his fingers toying with the hem of Geralt’s shirt and just glancing to the skin of his stomach beneath. Eskel slid his hands up and pulled Geralt’s shirt with him, lifting it over his head and letting it land with a soft thud in the cushy armchair in the corner.

Next Eskel moved to Geralt’s trousers, sliding the ties open and letting them fall to the floor. He gave Geralt’s bum a little pat and nodded to the bed. “Go on, I’ll be just behind you.”

Geralt reached to push down his smalls but Eskel caught his hands and dropped them back by his side. “J-just wanna hold you for a bit...that okay?”

Geralt hummed, pressing his lips to the junction between Eskel’s neck and shoulder, “Of course, Wolf. Don’t take too long though, gonna get cold without you.”

Geralt smiled as he climbed onto the wide bed draped in thick furs and soft knit blankets. Eskel loved textures, and tried to surround their bed with as much comfort as he could find. His golden gaze found Eskel once more as he too stripped down to his smallclothes. Geralt leaned back onto the soft pillows as Eskel slid up next to him, resting his head on Geralt’s chest and breathing in deeply. Geralt wrapped his arm around the breadth of Eskel’s shoulders and held him close, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against his side. Geralt could see out of the little window cut into the stone, revealing the sun setting in bright oranges and deep purples between the craggles of the Blue Mountains.

Eskel ran his hands down Geralt’s chest, tracing those same swirling patterns as before while he peppered kisses up and down the line of Geralt’s neck and over his collarbone. Geralt could always feel the little crook in Eskel’s lip from his scar as it traced over his skin, grounding him home in warm arms and soft eyes that held endless love and patience.

Geralt threaded his fingers into Eskel’s hair and gave a little scratch at the nape of his neck, chuckling a bit when he felt the full body shudder that Eskel granted him. Geralt felt the gasp of hot breath ghost over his collar when he tugged gently on the handful of hair that he had, and a possessive kind of growl erupted from behind his teeth. Geralt didn’t often let this part of himself show, this need to hang onto every thread of his partner, but with Eskel, it felt safe, known, instinctual.

Eskel pushed himself up and pressed his hand firmly in the center of Geralt’s chest, breathing with the steady thuds of the heart that rested just beneath his fingers. Eskel’s eyes were dark with lust and hunger and something so deep and innate that it escaped such a simple name. Eskel slid his hand up and wrapped it gently around the back of Geralt’s neck and leaned down, pressing their foreheads together as he climbed between Geralt’s legs.

Geralt lifted his leg and wrapped it around Eskel’s hip in an attempt to get him to maybe speed things up a bit. “Eskel,” Geralt hummed, “Gods, you’re killing me…”

Eskel smiled and ran his nose down the line of Geralt’s jaw and into the hollows of his neck. His lips traced along the tendons and veins and his teeth just barely glanced over his pulse point and Geralt felt his cock thicken and throb where Eskel pressed into him.

“Can I have you like this?” Eskel asked, his voice still muffled in Geralt’s neck, “Just wanna be able to look at you…”

Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded, turning his head in search of Eskel’s mouth. He finally, finally, slid their lips together, breathing each other in and holding onto each and every piece that they could reach. Geralt wrapped his arms around Eskel’s waist and stroked up and down the hard lines of his back, tracing the scars he knew better than his own.

“Lift-nng” Eskel tried to say, though Geralt nipped and tugged at his lower lip to keep him in place, “Lift your damn hips, you great oaf.”

Geralt chuckled and did as he was bid, letting Eskel run his fingers through the ties keeping his braies on and loosening them. They slid down his thighs and Eskel let him rest his bum back on the bed. Eskel shimmied himself backwards and fully pulled the smalls off of Geralt, sending them careening through the room to land somewhere in the shadows. Geralt’s cock lay hard and flushed and weeping on his stomach and Eskel took a deep breath in through his nose, grounding himself in the lust on the air and the taste of Geralt already on his tongue.

Eskel stood up and turned to face the fire as he undid his own smalls, pushing them down quickly and without any dramatics. But Geralt found himself drooling over him anyways, seeing the beautiful bronze skin revealed inch by glorious inch, the swells of his backside just begging for his teeth to sink into. Again. He then grabbed the little vial of oil that spent most of the year gathering dust on the mantle, but in the winter found a new home atop the little table next to their bed.

And oh fucking shit I’ve missed that so much, Geralt thought as Eskel turned back to him with his cock hanging heavily between his thighs. Eskel crawled onto the bed and prowled over top of him, his chest already heaving and pressing into Geralt’s. Eskel sat up on his knees and Geralt braced himself on his elbows, watching Eskel uncork the oil and slowly drip a generous amount of the cool liquid onto their cocks where they rested together. Eskel’s hand was warm when he reached down to rub the oil around, wrapping around them and tugging and pulling and-

“-Fuck, Eskel,” Geralt spat through grit teeth when Eskel just barely thumbed the slit of Geralt’s cockhead. “If you’re gonna do all that shit, I need you in me now.”

Eskel laughed breathily and kissed Geralt hard, all teeth and tongue and rushed whispers of affection. “Alright, alright. I’ve got you, Geralt. I’ve got you…”

Eskel poured some more oil between Geralt’s legs and Geralt felt it slowly trickle down to his entrance. Eskel’s fingers followed soon after, languidly rolling his balls around in his palm before trailing down between his cheeks. Geralt sighed as Eskel started pressing around his hole, not pushing in yet, just massaging and loosening the tight muscle.

“Gods, Geralt,” Eskel murmured, dragging his free hand down Geralt’s flank and across his stomach, “you’re so tense…”

“No one’s been back there since Spring, Esk…”

Eskel blinked up at him and Geralt could taste the new wave of arousal that poured off Eskel. “You’ve not had anyone? All year? Geralt, I...you-”

Geralt’s head hit the pillow and he sighed, trying desperately to put the words together in his head. “I-fuck, Eskel, I just want you. You’re...you’re the only one who I can...who I can be comfortable with.”

Eskel surged forward and captured Geralt’s lips between his own, tasting of salt and honey and fucking unending love. “Geralt. Fuck. You can’t just say shit like that out of nowhere. Fuck, I love you so much it hurts. It fucking hurts, and then you just go and say that? You’re gonna put me in an early grave-”

Geralt’s world twisted and turned as Eskel’s hands gripped onto his hips, his fingers digging into his skin as they rolled and shifted on the bed, winding up with Geralt laying on his stomach and Eskel’s lips pressing into the skin at the nape of his neck. Eskel dragged his mouth down, leaving hot wet kisses down Geralt’s spine and over the swell of his bottom.

Eskel’s breath ghosted over Geralt’s skin as he slid his finger back down to press against his entrance, finding only a gasp of resistance as he pushed in to his knuckle. He worked Geralt open slowly, kneading and licking and nipping the soft flesh of Geralt’s ass while he slid in another, and then one more finger. He relished the little noises that clawed their way out of Geralt’s chest unbidden, gasps and moans and keens that he felt more than heard.

Meanwhile Geralt was warring with his own mind, torn between wanting so desperately to grasp into Eskel’s hair and haul him back up to feel his lips cover his own, trailing down over his jaw and neck and chest, but also needing to feel more of him, deeper, harder-

Their words broke off between gasps for air and fisted sheets and Eskel quietly continued his task of working Geralt open on his fingers. Geralt’s breath hitched in his throat when Eskel crooked his fingers inside of him, warm and slick and hitting up against that devastating bundle of nerves. But all too soon it was not so nice, his fingers sliding in and out and not being close to enough for Geralt. “M-shit, more, Eskel.”

Eskel hummed and bit down into the tender flesh of Geralt’s bum, feeling the fluttering of his walls play at his fingers. He looked down and watched his fingers slowly slide in and out, stretching him in preparation of what was to come. Eskel had his own wars inside of his head, his need to shower Geralt with soft touches so rarely afforded to his battle-worn skin clashing against the feeling tugging behind his belly to find the breaking point nestled so deep inside of Geralt’s body.

Geralt’s hips thrusted softly against the bed beneath them, chasing the release that had been teasing at them both all damn day. Eskel chuckled when a particularly hard thrust made him bonk his nose into the crease of Geralt’s asscheeks, and he shifted himself to sit up with a sweet pat to the swells of muscle.

“Roll back over, wanna look at you-”

Geralt sighed when he felt Eskel’s fingers slip out of him, leaving him oddly empty and aching and wanting. It took him a moment to find his bearings, but he flipped over soon enough to meet Eskel’s fiery eyes. Eskel hovered over him, his chest heaving with hot breaths and his medallion clinking against Geralt’s. Geralt ran his fingers through the soft dark hair over Eskel’s chest, pressing his fingers into the yielding flesh over his heart and giving it a squeeze. Eskel growled with a sinister grin and moved faster down his body than Geralt had anticipated.

Eskel leaned down and lapped his tongue up the underside of Geralt’s cock just as he slipped his fingers back into him. Geralt shook when Eskel wrapped his lips around the tip and sunk down, teasing and licking while his fingers hit that precious bundle of nerves nestled so deep inside of him. Eskel’s mouth moved with his hand, pushing in and out and up and down and humming against him and Geralt could feel the pearly arousal dripping onto Eskel’s tongue with every slick slide of his lips.

“Ah, ah, Esk-g...gonna-fuck...”

Eskel only hummed, low and hard from his chest, and Geralt arched up off the bed in pleasure when Eskel zeroed in on that spot within him, holding there and sucking and slurping every bit of spend that Geralt had to give. It just kept coming, shooting down Eskel’s throat and spilling out the sides of his lips messily. Eskel felt the haze of his own pleasure tease at the edges of his eyes as his hips thrust lazily against the bed, his free hand holding tight to Geralt’s hip.

Geralt sagged back onto the bed in a haze, tender and sensitive and already craving more. He pulled Eskel back up to him and ran his thumb over the corner of his mouth, gathering his own spend onto his finger. Geralt slipped his thumb between his lips and licked it clean as Eskel watched with great gasping breaths and eyes so dark there was only a little ring of gold shining in the night.

“Geralt, fuck, c-can I-” Eskel stuttered over his words, his hands running over Geralt’s shoulders and down his chest, his cock dripping down into the hair above Geralt’s own half-hard cock.

“Yes,” Geralt breathed and fit his hand up onto the nape of Eskel’s neck, his fingers pressing firm while Eskel shifted on the bed to line himself at Geralt’s entrance.

Eskel gasped into Geralt’s skin as he just barely pushed into the rim, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s waist to hold him as close as possible. Geralt’s fingers tightened in Eskel’s hair as he started to gently thrust inside of him, Eskel’s chest rumbling with a low purr as he smothered Geralt with his body.

“G-Geralt,” Eskel murmured, his hips already losing rhythm, “I’m, fuck you’re so-”

Geralt hummed and nodded, running his hands down Eskel’s shoulders and back up again around his neck. “Go on, Eskel. You’ve been on edge all day. Give it to me.”

Eskel’s voice went high and strained, tight mumbles escaping from between his teeth as he ground his hips deep against Geralt’s, spending inside of him. Eskel rubbed his face into the tender skin of Geralt’s neck as he finally, gloriously released into him, feeling the way that he fluttered and flexed around his cock. He saw great stars shooting behind his eyelids as his climax tore through him, unrelenting and all-encompassing.

Geralt kept his hold firm on Eskel as he went limp in his arms, Eskel’s mind blanking and blind for a blissful moment. Geralt felt the pressure of Eskel everywhere, on top of him, around him, inside of him, leaking out of him. The only thing that could ever gather him enough strength to move was Eskel himself, and he didn’t really seem up to that quite yet.

Or, well, maybe he did. Eskel didn’t even soften a little bit in Geralt, his hips already rolling deep and slow inside Geralt. His bones sang out to Eskel in ecstasy, yearning for him, craving him.

Geralt’s cock rested hard once more on his stomach, steadily dripping his arousal into a little pool. Eskel’s hands tightened on his hips and pulled him into each and every thrust, slow and hard and deep and addicting. Eskel couldn’t keep his hands still as he dragged his cock inside of Geralt, only just barely shifting back and forth as he tried to stay buried in his tight, wet heat as much as possible.

“Ger-nnng,” Eskel gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes shut as he felt the pressure of Geralt around him clench and smother every last bit of him with every soft move of his cock. Geralt smirked and bore down farther, tightening his hold on Eskel’s arm and around his neck as he pulled him down so that their faces were held with only the space of a breath between them.

Geralt could feel the tight coil of release draw taut as he dragged his hands down Eskel’s chest and to his own cock. Eskel’s eyes followed him, branding his skin with the fire behind them, watching as Geralt took himself in hand. Geralt shuddered as his climax came closer and closer into view, only needing just a little more, a little something to push him over the edge-

“Fuck, Geralt, I...I can’t hang on much longer…” Eskel ground out, brushing his nose down over Geralt’s and pleading with his eyes.

“Let go, Eskel. I want it, please-”

And then he did. Eskel thrust hard and deep a handful more times as he hit his peak, his cock pressing against that devastating bundle of nerves nestled deep inside of Geralt each and every time. Oh, and then when his release finally overtook him once more? Gods, his cock flexed and spilled and hit Geralt like a punch in the gut over and over and over, until finally Geralt too climaxed with his cock in his hand. Long stripes of spend spilled and painted his chest while Geralt groaned from low in his stomach.

The two of them laid there for Gods know how long, just lingering in each other, the scent of their combined arousals making them feel almost drunk from the heady way it went straight through them. Eskel was the first to move, slipping from the tight embrace of Geralt’s body and flopping down onto the bed at his side. Geralt reached out and tangled their fingers together while their chests heaved in great gulps of air, their minds still addled and off-kilter.

Eskel swallowed thickly and focused his mind on the feeling of Geralt’s thumb running over the back of his knuckles, back and forth and back again… “Gods, Geralt,” he murmured, peering over at him, “I’ll never get tired of that.”

Geralt chuckled without opening his eyes, already feeling the threads of consciousness being steadily pulled from him. “You better not. I plan on getting fucked like that until I die.”

Eskel hummed and reached out blindly with his free hand, groping for the spare scrap of cloth that he kept by the bed. Once he found the soft fabric he gently swept it up over Geralt’s stomach and chest, feeling the vibrations of his hum beneath his fingers. Eskel reached back between Geralt’s thighs and cleaned there as well, knowing that although Geralt would never really say anything about it, he wouldn't enjoy being sticky in the morning.

Eskel tossed the rag away and shifted underneath the blanket, reaching out to pull Geralt into his chest. “C’mere, you. Wanna hold you.”

Geralt grunted and rolled over onto his side, burying his face into the hair on Eskel’s chest. Eskel wrapped his arm around Geralt’s waist and held him close, pressing his nose into the silver hair atop Geralt’s head. Woodsmoke, spice, pine. Home.

Geralt sighed into him and wrapped his own arm around Eskel, snuggling in and quickly letting sleep take him away. Eskel felt the shift, the way that Geralt’s shoulders relaxed and his hips fell further into the bed, his mind finally quiet and his hands still. He pressed his lips softly to the crown of Geralt’s head and held it there for a heartbeat or two, pouring everything he could into those soft moments before he himself fell into the warm embrace of sleep.

#ebb #eskel big bang #eskel #geralt #gereskel #smut #so much smut #they make me so extra super gotdam happy

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catsandstrawberries · 4 years

Text

Rogue Firebender

Pairing: Firebending! Jeon Jungkook x Firebending! Fem! Reader

Summary: After spending time as a fire nation general you decide to go rogue and rebel against the genicide the nation is causing against the other elements. But a mission to save an earth bending group goes wrong when your worst enemy shows up. Jeon Jungkook.

Warnings: Enemies to lovers (Enemies to sex friends?), vaginal sex, oral sex (fem receiving), spit kink, slight FemDom, Violence, some mentions of gore but nothing to bad, swear words, Jungkooks kind of an asshole.

Based on Avatar the Last Airbender

Part 2

This wasn't my best plan.

I'd like to say I'm good at making plans, and by making plans, I mean split minute life or death decisions, but today was going downhill fast.

I didn't calculate a multitude of things that day.

I didn't calculate how absolutely frustrated I would be and how that would cloud my mind.

I didn't calculate the sheer amount of earthbending slaves the squadron had captured, and I definitely didn't calculate the firebender that would ambush me.

Jeon Jungkook.

The issue with Jungkook was that despite being the same age as me he was practically the fire lords next in line. A dog, willing to bend at the rules and orders as long as he was given a treat and praised like a good little puppy.

Jeon Jungkook was also one of the most talented firebenders I had ever met, and it was a shock to the four nations that I had escaped him for so long.

But that was their fault for underestimating me.

Shackles clanged against the ground, the sound reverberating through the mountainside as soldiers led woman, men, children all in a line towards deaths row.

I defined myself as a freedom fighter, fighting to free those enslaved by the fire nation who used them for their personal gain.

But I was more commonly known as the rogue firebender on every wanted sign in the four nations.

A small child grasped onto his mother's hand, elephant tears slipping past his eyelashes, a monkey stuffy clutched in his hand as he scanned the empty scenery.

Empty, save for me.

I had intercepted a fire nation transcript of them transferring and killing slaves, but there were three times the amount then I expected. Freeing them would be a hassle if I wanted to bring them all back to the mainland and away from fire nation reign.

I grumbled in frustration under my breath. Getting frustrated had always been an issue of mine and my mood just seemed to boil with annoyance.

Four guards led the group, four guards are easy when they don't involve innocents, but I had a sneaking suspicion these guys wouldn't play fair.

I had learned from my previous encounters that jumping up and shouting 'hey ugly!' wasn't the best way to get their attention, so I'm attempting a more solid approach.

My foot made direct impact with the soldier's face and I smirked at the harsh smack that followed.

I threw a serious of fireballs towards the three soldiers, screams, and shouts from the earthbenders filling my ears as fire soared over their heads.

I leaned back as colors of red and orange flew by me, barely evading the destructive flame. I dropped to my knees and swung my leg out to knock the solider off guard, smirking in satisfaction while they all groaned in pain on the ground.

Breaking away from the soldiers I rushed to the group of earth benders, wincing when they all recoiled back from me.

"I won't hurt you, I want to help you."

That was another issue with being a rogue firebender, nobody trusted you, even if you were saving people's lives. I was still a fire bender.

I held my hand below the chains, a small flameworking at the metal until it seared and broke in half.

"Listen, get to the checkpoint, someone will be there to help you cross back into earth kingdom territory, but you need to hurry."

They nodded as a collective and went running in the opposite direction, the little boy giving me a shy wave as he disappeared. Relief passed through my body as I watched them leave, well...until I heard his voice.

"Such a noble act, little rebel."

My body froze and a tingling feeling spread over my skin. The fire in my bones warming at the sound of his voice.

"Taking out four soldiers at once, impressive. But hears the thing, I may be one person, but even you know I'm stronger than all four of them combined."

I slowly turned around, a mop of black hair and olive skin greeting me, red eyes filled with speckles of gold gleaming my way. His fancy robes of red and black stuck to his skin, his mark of nobility. I hated him.

"If you're stronger than all of them then how come I've won every fight?"

His calm composure faltered for a moment, a snarl curling onto his face, "because you love to run."

Speaking of running...

Although I loved getting in a brawl with the attractive 21-year-old who had a jawline sharper than any cooking knife, I was exhausted.

Tracking down secret human trade routes was a lot of work, and though I made fighting four men look easy it took energy.

So for the first time in my life, I took Jungkooks advice,

I ran.

"Shit." I briefly heard him mumble followed by the harsh sound of his boots on the dirt.

I kept a strong pace ahead of Jungkook, I was more agile than him, faster than him, everything was stacked on me getting away.

Except for terrain.

Leaves and branches cut against the skin of my arms as I pushed through the multicolored forest near the edge of the mountainside.

Prickly bushes and plants caught on the fabric of my pants and rocks stung against the bareness of my feet.

Despite the not so good situation, I was smiling. Maybe I was cocky, but I was happy because I knew I was gonna win. I knew that I was faster and better then Jungkook and he would never, ever, bring me back.

But the sudden terrain no longer held flat ground but a deep drop towards a glistening pool of water. My heels dug into the ground as I skidded to a stop, my heart rapidly pounding in my ears as I looked for an escape route. Just before I could jump, a body collided against my back, and a scream escaped my lips. The two of us tumbled down towards the water, dirt sticking to our skin and rocks cutting against our bodies as we rolled and eventually hit the water.

My vision exploded with colors before briefly going black, my senses only comprehending my heavy breathing and the dragging and pulling consciousness of my mind.

Did I mention I fucking hate Jeon Jungkook?

My back stung as if hundreds of needles were being stabbed into my skin, my throat constricting as a pressure pulsed on my chest. My vision which had previously consisted of darkness suddenly sprung to life when I rolled on my side, coughing out the water that had invaded my lungs and rubbing at my red eyes.

Then I noticed him.

Hovering directly above me, his mouth glistening with water and his hands hovering over my chest. The realization suddenly dawned on me and I harshly pushed him, my hand swinging back to spew a fire attack on him only for his hand to catch my wrist. Calloused fingers tightening around my tensed arm.

"I save your life and this is what I get?" His gruff voice showed no ounce of sympathy and I fired back,

"you were the one who pushed us off that cliff, you idiot." At my words, I fully take him in, a layer of clothing is missing so now he's only in a simple black tunic and his normal fire nation general pants. His hair is dripping with water and a trail of blood leaks from a cut on his lip. I openly smirk at his wound.

"Thanks so much for trying to ruin my life, but I'm leaving."

As soon as my body puts pressure on my right ankle, a broken sob is escaping my lips and I'm collapsing back onto the pebbly surface.

Jungkook stands and watches, a blank look on his face until I collapse and his lips curl in a smirk.

"I don't think so little rebel. You're coming with me back to the fire nation."

My blood turns cold, my eyes gaping at the man who I had so expertly evaded for so long, had finally won?

"You are a monster." I seethed, wide eyes now narrowing in on him as he kneeled down to my level, fingers harshly grabbing at my chin,

"there's a reason you're on every wanted poster in the nations. If anything, you're the monster (y/n)." I hate the way he says my name. I hate the way he looks at me as if he can control me, and as if he's won. The fire nation will never win if I have anything to say for it. So I do what any other person would do, I spit in his face.

Jungkook had another thing coming if he thought getting me back to the fire nation would be easy. I couldn't bend myself out of the situation because of the fact I couldn't walk. No walking means no running. So instead I decided to be the most annoying prisoner he ever had until I figured out a way to escape.

"Get on the stupid horse."

"It's not a horse, its an alpaca, and they have feelings unlike you so stop insulting it." Jungkook spluttered while I sat on the ground in front of the barn we had found.

Since I couldn't walk Jungkook had forcefully carried me on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes until we found civilization, and we just so happened to stumble upon an alpaca farmer willing to sell.

"I don't care what it is, get on it or your gonna be dragged back." He seethed and I held up my bound hands, nothing but a rope that I could easily burn through stopping me from escaping. Well, that and my twisted ankle.

"You expect me to get on that thing by myself? I'm incapable." I said with big eyes and a pout forming on my face.

Jungkook, ever the gentleman, picked me up suddenly and threw me onto the alpaca, an oooof breaking from my mouth at the sudden change.

"Their. Let's go."

Jungkook had, for some reason, taken a long way around, and before we could cross into fire nation territory, we would have to pass an earth bending town run by the fire nation.

The closer we got into town the more Jungkook seemed to tense. Steering the alpaca closer to him by the reigns. Jungkook gave me a glare and mumbled,

"I'll be right back." To where I have no idea. The fact he was leaving me alone was unsettling on many fronts, but I had a sneaking suspicion he was still watching me.

People walked by in waves, barely paying any attention to me who had one of Jungkooks generals robes pulled on my shoulders. If anything they refused to look at me assuming I was a fire nation general than an ally.

I hated it.

"Did you hear about what happened? They found a few of them."

A stranger spoke and without anything better to do, I listened in.

"That's horrible! What's happening to them."

"The fire nation is taking them to the town center probably for an-"

Jungkook suddenly appeared in front of me, a black hat in hand while he attempted to fit it on my head.

"Stop moving." He grumbled.

"Why do I need a hat?" I asked while he messed with strands of hair, his face inches from mine.

"Because if people recognize you they'll be a riot." I scoffed and tore my face away from him, tempted to spit in his face again.

"(Y/N)." For the first time since we've been together since the fall, he spoke earnestly, softly.

"Don't do anything stupid, I won't stop them if a guard tries to kill you." The feeling of hope that Jungkook had changed, suddenly disappeared and a frown spread on my face.

Jungkook led the alpaca in silence, bordering around the large crowds that started to form in the center of town.

"What's happening?" I asked. Jungkook disregarded my question, nothing but a silent look given to me before he responded,

"nothing."

A scream erupted from somewhere and the crowd started to murmur,

"What aren't you telling me!?" I whisper shouted above the noise.

Jungkook opens and closed his mouth, suddenly at a loss for words, and on my own accord, I scanned the crowd, searching for answers or a sign, and then I saw it.

A small monkey stuffy and elephant tears.

"This is an execution. They're gonna kill them." I spoke breathlessly.

"People of the earth kingdom, these slaves were found on the run, and by order of the fire nation, they are to be publicly executed. Rebellion is unacceptable and anyone associated with the rebellion will be killed."

My head shot to Jungkook at the soldier's words,

"Jungkook we need to do something. They're innocent." Jungkook refused to look at me, the only answer I got from him was the head of black hair.

"Jungkook there are children about to be murdered."

"I know! But we need to ignore it!" He shouted, sounding as if he needed to convince himself rather than me.

"Ignore it? Jungkook you will never be more than anything but a dog to the fire nation. A rug the fire lord will wipe his feet on, simply because you are too blind to the injustice around you."

Hurt flashed in Jungkook gold-flecked eyes, his eyes going wide much like a puppy. I didn't dote on it and instead lit the rope tying my hands together, kicking fire towards Jungkook who barely avoided the attack.

I hopped off the Alpaca, pain shooting up my leg as my ankle throbbed against the ground. Instead of putting pressure on it, I started to hop forward, ignoring Jungkooks shouts and swears from behind me.

I pushed past the crowd, tripping over people, and racing to get to the child before the guard could.

It was my fault they were found, I couldn't let them die.

It was the boy and his mother, both hugging each other as a fire nation guard stalked around them. Taunting his prey before he would publicly burn them to a crisp.

That bastard.

I saw the flame escape his palm first, a grunt escaping my mouth as I lunged forward towards the mother and son. Sweat dripping down my skin as I caught the flame, redirecting it back towards the solider.

Murmurs spread across the crowd, a few shouts of the rogue firebender igniting the area before the general let out an annoyed shout, a flame spreading around him in a circle.

I must not have realized how much energy I used because before he even stalked towards me my legs were collapsing under me. I weakly pushed a flame toward the general stalking towards me, blocking my body in front of the duo behind me.

He ignored my weak attempt to protect them and grabbed me by the throat. I scratched at his hands while he lifted me into the air, my windpipes struggling to take in air.

"You think she can save you?!" I gasped in pain when my body slammed into the ground, fighting to gather my breath as my body blended into the dirt. My body igniting with shock at the sudden drop.

"She is nothing. Anyone who associates with her will die." From the corner of my vision, I watched him reach out towards the boy, his stance flowing backward in a sign of pre-bending. Before I could do anything a voice broke through the crowd.

"Stand down general." Jungkook appeared in the center of the ring, his hand enclosed around the wrist of the general while the boy and his mother cowered behind him. Sobs escaping their mouths.

"Major Jeon-" The general fell into a low bow.

"Sir these slaves were found running from the fire nation, punishable by execution under the fire nat-"

"I've pardoned them." I would have had a similar reaction to the general if I was able to fully move. His head whipping up and his brows furrowing in confusion.

"But-"

"I am taking the rebel to fire lord Ozai, he will need witnesses and requests to speak to the slaves themselves."

"Sir-"

"Are you defying a direct order from the fire lord?" Jungkook maintained a calm composure, an annoyed scowl on his face while the general groveled on the ground at his feet.

"Of course not sir-"

"Leave, all of you!" Jungkook shouted unemotionally to the crowd who filed out as soon as the command left his mouth, the general following after them.

Jungkook walked over to me, kneeling down and placing one of my arms over his shoulders.

"You're an idiot." He mumbled while I leaned on him for support,

"look whos talking Mr. 'I won't stop them if a guard tries to kill you'." The mother shook violently with tears as we approached them, the boy looking at us in confusion as he clutched his monkey.

"We aren't taking you to the fire nation," I spoke with earnest, Jungkook shooting me a look that I ignored.

"But you do need to leave, get as far away as you can, and don't stop until you're in Ba Sing Se." The mother fell into my arms, a difficult position considering I was still leaning on Jungkook, 'thank you's' spewing from her mouth and a combination of snot and tears wetting my shirt. When she had collected herself the little boy stepped forward, and for a moment I thought he was going to hug me. But his little arms wrapped around Jungkooks leg, a smile on his face as he peered up at him, "thank you for saving mommy, monkey and me." He snuggled his face into Jungkooks leg and I analyzed Jungkook's reaction, watching his shoulders slump and his eyes fall before he gently placed a hand on the boy's head full of blonde hair.

Once the two had successfully left, Jungkook silently forced me on his back, leading us down a random trail through the woods.

"What are you doing?" I asked. He didn't respond and only started to walk faster.

"Jungkook where are you going?"

"Shut up."

Jungkook walked ahead another mile or so before he finally placed me down in a clearing, the sun starting to set behind us.

"Jungkook?"

"Do you ever shut up?" He said as he started a fire, sitting down directly in front of me and placing my ankle onto his lap. He handed me a stick and gently prodded my mouth open, his thumb tracing the outline of my bottom lip. "Bite down on this."

I followed as he said until a strangled scream escaped my throat, my back flinging backward as Jungkook suddenly snapped my ankle back into place.

"Fuck you, Jeon!" I heaved out, crawling onto my knees and glaring up at him.

"I just saved your life." He fired back, eyes raging,

"You didn't save my life you saved yours! If I died there then you wouldn't get to bring your prize back to daddy Ozai!"

"Shut up!"

I rolled out of the way as a red and orange flame shot towards me, and without thinking I flung my body at Jungkook, the two of us falling to the ground. I threw a series of punches at him, most of them hitting his chest and one hitting him square in the jaw. Jungkook grabbed at my waist and flipped us, his fingers grabbing my wrist and pinning them against the ground.

Our chests rose and fell with exhaustion and Jungkooks face suddenly fell into the crook of my neck, his grip still strong on my wrists.

"What happened to you? You used to be the best major in the fire kingdom?" He spoke softly while my brain went haywire. My past in the fire nation was dark, I did things for them I regret. Bad things I believed to be good, but even when I started to suspect they were bad, I still did them. I used to be the best, yes, at killing people, hunting people down.

"Look at my stomach." Jungkook looked at me wide-eyed as if asking for confirmation before letting go of my hands. Peeling away the fabric against my torso only to suddenly pull it down.

"Who did that to you?"

My fingers softly played with the fabric,

"Ozai. I publicly disobeyed his orders, he wanted me to teach his son a lesson. Beat him up. I couldn't. So he burned me." I lifted the fabric over my head, Jungkook harshly looking away from me.

"Jungkook. Look at me." Jungkook slowly took me in, nothing but a bra, pants, and a scolding burn against the skin of my torso.

"The fire nation kills innocents, and he's gonna kill you too if that means he gets his way."

Jungkook looked at me with unshed tears in his eyes,

"It's all I've ever known."

"I know." My answer was automatic because I've been in Jungkook's shoes. Faced the issues and controversy in my own mind, but I no longer saw it as betraying my own nation but helping save it.

"C'mere." He mumbled, pulling me into his lap. The soft pads of his fingers tracing the outline of my scar that glowed by the light of the fire.

His hands caressed the sides of my ribs leaving ripples of touch in his wake. His eyes straying upwards to my eyes, big brown doe eyes locking onto mine as if I was the key to all of his issues. All of his pain.

"Let me touch you." Jungkook was straightforward in life, and I don't know why his words shocked me so much, but they did. The want pouring from his eyes and the warmth emitting from his body clouded my brain, clouded my mind until I whispered,

"Okay."

Jungkook leaned forward, his mouth ghosting over mine before he leaned in, connecting our plump lips to one another. Melding our moves in a dance of fire and passion. My hands traveled up towards his head, curling my fingertips around his dark hair and pulling when he knawed against my bottom lip.

He groaned under my ministrations and gave me a half-lidded look,

his hands picking at the fabric of my bra.

Getting the message I grabbed at the fabric and pulled it overhead, Jungkooks eyes widening at my breasts that bounced with the freedom. His hands traced upwards until his thumbs toyed with my nipples. A hiss passing through my lips while a smirk spread on his face.

"Look at you little rebel, getting all red and responsive under me. I'm gonna make you feel so good." He mumbled just before taking the bud in his mouth, sucking and grazing it with his teeth.

"Kook" I muttered while I watched him switch breasts, my legs twitching at the sight of him looking up at me with my nipple in his mouth.

"Take your shirt off." Jungkook gave me a wink at my command and reached for the back of his shirt, pulling it up and over his shoulders.

"Yes, commander." I paid little attention to his joke, my eyes tracing the ridges and outlines of his stomach. Admired his toned section as well as the beautiful tummy fat that had started to form.

"I want to make you scream, little rebel." His fingers pushed down at the pants that stuck to my skin and he gently pushed me down on the ground, the dirt scratching against my bareback.

"I want to see this beautiful little pussy."

Self-consciousness suddenly passed through my body in waves and my legs crossed at the sudden chill of the night air. A red flush spreading over my face as memories of the girls Jungkook attracted through his time as a general. When we were both at the fire nation Jungkook was known for getting the prettiest girls, fucking the best girls. Was I a good fuck?

"Hey." As if Jungkook could sense my stress his hands cupped at my cheeks, his eyes locked onto mine.

"You're beautiful."

The redness of my checks only seemed to darken, and I twisted my head to the side so he wouldn't get the satisfaction of looking at me.

"Shut up and make me feel good."

I didn't hear a response from Jungkook but I felt his response. His fingers trailing down to between my legs. His other hand spreading my legs apart while he laid himself down on his stomach, fingers gently spreading my folds apart in front of him.

"So pretty." He mumbled above the ringing and embarrassment in my ears.

"Jungkoo-ok." I half groaned half moaned while he inserted his middle finger into my cunt, adding his ring finger with the help of my wetness forming around his fingers.

"You're so wet for me rebel." A wet feeling spread from my inner thigh to the edge of my folds, my body jerked at the feeling.

His fingers spread in v like motion and a broken sob escaped my mouth, an annoyed yell following when he pulled his fingers out.

"Jungk-!" I gasped as he dragged me closer to his mouth, his fingers wrapping around my hips and a quick slob of spit falling onto my clit.

"I can't wait to taste you rebel, are you gonna cum on my mouth? You better." His thumb rolled around the bud of my clit, the moisture of his spit allowing his thumb to roll in all directions.

And then his mouth was on me. His tongue licking a long strip up my pussy, encircling my folds and sticking it in my hole as if it was his fingers. My back arched under his ministrations and tears formed in the corner of my eyes,

"cum baby" Jungkook muttered against my pussy, wiggling his lips further into my cunt, glistening juices covering his lips and dripping onto his nose.

"I'm so close," I mumbled out incoherently while Jungkook added a ring finger, his mouth engulfing my bud into his mouth and sucking harshly.

My mouth fell open and my legs shock while Jungkook coerced my orgasm, my head falling back onto the ground and a broken moan responding to the juices that flew through my body. My hips grinded upwards before falling to the ground, twitching in the aftermath of my orgasm.

"I was right. You taste like heaven little rebel." Jungkook wiped at his glistening mouth and my belly couldn't help but do flips at the sight, energy shooting down to my core despite the exertion I had just been through.

"Take your pants off Kook." Jungkook smirked at me and raised an eyebrow, "I'd rather have you take them off." I glared at him but he still listened, but before we could do anything I suddenly winced at the soreness of my back. I couldn't stay like this for another round.

I flipped myself over Jungkook, his eyes widening in surprise as we switched positions.

"That's better."

My eyes traveled downwards to Jungkooks dick. It was long and curved, the girth enough for my hand to fit around it, enough to fill me up and give me relief.

I threw a leg over his hip and pumped his length twice, watching his eyes clench, and his tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek.

"As much as I'd love to get a handjob right now, I really want you to sit on my dick."

I took Jungkook advice to heart, rubbing myself against his head and finally sinking down on his dick. A moan escaping the two of us as I bottomed out on his lap.

"Fuck you're so full."

I clenched harshly against him, the new feeling of being filled sending my senses into overdrive as they tried to accommodate to him inside me.

"Fuck." Jungkook whined, his head falling backward,

"if you do that again I'm gonna nut inside you." I almost chuckled at his statement but my body was working before my brain could process, my hips lifting before pushing back down. A constant flow starting while Jungkooks hands gripped at my waist, helping me bounce against him.

"Fuck Jungkook, why do you have to be such a fucking idiot." I breathed out in between moans.

"Do we really have to do this now?" He spoke in gasps.

"Maybe if you came with me..." Jungkook thrust upwards and my hands shot to his chest to sturdy me.

"I don't want you to die (y/n)" he growled and thrust upwards once more before I caught my bearing, flipping my hair to my right shoulder and rolling my hips against his while he stuttered.

"Fuck I'm cuming." Jungkooks cum shot through me in waves, squirting into my body, just as he suddenly sat up and rubbed his thumb against my clit in harsh circles.

I grabbed at his wrist to anchor me while I sobbed at the onslaught of pleasure, my own orgasm shortly following while I collapsed onto him.

After a solid minute of the two of us catching our breath, we rolled onto the ground, our chests falling and rising in sync.

"Go rogue with me," I whispered, afraid of his reaction while his eyes downcast.

"I can't, we still have to go back. I'll help you though, I'll tell Ozai you should be commissioned back into a position of power. You can be a general again."

Hurt washed through me in waves. Hurt at how naive Jungkook is, and how conditioned he had been by the fire nation, he was the golden boy of the fire lord. How could I think he would change for me?

"I'm sorry Jungkook."

"For what?" The rock in my hand slammed against the side of his head. Hard enough for his eyes to fall shut and for him to have a horrible headache in the morning, but not hard enough for him to die.

I dressed quickly, sending Jungkook one last look before racing into the forest. I knew this wouldn't be the last time I would see him, I just hopped one day he would change, for his sake and mine.

"See you later Jungkook."

Taglist: @rebeccawoodrow @gee-nee @koochiekoo

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slippinmickeys · 3 years

Text

The Earl (7/13)

If you’d like to read this on AO3, you may do so here.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Scullaaaaaay“!” Mulder called desperately into the night.

He was still in his dinner attire, now torn in two places and wracked with burrs. He struggled through the brush at the far end of the field on the west end of Byers’ estate, a footman on either side of him, both carrying torches, each also calling out for the Countess of Wexford, their voices cracking from hours of use.

It was nearing dawn, the light in the east greying, promising another stunning day. Fog hugged the ground, a damp cold that permeated the bones. His own footman, Alexander, walked to a nearby ditch and looked down and shook his head when Mulder caught his eye. The other footman, Andrew, who worked for Byers, was dead on his feet, torch shaking in his weary hand. They had been out searching all night.

The thud of approaching hoofbeats caught their attention and they turned to find Byers approaching on horseback, his face wan in the ever-increasing light of pre-dawn.

Mulder looked to him expectantly.

“Nothing,” Byers said to him, before he could even ask. “I’m sending the search parties back to the estate to rest-” Mulder was about to protest when Byers held up a hand and went on. “I’m riding to the village to recruit fresh men and inform the constable. We’ll keep looking, Mulder.”

Mulder turned to the two footmen and dismissed them, and they turned and began the long trudge back toward the estate.

“You need to rest as well, Mulder,” Byers said gently.

Mulder shook his head at his friend, his heart weary and his hands jittery and shaking.

“I’ll rest when we find her,” he said.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Scully startled awake when a crow cawed raucously from a branch above her, the bright sunlight of the spring day shining through a break in the leaves and half-blinding her. The pain in her skull had dulled, but still throbbed lowly with every beat of her heart.

Leaves rustled not far from where she lay, and she cracked her eyes to look.

The tall black boot of a gentleman was the first thing she saw when her eyes began adjusting to the light -- polished, but with several smears of dirt creeping up from the sole. She drew in a surprised breath. She had one, quick, vague hope that the boot would belong to Mulder, but when she turned her head up to look at the gentleman’s face, her hope turned to despair. It was not her husband, come to save her.

CBG Spender looked down at her without expression, casually removing his gloves. He then reached down and roughly untied her gag.

“You,” she said, the second the rag came loose. The harsh smell of tobacco smoke hit her nose as she sat up.

“Lady Wexford,” the man said, his voice flat.

“Release me at once, Mr. Spender,” she said, holding up her hands in front of her.

“I don’t think that I will, Lady Dana,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine.

“What do you want with me?” she asked.

He looked about himself at the forest and the grungy blanket upon which she had slept with distaste. “The family of Wexford owes me,” he said, then looked down nonchalantly at his manicured nails.

“What for?” she asked.

“An old debt,” he said, then leveled a look at her as though he had assessed her intelligence and found her up to snuff. “The sins of the father.”

“ We are born with our father's names. We are not responsible for their failures,” she said, thinking of the Marquess.

“Nevertheless,” he said, tugging his buckskin gloves back on, “I will collect what’s owed me. Your bridegroom has so far refused to pay.”

“So this is a kidnapping, then?”

Spender moved around the tree she was tied to, reaching up to undo the knot behind it and holding onto the rope that was still around her waist as if she were a dog he was taking for a walk.

“I gave him several chances to settle the debt,” he said.

“Several chances? You mean threats and the offer of your own daughter as a bride? A woman he does not love?”

Spender shrugged and kneeled down, bringing his eyes level with hers. She leaned back against the tree, trying to keep as much distance between them as she was able.

“And did he love you when he ruined you in the garden of Halford House?” he asked, and she felt her cheeks go red -- how did he know? “How you managed to snare the ninth Earl of Wexford, wedding him within a day of meeting him is the talk of the ton .”

She could find no rebuttal.

“You are of good breeding, but unimpressive resources. A fortune hunter,” he went on.

“Were I pot, I’d call you kettle,” she hissed. He narrowed his eyes at her and stood. He had the look of a snake.

“So he wedded and bedded you,” Spender said, “or was it the other way around?” She looked away, unable to stand to look at him any longer. “Get up,” he ordered, tugging on the rope. She refused to move.

“I will have what’s owed to me,” he said, then grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to standing, “one way or another.”

She swayed momentarily on her feet and he reached up and fingered a lock of her hair that had come out of her chignon, rubbing it between his fingers and staring intently at her face. She felt as though she might retch. Without warning, his other arm came up, knife in hand and sliced it off with an ungentle tug.

XxX

Bound — the gag she’d been wearing hanging loosely around her neck — she was led through a fallow field and into a carriage that was waiting in the center of an empty lane, Duane Barry serving as coachman. Spender climbed in behind her and sat down on the bench opposite. He leaned over and pulled the drapes over the carriage windows, casting the interior into partial darkness. It was not nearly so fine as the Wexford coach and smelled, oddly, of gunpowder.

The conveyance lurched into movement, and he leaned back in the seat, his hands resting atop an ebony walking stick topped with an elaborate silver wolf’s head, the ruby eyes of the beast staring at Scully with a malicious glare.

“You should be quite comfortable,” Mr. Spender practically sneered, “I assure you that you will be kept in the luxury to which you have so recently become accustomed.”

Scully glared at him but remained silent.

After about forty five minutes of travel, she’d been lulled into a depressed stupor, her shoulder and head leaning lightly against the side of the carriage. Spender had been dozing as well, and they both sat upright when the carriage was pulled to an abrupt stop.

Instantly alert, Spender peeked out the window around the covering.

“Not a word,” he said, tense. He had his hand wrapped around the walking stick, as if he meant to use it as a weapon.

She could hear the muffled words of Barry and then the scattered-rocks sound of someone dismounting a horse and approaching the side of the carriage.

“And who are you carrying inside of the carriage?” the rider said, his voice sounding as though it were just outside of the door.

More muffled words from Barry.

“Just your employer?” the rider said, “No one else?”

One short word in response.

At this, Spender pulled the gag hastily up back around her mouth and held his finger to his lips. He then threw open the door of the carriage and jumped out, slamming it quickly behind him with such force that it hit the frame and bounced back open by several inches. Scully leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the rider through the crack.

“What is the meaning of this?” Spender demanded.

“I am the constable of these parts, sir,” the rider replied calmly. “There is a noblewoman missing from a nearby estate and I am charged to find her. Have you seen anyone on your travels? She is a countess, of average height with ginger hair. Last seen wearing a blue riding habit.”

Scully looked down at her riding frock, torn and covered in dust and brambles from her forced march across the field.

“I have seen no such woman,” Spender said shortly.

“And you are traveling alone?”

“With the exception of my coachman, yes.”

“What is your name, sir?”

Spender paused, and Scully could hear the constable take a few steps over from where he’d been standing. She could see the edge of the man’s boot in the crack of the carriage door. Her heart was pounding. One step more and the man would be able to see her.

“My name is Mr. Morley sir,” Spender said, his voice softening, becoming more amenable. “Lately of London, but I have purchased a small seaside estate near Dover.”

“And you are traveling there now?”

“I am, sir,” said Spender.

The constable paused, and Scully shifted on her bench, which creaked under her.

“What was that sound?” the constable asked, suddenly alert.

“I heard nothing,” Spender said, the friendly tone in his voice gone.

The constable then took one step and peered in through the cracked door of the carriage. Scully connected eyes with him, screaming as loudly as she could through the fabric of her gag. The man’s eyes went wide and he reached for the pistol tucked in to the top of his breeches.

“What is the meaning of-” the constable shouted. A tumult of gravel from the road kicked in front of the door and he crumpled to the road, his head the only thing Scully could see through the sliver of the doorway, bleeding from a gash above his eye. The door was flung open widely and Spender stood in it, his chest heaving, the wolfshead-topped walking stick in his hand, dripping blood from the tip. He jumped into the carriage.

“Drive, coachman!” he shouted, “Drive!”

Scully heard the sharp snap of a whip and the coach lurched into movement, Spender shooting daggers at her from his eyes.

XxXxXxXxXxX

Mulder felt like he was floating above his own body, dead on his feet but at the same time still pulsing with restless energy. Scully had been missing for 48 hours, and he had not slept a wink in all that time. He fought against the pull of sleep and the dark push of pessimism whispering gradually louder in his ear: she is gone, she is dead, she has left you .

He had not changed his clothes, nor bathed. He paced the length of the hallway in the manse, alternating between the front door and Byers’ office, where various staff members would check in on occasion, none with any new information. The groom, Duane Barry, had all but disappeared, most of his things still in the room he occupied with one of the other lower members of the household staff.

Mulder had been out to the four corners of the estate and beyond, usually accompanied by his own footman, and they had found nothing. It was as if Scully had ascended to the stars, leaving no trace of her corporeal body on the earth. News had come in just that morning that the local constable had been attacked and killed on a roadside on the far reaches of the county. Curious as to whether or not it was connected to his missing wife, Mulder was just making another turn in the hallway when the butler approached the door to Byers’ office and gave Mulder a steady look before entering.

“The post has arrived, sir,” Mr. Headly said, and Mulder hovered near the door while he delivered the post to his employer. The butler exited, leaving the door open, and Mulder watched Byers closely as he shuffled through it, stopping halfway through and sitting up straight.

“Mulder,” Byers said sharply, not looking away from the papers in front of him, knowing that Mulder was hovering there.

Mulder entered the room immediately, and Byers finally looked up.

“It is addressed to you,” Byers said. Mulder had received correspondence since they’d arrived in Kent, but most had been from his land stewards, and this was no piece of business -- with the letter was a small lock of red hair.

Byers handed it over and before Mulder could even tear into it, Byers had stood and pulled the bell for a servant, whispering something to a footman who arrived at the office door a moment later.

“ Dear Lord Wexford ,” the letter formally began, “ I hope this letter finds you well and in a generous disposition. I am writing to inform you that your wife, Lady Dana, the Countess of Wexford, is well and unharmed and currently under my protection. I have enclosed evidence, etc. She will be returned to you, provided you pay a ransom in the amount 20,000 pounds. I shall give you a week to put together the money. You will be contacted by an intermediary with further instructions on where to pay it, and how to collect your property/wife etc. Failure to pay or comply with forthcoming instructions will result in bodily harm to your wife that I’m sure you would both wish to avoid. ”

The letter was not signed with a signature, but with a large scrawling X, no doubt so that it could not be used as evidence against the blackmailer. He looked at the non-signature. It couldn’t be... He reread the letter a second time, his stomach falling to his toes when he got to “ Failure to pay or comply with forthcoming instructions will result in bodily harm to your wife …” As he lowered the letter to his lap, there was a soft knock on the office door and Frohike and Langly walked into the room and conferred quietly with Byers.

“Mulder,” Byers said gently, “Do you mind if we consult with my colleagues? I believe we can be of some assistance to you.” Mulder nodded dumbly, not taking his eyes off the paper in front of him. He lifted the lock of hair to his nose and could swear he could still smell the lavender of her soap. “Can you tell us about the correspondence you received?” Byers went on.

In answer, Mulder simply held out the letter, and Byers gently took it from him and read it with Frohike and Langly peering over his shoulder.

“So it’s a kidnapping then,” Langly said, “a ransom demand.”

“It would appear so,” Mulder said without feeling.

“It would have to have been posted locally,” Frohike said, examining the letter and the envelope it came in, “she has been gone not quite two days. This could not have come far.”

Langly peered at the paper.

“Medium stock, decent quality,” he said, “And the language suggests an education. This has been sent from the office of a gentleman or someone of middling to excessive means.”

Mulder looked up, impressed.

“Do you have any enemies, Lord Wexford?” Frohike asked.

“Please call me Mulder,” Mulder said absently, thinking of tobacco smoke and the not-quite veiled threats in his office weeks and weeks ago now.

“Mulder,” Frohike nodded at him, “Do you have any enemies?”

“Please wait here,” he said, moving quickly toward the door of the office.

“Mulder?” Byers questioned Mulder's retreating back.

Mulder made his way to his chambers and then rushed back down to Byers’ office and handed the men, still huddled together, the envelope with the large ‘X’ scrawled across the front.

Without a word, Byers opened it and the three men leaned in and began reading. It only took a moment for them to finish and six eyes swung up to meet Mulder’s.

“But this is dated nearly two decades ago,” Byers said, astonished. “Is it-”

Mulder interrupted him. “It was not sent to me, but to my father,” he said.

The three men before him shared a troubled look.

#The X-Files #Fanfic #MSR #AU #The Countess #The Earl #Sequel #My fic

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skinsharpenedteeth · 3 years

Text

Prompt Fill - “Guess I’m stuck here until the storm breaks”

Sweet, sweet Nonny... I’m not sure this is what you were looking for when you sent this prompt to me what seems like 8 thousand years ago... but this is what you got. I hope you enjoy it.

Enjoy it on AO3 here! Words: 9.6k Rating: Explicit (smut and fluff)

A glance out of the cabin window showed the last hour of daylight retreating under the heavy, slate colored sky. Alex’s weather app told him it would be a full moon tonight, but he doubted he’d get to see it since the app also warned there might be a winter storm. The sky felt heavy over the cabin, like a weighted blanket ready to descend over him, and he couldn’t quite get the chill out of the house. He’d brought wood up to the porch to keep the fireplace going all night in case he lost power and he was already wearing his thermal gear under his jeans and long sleeve shirt. He’d just have to wait and see how bad it would hit. He was sipping a cup of coffee when the first pattering of rain and crack of thunder outside started up. A pair of headlights caught in the falling water and Alex squinted through the dark blue dusk to see if he could tell whose car was coming up his drive. As the car drew closer, he could hear the engine over the rain hitting the cabin’s metal roof and felt his stomach tighten in anticipation.

Alex made for the cabin’s front door and opened it as soon as the lights from Michael’s truck switched off and the engine died. A quick flash of lightning and the gentle taps of rain became intermixed with the pings from small pieces of ice. Alex watched Michael hop out of his car and hold onto his hat as he jogged the distance between the truck and the porch, the sleet coming down seemingly harder with every thump of his boots against the hardpacked dirt. When he jumped under the porch overhand, Alex took in the glittering, melting ice stuck to the fabric of his coat and hat and the way his breath whooshed out from his mouth in puffs of steam. It was so desperately charming, he almost smiled when Michael looked at him somewhat sheepishly from under the dripping brim of his cowboy hat.

They hadn’t seen each other one-on-one in weeks. There was always Kyle or Max or someone else standing nearby to interrupt their covert stares and smooth over their stilted conversation. It was awkward now that they were both single and unsure how to proceed with building a more solid foundation between them. Much like the sky earlier that evening, there was a pregnant quality to their interactions that neither of them knew how to handle the weight of. But they kept trying. They kept trying to use the pieces of them that worked together to their best advantage while slowly fixing the ones that were broken. It was why they hadn’t allowed themselves to be alone in a while, why they had tried to always have a third party with them. Now there was no third party and not likely to be one available. Michael stood on his front porch and it made Alex feel slightly exposed to have him there with nothing to divert his attention.

Alex took in Michael’s appearance as objectively as he could. Besides his thick wool patterned coat and signature black cowboy hat, he was wearing a white thermal smudged with black grease and red brown dirt under a red plaid flannel shirt. His jeans were one of his rougher pair with holes and tears everywhere making Alex exceedingly glad he could see matching white thermal leggings underneath. The skin of his hands looked dry and dirty as they rubbed against each other trying to generate warmth while Michael waited for Alex to finish his inventory. It didn’t seem to matter to Alex what Michael wore or didn’t wear, he always found himself one impulse decision away from pushing him against something sturdy so he could get his mouth on him. When Alex met his eyes again, he caught the knowing grin Michael barely hid behind his half-frozen fingers.

“Sure you want to be here, Guerin? The weather’s getting bad,” Alex asked in a clipped voice, a little embarrassed that Michael had been letting him check him out without interruption and that he seemed to know what Alex had been thinking. Michael’s grin grew wider as if Alex’s brusque manner amused him and Alex tried to squash the part of him that answered Michael’s reaction with a different type of heat.

“Well, you invited me so I came. Oh and you left this the other day. I didn’t know if you needed it,” Michael answered casually, pulling out a flash drive from the inside pocket of his coat. Wind was rocking the sage brush and trees around the cabin as Alex buried his hands between his upper arms and ribs for warmth while he stared nonplussed at the drive in Michael’s outstretched hand. He looked back up into Michael’s eyes hoping he looked unimpressed but feeling like he probably looked mad. Mad seemed to be his default expression and the cold was making him hunch his shoulders in a vain effort to block the wind from sneaking under his collar. He’d be shivering soon if he didn’t get back inside and he wouldn’t be going in there alone.

“You didn’t have to bring that back to me. I can’t do much out here with it. I barely have cell reception,” Alex complained, meeting Michael’s eyes again while leaving the drive hanging between them in Michael’s outstretched hand. Michael shrugged, seemingly unconcerned, and pushed the drive into one of Alex’s front pockets when he made no move to take it from him. Alex drew in a quick breath at the unexpected touch and felt himself blush a little when Michael stepped forward, keeping his fingers hooked into Alex’s front pocket.

“I figured since it was on my way home, I'd at least drop.this off,” Michael explained, voice low as he waited for Alex’s response. Alex was nodding automatically, but then he registered what Michael had actually said and looked up at him in confusion.

“What?” Alex asked. “How in the hell is this place on your way home? I’m a good fifty minutes from Roswell.”

“I was working out at one of the ranches on a broken tractor. They’re seventy minutes from Roswell,” Michael responded, emphasizing how close he’d been all day to Alex without him knowing. Alex huffed out a sound of exasperation and then a squeak of surprise as Michael took a step towards him. Alex automatically took a step back, and then another, as Michael backed him against the door jamb. The frozen rain was near torrential behind them and Alex could see the ice starting to build up on Michael’s truck. The ground was already grey and white with accumulation. Michael turned his head and followed his line of sight, taking in the conditions past the end of the porch.

“Looks like I’m stuck here until the storm breaks after all.”

Alex gave him a sharp look and was only met with a mischievous grin for his effort. Michael reached around him and opened the door, brushing past him into the warmth and brightness of the cabin. Alex stayed on the porch for a moment longer to collect himself, not sure any of this was a good idea, but sure he couldn’t just kick Michael out to try and drive in the ice. He took in a long, cold breath that seemed to put some steel in his spine and began to turn to go back into the cabin.

“Hey, grab a log or two. Your fire’s getting low!” He heard Michael call from further in the cabin before he could so much as shift to take a step inside. Huffing out a laugh at Michael’s audacity, Alex walked over to his pile of wood and grabbed an armload before going back into the cabin’s interior. The door made a small slam behind him as he kicked it shut with his foot before going to the hearth to deposit the firewood pieces. Michael was sitting cross legged in front of the flames, hands held out to catch their warmth, looking far too at home in Alex’s space for comfort. His boots, hat, and coat were already put up next to the door over the drip tray and Alex felt his chest tighten pleasurably at how they looked next to his own drier pieces. When Alex turned back to look at Michael again, he felt his heart give a hard thump at the sight of him. He looked softer in the firelight, hair floating from the bursts of hot air that were pushed from the fireplace by the wind coming down the chimney and a warm, orange glow was catching the honey and gold tones in his skin.

“Any other orders, master?” Alex asked in a teasing voice as he loaded a few sticks of new wood into the fireplace. Michael gave him a positively filthy grin and Alex ducked his face back towards the fire, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering as he waited for whatever suggestive, wonderful thing Michael was going to say or do next. This was a thing they did now; they teased and teased until one of them broke. It was hot, but they’d made great strides to try and talk over the phone or text before seeing each other so they knew the rules.

“Got any food in this place?” Michael asked instead, throwing Alex off balance when he didn’t immediately respond with innuendo. Alex stood up slowly, using the movement to help him gather his thoughts as he brushed his hands off. Michael stayed on the floor, watching Alex expectantly, relaxed in that too-casual way he adopted when he was nervous about something. Alex couldn’t fathom what it would be that Michael would feel anxious about, so he answered the question instead of the body language.

“Nothing made. There’s coffee though,” Alex offered, pointing over to where his coffee pot sat on the counter still half full. “Mugs are in the cabinet above. I’m going to check the weather to see how long this is supposed to last.”

He retreated to the back corner of the cabin where he had the best bet of picking up a satellite under Michael’s inscrutable gaze. Staying out in the cabin had the same drawbacks as it did benefits. There was a landline still connected for emergencies, but that wouldn’t help when trying to connect to the web. He tapped the weather app on his phone and waited as it tried to download the newest alerts and weather conditions. Alex was aware of Michael getting up off the floor and moving around the cabin towards the kitchen area. The cabin wasn’t big, only three rooms and a bathroom. ‘And the bunker,’ Alex reminded himself, trying not to think of the pink bed and wardrobe beneath their feet. He could offer it to Michael if he had to stay over but… it felt weird to do anything with it except try to ignore that it existed. He still hadn’t come to terms with the idea that Rosa was Jim Valenti’s daughter and Kyle’s half-sister. A flash of color on his phone brought his attention back to the present and Alex looked down to see the radar covered in white, blue and green cloud formations over New Mexico. He scrolled down to read the weather bulletin and cursed inwardly.

“See something you don’t like?” Michael asked in a concerned voice as his heavy footfalls echoed around the suddenly too tiny living space. Alex swallowed at the picture Michael painted as he moved around the room barefoot and casual with Alex’s second favorite mug in his hand. Alex wanted to push him down onto the couch and cover him with his body, burrow his face into that spot behind Michael’s ear that smelled so strongly of ozone and summer rain it almost covered every other scent that clung to his skin from a life spent elbow deep in engine grease and bourbon bottles. He could almost feel the way Michael’s moan would feel through his skin, vibrating against Alex’s mouth as he-- Alex shook himself out of the daydream before it took the erotic turn he knew it was headed towards and smiled a little too brightly at Michael who merely raised an eyebrow at him in return.

“Uh, looks like it’s supposed to last the rest of the night and into part of the morning. Should clear out around three,” Alex stammered, looking down at this phone again as he remembered to answer Michael’s question. Michael hummed in response, still watching Alex intently as he sipped his coffee. “So I guess you are staying the night.”

Michael looked around the cabin speculatively, his eyes running over the worn couch and sitting chair, the half-full bookshelves, the small kitchen table and chairs, and turned back to Alex with a strange smile on his face.

“I mean, I figured I’d take the couch, but where do you sleep?” Michael asked with a raised eyebrow and grin.

“OH! Uhm, so, off the kitchen? There used to be a breezeway out there that I closed in to put in a bathroom and it has a door that leads through to my bedroom. I… I hadn’t really thought about the sleeping arrangements,” Alex lied, though he didn’t think he was fooling Michael one bit. The lights flickered as Michael nodded at him through another sip of coffee.

“Shit, tell me you have a generator?” Michael asked, eyes glued to the ceiling like he could see through the metal roof to the sky beyond. Alex could hear the wind whistling around the edges of the house and the constant, dull roar of ice and rain hitting the windows and metal sheeting. He sucked on his teeth for a moment before giving Michael a sheepish grin.

“I don’t. That was going to be my next big purchase for the place,” Alex admitted with an apologetic shrug as the lights flickered again after a roll of thunder. Michael widened his eyes and met Alex’s for a moment before abruptly turning and going to the fridge.

“What are you doing?” Alex called after him, pushing his phone into his back pocket and following Michael into the kitchen. Michael was bent over with his head hidden behind the door and giving Alex a very nice view of his ass.

“We need to go ahead and make something to eat in case we lose power. Are omelets okay with you? That’s about all you have stocked for in here,” Michael called over his shoulder. Alex had settled with his shoulder against the wall as he watched Michael paw through his meager cold foods.

“I’ve got canned soup and bread? We could make soup and sandwiches?” Alex suggested. Michael paused and stood halfway up with his hands full. He squinted over at Alex in distrust.

“What kind of soup?” he asked, seeming to hold a lot of stock in the answer. Alex walked over to the pantry and opened its doors to see what he’d bought last.

“Uhm, vegetarian vegetable, chicken noodle, tomato bisque, lentil.... and I think there’s a ten-year-old can of chef boy-ar-dee back here somewhere?” Alex listed off as his eyes scanned over the various cans he had. Michael was making him realize he probably should’ve gone grocery shopping before heading up here for his self-imposed long weekend of disconnecting from the real world. He felt a line of heat behind him and then Michael’s chin dropped onto his shoulder as he looked into the pantry as well.

“Okay. I can work with this,” Michael said in a distracted tone. Alex shifted so he could look into Michael’s face and felt oddly sad at how serious and calculating he seemed about the food supply.

“We’ll be fine, Guerin. This will only last for a day or two tops and I’m sure we can find ways to distract ourselves if the hunger becomes too great,” Alex teased, trying to lighten the mood. Michael gave him a shocked, pleased expression that Alex took a minute to comprehend and then promptly blushed over.

“Yeah, I’m sure we can,” he mumbled at Alex before turning back to the kitchen. He’d laid out bacon, eggs, salsa, and cheese on the countertop before following Alex to the pantry. He started pawing through the lower cabinets next to the ancient gas stove and Alex swallowed roughly when his shirt rode up past the waistband of his jeans and showed a strip of smooth, tan skin. Clearing his throat, Alex tugged at his collar subconsciously before turning around quickly to grab a random can of soup from the pantry and shut the doors. There was the sound of metal on metal as Michael pulled out a skillet and a pot for the soup.

“How’s fried egg sandwiches and soup sound?” he asked over his shoulder at Alex as he turned on the burners.

“Yeah, sounds great,” Alex answered, walking over and setting the can of soup down next to the stove. He watched Michael pick up the can and read the label, snorting to himself in amusement before he pulled the tab on the can of soup and poured it into the pot.

“Here,” Michael said, turning and catching Alex’s eye as he held out a spoon, “you get to watch the soup while I make the sandwiches.”

Alex plucked the spoon from Michael’s hand with a nod before hopping up onto the counter by his side of the stove. He watched Michael separate bacon slices and put them in the hot pan to start cooking and immediately hummed in pleasure at the smell.

“How do you like your bacon? Crispy or kinda floppy,” Michael asked as he nudged the pieces around so they wouldn’t stick to the bottom of the pan.

“Crispy,” Alex replied. Michael shot him a smile before stepping over and taking back the spoon from where Alex had set it next to his thigh. “HEY!”

“You’re not doing your job, private,” Michael scolded him with a smile before stirring the soup in the pot. He set the spoon down in a spoon rest and then turned back to his bacon, flipping each piece.

“I can’t help it! I don’t think I’ve ever watched you cook before and here you are making bacon and drinking coffee and… ugh. I think I’m developing a domesticity kink,” Alex joked, leaning back on his hands and enjoying the smug sense of pride at seeing Michael’s cheeks pink up at the compliment. Michael grabbed his mug of coffee and took a quick sip, glancing over at Alex quickly to see if he was watching before looking back down at the bacon. When he was finished, he held out the coffee cup towards Alex who looked at it with a raised eyebrow.

“Since I’m the cook, you can be the helper. Make me some more coffee?” Michael asked. Alex slid down off the counter and took Michael’s cup from him before turning to the pot of coffee and pouring the last dregs into Michael’s cup. He fussed with the cup, making it the way he knew Michael liked it, before holding out the finished product to him. Michael took the cup absentmindedly as he plucked the cooked bacon out of the pan and set them on a bunch of paper towels to drain. He cracked two eggs into the pan, salting and peppering them each, before he took the time to sip from his fresh cup. Alex had already turned away, clearing out the used coffee grounds from the coffee maker and preparing a new batch when he felt a hand wrap around his waist and pull him against Michael’s body a split second before he could feel the scrape of stubble against his chin and coffee on his tongue. He relaxed into the kiss, his hands sliding up Michael’s chest to bury themselves in his curls, keeping him locked in the moment until the taste of coffee diluted to where they tasted the same. He let go of Michael’s curls reluctantly and opened his eyes slowly.

“Sure you don’t want to just get married and live happily ever after?” Michael asked, tone dreamy and slow after their kiss.

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Alex breathed in reply, before softly pushing Michael back from him, “But I might change my mind if you burn the eggs.”

Michael looked over at the eggs before quickly grabbing the spatula and flipping them. He laughed lightly before turning back to face Alex.

“Good catch,” he congratulated Alex. Alex had also turned and started working on refilling the coffee reservoir, a small, pleased smile stuck on his face. He could’ve responded with something witty like ‘That’s what they call me!’ but it felt cheap after their little flirtation, so he kept working in silence. Michael turned back to the food and before the coffee pot was done refilling, they were moving towards the living room sofa with their plates and bowls.

Michael sat back down on the floor in front of the fire, his food in front of him. Alex started to pass him to sit on the couch when he felt a tug at his jeans. Alex stopped and looked down into Michael’s upturned face.

“Bring me my coffee?” he asked, sticking out his lower lip and making his eyes look comically sad. Alex snorted out a laugh at him and nodded, moving to set down his things before returning to the kitchen. He grabbed both their coffee cups, topping them off with the fresh coffee, before returning. He handed Michael his before sitting on the couch. Part of him wanted to join Michael on the floor, but the idea of having to navigate getting settled with his prosthetic and the food made him decide he’d take the couch for now. They ate in silence, listening to continued pinging of rain or ice on the roof and the crackle of the fire.

“Sounds like it’s slowing down a little? It’s been a while since I’ve heard thunder,” Michael commented after swallowing a bite of soup. Alex listened again for a moment before nodding. He could still hear the faint whistling of wind around the sides of the cabin, but it wasn’t the same howl it had been earlier.

“A little, yeah,” Alex agreed. Michael was almost finished with his food and Alex looked down at his mostly full plate.

“Hungry?” he teased.

“So hungry. I barely got lunch. I was trying to get through with the tractor way before the storm and it was like one thing after another. It wasn’t the easiest fix in the world. One of those little pieces that breaks and looks like something else so you have to work through twenty other problems before you get to the one that caused them all. Ugh, it took so long to get through it all,” Michael groaned as he pushed his food to the side and stretched his long legs out in front of him. Alex watched him stretch his arms over his head, fingers intertwined and pushing towards the sky. That urge to tackle him and cover his body with Alex’s was back, but he needed to eat. When Michael relaxed, body reclining back onto his elbows and eyes half-lidded while he watched the fire, Alex felt his fingers twitch to comb through Michael’s hair until he fell asleep on the floor.

“Do you mind if I take a shower?” Michael asked, eyes looking more awake as he turned to consider Alex who was still slowly eating his sandwich and daydreaming about making Guerin and himself feel good.

“Yeah, I mean—no! I don’t mind, you can take a shower. Want to borrow some clothes so you don’t have to put your dirty ones back on?” Alex asked, already pushing his plates onto the seat next to his on the couch. Michael scowled at him.

“Trying to say I’m dirty?” he asked, head tilting down to look at Alex through his eyelashes as he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Only your mind, Guerin,” Alex sighed, pushing up out of the seat to stand. “Come on, I’ll get you set up.”

Michael followed him to the bathroom and then through to the old bunk room he’d turned into a master bedroom. The room had its own fireplace as part of the original design. He’d indulged himself with the décor a little. He’d gotten a Queen-sized bed and put it against the wall so that he could lay in bed, spread out, and look over at the fire. The bed frame had a tall headboard wrapped in dark, espresso brown leather. Alex had let Isobel talk him into buying slate grey, velvet shams and grey cotton sheets so soft he felt like he was slipping between clouds when he got under them. The blanket was a deep winter Ikea duvet with a dark moss green linen duvet cover. A modern style side table sat next to the bed with a gold and cream globe lamp. The room wasn’t huge, but it had enough room for a standing wardrobe finished in a dark mahogany and a dark honey gold sitting chair between the bed and the wall opposite the fireplace. He hadn’t put anything on the walls yet, but Isobel assured him she’d find something for him. He was half worried, half anticipating what she’d find for him. Michael stood in the doorway looking around at Alex’s bedroom while Alex opened the drawers inside the wardrobe and pulled out a navy set of thermals for Michael to replace his white ones with. He also grabbed out a pair of thick socks. He bundled the items together and handed them over to Michael who had finished his survey of the room and was watching him casually.

“Towels are in the closet by the shower,” Alex informed him as Michael took the clothes from Alex’s outstretched hands. His fingers brushed over Alex’s as he did and Alex felt electricity sing through his nerves at the feel of it. Michael tucked the clothes under his arm and made no move to leave, just watched Alex watch him back.

“Sure you don’t wanna come and join me? Save some hot water for tomorrow morning?” Michael suggested cheekily as he gave Alex meaningful up and down.

“Tankless water heater,” Alex countered smoothly, crossing his arms and moving to lean against the door jamb across from Michael. Michael stepped into his space, fingers edging under his shirt to touch Alex’s bare stomach. Alex sucked in a breath at the coolness of his fingertips but didn’t tense or move away. Michael must’ve taken it as encouragement, because he bent his head closer until his lips were inches from Alex’s.

“Maybe I just wanted to see you naked and wet for me?” Michael whispered, hands moving further under Alex’s shirt until he could cup his hands around Alex’s waist, thumbs rubbing softly over the tops of his hip bones. Alex felt the yearning between them pulling him in, making him feel like he was swaying closer with every inhalation to what they’d been dancing around since Michael had stepped onto Alex’s porch. It was intoxicating to be so close to Michael and know down to the marrow of his bones that Michael wanted him, to know what he wanted from him.

“Why don’t you show me exactly what you want from me?” Alex replied, dropping his hands to his side and enjoying the feeling of Michael’s hands skimming up his ribs and continuing until Alex’s shirt was the first piece in what would be a soft pile of clothing on the floor. Michael tossed the bundle of clothes Alex had given him towards the armchair before he shed his own shirt and added it on top of Alex’s on the floor. Alex watched him as he reached out and began roughly undoing Alex’s jeans and pushing them down to pool at his knees. Alex was halfway hard and getting closer to fully hard every second. Michael stared him straight in the eye, but his hands… his hands never seemed to stop moving. He let the back of his knuckles from one hand graze over Alex’s length while the other moved to grip Alex’s neck, thumb caressing the tendon behind his ear. Alex felt a shiver go through his body, liquid heat pooling in his belly at the way Michael watched his face and licked his lips at the small, involuntary gasp Alex let out when he felt Michael cup his balls in his hand, pulling gently, the tug going straight to Alex's molten core.

“Get down on your knees and finish getting me naked,” Michael finally said, removing his hands from Alex’s body and stepping back to give him room to move. With his pants still trapping the lower part of his legs, Alex had to be careful getting down, but he managed it. He looked up the line of Michael’s body, enjoying the view of him standing over him and watching expectantly for Alex to follow his directions. Slowly Alex moved his hands to the waistband of Michael’s jeans, fingers skimming over the top edge before he started working at the button and fly. He could see how turned on Michael was through the dark denim and he suddenly wanted nothing more but to put his mouth on him.

His fingers curled under the waistband of the pair of thermals Michael was wearing under his jeans and began to peel down the denim and cotton layers. He was only faintly surprised that Michael wasn’t wearing underwear under his thermals, but Michael so rarely wore underwear that he didn’t know why he let it surprise him any more. He bent forward and kissed the base of Michael’s cock, breathing in deeply the musky smell of his sweat and sex. He was mostly hard, cock head beginning to bead with precum where it pushed past his foreskin. Alex’s mouth flooded with saliva at the sight and he ached with the need to get Michael in his mouth so he could feel him pressing against the back of his throat. But Michael hadn’t told him to do that. He’d told him to get him naked so Alex sat back on his heels and worked the jeans and thermals off Michael’s legs, depositing them in the pile of clothes by his hip, and then took off his socks, giving them the same treatment. When Michael was gloriously, gloriously nude in front of Alex he smoothed his hands up his thighs to grasp at his hips, looking up to stare into Michael’s face while he bent forward slowly run a flat tongue from root to tip over his cock in question.

“I’ll let you have it in a few minutes. Finish getting undressed so we can get into that fancy shower you had built,” Michael replied with a grin, holding Alex’s chin and pressing his thumb past his lips to let him suck and swirl his tongue around it in lieu of what he actually wanted. Alex hummed in approval and moved to get himself untangled from his jeans and prosthetic. Michael held out his hands for Alex to grip to help him stand once he was disrobed. When they were once again eye to eye, Michael grabbed Alex and pressed their bodies together, his mouth capturing and plundering Alex’s, making him moan and melt into the other man’s warm embrace. He felt Michael’s hands slide down the slope of his spine, parting and grabbing onto handfuls of his ass. The kneading pressure of Michael’s hands was heaven as he massaged the muscles, occasionally pulling and exposing Alex’s most intimate spot to the cool air of the bathroom and sending goose flesh over him. Michael tore himself away from Alex’s mouth and in a quick as lightning move hefted Alex up into his arms. Alex felt his legs part and squeeze around Michael’s waist as he fought down his knee jerk reaction to try and take control of the situation. Michael’s solid grip held him steady as he looked up into Alex's shocked face, grinning cheekily. Alex laughed at him and bent down to kiss him, arms draping over his shoulders as Michael turned to start them towards the shower.

When he’d had the bathroom built, he’d given himself all the luxury he could afford in a place where he wouldn’t be living full time. He’d put the toilet and vanity along one wall, a wide walkway, and then the shower and linen closet along the other wall. It was all close enough he could get around without his crutches if he needed to with stylized hand rails everywhere.

The shower, his pride and joy, was a beautiful dark stone with black iridescent glass tile insets and a long bench that stretched end to end. It had fog resistant glass on the outside so he could see into the rest of the bathroom which satisfied the paranoid, hypervigilant part of him that he so often warred with when he was alone. He’d had an overhead rain shower put in along with his regular shower and hand held nozzle combo. Alex figured if he was going to use this place as a space where he could get away and disconnect, he wanted it to feel like someplace he didn’t want to escape from.

Michael set him down slowly once they were in the shower stall, slow enough that he could continue until he was sitting on the shower bench. He watched Michael turn and start fiddling with the dials until the overhead rain shower started, warm water immediately falling around them.The soft, warm water felt good against Alex’s skin and he sighed in contentment as he waited for Michael’s next move. Michael grabbed the shower gel and took the two steps back to where Alex was waiting.

“Hold out your hands,” he instructed. When Alex complied, Michael squirted some of the gel into his palms and then some into his own, before placing the bottle back into one of the shower insets. He sat on the bench next to Alex and leaned back, motioning for Alex to climb onto his lap. Awkwardly, Alex did, knowing Michael wouldn’t let him slip or fall by the gentle pressure of his TK against his side. When Alex was straddling him, Michael immediately began moving his soap covered hands over Alex's skin.

“Come on, baby, clean me up,” Michael encouraged him as he grabbed Alex’s hips and pulled him forward to grind their bodies against one another. Alex let his hands fall onto Michael’s skin, moving them in slow circles over his shoulders and back before sliding down towards where his flushed, eager cock jutted between them. Alex wrapped both his soapy hands around both their cocks, pressing them together and creating a tight, slick grip for them to fuck into. Michael started rolling his hips, hands directing Alex’s in a similar rhythm as he swore under his breath. When Alex took up the movement on his own, Michael’s hands pushed inwards until Alex felt his cheeks spread wide over Michael’s lap and then the pressure of his fingers rubbing over the outside of his exposed hole.

“Fuck, Michael,” Alex swore, body rocking forward so he could rest his forehead against Michael’s shoulder as his fingers teased at his tight rim. Alex kept rocking his hips, eyes drawn to the way his and Michael’s cocks looked slipping through his fingers.

“As soon as we’re all squeaky clean,” Michael teased, pushing the tip of one finger into Alex and causing him to swear and writhe. He wanted more. Alex began moving his lips, planting soft kisses on Michael’s shoulder as he rode the mounting tension between their bodies. Alex let one of his hands come up to clutch at the back of Michael’s neck, pulling their mouths together in a feverish kiss. Michael rewarded him with a quick tweak of his nipple, a sharp pain that made his gasp against Michael’s lips.

“I think we’re clean enough for now,” Michael commented a little raggedly. He reached to the side of them against the shower wall and with a quick flick of his wrist turned on the hand held shower wand and brought it over to rinse hot water over their bodies, clearing away any lingering suds.

“Hold onto me again,” Michael said after he hung the wand back up and turned off the water in the shower. Alex slid his body forward, wrapping his arms around Michael’s neck and his thighs around his waist. With a gentle heave, Michael stood up and carefully walked them out of the shower. He set Alex down by the sink and grabbed a towel from the rack, blotting it gently over Alex’s skin before turning him around to face the mirror. Alex watched their reflection as Michael met Alex’s gaze over his shoulder and grinned mischievously before he sunk down behind him.

“What are you--? Oh!” Alex exclaimed at the gentle pressure against the middle of his back encouraged him to bend forward onto the cool granite of the countertop. He felt Michael’s bent leg slide under his right one, giving him a place to rest his residual limb. Warm, broad hands spread his cheeks open and Alex felt a rush of heat that straddled arousal and embarrassment at knowing what Michael was looking at. 0He wished he could see Michael’s face, know what he was thinking by the set in his eyebrows or the quirk in his mouth. Alex had gotten into his head waiting and had missed the whisper of movement from Michael behind him until the sharp tickle of Michael’s stubbled cheek across the sensitive skin of his crease made him jump and squirm.

“Shhh,” Michael soothed before licking a broad stripe over him. Alex felt like his breath had been stolen from him at the feeling so he wouldn’t have been able to make a noise anyway. He felt another long, flat swipe and his brain immediately sank back into quiet. This was something Michael was excellent at. Alex personally hadn’t found much that Michael was mediocre with when it came to sex, and certainly nothing he was flatly bad at, but eating ass? Michael was excellent at eating ass and Alex didn’t care how he’d gotten so good because it tended to elevate him to new planes of existence whenever Michael got him still enough to let him take his time to do it.

The first few licks were always broad and wet. Michael’s tongue didn’t press, only passed over Alex’s hole, the stubble on his chin following after and occasionally scraping gently over Alex’s oversensitized skin. Next, he started pressing, still with a broad flat tongue, pushing at the tightly furled ring of muscle. One of his hands snaked between Alex’s spread legs to grasp and stroke at his cock in a light grip while he pushed forward with his tongue.

“Fuck, Michael, fuck….” Alex moaned, pressing his hips back against the pressure, head dropping to rest against his arms. He covered his head with his hands, fingers tangling in his hair and tugging as he felt Michael’s hand spreading sticky precum around the head of his cock while he pulled his mouth back to suck and nip at the skin around Alex’s hole. Alex reached over to a stack of small shelves on the countertop and opened the bottom drawer, blindly feeling inside until his fingers found the small bottle of lube he kept there. He grabbed it and reached behind himself, tapping Michael’s shoulder, internally loathing that he was distracting him while he interspersed sucking kisses and presses of his tongue behind him. Michael grabbed the lube from him and Alex felt him pull back away from him.

“Mm, thanks babe,” Michael murmured and Alex heard the telltale click of the cap. A moment later, Michael’s hand was back on his cock, slicked and smooth as he spread the liquid over Alex’s length. Michael returned his mouth to Alex’s ass without another word, but his grip tightened around Alex’s shaft, making it hard for him not to fuck forward through Michael’s grip even as Michael started pushing more insistently with his tongue. Now pointed, it riggled past Alex’s rim and back out, sliding through the tight muscles and forcing him to relax. By the time it became easy for Michael to fuck his tongue in and out of Alex’s loosened hole without meeting resistance, Alex was becoming a shaking, needy mess on the countertop. The hand on his cock and the tongue in his ass was so much, plenty to make him cum wet and sticky onto the floor, but Michael hadn’t told him he could. He wanted Michael to give him permission to cum and so he shook and moaned and writhed back against his face and tried not to meet the crest of no-turning-back.

“Fuck, Alex, look at you,” Michael said finally, backing away after having to squeeze quickly against Alex’s frenulum to keep him from blowing his load. Alex was sweating and panting, ass pink from Michael’s stubble and intimate attentions. Alex felt Michael push a finger past his rim, steering clear of his prostate while he came down from his almost orgasm, but still stimulating him. He pulled his finger back and came back with two, slicker than spit and giving an easy stretch. A high pitched, whimper pulled out of Alex’s mouth even as he relished the almost pain of his overstimulated body’s response to Michael’s ministrations. “Yeah? I wish you could see how needy you look right now. You’re practically fucking yourself on my fingers while your cock is dripping on the floor.”

Alex flushed with embarrassed arousal at Michael’s observation. He hadn’t been aware he had started moving his hips, but at Michael’s words he noticed that he had been, had been chasing Michael’s fingers and silently begging for more. He stilled and whined causing Michael to chuckle behind him and kiss one of his cheeks sweetly.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s so fucking hot to see you this needy and ready to be filled. I like watching you fuck yourself back against my hand, like seeing you try to take what you need from me,” Michael continued talking, fingers finally taking a swipe against Alex’s prostate. Alex cried out, biting down on the skin of his forearm at the overwhelming feeling that washed through him. It felt so good but was almost too much and it was the edge of too-much that was his favorite. Michael reached for his cock and began jacking him off, fingers loose as they moved over him, and then his fingers were back with another teasing swipe over his p-spot, and then another. Alex could feel his face flushing, chest heating up as he fought the urge to cry and beg for Michael to just fuck him already, to just make him cum and end the torture, but he didn’t. He needed more. Michael knew that and he’d give him what he needed.

“So sensitive,” Michael murmured against his skin before nipping softly at the skin near where his fingers were buried in Alex before licking over the spot and smoothing away the sting. “But not yet, love. I want you crying for my cock before I’m going to let you cum.”

He pulled his hands away from Alex’s ass and cock, laying them on either side of his outer thighs and smoothing his palms over the skin as he slowly stood up behind him. When he grasped Alex’s hip with only one hand, Alex chanced a look up into the mirror in front of him. He could see Michael behind him, staring down at his body as he stroked himself. Alex licked his lips at the sight of Michael’s flushed cock, ready to feel it stretching him wide. Michael caught his eye in the mirror and smirked.

“Stay right there, baby. I’ll be right back,” he instructed before turning and leaving Alex bent over the counter waiting for his return. He didn’t take long and when he came back, Alex could see the black, bulbous plug in his hand. He felt a rush of anticipation. Michael picked up the lube from the counter and let Alex watch him coat the plug with it before positioning it at Alex’s entrance. Alex felt the hair on his body rise at the cool, slick silicone resting against him and then Michael was pushing it slowly into him. His body accepted it easily, ready to be filled by something, but it didn't make him feel quite full. When Michael pressed at the plugs base Alex felt the electric zing of the plug pushing against his prostate, his back arching automatically at the sensation.

“It’s not the biggest one, love. I know it’s not enough, but I want you to still feel a stretch when I push into you,” Michael said somewhat apologetically as he bent over Alex’s body and kissed his shoulder blade. He pulled Alex into a standing position and handed him his crutches.

“Go kneel on the bed for me, facing the headboard, hands behind your back,” Michael directed him, eyes hot as they traveled down the front of Alex’s body before he took a step back to let Alex pass him. Alex moved as quickly as he could, the plug in his ass jostling at every foot fall and making him want to whimper and take himself in hand as he fucked the plug in and out of himself. It wouldn’t be enough though, he knew that. He could get there, he could make himself cum like that, but it wouldn’t satisfy the intangible need that letting Michael get him to the same place would.

He set his crutches to the side of the bed and rolled onto the mattress. He pushed himself to the center and then assumed the position Michael had requested. Alex felt the bed dip behind him and then the heat of Michael’s body near his. He felt the whisper of cotton soft rope against the backs of his hands.

“Still want to be tied up?” Michael asked, lips catching on the shell of Alex’s ear as his chest hair tickled the skin of Alex’s shoulders. Alex swallowed and nodded.

“Blindfolded?” Michael asked next, and Alex felt Michael’s hard on brush his clasped hands and he fought the urge to reach and grab and touch. Instead, he nodded again and tried to wait patiently, eyes already closed. Michael’s hands were gentle as they positioned Alex’s forearms against one another behind his back and then he did a quick single column restraint. The press of the rope against Alex’s arms was comforting, taking away the chance for him to mess up their game by being too impatient. Then came the satin mask over his eyes, throwing the world into total darkness instead of the semi-darkness that just closing his eyes had given him.

“Baby…” Michael sighed reverently after he finished. Alex could hear the utter adoration in his voice, imagined he could feel the caress of Michael’s gaze as he looked down at Alex's naked body ready and waiting for him to do whatever he liked with. Fingers glided over Alex’s skin and he felt the bed move as Michael knee walked around to kneel in front of him. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” Alex replied, stretching and moving his arms as far as the restraints would allow. Michael rested his hands to either side of Alex’s neck, thumbs settling into the notch behind Alex’s jaw, and then he was licking his way into Alex’s mouth. Alex opened to him easily, letting his tongue draw him in and the hands on his neck make him feel safe and steady. As they continued to kiss, Michael’s hands slid down over Alex’s chest to rub and pinch at his nipples. When Michael pulled back, Alex was breathless with want.

“Fuck, your mouth, Alex. Already so red and I haven’t even fucked it yet,” Michael said, the praise washing over Alex and making a wave of heat rush through him. Michael started to slowly push him down, and Alex used his core strength to keep himself steady as he let himself be put into whatever position Michael wanted.

As soon as Alex felt the first sticky touch of Michael’s cock to his lips, he opened his mouth and began to suck him down. He used his lips to push at the foreskin and his tongue swirled and collected all the precum that had gathered on him. It was bitter and tangy and Alex pushed himself further down Michael’s shaft, loving the weight and solidity of him in his mouth. After the first few passes, Michael’s hands were back on him, grabbing the rope binding his arms and using it to keep Alex steady as he began to shallowly pump his hips and fuck Alex’s mouth. Alex relaxed his jaw and let Michael have his way, loving the feeling of him taking control over his body. Michael slowed as he thrust deeper into him and Alex prepared himself to relax and let Michael push past his gag reflex and fill him. He let him work his way in, Alex swallowing reflexively around his girth as he held his breath and let Michael use him.

“You’re doing so good, baby, fuck. You look so good taking my cock like this. You deserve a reward for doing such a good job,” Michael said after he backed away, pulling out to let Alex pull in a few much deserved breaths. When Alex was ready again, he opened his mouth and waited for Michael to feel his cock back into him. Alex thought the reward was his getting a quick breather, but then he felt Michael’s torso curl around his head and then the plug in his ass was being tugged and pushed lighting up his prostate once more. He moaned around his mouth full of Michael and felt his cock give a heady throb at the pleasure rolling through him. Michael started to time his thrusts into Alex’s mouth with the thrusts of the plug in his ass and Alex felt himself getting lost in how good it felt to be so full both places. He lost himself in the feeling of it and found himself sinking past the breakers in his mind to the deep end where he was calm and full. He could just accept everything coming at him and not think about it, not worry about how far Michael would push him.

A grunt above him was the only warning he got before Michael pulled himself completely back from Alex’s mouth. He whined at the loss of Michael’s cock in his mouth and felt Michael’s hands under his shoulders helping him sit back up. Michael’s mouth was back on his in a moment, feverish and urgent as he chased the taste of himself from Alex’s tongue. Alex’s lips felt almost numb from the constant motion of Michael’s cock rubbing against them and it felt strange to be kissed when he couldn’t fully feel that part of himself.

“Fuck, you’re so good, baby. You’re so good,” Michael was mumbling against his lips as he took Alex’s cock in hand. It was almost too much. Alex was so close to cumming and Michael’s hand was hot and perfect and too much and not enough. He felt his breath whistling roughly between his teeth as his body tightened and he fought his approaching release.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’m going to take care of you. I know, I know,” Michael said, releasing Alex before he got too close. Alex felt Michael’s hands on his face wiping his thumbs gently across his cheeks and realized he must be crying. He turned his head quickly and captured one of Michael’s thumbs, tongue swirling around to see what his tears tasted like on his skin.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” Michael breathed adoringly, leaning his forehead against the side of Alex’s face while Alex continued to swirl his tongue around Michael’s thumb. Michael gently extracted the digit from Alex’s mouth and moved around behind Alex. The plug in Alex’s ass was pulled out and then there were Michael’s fingers again, filling him and retreating wetter than before. “I’m going to undo your hands so you can steady yourself, but we’re keeping the blindfold on.”

Alex felt his arms released and stiffly he brought them in front of him. Without a word he pushed his body forward until his head rested on his folded arms, back arched and ass high as he waited for Michael to fill him.

“God, Alex, you look like a fucking wet dream right now,” Michael praised as he ran a hand over Alex’s bowed back. Alex felt the thick length of Michael’s cock nestle into the crease between his spread cheeks and he moaned, pushed back against the feeling even though he wasn’t positioned to enter him yet. “I know, baby. I got you.”

Michael made good on his promise, pulling back and pushing the blunt tip of his cock against Alex’s shiny, winking hole. He pushed slowly, knowing it was still a stretch for Alex’s muscles to take him. Alex’s body lit up at the feeling of Michael filling him. His mouth opened in a panting, soundless cry of ecstasy while Michael just kept slowly pushing further into him, spearing him open until Alex felt the gentle bump of Michael’s hip against his. Alex was happy for the pause after Michael filled him, happy to have a moment to flex his inner muscles around the immense pressure inside of him that made him feel feral and pinned and utterly perfect. Then Alex started rocking, unable to stay still any longer, needing to feel Michael’s cock making room for itself inside of him over and over again.

“You’re so greedy when you get my cock in you,” Michael gritted out, but Alex could hear the amusement and pride in his voice as he let Alex fuck himself back onto his cock until his movements were jerky with desperation because Michael hadn’t moved at all and it wasn't enough. He’d let Alex take and take and take, but it wasn’t enough. The angle was wrong and as good as it felt, he needed… he needed…

“Okay, I’ll stop being mean,” Michael finally said and then he began to move. The first thrust had Alex’s stomach tightening but then Michael pressed his hand on Alex’s lower back and changed the angle of his hips and on the next thrust, Alex swore he saw white. Michael set up an increasing tempo that pushed his cock over Alex’s prostate and finally gave Alex what he wanted. Alex cried out under him, little punched out mewls of pleasure muffled against the duvet, and Michael pushed his shoulders further into the mattress as his thrusts got rougher and more pointed making Alex’s body tighten like a stretched coil.

“You can cum when you want to, baby,” Michael said, his voice ragged with exertion. He pushed his body on top of Alex’s, hand pulling one of Alex’s legs high towards his side as buried himself deep into Alex’s body, thrusting short and fast against him. The weight of Michael on top of him and the perfect angle of his rolling hips finally tipped Alex over. His body seized around Michael’s, cock swelling and releasing onto the cover, and then relaxing as Michael’s final thrusts stuttered and then stilled as he emptied himself into Alex’s body. Alex felt an arm wrap around his middle and while still joined together, Michael rolled them onto their side, spooning himself as close as possible to Alex’s body. Alex felt the dull throb of his muscles around Michael’s slowly softening cock and the slick, wet feeling of the skin between them. He hummed in pleasure, lifting a leg to push his hand between them, feeling where they were still joined and the thick, sticky mess between them.

“You like that?” Michael asked, tone curious but without judgement. Alex opened his eyes and realized he could see Michael looking down to where Alex’s fingers were rubbing gently at where the cum and lube leaked out of him. The blindfold must’ve worked itself off at some point because Alex didn’t remember either of them removing it. He met Michael’s eyes and nodded, turning his torso to meet his mouth in a gentle kiss. The move unfortunately dislodged Michael from Alex's body and he hummed in disappointment. Michael’s fingers were there in an instant, pushing into him and keeping him partially full while he came down from his orgasm.

“You’re so amazing, Alex,” Michael said, pressing kisses to Alex’s lips, cheeks, nose, jaw and anywhere he could easily reach. Alex sighed in contentment, letting Michael litter his skin with praise while he drifted. At some point Michael withdrew his fingers and then his body. Alex watched bemused as he went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel, cleaning them both up before wrapping the clean part of the duvet over Alex’s body. He kissed the sweaty spot behind Alex’s ear as Alex drowsed on the bed.

“I’m going to start the fire in here and go take care of the one in the living room for the night. I’ll be right back,” he said and Alex hummed his acknowledgement before letting himself be pulled into sleep.

#malex fic #malex #rnm fic #roswell nm #michael guerin #alex manes #smut and fluff

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owillofthewisps · 4 years

Text

beckoning light - part one

notes: i saw the witcher once and immediately couldn’t leave this alone. i know nothing about anything save for the netflix show and even then, who knows. but i am nothing if not self-indulgent. this will be two to three parts. it was supposed to be one but i’m incapable of shutting the hell up.

rating: teen on the edge of mature, i suppose.

pairing: geralt of rivia/female reader

word count: 4,309

the wisps have never lead you astray, but you did not expect them to lead you to him.

There is a light in the forest.

It is not a torch beyond the branches, you know. The light doesn’t flicker and undulate the way a consuming fire would, and it’s soft at the edges, like gleam of the moon streaming through the clouds. It is a familiar sight.

Dusk has not yet fully descended; there is a glow to the sky still, a kiss of orange and pink against the encroaching night.

The light in the forest moves, an odd sort of bobbing motion, and you heave a sigh. “No,” you tell the wisp, as though it can hear you from inside your home. The wisps have spent many an eve dancing at the edge of the clearing, just peeking out from behind the trees and beckoning, but you have no qualms with letting them be lonely sometimes.

The wisp - one of the bigger ones, heavy with light, like the rounded belly of the full moon - pulsates. You pause. It pulsates again, more rapidly this time.

“Fuck,” you say, and scramble for the trousers you’d left draped over the bed when you’d changed for the night. You pull them on as quick as you can, not bothering with a real shirt, just haphazardly tucking in the nightshirt you’re wearing. You make fast work of your boots as well, tugging the well-worn leather up over your bare feet, knowing it may well rub your skin raw.

Your cloak, your dagger, they fall into place in a whirlwind of movement, and then you are out in the chill of the settling night. Asha plunges out of the small garden by your home - half-wild, the sighthound is loathe to come inside while there is still light in the sky and you suspect she’s been harrying the partridges nesting in the back of the clearing - her powerful haunches making quick work of catching up to you.

Together, the two of you hurtle into the forest’s edge, dipping around saplings and tangles of old, old roots. The wisp flitters in front of you, darting along the path that only it knows, and you follow as best you can. The forest floor is slippery still, though the last rain was a few days ago, but you have long learned to keep your balance. Here and there, as you draw close to it, the wisp drops out of sight, and your stomach always drops with it as the forest goes dark around you, barely lit by what dying light filters through the canopy. Then the wisp flashes to life ahead of you once more, marking the path.

You are panting by the time you break into the clearing that the wisp is hovering in. You take in the horse, docile now, but with hoof prints all around it that indicate she had been wildly frightened earlier, and see no rider. The wisp flutters beyond the clearing, weaving and wavering.

“Stay,” you tell Asha. You do not need to tell her to guard; she settles near the horse, her muscles rippling with barely contained energy. You slip out of the clearing.

It is not long before you find the rider. His white hair shines almost silver beneath the light of the wisp, marking his place even though he is tucked into a small hollow between the roots of one of the large trees. He has managed to drag his large frame partially upright, but his eyes are closed, and there is a great gash across his chest, blood flowing from it in small pulses. From the pale sheen of him, he has been losing blood steadily.

“Shit,” you mutter. “Shit.” In your flurry, you had neglected to take even the most basic medical supplies. You are an idiot twice over, you suppose, but nothing can be done now.

You settle onto the roots he is propped against, and as you reach for him, you register the brute power of his form. He is built formidably. Formidable, however, has never deterred you, and there is often softness to be found beneath it, no matter how slight. You are intent on gauging his wound - this close, you can see that it is nastily edged, flesh torn ragged instead of cleanly cleaved from a sword’s edge, and you hope that he has left a corpse in another part of the forest, because you could not defend against something able to do this - and just before your fingers rest against his skin, he moves.

He catches your wrist. His large hand encircles your wrist entirely. The grip is strong, just on the edge of bruising. In spite of the situation, you flash upon what it would be like to have that large hand between your legs, prising your thighs apart - because, as Hadrian often tells you, you are shameless - before you glance up to meet his gaze.

Ah, you think. Hello, Witcher.

“Live or die?” you say, your voice mild.

His brow - gleaming with sweat, with patches of blood and dirt rubbed into his skin - furrows. His grip tightens.

“I cannot help you without my hand,” you tell him. You wiggle your fingers at him, the very tip of your middle finger brushing against his leather armor.

He considers you for a moment, those amber eyes keenly picking you apart, and then drops your wrist.

You shrug off your cloak. It’s a poor replacement for supplies, but it is all you have. You fold it until it is a decently thick square, and press it against the gash. The Witcher’s chest heaves, but only a small hiss of breath indicates the pain. You wrap your hand around his. Gently, you press it to his chest, to the rudimentary bandage you’ve created. “Hold it as tightly as you can,” you say, even though he has done so from the moment you placed his hand there.

For a moment, you think you see a gleam of something cross his handsome, stoic face. It might be irritation, and you cannot help the smile that flickers to life across your lips.

“Asha,” you call quietly.

The hound breaks through the brush with a bound. The Witcher tenses at the noise, but you lean to the side just enough that he can see her. Once he knows what has made the sound, his golden gaze returns to you. This evaluation is different. You pay it little mind as Asha noses against you, her blocky head pressing against your side, the warmth of her seeping through your thin shirt.

“Get Hadrian,” you murmur. She perks up, her tail wagging. You click your fingers twice, and she slinks into a predator’s pose once more. “Go.”

Asha takes off like an arrow flying from a bow. You return your attention to the Witcher and place your hand over his, adding your own strength to the pressure against the wound. He grunts. It’s a gravelly sound, reverberating through his chest. His hand is warm underneath yours, but he shifts his hand lower after a moment, out from under your touch. You do not comment, only push your own hand higher to give him more space from your skin.

“Can you stand, Witcher?” you ask. You are not sure what you will do if he cannot; you are not strong enough to get him to the horse alone, let alone on top of it.

He takes a moment. “Maybe,” he grates. His voice reminds you of river rocks tumbling against each other.

You pull back from him. “We’ll try.” True night is coming, settling over the forest like a blanket, and you know that you are running low on time.

If the Witcher has thoughts about your use of we, he doesn’t indicate it. You’re not sure he indicates much. Still, he does not protest when you slide deeper into the hollow with him, shuffling against his side and lifting his arm so that it drapes over your shoulder. He’s chilled against you. The blood loss, you think. You aren’t sure how he’s survived this long.

“Fuck,” he says as you push to your feet, his fingers tightening on your shoulder. He’s heavy. Despite his wound, he carries a good bit of his own weight. You can feel his powerful thigh flexing against you. You brace him with everything you’ve got, winding one arm around his waist, careful to avoid the tail end of his laceration. The movement seems to open the wound again, blood blooming in crimson patches through your cloak. He presses harder against the fabric. You think you hear another curse tumble from his lips.

Between the two of you, you manage to stagger back to the clearing. His horse nuzzles against him as you draw close. The Witcher’s fingers flex on your shoulder. You pat at the mare’s neck with one hand.

Getting him up on the horse is a struggle. By the end of it, your nightshirt is sticking to your skin, wet with sweat. You shiver in the night air. The Witcher looks worse for the wear. You suck at your teeth, trying to decide how best to ride with him. He’s broad enough that you would have difficulty peering around him, but his fingers had been clumsy as you had tried to get him on the horse. He may not be able to keep a good grip on you. Still, it seems the better option. You keep a hand on him as you mount up, wary of the slight sway of him.

“Hold tight,” you warn him. “And do not dare fall asleep on me.”

He grunts an acknowledgement. His arms wrap around you - you think you hear a hiss of pain - and if the strength of him is diminished by the wound, you cannot tell. The band of his arms is steel around you, his fingers biting into the flesh of your hips. It should perhaps hurt, but it does not bother you.

The wisp flits back into view as you gather the reins. The Witcher is leaning heavily against you now, his chest flat against your back, a solid wall against you. You can feel the wet of his blood starting to soak through. His breath stirs against you, warm and slow. You can just see a few strands of white hair flowing over your shoulder.

The wisp bounces forward, and you guide the horse after it. She’s a nimble thing, placid and unbothered by your inexperienced guidance as you try to learn the rhythm of her. The wisp floats near, just beyond you in the distance. Always guiding. The light stirs the Witcher into straightening in the saddle.

“A wisp?” he rasps. One hand comes free from around your waist. He reaches for the reins, but you evade him as best you can. He can’t quite manage to get the reins. That large hand envelopes your wrist instead. A weaker grip than earlier. Something you might even be able to shake off if you tried hard enough. “You cannot mean to follow.”

“I can and I do,” you say.

“If you wanted me dead,” he says dryly, “you should have just left me back there.”

“The wisps have never lead me astray.”

He grunts, reaching for the reins once more. “They never lead to anything good.”

“They lead me to you,” you say.

That gives him pause, you think. His grip on your wrist loosens. You are more and more aware of the spreading damp against your back. You spur on the mare. The wisp picks up its pace as well.

He is leaning heavily against you once more. You try to glance back at him, but with his form draped over you, it’s hard to make out his face. To see if his eyes are open or shut.

“Do not sleep,” you say.

He grunts.

“I mean it.”

He does not make another noise. You jostle him as gently as you can, and are rewarded with another grunt.

“If you’re going to sleep, Witcher,” you say, “you had best give me your name so I know what to put on your tomb.”

He shifts against you. “Geralt of Rivia,” he finally says.

You blink. Oh, you think. Even you know that name.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” you murmur, after giving him your own name. “But I do hate to lie.”

He huffs against your back.

You talk at him over the pound of the mare’s hooves. He is quiet the whole time, save for a few gravelly hums, but he shifts behind you when you speak to him, and you use that to your advantage. If he sleeps, you know, even Hadrian might not be able to save him. You talk at him until the horse breaks through to the forest’s edge. The wisp burns out once you can see the gaps in the trees. It has done more than its part, you know, had flared bright enough to hurt at a few points along the path, something you have long thought might be an odd form of protection for something lurking beyond your sight.

Getting Geralt off the horse is as much of a trial as getting him on was. Still, you manage it and stumble through the door with him. You settle him upright, so you can look at his wound in the light shed by the fireplace. He grunts. He’s wan in the firelight, sweat beading on his brow. You loosen his armor as best you can around the cloak before you have to peel it away. He winces when you do, but only a bit of blood wells in the gash.

Geralt’s chest is as broad as the rest of him. In another setting, you think, you would be glad to map it out with questing fingers. Instead, you scoop water from the bucket by the hearth with a wooden cup and kneel before him. You flush the wound out carefully, sending rivulets of watery blood running down his chest.

“Fuck,” he grits out.

You pay him little mind, using cup after cup of water until the wound is clear of dirt and debris. The water runs pink down your arms, dripping from your elbows to dampen your trousers as well.

Your touch is careful but firm. You can feel those eyes on you - golden and molten in the dancing firelight - as you do not shy away from him. You keep your fingers off the raised shine of his scars, focus only on the sundered flesh.

There is little you can do beyond rinsing the wound. Healing is not your strength, and not for the first time, you consider that you should learn more. You have salves that Hadrian has gifted you throughout the years, but you often forget which is what, and you know that some of them have more poisonous aspects that you would not want on an open wound. You gather a clean nightshirt and fold it. Like your cloak, you lose it to Geralt’s wound, as you press it into place over the cleaned gash. The blood is less now, but with the amount he might have lost, you would like there to be none.

This time, you do not bother to tell him to hold it in place. He presses it hard against the wound. His chest rises and falls more heavily now, and you wonder at how much pain he is enduring.

“Here,” you tell Geralt, handing him a wooden cup, this water scooped from the cauldron by the fire. “Drink.”

He drinks deeply. You retrieve the cup when he’s done and fill it once more, this time with ale. It will help with the pain, you hope.

“You chose an unusual way to get a woman out of her clothes,” you tell him. Honestly, it’s a miracle that you hadn’t needed to peel off your nightshirt in the woods. He pauses mid-swallow before gulping the mouthful down. Still, you think he is amused, think it shows in the softening of his tight fist, think there might have been the slightest tilt to his lips. You wonder what it would take to make him laugh.

Asha bays outside. You get to your feet and stride to the door. The hound comes barreling in when you open it, her tongue lolling. She stops at the sight of Geralt, but her hackles stay down, so you turn your attention to Hadrian.

“Your hound,” he says to you, stepping through the door, “is a menace.”

He pauses, then, likely because Geralt’s blood has crept around to the front of your nightshirt on the ride, staining the fabric crimson.

“Shit,” he says, taking you by the forearm, already pulling at your shirt to get to the wounds.

“Stop,” you tell him. You manage to catch your shirt just as he starts to slide it off your shoulders.

“How much blood have you lost?”

“Hadrian. It’s not my blood.”

His hands go still against you. He lets out a breath that sounds perilously close to a whimper. “Good,” he says. “Good.”

“Hadrian.” You nod towards Geralt. The Witcher has his eyes closed, his head back against the side of your bed.

“Hell,” Hadrian says, his quick eyes already measuring the length of the cut and the shallow breaths of his patient. “Alright.”

Geralt’s eyes flicker open as Hadrian takes your place in front of him. The other man recoils, just slightly, at the sight of those amber eyes. From the way Geralt’s mouth pulls, it is a familiar reaction.

You pay little attention as Hadrian sets to work. Asha presses against you. She is dirtier than usual, dust collecting in her deep brown fur. You sigh and nudge her to come outside with you. You glance up at the doorway, and Geralt’s eyes are on you. Hadrian swipes a salve over the cut and the Witcher’s jaw tightens. His head tilts back once more. His neck is a thick column, and you consider what it would be like to set your teeth against it with his hands firm on your hips, holding you down on his lap.

Asha whines and you step through the door. You leave it cracked despite the chill of the night air. The fire warms your small house quickly enough. “Come here,” you tell Asha. You brush your hands through her coat, shaking as much of the dust loose as you can.

It takes longer than you expect. Hadrian is a careful healer, you know, and the wound had been severe, but you find yourself biting your lip as the moon climbs higher in the night sky. You busy yourself by taking care of the horse, who shies away for only an instant before letting you care for her. When you see Asha circling, ready to curl up on the dirt, you return inside.

There’s a little more color in Geralt’s face now. He is still wan and has a sheen of sweat covering him where he is not swathed with bandages, but Hadrian’s brow has smoothed out of the pinch it had gathered into when he’d laid eyes on the Witcher.

Though you are almost silent as you enter, the Witcher’s eyes open, his head rising. His eyes flicker down for a moment, and you realize that in the chill night air, your nipples have tightened into peaks, just visible under the thin nightshirt. He meets your gaze steadily when his eyes return to yours.

Hadrian’s grey eyes dart to your chest too, but that is much more commonplace. You cross the small room to peer down at Geralt. Even seated, it feels like he towers over you, but you have lived too long at the edge of the forest, where the trees dwarf even some of the largest of creatures. “Live it is, then, I suppose?” you ask him.

“So it appears,” he says, the slightest tilt at the corner of his lips. You wonder if the blood loss is why he seems to find you amusing.

“You’ll take him back to town then?” you ask Hadrian.

The healer shakes his head, picking at his long black braid with nervous fingers. “He can’t ride yet.”

Geralt makes a noise that expresses his clear disagreement with that assessment.

Hadrian quails a bit in the face of Geralt’s thunderous brow, but he rarely backs down when it comes to recovery. “The wound will open again. You need to limit movement. In the very least for the night, if not longer.”

“I can ride.”

You heave a sigh. “I did not drag you out of the forest so you could manage to kill yourself in a quest to return to a small town.”

The tendons in Geralt’s jaw flex.

“Do you need to stay?” you ask Hadrian. It could be foolish, you know, to stay alone with this strange man, but the wisps would not steer you wrong. You think. You hope.

His eyes flicker between you and the Witcher. When Asha shifts in her place by the hearth - even curled up, she is a solid, barrel-chested beast and wounded as he is, you do not think Geralt could stand long against her - drawing his eyes, he huffs out a breath.

“No,” he says. “The bandages should hold. But I will come first thing in the morning.”

Geralt, you notice, has leaned his head back again. His eyes are closed, his white hair spilling over the coverlet like a fresh snowfall. Except not quite, since the forest hollows are not the cleanest, and there is grime streaked throughout his locks.

“Up,” you say with a sigh, bending down to levy him to his feet. Hadrian bends with you, thankfully, as you’ll likely need his strength as well. “Let’s at least get off the top layer of grime.”

Geralt comes to his feet with a grunt of pain, and then you have to press against him as he sways. Hadrian braces him from the other side. “‘I can ride,’” you scoff under your breath - from the look you get, Geralt hears you just fine - before handing off most of Geralt’s weight to Hadrian.

You strip off the rest of the Witcher’s armor methodically, undoing the ties nimbly as you find them, sliding the studded leather free. He watches you steadily as you work, his gaze unwavering as you touch him here and there. Much of the grime is contained to the leather, luckily, so you leave his trousers in place.

Geralt takes the dampened rag from you when you offer it. As he wipes some of the sweat and dirt from his neck and face - Hadrian keeps him balanced with a healer’s detachment, only sharpening his gaze when a noise that could be pained issues from Geralt - you finish a few of your nightly chores.

The Witcher settles onto your bed. The frame creaks under his weight, but it’s big enough for him with some room left over.

“If you’re leaving, you should go,” you say to Hadrian. “It’ll soon be too late to even travel the main road safely.”

He glances between you and Geralt, those nimble fingers plucking at his braid once more, but nods. You bid him farewell at the door.

Geralt watches as you take the rag he’d used and dip it back into one of the buckets. You wring it out a few times, until the water is clear again, and then sling it over your shoulder.

“I would ask if you’re always this quiet,” you say to him, “but I think I already know the answer.”

“I would ask if you always talk this freely,” he says, “but I hardly think you need a question to keep talking.”

“The price of my inn is that you must hear me chatter as I would if you were not here.”

He grunts. You bite down on your smile.

You strip off your nightshirt - it’s gone stiff with blood now, crackling unpleasantly as you pull it over your head - without a care, though you’re turned just enough that he cannot see the entirety of you. You run the rag over yourself, wiping away the remnants of the forest and of his blood, the water soothing against your skin. Gooseflesh prickles at your skin as the air brushes across your damp skin, cooling you.

The bed creaks. “Do not bleed on my bed,” you warn, glancing over your shoulder at him. Geralt has turned to better face you, propping himself up on his side. You can see the bandages straining across his muscular chest.

“You cannot expect me to not turn towards such a sight.”

You pull on your shift before padding over to the bed. It is your bed, and you will sleep in it, whether he is there or not. “You have a neck,” you remind him. “I hear they turn. Without the risk of opening a dire wound.”

He grunts. It’s clearly his most fluent language. He turns onto his back when you push lightly at his shoulder. The bed creaks under you as you put a knee up on it. You consider swinging your other leg over him, to straddle his thick thighs, but there’s little point in tormenting yourself. Instead, you peer down at the expanse of bandages.

There’s no blood blossoming, so you assume the wound has not opened once more. Geralt is pallid in the dying firelight, the embers’ soft glow doing little to hide the effect of the blood loss. His eyelids keep fluttering open and closed, long, sooty lashes dark against his skin.

Still, he drags a finger over the crease of your hip as you climb over him to get to the remaining bedspace. Through the thicker material of your shift, his touch is almost ghostly. You sink into place between him and the wall.

“Sleep, Geralt of Rivia,” you say. “And let us see what the morning brings.”

#geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x reader #geralt imagine #the witcher x reader #the witcher imagine #story: beckoning light

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lippskinn · 4 years

Text

Limit to Love

Pairing: Sirius x Remus

Rating: R

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Angst, Medical Conditions, Starvation, Nudity

The bear-like dog trotted down a narrow road in the Yorkshire Dales. It had crossed miles of barren land and had finally reached the last stretch of the journey. Tired and hungry, it dragged itself up to the stone cottage on top of the hill. The place looked uninhabited and resembled more of a sheep shelter than a house; roof tiles were strewn across the land and the door was boarded up with planks of thick wood. As the dog reached the door, it barked, and as the door opened, a familiar face welcomed it. Once inside, the dog turned into a man.

The cottage looked slightly bigger on the inside. It had only one room with a tiny kitchen. The bathroom was separated from the rest of the space by a curtain to grant a bit of privacy. Everything was tidy yet worn; most things were held in place by duct tape, and Sirius noticed the claw and bite marks on the furniture. Remus apologized repeatedly for the state of his house, but Sirius was simply glad to have a roof above his head; anything was better than the cold cave in the Highlands.

The journey South had quite literally eaten him up. The famished human before Remus was much skinnier than the man he had hugged in the Shrieking Shack (if that was even possible). Sirius looked beyond exhausted, yet desperate to tell Remus what had happened at the Triwizard Tournament. Something about Harry, Voldemort, Mad-Eye Moody and a dead student. He had such trouble focusing, however, that none of it made sense.

When Remus offered Sirius to sit down, he almost collapsed on the couch, stretched out his limbs, closed his eyes, heaved a sigh and fell asleep on the spot. He had mustered his last bit of energy to reach the house. Remus stroked his head and cheek and put a strand of hair back behind his ear. He watched Sirius’ chest lift and lower. The old prison uniform hung so loosely on his body that Remus could see every single rib protrude from under the tightly stretched, scaly skin covered in scabs and dirt. A whiff of dried faeces, wet dog and putrid breath surrounded him. His head fell back onto the couch’s backrest, and his mouth gaped wide open. The sounds he made reminded Remus of a dementor drawing closer; the rattling and laboured breath.

Remus figured he wouldn’t wake up anytime soon and wrapped him in a blanket for the night. He gently lifted Sirius’ arms, which were about the size of walking sticks, and tugged the blanket under them. Despite their feather-light weight, the joins were stiff, and they were difficult to move. Remus feared he would break them if he moved them too much. He tried to take off the boots as well; completely removed the laces, widened them and then carefully pulled on them as the full sole came off with it. There were no socks left. His feet were bare and covered in black blisters and lesions. Remus gagged.

He carried what was left of the boots with two fingers, threw them in a bin bag, washed his hands and face, took a deep breath, and checked on Sirius again. He looked like an old man on his deathbed; cheeks hollow, skin stretched tightly over the face, thin nose and sunken eyes. If Remus hadn’t been notified that Sirius was going to visit, he would not have recognized him. He’d been desperate to reconnect with his best friend but felt slightly repulsed by the state of him and at the same time worried he wouldn’t make the night.

So, Remus found himself tiptoeing around him all night. Always alarmed as soon as he made a sound; checked his breath, checked his pulse, watched him closely and added as many blankets as possible. An electric jolt ripped through his intestines every time Sirius coughed and sighed in his sleep keeping him awake until the early morning hours.

That morning, Sirius woke up early with Remus still resting on his shoulder. He stretched, gave Remus a kiss on his forehead, and got up to make some tea for the pair. Finally, Remus was woken by the sound of the kettle whistling, pushed off the pile of blankets, and joined Sirius, who was reading yesterday’s newspaper, at the table. Remus had a slightly lopsided gait and slumped down on the chair as he got to the table. He gave Sirius a wry smile and thanked him as he poured a cup.

“It’s the first time you’re staying for breakfast”, he joked moving in his chair visibly in pain.

“Just ignore my groaning. It will go away eventually,” he added seeing the worried look on Sirius’ face, “did you sleep well?”

“It was the most comfortable in a long while”, Sirius smirked and eyed Remus over the edge of his cup. He made a sound like a suppressed laugh and put his cup down. Remus noticed he’d been making the same sound throughout the night. “Thanks for letting me stay.”

When Remus got the letter from Dumbledore that Sirius was on the way to his home, there was no doubt about letting him stay whatsoever. Their last meeting, a year ago, had ended abruptly and they had not had time to talk. Now, that he was Sirius was awake, Remus hoped to learn a bit more about the events.

“I was waiting for an article in the paper but all they wrote was that Cedric died in the tournament”, said Remus pointing at the paper Sirius was reading, “they dismissed it as an accident.”

“The Prophet has always been a pile of rubbish”, scoffed Sirius, “that Barnabas Cuffe has his nose so deep in Fudge’s bum, he can smell what Fudge had for breakfast.”

“I’m sure Fudge will do anything in his power to lull the public. They cannot afford to admit that Voldemort has returned. Not after they let you escape.”

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less. Let the whole ship go down and Fudge with it,” Sirius took another sip from his mug and set it down a little too hard. Something seemed to fall shut behind Sirius’ eyes. He stared at the cup in front of him for a couple of seconds, licked his lips and then seemed to snap out of it again. “Fudge only cares about a good article in the papers. He’d never do what’s right if it gave him a bad rep.”

“Do you think it will be like last time?”

Sirius seemed to ponder his answer. He scratched his beard, took another sip from his cup, waited a long time to swallow and said, “No.”

“Did Dumbledore tell you anything?”

“He sent me here. It’s not like I’ll be much of help, anyway, is it?”

Remus felt the strong urge to hug Sirius but all that came out of his mouth was, “I think you should rest. Take a shower, eat something, sleep. Dumbledore won’t be here before midnight and he’ll be happy to know I didn’t let you starve.”

“Do you still keep the chocolate in your nightstand?”

“There’s a limit to love, “Remus got up and put his cup in the sink, “I need to go to town. You have the whole place to yourself. Enjoy yourself. Not too much.”

“This is the happiest I’ve been in years.”

Remus smiled and a distinctive crease formed on his forehead. He turned away from Sirius, breathed out and in and limped over to the wardrobe where he’d hung a suit the night before. Sirius watched him take off his pyjamas. Nothing he hadn’t seen before and yet he couldn’t help but stare. His chest was covered in pink and white scar tissue and his body looked like someone who had worked heavy, manual labour all his life.

“Since when are you wearing suits?”, asked Sirius, “I thought suits were for posh people?”

“Since I am a registered werewolf and might have lied to my landlord about a steady income.”

“Is that your business in town?”

Remus froze, dropped his pants and then swiftly pulled them up, “I’m going to the store. Do you need anything?”

“A pair of new boots. Mine magically vanished overnight.”

“What boots?”, laughed Lupin, grabbed a heavy key and opened the door, “I’ll be back soon.”

Sirius watched Remus limp down the hill to the main road. As far as he could tell, it must have been an hour on foot to the closest town. Once Remus had turned left and disappeared behind a stone wall, Sirius cleaned the kitchen table and sat down on a chair. Although he'd only just woken up, he felt overpowering tiredness and his arms felt heavy. He was torn between hunger and sleep and couldn't decide if he wanted to raid the fridge or crawl under a blanket. He stared down on his feet and picked at the remaining fabric of his socks. With one tug, the cotton crumbled and he removed the tatters. His ankles were swollen and he noticed how much his feet were hurting from the journey. Every step felt like walking on eggshells. He rubbed his legs and decided that a bath would probably be best while Remus was gone.

Sirius poured himself a scorching hot bath and steam filled the whole house. He slipped out of his prison uniform and carefully sank into the water. It was as if layers of dirt were peeling off his body and he suddenly felt feather-light. He closed his eyes, leaned back and enjoyed the warmth. Every inch of his body ached as the water turned muddy. Soon the overbearing tiredness returned, he rested his head on the edge and let himself soak in the water. Sleep had won.

The next thing he knew was a wet and frantic Remus rubbing his chest with a towel. He was lying naked on the floor in front of the bathtub, his back propped against Remus legs whose jacket was dripping wet.

"How long have you been in there? I was away for three hours."

Sirius shivered. The last thing he remembered, he'd poured himself a nice warm bath. Remus had dropped the groceries by the door when he hadn't received a reply from Sirius. He'd dragged him out of the cold bathwater by his arms and put him on the floor to check if he was still alive.

"You could have drowned!"

Remus aggressively dried the rest of Sirius' body, wrapped him in a blanket and leaned him against the tub.

"I fell asleep", murmured Sirius drowsily.

"The water is ice cold", Remus put a finger in the muddy water and then removed the strands of wet hair from Sirius' face, "you could have died." Remus pulled himself up by the tub and pulled the plug. He gave Sirius the towel to cover himself and cleaned out the remaining dirt in the tub. He then walked over to the door where he’d dropped the groceries, collected them, placed them on the kitchen table and took off his wet jacket. “I’ll make us some tea and then we’ll start another attempt at making you look presentable. You look like the last survivor of a hunger strike.”

Remus gave Sirius a hand to pull him up; the towel slipped off him, and Sirius stood naked and shivering in front of Remus. He had a nasty scar on his shoulder, which Remus immediately identified as a werewolf bite. Remus shook his head, bit his lip and said, “Sit down.” He helped Sirius sit down on the edge of the tub, took the showerhead, turned on the water and felt the temperature with his hand. “Lean back, I’ll hold you.” Remus had rolled up his sleeves not to get wet and held Sirius with one arm while rinsing his hair with his other free hand. Sirius was still shivering, he had closed his eyes and let the water run over his head. The hair was matted and brittle; steaks washed down the drain as Remus tried to untangle them.

“We might have to try some of James’ hair brews or you’ll have to let me cut it off”, suggested Remus.

“There’s a limit to love, Remus.”

#wolfstar #sirius x remus #hp fanfiction #hurt #remus lupin #sirius black #hp #post azkaban #angst #oneshot #lying low at lupin's #hp headcanon #Remus x Sirius #hp meta #Harry potter #Padfoot #Moony #Marauders

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grownups-are-the-real-monsters · 4 years

Text

This is The Time

Summary: The dead silence lasted for about another twenty minutes. Roland was an absolute master at refusing to give in first. He’d sit and wait for hours which was arguably a terrible trait. But sometimes---‘No just bad.’ He thought. To pass that time, he found himself staring at a tiny family of frogs resting by the water. Wet and a shiny green color, they glimmered. Their black eyes stared back up at him...

Word Count: 3,002

Ships: Roland Deschain/Cuthbert Allgood

He is falling...

Roland’s heavy black boot caught the tip of an up facing rock nestled nicely in the field of wood. There was a cool breeze which came with one’s body launching forward, it was a juvenile way of falling Roland wasn’t used to anymore. Arms flailing about without grace while his hands flicked forward to brace himself and ruin his skin. Though, the right hand managed to slot itself comfortably into the blood-sticky palm belonging to good ol’ Cuthbert Allgood.

“Stand tall, Roland.” He chuckled, pulling him back to safety.

Young Deschain hiked himself back up but found it almost intoxicating that he could remain palm-to-palm with the Allgood boy. “Keep me balanced then.” He gripped his friend a little tighter before habitually holding on a bit too loosely.

He could feel the grotesquely open skin-scratch on Cuthbert’s left hand, the reason for the squelching puddle of blood between them. Those soft sucking sounds accompanied them throughout most of their walk to the deepest part of the wooded area just a short drive from their town.

Cuthbert squished the blood-puddle even more to squeeze Roland’s hand back to a tight position. Both boys had the rough skin of their fathers, hard work rewarded them with such a gift, but they were soft for each other.

“I brought the hammock.”

Roland looked to Cuthbert with gentle amusement. “We could’ve just roughed it.” He winked but he was almost sure it did not work on him. There was no way he pulled it off. Which rang true when Cuthbert began to heave in laughter. That boy was a sight for sore eyes and he never shied away from laughing his ass off.

The woods around them grew taller and more luscious with every twenty steps or so. The earth-y smell overcame them long ago but now the distant...wet scent of water traveled closer. Cuthbert was taking the lead on this little trip because Roland barely had half-the-mind he usually owned.

For Mr. Deschain had plenty to say about the courtship of his son and the laughing boy. None of this speech was warm or fuzzy. Rather as tough as the skin which wrapped around his palms. Roland wanted-ached-to rip the speech apart to it’s bare bones. He’d begun to do just that. But Cuthbert, smart as a whip, dragged him out of the house...to the woods before events he’d regret later could transpire.

Together since they were young pups and together now, Roland and Cuthbert journeyed to a small cliff above the water. It was a place they came to often enough to miss when absent. Their legs always aching to walk and make some sort of journey whenever life just got too disappointing.

The Allgood boy set aside the red hammock for later and plopped down onto the dirt, waiting to be joined by his best friend in already dirty jeans. Splotches of older memories littered the fading blue fabric. It was a good luck. Common for most of the boys in town.

“You got your reasons to go against him, Roland.” Cuthbert drew his first card in the game of tough conversation. He kept his face locked onto the ripples in the water which Roland found interesting. “They’re true and worth standing by. Don’t let your dad make them seem shitty.” He finally turned with that lovely little smirk on his face.

“You being the most important reason.” He tipped his chin. “If I was born without the ability to love you, my life would be bleak.” Roland smiled softly. He noticed the way Cuthbert looked away when his cheeks burned crimson. “But I could love him not and still have a full life, I think.” He mumbled, kicking at his boots.

Cuthbert looked off as if he knew Roland wasn’t being entirely realistic. He didn’t seem all that confident in his next move which was to wipe his blood covered hand down the leg of his jeans and gently grip Roland’s thigh. “If you love me so much...” He shuffled closer and enjoyed the way Roland hung on his words like he never did with anyone else. “Feel me up, Buttercup.” He winked because he could pull that off.

Roland smirked, laying his hot-hand atop Cuthbert’s. He leaned in just close enough for their lips to drag against each other. “I crave nothing more.” Those words basically shot down Cuthbert’s throat with how close they were.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Don’t mistake this lump for me being ready for round two, Roland. I think I just have a stick in my pants.” Cuthbert wined, shaking out his leg momentarily as Roland tied up the right end of the hammock to a tree. The air was still quiet and no company had yet to cross their path.

Roland let out a hum of reserved laughter. He found the space in his mind for moments spent being shocked at their own intimate relationship was not bare yet. He may never hit the capacity considering who he was.

Cuthbert slipped a long stick out from underneath his pant-leg and sighed with relief before hopping onto the swinging hammock, nearly killing himself in the process.

“Watch yourself, asshole.” Roland rolled his eyes but went into the seat without much more grace than his friend. They were just idiotic boys after all. He took to laying with his feet pointing down at the water, Cuthbert between his legs and resting his back to his chest. With some lingering hesitation, Roland wrapped his arms around him. There would always be a part of him that was unsure of how to act in their relationship. He figured Cuthbert, smart and so true to himself, wouldn’t understand. But ask not, know not.

Cuthbert nuzzled even closer and played with Roland’s hands. He almost resembled a giant cat. “You like sneaking out here with me?” He attempted to look back at his partner but found it to be a difficult task.

“Of course.” Roland nodded and habitually squeezed him a little.

To that, his partner just hummed and kicked off his boots (revealing a cowboy sock on one foot, the other was bare). It wasn’t entirely what Roland had expected from him but Cuthbert was a mystery sometimes. “Why do you ask?”

Cuthbert shrugged, body rubbing up against him. He gazed up at the clouds without a doubt, something was weighing on his mind. If Alain were here, he’d have it figured out already. But their best friend didn’t often want to accompany them on things which seemed so close to ‘dates’. No matter how many times Cuthbert invited him to observe...Roland’s thoughts digressed.

“Sorry your dad found out about us that way.” He winced at the memory from their afternoon. Roland wanted to heave up his lunch just at the idea of thinking more about that situation. “It was not a turn-on to have him walk in your room...” Cuthbert winked, Roland felt sick to his stomach but wished dearly for the boy never to change. He was entirely too amusing.

“Thanks for reminding me.” He chuckled but reached over to rub circles on Cuthbert’s hands with his thumb. The disgust on his father’s face was too much to think about. Roland had never wanted to see his father looking so...disappointed with me. It struck something deep.

He laughed. “His eyes nearly popped out of his head.” He flicked his hands outwards. “You’re just lucky you weren’t the one standing there with your pants basically at your ankles-”

“You really don’t know when to shut-up, do you?” Roland gagged and slapped his friend gently. Cuthbert merely smirked, playing with the miniature Rook Skull he wore on a chain. His real one was sitting atop his messy childhood dresser still filled with Garfield sweatshirts ten times too small for him now.

“Oh I do.” Cuthbert playfully pushed Roland’s face away. “But it’s just not fun that way, Roland. You know that.” He pinched him then and turned back to look down at the water. “Open your mouth and try it sometime.” He leaned all the way back, resting his head on Roland’s chest.

Another breeze rolled over their trembling shoulders, Cuthbert’s exposed toes wiggled either from the pleasure or chill. Maybe both. Roland watched him shove about half his right-foot onto the top side of the other so that his feet were swaddled in one oddly stretched warm cowboy sock. He actually did that pretty often. A fondness special only to his closest friends fell to the pit of Roland’s stomach.

“Bert?” He nudged him softly. His friend turned, best he could, looking somewhat pensive. “Do you think about the future at all?” He wasn’t sure where the question was coming from but it spilled from his lips nonetheless.

Cuthbert pulled back suddenly but shared not his laughter rather, an extension of that contemplative look. Narrowed eyes covered by his loose and long hair. “I imagine the flying car business is complete bullshit but I do like to think I die at the hands of a worthy enemy.”

He smirked, expecting to be smacked but Roland just frowned. Some of his energy deflated a little. “I don’t think that I have, Roland. Not like you.” He shook his head. “Once my thoughts hit the sight of me at the legal drinking age...it gets all fuzzy. Kind of always thought that meant I’d die before seeing twenty-two.” He glanced back to gauge Roland’s response but found that to be too unsettling.

“Not in any special way that I know about yet-” He shrugged.

“You speak nonsense.” Roland finally interrupted, knowing Cuthbert would just start rambling if he didn’t stop him and he didn’t want to hear any more of the speech.

Cuthbert rolled his eyes, pulling his foot free from it’s sock cage. “Always do.” He smirked but not that happy kind. It made Roland a bit angry.

“You actually believe this?”

Cuthbert laughed like the whole situation was ridiculous. “Yeah. I do.”

Roland felt another wave of frustration roll over him but he didn’t really care for the idea of showing it. He was excellent at fighting and so was Cuthbert. But he didn’t wish to get into that. The day needn’t get worse.

“I’m not trying to upset you, Roland.” He added with earnest eyes looking down at his lap. “It’s just the way I’ve always thought, huh?” He bumped their arms together with a gentle grin but his friend would have none of it. He sighed. “You could live without me, couldn’t you?” He teased but turned away to add. “I know you could, Roland-”

“Just the same as you could without me, Cuthbert.” He interrupted in a dominantly upset voice. It sent a horrible chill down his friend’s back. “We are strong-willed men, like our fathers before.” He sounded incredibly similar to a scalding parent. “But I don’t wish to live without you. I don’t dare think about such a thing like that, why do you?”

The laughing boy rolled those big eyes of his again. “I don’t know. I think that was my point.” He shook his head. Roland felt a strong pang of guilt mix with his previous annoyance.

Dead silence lasted for about another twenty minutes. Roland was an absolute master at refusing to give in first. He’d sit and wait for hours which was arguably a terrible trait. But sometimes---‘No just bad.’ He thought. To pass that time, he found himself staring at a tiny family of frogs resting by the water. Wet and a shiny green color, they glimmered. Their black eyes stared back up at him...

“I might be able to live without you. But I would not love again.” Roland spoke first. He actually managed to do it. He blinked down as if to thank the shiny frogs for boring him so much. They were however gone.

Cuthbert considered that, looking bemused before turning back and planting a wet kiss to Roland’s cheek. “That’s cute.”

“I mean it, asshole.” He wiped his sleeve against the spit on his face. At this point in his life, he could hardly be grossed out to the max by his boyfriend’s spit.

Cuthbert nodded. “I know. You always mean what you say. I like that about you, Roland. No one would believe how sweet you are with me.” He helped his friend wipe his face before planting a much softer kiss to his nose. Sweet yet so pleasurable. Roland felt his reaction deep in his gut and found himself to be glad that his father knew of their courtship. It was embarrassing and awful considering Mr. Deschain was steamed. But at least there’d be no more of their silly pretend game of being ‘just friends’.

Roland smiled, grabbing Cuthbert’s chin to initiate some real kissing. They chuckled against each-other’s warm mouths. “You make me too soft.” He winced at the pathetic way he’d given his anger away just so he could lovingly make-out with him.

“I hope I make you hard.”

Roland’s mouth watered. He’d be getting a round two after all...

: : : : : : : :

“Can you zip up my jeans, I literally can’t. It’s stuck.” Cuthbert approached Roland, crotch first. He really had no shame. His friend came forth and tugged the tiny metal zipper for him with an amused smile.

As Roland worked on clothing his boyfriend, Cuthbert took the secret time to admire him. “So, what do you see...in the future, I mean?” He asked, staring down at the top of his boyfriend’s head.

Roland hummed, finally managing to slide the gadget up and moving to get the button closed for him. “I’d like to get far from here.” He looked around with thought. “Maybe a road-trip with you?” He smiled.

“That’s it! That’d be what kills me. Traveling with you.” Cuthbert teased and was rewarded with a hard-slap on the arm. “Sorry, sorry. What else?”

Roland pursed his lips like he might refrain from speaking any more. “A house. Even for a couple of drifters like us.” He gestured between them with a smirk.

"Any kiddies?”

Roland shot his head up with puzzled eyes. “How would that-?”

"Adoption, Dumbass.” Cuthbert soaked up this rare moment of Roland being an absolute moron.

His boyfriend looked down again, looking younger than ever before. “I don’t know about that, Bert. I’m not the nurturing type-”

“Bullshit!” Cuthbert laughed. “You always say that but it’s not true. You’ve proven me right a bunch of times.” He lifted Roland’s hands from his pants and pulled them back down the dirt, towards the water. “Who knows what’s gonna happen? Maybe we will get to have a kid and that house, you and me.” He hopped down to the edge and chuckled.

Roland admired his wild spirit and held on strongly to his hand. “What will we name this child?”

Cuthbert widened his eyes which filled up with new life. As if he’d never even thought of such an idea. It both filled Roland with joy and sadness. His best friend truly did believe he was to die young. “Oh, what an exciting task!” He swung their grip over the water.

“We’ve got a lot of time to think about it.” Roland added, with a bit of genuine encouragement. He ached to see Cuthbert so happy.

“Something stupid and original.” He continued with blazing joy. He might’ve begun to list his thousands of ideas had he not glanced at his boyfriend with such enthusiasm that it made him irresistible.

Roland had to kiss him just a few more times, wanting the moment to last forever even though it was impossible. He hoped to remember it fondly in that future of theirs...he was sure of it even if Cuthbert wasn’t. “I got you wrapped around my finger, huh?” Cuthbert wiggled his brows when they pulled apart.

Roland blushed a little. “You like to think so.” He rolled his eyes but felt his chest tighten when his boyfriend stuck his tongue out at him. It was juvenile and very akin to puppy-love but...it was intoxicating.

“I’m glad we found each other, y’know?” Cuthbert looked off towards the ripples in what was seemingly just still-water.

Roland came closer and pulled Cuthbert’s arm so they could both rest on the dirt. “Something willed us together. I think.” He threw a rock into the water and smiled like a little boy.

Cuthbert raised his brow. “Like...the Force?” He giggled, taking up his own little rock-pile. Roland rolled his eyes but found a smirk crawling over his face. He hoped the tiny frog family wasn’t anywhere near their throwing party. “I don’t know about Star Wars, Roland.”

Instead of replying, Roland pushed him back with a hand to the face, ignoring Cuthbert’s licks to his palm. The oozing blood of the past briefly popped into his brain. The hot-red which had been pouring from Cuthbert’s own palm...It’d almost certainly paused and dried to a crunchy crust.

Roland was in an odd state of complete bliss which was a refreshing change from just a couple hours ago. He owed the mood boost to the man who was just beginning to thwack the open water with dirty rocks. His aim was perfect. He hit nothing but clear water and made excellent splashing distance.

Roland loved him with all his being. Cuthbert was just about the best-

He burst into a round of hearty laughter at the sight of Cuthbert’s Garfield the Cat underwear sticking out of his pants...the zipper now broken and fly-open.

It didn’t take long for his boyfriend to realize just what he was laughing at. Maybe it was the breeze...Roland laughed even harder. Cuthbert smirked and leaned back on his palms. “Jokes on you. I like the look.” He shrugged.

They fell silent again as the daylight bled from a yellow to a dark orange. Signaling the day turning from life to still-memory. Both boys sighed, leaning closer.

Maybe tomorrow would be just as good...

#idk #i just love them #roland deschain #cuthbert allgood #The Dark Tower #my fanfiction #roland/cuthbert #stephen king #textpost

15 notes · View notes

real-fanta-sea · 4 years

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MICHAEL APPRECIATION WEEK Day 7: Free choice

For this day, I have prepared something special - this fic was laying around in my drafts for almost a year and I’m so happy to finish and publish it!

The name is The leap of faith and happens after Michael falls to his dead during ending B. It is rather heavy and lacks happy ending + there is a mention of attempted suicide and canon death. It is not graphic, but some of you might prefer not to read about it and I think it’s fair to warn you. Oh, and the pairing mentioned is Trikey. For those of you who prefer AO3, click here to get redirected to the work. For the rest of you guys, just click on “keep reading”. Hope you’ll like it! 😊

The thunder rumbles through the air, vibrating everything in a deep and untamed matter.

“Michael! Let’s just-”

Michael looks up, trying his best to look tough while somewhere deep inside, he is scared shitless as the same thunder echoes through him. He’s holding desperately, palms sweaty, onto his life. Franklin, holding his forearm as hard as he can, let his mouth gape open in a shock. Finally, a true, fucking human emotion.

A few heavy, ice-cold raindrops dampen Michael’s forehead. This all feels too familiar, he thinks to himself. This time, though, he won’t wake up with a jerk, sweat pearling up on his back. This time, there won’t be anything else than a void, sucking him in. He won’t stare back at steel grey sky as it dissolves into his perfect white bedroom ceiling. Not this time.

Another lightning illuminates his final scenery. Michael peers at depth down below his feet and then back up to a familiar face. Franklin fights with himself - he can see it in his sharp sculpted face. The rain falls heavily now and drenches his cheeks, and the moist reflects red and white signal light high above their heads. How the hell did he end up this way? Here, up above his concrete grave? Up here, hanging down the chimney railing, with this snake of a friend being his last straw between life and death? And then, the sudden realisation washed over him like a cold tide. And then, without a blink or a second thought, he lets go. A pair of hazel eyes, troubled, terrified, torn and lost, sink down into darkness. “I won’t leave you, Mikey!” is a distant echo of a raspy, terrified voice in between the rain and thunder. “I won’t leave you, Mikey!” A fraction of a grin passes Michael’s lips “But hell was I more than ready to leave you…” is his last thought as he lets go and let the gravity pull him down.

“MICHAEL!”

The world slows down with the first agonizing beat of his heart. Raindrops around him freeze in place, fire red and shiny like a scattered bloody diamonds carrying his weight. A flash of lightning illuminates the terrified face above him, hand outstretched, desperately trying to reach for him but also knowing damn well it’s too late. Michael looks around him. Everything perfectly sharp and visible, tinted scarlet and blue, with every edge glowing wildly. The weightless eternity of his existence, just hanging above the ground in between his heartbeats.

Ba-dum

A flash of bright white light blinds him for a second before he realizes where he is. The smell of an old truck, speeding on a dirt road is something hard to forget, especially when the smell attacks his nostrils so violently through an open window. Michael looks around him. The insides of the truck are darkened against the painfully bright sun reflecting the crisp green and warm ochre outside. The fuel tank is almost empty, the gas pedal glued to the floor. A photo of a nameless naked girl printed on a car scent card, swaying in a breeze under the passenger seat. Plush dice furiously swinging from side to side on the rearview mirror. All of this is oddly familiar.

Michael dares a look in the rearview mirror. He stares into a pair of bright blue eyes, full of determination and perhaps a bit of fear. He could swear he knows them too. A strand of dark hair combed back neatly, falls down to them, making him blink and swing it right back. He looks at his hands and sees no ring, only a rim of the leather sleeve of his jacket. Inspecting it further, he sees a couple of sewn symbols as it hangs nonchalantly by the sides of his muscular torso. He grins stupidly as his eyes follow lines of muscles sticking up against a tight white fabric of his tank top. He continues to check himself as the engine roars and hot air breaks apart on his windshield. His jeans are as tight as his top, and sneakers just as worn out as they should be to still be called fashionable. “Wow, this can’t be me” he grins as he checks his face in the mirror again. No wrinkles. No worries. No assassins after his ass. Just a pair of bright, ocean blue eyes and a cocky smile of a kid who hardly knows what future lays ahead.

Michael laughs as he pushes the gas even further, stomping on it like a fucking maniac. The engine groans with pain but accelerates anyway. Suddenly, there is a horn ripping apart the perfect memory. Michael looks into a mirror curiously, frowning his perfect eyebrows, a faint wrinkle haunting his forehead. A second truck, with the same roar and even greater speed, emerges from the turn behind him and by the looks of it, the driver is furious with him.

“Oh shit, here we go again… Just perfect!” he swears below his breath and takes a sharp turn right just as the truck reaches the back of his own vehicle. There is a high pitched screech as the truck turn in top speed, trying it’s best not to fall oven, rolling on only one set of wheels before falling back on all six with an angry thud sound. “I must find the damn plane, it should be around here somewhere, fuck” Michael swears and feels a couple of sweats drops pearl on his forehead. He looks back into the mirror. The truck is behind him. Closing in. There is a familiar shine of a gun in the dark behind the windshield. “FUCK!”

Another turn. Another screech. Sweat. Curse. Heart racing. Heat. Engine roaring. Plane. Where is the fucking plane?

Michael literally flies over the top of a ditch as he desperately tries to land the truck on wheels and not on its side. There is a glimpse of shiny metal in the distance suddenly and his heart races. This is it. Just to get there before the jerk gets him. He bites his lip and stomps on the gas again, furiously, desperately. The metal of the plane shines again as he gets closer and he looks for a man he was supposed to meet. Somewhere down in his guts, there is a fear mixing with anticipation and stirring his insides like a bloody blender. He can’t wait to see him and be saved.

A pair of slender jeans-clad legs twitch impatiently in the shadow of the plane. There he is.

If it wasn’t for a fact he could destroy the plane, he would have never braked so hard and just circle around to get the look again and again forever. He could, in fact, do it - this is his memory so he could do whatever he fucking please - but everything feels too real, including the young man leaned back on the wing of the plane.

Something in his pose is so captivating Michael can not quite put his head around it. The man’s elbows are supporting him, placed on a grey painted wing. Leather aviation jacket with a maple leaf sewn on it, wrinkled on his shoulders which were as wide and strong as his chest showing below his a worn-out t-shirt, yet slender and elegant as the line of his body run down to a perfect waist, accented by a belt of his jeans. One hip slightly raised as he relaxed one of his long legs, probably to even the weight of his heavy boots. Michael inhales deeply and gulped down something that feels almost like… Well, he can’t name it, but the look is captivating. The man looks in direction of the other truck, so Michael has a couple of seconds to study his face. It is framed by a thick mane of brown hair, and aviator shades, too big and dark to see his eyes properly. His nose as sharp as his cheekbones and jawline, with a trace of baby fat still there, giving him a dangerously adorable look. Where Michael loses it are his lips - full and with cupid’s bow curved in a perfectly kissable way, almost unreal for a man to have. Compared to his thin line of a mouth, these lips are angelic. Something deep inside of him awakens with a roar and the feeling of warmth fills him up completely, as he looks at the young man’s face again.

“Trevor…” he hears himself whisper. “T…” as tender as the letter can be, escaping his lips all over again to numb the sharp pain in his chest. What exactly is this feeling? Did he always feel this way about Trevor? Is his dying mind playing tricks on him?

He loses himself in a plump curve of Trevor’s lips for a moment once again before he’s torn from this perfect world with a wild screech of brakes and violent blow of a horn.

“Come out right NOW!” A hoarse voice calls from the other truck as a middle-aged man does his best to get out of the driver’s seat. Michael caught the sight in the mirror. While he takes a deep breath he kicks the door open and jumps out of the truck.

“What’s your problem, old fart?” he yells, as cocky as he possibly can to cover how fucking frightened he really is, puffing up his chest, putting up a toothy grin and holding onto his hips to appear larger. “Can’t get it up so you drive all the way here to beat my ass for fun?”. The old man clenches his fists, squaring up his shoulders and cracking his neck. Michael blinks a couple of times as he watches the familiar figure step out of the shadow of the truck. As the man moves closer, Michael’s cocky grin freezes and slowly twists into pure horror. The man raises his head and if there ever was a bit of doubt in who it was, it vanished right into a face of the impaling summer sun.

It’s the older version of him. De Santa part of his soul, peering right back at him through a familiar frown with all the self-hate and beast-like cruelty written all over his wrinkled face. Michael’s mouth opens and closes in a shock. Is this who he has become? He can still remember all the things he did in his life as if his old self got caught up in the young body. He remembers, gets glimpses of memories, but it’s not the same thing as to face who he inevitably grows to be. De Santa looks him in the eyes as if he knows exactly what he is thinking about with an evil grin. As fast as he can, without blinking, De Santa raises his gun and points it right at Trevor.

Michael gasps. “What the fuck are you doing, you prick?”

Trevor flinches and presses his back against the plane with a deep growl.

“Put that down or I’ll make a pudding out of your brain right fucking now!”, Trevor utters with the only gun he could retrieve from the plane in a second, which, to Michael’s eternal amusement, is a fucking flare gun. De Santa shows a couple of teeth as he grins at Trevor. “The only thing I want is a second to talk to my little friend here. Don’t be stupid, Trevor, and give me a chance to make things right for both of us” The man with a flare gun raises his eyebrows and lowers the gun a few millimetres before raising it again. “Fuck, I don’t know where you heard my name or who snitched it but I swear to god if you botch this job you won’t see the sun up tomorrow you cake filled fuck face!”

Michael chuckled as he heard Trevor give his older self familiar names. He really let himself go too far to be called fit and made a mental note not to waste his second chance in life to eat the hate away. De Santa seems pleased as well, a heartwarming smile crossing his lips before they are solid and serious again. “Michael, I know what you felt back then, and what you feel now. I know you are going to chase it until you lose interest and leave a broken shell. Wasn’t it your... our favourite pastime after every game? Get a girl, get the most of it for a week and then ditch her without a second thought?” Michael blinks and searches for rusty memories. With eyes wide and lips pursued, he nods. “You see Trevor there? He’s not a stupid cheerleader you can play like a fiddle. Even now, with this badass facade of his, he feels something for you.” Trevor fidgets uncomfortably and Michael catches with a corner of his eye how Trevor swallows and lets his lips part for a second. Fucking Bingo.

“And you feel it too. That is a serious business, Michael.” De Santa pauses to raise his gun again. “You know what happens in future, don’t you? Say a word and decide - should I kill him and let you forget, get a normal life with normal wife and normal kids, the one you’ve always wanted…” he pauses to turn to Michael now, who instinctively raises his hands and stumbles a couple of steps back with a gun pointed at him “or should I kill you both to get this Shakespearean shit over with before it even begins? We both know too well what he means to..to us.” Michael exhales and feels the world slow down once more as he watches a tear roll down De Santas expressionless cheek and turns to Trevor. The wind plays with Trevor’s hair and his hands shake as he throws down his shades. A pair of amber eyes, wide with awe, pierce him with the same question. Growing old with or without him? Can he bear living without his precious punk? Can he let all the memories slip right out of his mind and fill it in with a long line of one night stands and even longer lines of coke? Oh, and why does his chest clench so much? Could it be...love?

Michael inhales carefully and turns back to De Santa, with time raging in the normal speed now. “Kill me. You know too well I could never live without him by my side.” A hot blow of wind carries a sound of a trigger, sudden and unforgiving. Michael blinks and watches a flare screw into De Santa’s eye, as he pulls the trigger too. The bullet licks his ear and jams with a hiss into the truck behind him. A high, blood-chilling scream pierce his ears and adds to wild pounding in his ears. Right before his wide eyes, De Santa’s body is fighting inevitable, hands trying to pull the flare out, only to help it dig deeper. Burned flesh and skin shed dreadful black shreds onto the dirt below their feet. Deep grey smoke fills the air with sweet stench and cries right out of hell. And then, silence and a pair of terrified amber eyes, vanishing into another flash of light.

Ba-dum

Michael opens his eyes to see a mouldy ceiling of a random motel, illuminated with a mix of orange, pink and blue neon light splattered across the room. His body feels hot but exhausted at the same time, gradually allowing him to sink back to full consciousness. He looks around, blinking to get rid of heaviness on his eyelids. Stark naked, his skin shiny with sweat, brilliantly white, glowing with reflections of light as a perfect opposite of the damp dark sheets.

Michael turns to his side, instinctively looking for a pack of cigarettes. He has always had one ready on a nightstand wherever he went and remembers this too well. He has always smoked after sex, he realises with a smug smirk and almost makes it to the pack before a pair of tanned arms wrap around him. A deep “Mikey...don’t leave me” comes from behind him, half snore, half sleep talk. Michael freezes for a second before turning around to make sure the deep, smooth voice belongs to the man he thinks it does.

Just as he remembered, Trevor stretched his arms in his sleep, for once looking peaceful and even angelic in all his content and innocence. He looks like a child, curled up on his side, hair in his mouth, stuck to open lips with a string of saliva. Eyes shut, barely moving, eyelashes long and shaking to the rhythm of his own light snores. “Mikey” Trevor whimpers again and curls even more, clutching the blanket, brows knotting. “Shh… I am right here,T” Michael whispers, and as gently as he can, brushes the lock of hair out of Trevor’s mouth. Trevor smacks his lips and smiles sincerely from his sleep. “I love you, Mikey...”. Michael jolts a bit but tries his best not to wake his sleeping companion. Was this even the same memory, or is his dying mind making a damn fool of him? Has Trevor actually said that? He blinks a couple of times, supporting himself with his elbow on his side as he brushes Trevor’s cheek absentmindedly with his fingers. With wide, serious eyes, Michael observes the goosebumps on Trevor’s arm, showing with each end every careful stroke of his fingers. Trevor’s snores and low mumble gives him the strength to continue down his neck, fingers outstretched, tracing smooth skin below his fingertips. Trevor moans from his sleep when Michael’s fingers gently brushed past his nipple. “You always had a soft spot here, T” Michael whispers under his breath and let his aching heart rule him for once. All the uneasiness and tense are suddenly gone as his tongue circles around his lover’s chest. The skin below him is salty and hot, and the taste lingers on his tongue, driving him mad. His hand wanders down the outline of Trevor’s body, tracing down his abdomen to find what he is looking for. Trevor’s cock welcomes his hand with a jolly throb and fit into his palm much better than he would ever admit. “Mmm” Trevor moans and arches his back, biting his lower lip “so much for sleeping with a horny cupcake beside me, huh?” and greets Michael with a toothy grin “Ready for round two, pork chop?” Michael chuckles, stroking Trevor slowly but firmly “I was born ready, baby” and let himself be pulled into a kiss.

The room dissolves around them as Michael seals his lips with Trevors, and some kind of force pulls them both up, right into the star painted indigo sky. His lips desperately caress and sucks Trevor’s and his tongue explore and swirls with a hunger he has never felt before. Just the kiss, just the taste, just the sensation is enough for him to forget who he became, where he belongs and what he was about to do in a couple of years in this reality. It is just his lips and Trevor’s lips under the moonlight and everything feels right in the centre of this universe.

He pulls back eventually, gasping for air, licking his lips frantically not to waste a bit of the heavenly taste of his lover’s lips, fading back to the stained sheets. Trevor pants below him, lips curved into a toothy, genuine smile he has only seen once or twice before. Michael can not help but smile back, cupping Trevor’s cheek with one hand, running his thumb alongside Trevor’s lower lip. Trevor purrs deeply under his touch, staring right back to his eyes. Michael feels something building up around his heart - a heat that could only mean one thing. “I love you too, Trevor” he exhaled, voice deep with honesty. With a smile, he watches the change in Trevor’s expression, eyes dark and wide, mouth open in shock. “What did you just…” Trevor gulped, tears collecting in his eyes as he crawls away from Michael’s touch. Michael’s chest suddenly hurt as if someone squeezed it. “Shh, I mean it - trust me, Trevor. Just trust me, baby, ok?” Michael whispers with a smile still playing around corners of his mouth, but not as certain as it was a second ago. Trevor jerks and jumps of the bed, retrieving slowly towards the window.

“Why are you always like that, Michael? So fucking full of lies” His voice trembled as much as his knees. Michael’s eyes look his body up and down, and only welcoming part is his dick, twitching, helplessly calling for a fondling hand “Why do you do this to me?”

Michael blinks a couple of times, trying hard to remember what he did to earn this reaction. As far he knows, this was one of those nights they spent together, drinking or drugging, crawling on top of one or the other, riding the hell out of the high, bodies twisted into a hot, sweating mush. It won’t hurt to ask, right?

“Trevor, calm down. What the hell happened to you?” his voice firm and certainly more annoyed than he had meant it to be. Trevor puffs up, clenching his fists. “What happened to me? WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO ME?” Michael stiffens as a shockwave of Trevor’s angered roar washes over him, leaving him speechless.

“Are you serious? You have a fucking audacity to ask me what happened with that knocked up tramp waiting for you at the altar now? What the fuck am I to you then, huh? Am I just a fun old cheap bitch you fuck after a score? A toy you toss away when it doesn't comfort your taste anymore? Or.. or a dumbass to do all the dirty work for you just for a meaningless fuck?” Trevor’s voice trembles again, but only to gather enough strength to rumble through paper-thin walls again. “I am not stupid, Michael. I can see the pattern. You get high, you tell me you love me, fuck me and then you sober up and get on with your oh so great denial only to do it again and again. You dance around in your pathetic suit pants, killing anyone calling you a faggot! Oh, and while you are at it, you knock up a hooker and marry her just to show everybody you are a good old boobs’n’snatch family guy. Do you want your American dream family with a coke-snorting bitch and a batch of white trash bastards? Well then be my guest and get the fuck out of here, Michael”

Trevor kicks the door open, spitting his name out with a sting of disgust that lingers in the air long after it is said. A familiar blue haze of Michael’s anger pierces right through him and floods his system. With clenched fists, he springs up. “Okay, whatever, dipshit. Just make sure you are not late tomorrow” is what escapes Michael’s lips, without him even noticing. Something constricts his chest as he pulls up his jeans and throws his t-shirt over his head, facing Trevor. There are wet trails on his cheeks for sure, but something dark creeps behind them. Michael looks up to see two broken mirrors of amber eyes, staring back at him. For once, he feels the urge to fight the memory and stay. Stay a little longer. Cup Trevor’s face in his hands and tell him he won’t ever leave his side. Tell him he means what he said and they should elope, riding scooters hand in hand to the sunset. Trevor’s sob brings him back to reality as he approaches him carefully. “Trevor, I’m sorry…” is the last thing he utters before the memory fades in the familiar explosion of white light.

Ba-dum

Michael blinks as he opens his eyes, looking around. He hardly recognizes the surroundings - judging by the scattered tombstones, people hunched down dressed in black and a thick layer of snow, he is somewhere up north, and on a goddamn cemetery. With all the white around him and heavy snowflakes falling down from a steel-grey sky, he should have been frozen solid at least 15 minutes ago, but somehow, he feels fine. Weightless even. There is something odd in a way people pass him by, without noticing him standing there, walking right onto him “Hey, watch it!” he hisses as an old lady walks right through him, leaving but a swirl of air where an outline of his torso was a second ago. Her sniffs and crunches of fresh snow under her shoes fade out into a deepening silence. She didn’t even notice, did she?

Michael looks at his hands, terrified. They are... translucent? What the hell happened to him? Is he a ghost? Michael’s eyes widen and his mouth fall open. Did he die already or what? With a deep breath of crisp air, he once again raises his head and scrutinizes his surroundings. His head feels like it might explode with all the wild ideas and questions swirling inside it. Has he ever been here before? The place seems familiar. Why is he here? Is it somehow significant? Michael inspects the closest tombstone on his right and chuckles lowly. Of fucking course. This was his grave. Michael fucking Townley’s grave.

This is where the boy from the nameless Canadian airfield lays along with his dreams and ambitions, dressed in his old football gear. What’s left is a ghost, a memory, levitating in the air, thinking about what went wrong with his life to end up like this. Hated, hunted, betrayed by a man he considered his son, left by the one he called brother.

A muffled sob from behind him makes him jump and turn around. A tall man in a stained thick coat looks right trough him and brushes his nose with a hand dressed in an old fingerless glove. Michael stares at him in awe - what the hell is Trevor doing here? If he is right in his assumption and the grave is still too fresh, the place would be swarming with FIB agents, waiting for those stupid enough to come his grave. Michael raises his hands to place them on Trevor’s shaking shoulders, but in his new form, his palms go right trough them only to fall back to each of his side. “GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, TREVOR!” He tries as a feeling of panic raises within him. The taller man not even flinch. “TREVOR!!!”

The only answer he gets is the sound of teardrop crash landing in the snow beneath his feet. It is the first time Michael notices the broken posture and his shaking chin, with a stream of tears flooding it. It is the first time he sees Trevor truly broken. It is the first time he sees what Trevor meant when he told him he loved him.

“I know you hate it when I’m crying Mikey, but I… I just can’t help it” Trevor uttered in a high, shaky voice. “I’m just so sorry!”. Michael instinctively jumped when Trevor fell to his knees where he would stay if he had a real body, not holding back anymore. “I’m so sorry Mikey! This is all my fault!”

Even in his current form, Michael’s chest tightened. He has never admitted he hated to see Trevor cry only because it hurts him a great deal, and now with his closest friend kneeling broken on his alleged grave, the pain comes uninvited and sits on his back as heavy as a fucking mountain.

“If I… If I stayed... if I was the one who helped Brad you could…”

“No, Trevor. If you stayed, you would be dead. Don’t blame yourself for my fuck ups.”

“It’s funny, I can almost hear you now, you know?”

Michael freezes on the spot. Could it be... “Trevor, T, can you hear me?”

A low chuckle escapes Trevor’s mouth before it is muffled by sobs once again.

“Yeah, I know, it’s bullshit. Of course, I cannot hear you. I am just imagining things, I guess... I just want to hear your voice once again. I want to hold you and kiss you one last time. Remember that time,” Trevor blows his nose and takes in a deep breath, finally getting a grip of his crying “Remember when we stopped by a lake in the middle of nowhere, and you wanted to go swimming? How we planned to stay for a night but ended up camping for a whole week? I’ve never told you how beautiful you are in the morning light - I just called you a fatso then and you smashed my head with a pan.” Corners of Trevor’s mouth twitch with a shy smile upon the memory. Michael just watches him, desperate to hold him close and never let him go. Of course, he remembers the summer of ‘89 and the glint in those amber eyes whenever they watched him. He remembers the bubbly laughter, flat beer and the smell of campfire in Trevor’s hair when they made love.

“Remember how we drank so much we started slow dancing at midnight and the sky reflected in your eyes? That was the first time I told you I love you. You laughed and shrugged it off. But I meant it then and I mean it forever.” Trevor’s tears easily tear down his weak self-control and make his fists hit the ground with crushing force. “You told me I had no idea what love is, but I do, Michael, I DO!” A sudden yell made a couple of other people increase their pace and turn around in fear. “AAAARGH, I LOVE YOU SO FUCKING MUCH MIKEY IT TEARS ME APART!! I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU!”

Only now that Trevor hunched over the grave has Michael noticed a rope, resting stuffed into one of Trevor’s coat pockets. Oh no. Oh fuck. What is he going to do? Is he really going to… “TREVOR!”

The man in question just let tremors run through his body, hunched over the grave.

“TREVOR! DON’T TELL ME YOU WANT TO HANG YOURSELF!”

The only answer is the man slowly rising to his feet, chin pressed to his chest, dirty hair falling to his eyes.

“T, PLEASE, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!”

Trevor turns his gaze from the tombstone to an oak and its bare branches, standing mortified in the far end of the cemetery.

“NO, T, DON’T DO IT! I AM RIGHT HERE, PLEASE T!”

Corners of Trevor’s mouth twitch in what could be a smile, but Michael knows deep down it is relief. With the love of his life dead and gone, the world turning its back on him, with no future whatsoever, Trevor wants to go down the path of the last resort, the path Michael dreads.

“T, PLEASE!! I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU PLEASE DON’T!”

An easy, tired smile settles on Trevor’s lips.

“Today is different, Mikey. I think I really hear you now - it is as if you said you loved me and wanted me to stay. But we both know I can’t love a whisper in the wind. You are here now and in a second you are gone. As always.”

Trevor takes a few steps, crunching of the fresh snow piercing the darkening sky.

“I want to be there with you, to see you and feel you the way you let me when we were young and high.”

Snow under Trevor’s feet listens in fear of what is it about to witness. Michael reaches out but fails to get hold of his friend once more. Trevor’s shoulders tense for a second before relaxing once again with a heavy sigh.

“Please don’t try to stop me, Michael. I have nowhere else to go. I need you.”

Trevor’s steps grow frequent as he inevitably approaches the tree and halts right in front of it, his fingers brushing over the smooth cold bark.

“Goodbye, Mikey. For now. I’ll see you in a few.”

Michael’s panic rises to levels he didn’t think were possible. He knows he can’t help Trevor, he knows he can’t reason with him but fuck him if he does not try to save him.

His eyes frantically search for someone, anyone he could call and alarm. The cemetery is almost empty. The only sound is the soft swish of snowflakes and screeching of Trevor’s boots as he climbs the tree to fasten the noose. There must be someone here - Michael knows his grave is the perfect moth trap - and fuck him if he’s wrong but there is a familiar figure leaning against the metal fence. “Oh shit, it can’t be…”

Dave Norton has just returned from his afternoon break with a cup of steaming coffee and a fresh issue of Los Santos Times when a strange touch of ice-cold air on the scruff of his neck makes him shiver. It’s not like he’s not used to long hours in freezing temperatures, but this one is oddly different. He puts down his cup and traces the back of his neck with hot fingers, but the snowflake he is searching for is nowhere to be found. “Oh well, whatever. Just a wind.” He thinks as he grabs for a cup when is suddenly tumbles over and spills all the coffee into the snow. In many years he has been an agent, Dave learned not to be surprised by a lot of things. Tax evasions, sex scandals, terrorist threats. It all shaped him in a twisted way and let him harden enough to act cold and precise in any situation he happened to be in. But this shit, it surprised the fuck out of him. He didn’t even touch the cup! There is absolutely no logical explanation of why it would bounce up and spill like that except for something grabbing it and letting go. Suddenly, the cold sensation was back and made little hair on his neck stand up in fright. Turn around. Look behind you. Turn around and look now. Those words bounce inside his head as if it was a pinball board and someone stubbornly added more and more balls to it. His head throbs, fighting the intrusion to no avail. In one bright flash of white light, a simple sentence appears right before his eyes: Turn around PLEASE!!

Ok ok, he’s turning NOW and… oh shit…

Michael has never felt this spend and tired in his life. He can barely see the outline of his own ghostly body now as it slowly dissolves into the void. Even if he wanted, he would barely give a fuck with the scene right before his eyes.

Dave stands below Trevor, forcing him up and back onto the branch. Trevor’s reddened face is damp with tears and his voice is hoarse when he shouts at Dave and begs him to let go, kicking a couple of times. Dave grabs for his gun and cuts the rope with a couple of shots that echo through the dark and bounce from one grave to another. Trevor falls into the abused snow below him with a loud thud and curls up in a fit of pained cry that makes Michael feel like shit. It is all his fault. The dark purple ligature mark in place of Trevor’s future “cut here” tattoo screams at him accusingly what his own mind has offered him so many times he stopped counting. He always put himself first and made people who cared about him miserable. If only he could lay beside him if only he could comfort him, if only he was given a chance to tell him how much he loved him, how much he cared, how sorry he was for things to come to this end. His final thought before he dissolves in the crisp air is of a pair of warm amber eyes looking up at him with so much love and care it makes him shiver. “Please forgive me, T.”

Ba-dum

A flash of bright white light led him back to his body this time. A roar of thunder kick-started the time. The shining diamonds of the raindrops hit the ground with a final splash before glazing the concrete with a red light covered wet coat. Up above him, Franklin curses. What a nice kid. “I forgive you,” he thinks as he braces himself for the impact. “I have the death I deserve” When Michael feels the cold touch of death on his back and draws in his lasts breath, the pure white light shines back in time with his racing heart, each flash brighter than the one before. All the pictures of his life run before his eyes - the first time he saw Trevor, the first time they kissed, the birth of Tracey, her first laugh and first uncertain steps, Jimmy’s first words, years of denial, broken promises drowned in whiskey and his recent flashbacks. He is about to die with a regret, Michael notes with a bitter taste on his palate - and that would be to make all of this right. If only he was strong enough to see past his beliefs and just let things happen as they were meant to be. If only he could turn back time, hug Franklin and let him handle things the way he wanted, call Amanda and let her go figure out her own happiness, give his children enough money to go to college and live on their own and then run into the pair of arms he sorely missed. If only he could tell him how sorry he was and how much he truly meant to him. He would hold Trevor close right there, in his ramshackle, grim-soaked trailer, stroke the summer heat out of his hair and whisper his feelings right into those beautiful ears. Yet another strike of thunder reminds him of what happened in the cemetery and the last teardrop escapes his eye and slips down his cooling cheek only to join millions of its kin on the ground as he exhaled one last time.

I love you, M. “I love you, T.”

#MichaelAppreciationWeek #fanfiction #gta 5 #GTA V #michael de santa #trevor philips #franklin clinton #dave norton #ao3 #real_fanta_sea.fic

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dikiyvter · 3 years

Text

Continuation from [X] w/ @cynicalartisan:

They have grown comfortable. What a terrible mistake–

At first, they attribute their current state to simply… drinking a bit too much. Perhaps the exhaustion of the day is finally hitting them. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time such a thing has happened.

Still… it is growing worse. Lio rubs at their eyes, getting up and deciding the best thing for them is to go out and get some air. Yes, fresh air always does wonders for their mood and how they physically feel. A deep inhale is taken as they stretch their arms and take deep breaths in an effort to calm down. Perhaps a walk will help more. Yes… That will settle their head and help clear their thoughts.

And it is due to their current state that they fail to realize they are being followed. [...]

HE HAD GONE OUT FOR A WALK. Something to ease the mind of the worries that often prevailed this time of night; It always seemed that as the sun began to go down so too did Rigatello’s ability to focus. Mind slipped eager from the letters he’d spent the bulk of the day reading and writing; Correspondence to and from Snezhnaya, Agents in Fontaine that claimed to hold intelligence on the location of the younger of two automatons, a letter from Pulcinella that he was far too anxious to open. So much to do, and yet, so little mental energy to complete such tasks. Fresh air was needed. A stretch of legs that ached from sitting all day long-- And as he stepped into the night air and felt the static thrum of his vision on his belt, the twitch of fingers eager to clasp tight around the hilt of an oversized blade, Rigatello decides that perhaps some hunting might be in order. Boar always led to a good run, though the kill was ultimately unsatisfactory. Hilichurls were a bit more FUN but never quite gave the chase he currently longed for. Trails of thought dulling observation as he wanders along, debating what it is he should do, wondering what will satiate that longing desire for VIOLENCE.

A scream stops him short. Alarmed at the sound as he peers wide eyed at a heavy dark that falls between trees shortly off the path. A... fox, perhaps? No. As human as the things screams could sound, this was nothing like the cry of a fox. Something about it was far too... familiar. Static builds as he clenches his hands into fists, jaw set as he creeps cautious off the trail, towards the bushes, towards the trees. Were it not for the lingering nervousness the familiarity of the scream had given him, Rigatello may very well have continued on. Playing savior when one wore the Fatui emblem in a place such as Mondstadt was often a rather thankless job-- and wasting his time killing petty criminals was often more trouble than it would ever be fun.

A stick snaps under the metal claw of his boot as he steps into a small clearing between the trees and the bushes, blinking through the light of the moon at what appears to be several figures-- That snap to attention as Rigatello’s presence becomes noticed. Nigh disinterested is the sigh that automaton lets out, well prepared to throw a few men around if it means rescuing some damsel from whatever it is they intend to do, voice spoken firm and clear as he utters “What’s going on...”

Eyes catch movement; A man that rises off a figure pushed into the dirt, moonlight glinting off a blade, off blood-- And off ink-black horns that contrast sharp against blond locks that Rigatello recalls with clarity having run his fingers through just that morning. Words trail into nothing, eyes widened as he stares at the familiar figure on the ground. A mind blank in it’s processing as shock begins to give way to anger, the familiar clench of his fists at his side and the growing static that raises the hair on the back of his neck. An artificial heart that pulses in his ears so loud he does not hear the words spoken to him by the man closest.

“This isn’t any of your--”

CONCERN, even through the pale moonlight, is what Rigatello sees in the eyes of one of the other assailants as his hand shoot out and clamps down in a harsh grip on the mans face. For a moment, all is still. And then the calm before the storm gives way to the violence of anger-fueled predation, electro jumping forth with eagerness to burn at flesh beneath the gloved hand as Rigatello turns, grip tight enough to drag the pathetic creature with by the head, and with EASE does the construct lift him from his feet and though there should be GLEE as he CRUSHES HIS HEAD AGAINST THE TREE HARD ENOUGH TO SPLINTER WOOD AND BONE AND MAKE LIMP THE BODY THAT ONCE DARED HARM HIS DEAREST, all Rigatello feels instead is the beat of rage, the feral impulse, the hands that shoot forth as another assailant lunges for him; Blade meets cloth meets flesh of arm and dings off the metal beneath, fragile circuits cut that Rigatello does not notice in the rush of warmth that greets him when his teeth meet their neck and PULL the muscle clean from the bone and leave in its stead a gaping hole.

Rigatello spits gore from his mouth as he snarls, vibrant gaze turned now to the one he dimly recognizes as having been atop his love, and in the moment their eyes meet does Rigatello watch in beastly glee that look of FEAR. The cogs of a human mind turning as he languishes for too long between FIGHT and FLIGHT and is forced into the FORMER. The saw bites down against the flesh of his shoulder at the same time his hand comes down against the assailants throat, gripping with a strength unrestrained until finally does he, too, STILL like the others.

Not all the others.

The beasts eyes catch the coward on the ground; clutching an arm already injured as he scrambles backwards blindly, further and further as the blood-stained Fatui executioner grows closer and closer. The gloves that he grips the cowards shirt with are now stained rich in blood and static, and with ease does he lift the fool off of the ground and dangle him at eye-level.

“Remember this,” Rigatello speaks through a mouth that feels clumsy, words that fall gracelessly with the rumble of a growl still deep within his throat, “He is mine, and mine alone. Take that message to whoever needs to hear it.”

He does not watch for the nod of agreement, of acknowledgement, of ANYTHING-- For the adrenaline begins to wear, and exhaustion and pain begin to cut deep. Without care does he drop the fool, turning in exhausted movements towards where his love lies still against the ground. Rigatello’s steps fall heavy as he approaches, stopping only to gather the vision that lays on the ground, rubbing it’s bloodied face against the fabric of his coat as he comes to kneel quietly beside Lio.

“My love,” a whisper spoken soft through bloodied lips in comparison to all that he has done in the past few moments and gingerly does he ease Lio onto his back-- pressing the cleaned off vision against his chest and then cautiously taking much smaller hands into his own to press against the source of power, and though he longs to kiss his dearests forehead he refrains in want of not staining them further in blood-- least of all that which came from such a vile beast. Even as he reaches to brush hair from Lio’s face must he pause at the sight of bloodied gloves, flexing his fingers for a moment before sighing soft his resignation and moving on in hopes that merely being held will help to provide the comfort he longs to give.

Arms hook behind their back and beneath their legs, a small warning of “I’m going to pick you up,” spoken before the automaton lifts them as though they weigh nothing-- and to him, they truly do not. The difference in size all the more obvious with them laying in his arms, and it reignites the anger he feels that someone could DARE do them harm-- ( followed quick by the rush of guilt that he had not arrived sooner, something he works to push far away knowing it will do nothing to help what is happening now )

But it is not something he can spend the time focusing on, not while Lio is still injured. The cathedral is the best place to go, surely, and with that goal in mind does he quickly begin the walk back to Mondstadt-- the city seeming so far away, now, though he knows it is only a minutes walk until they are safely beyond the gates once more. He devotes that energy instead to holding them close, to keeping them safe, eyes peeled for any more threats as he begins the walk back, wincing every time that ( despite his best efforts ) he feels the small vision user in his arms be jostled as he navigates the rather rough path.

“Lio,” a soft utterance, though he’s not entirely sure his love can hear him, “I’m sorry, please bear with me. We’ll be back in the city soon enough.”

#cw tags:#gore #violence #uhhhhhh ask to tag riga does a lotta shit here #❄ ⤚ ᴘᴀᴄᴇ ʙᴇʜɪɴᴅ ʙᴀʀs ( ic. / riga. ) ⇾#❄ ⤚ ʜᴜᴍᴀɴɪᴛʏ ɪs ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪꜰᴜʟ ( reply. ) ⇾#❄ ⤚ V|01 ( main. ) ⇾#cynicalartisan

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muchadoaboutbucky · 4 years

Text

On the Run (oneshot)

Set after CA: The Winter Soldier: Bucky’s on his own, and with the majority of the Avengers in the spotlight, there’s only one person Steve trusts to track him down.

PAIRING: Bucky x Native American!Reader WARNINGS: out-of-canon events, rough smut NOTE: 18+ only. Do not copy/repost on other sites.

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Bucky’s been in Bucharest for a little over a year. He’s gotten back to something close to stability, without all the creature comforts. He’s found a one-room apartment close to the market, where he can lay low, away from anything and everything.

He’d spent the first month of his freedom traveling across Europe, breaking into old HYDRA bunkers and stealing whatever cash he could find. He’s got enough to get him a nicer place, but “nice” sticks out like a sore thumb. He’s better off rationing and staying where he can blend in.

It’s hard to be alone, he finds. After first getting settled, he struggled to fit into the apartment. He hasn’t had a room or anything to call his own in several decades. He gets some plants, first. It’s easy to fall into a routine of watering them. His tomato plant prospers where he’s got it propped up in the window, but the flowers on the table wither and die within a week.

His dreams are incredibly vivid. It’s as if seventy years of not dreaming has built up and exploded. He dreams of everything he’s missed… apple pie, the plum tree in the backyard at home, his childhood Border Collie, playing baseball in the dirt fields on breaks in the army… women.

God, he needs a woman. It’s not safe, though. Showing just any woman his non-human arm is sure to cause more than just raised eyebrows, and even if she’s okay with it the strength that’s come with the responsibility of being an enhanced soldier isn’t something an average human is capable of bearing.

In the end he settles for his right hand and calls it a day.

It’s summer, the first week of June, and he’s at the market in the late afternoon, taking shelter from the heat of the sun and hoping to fill his canvas bag with cherries and plums—the plums in Bucharest are the best he’s found. The baker's stall is open, and he can smell the fresh bread perfuming the air. It’s still in the season where nights are cool and it’s the perfect temperature for soup.

He’s just paid the fruit vendor when he turns, not looking where he’s going, and bumps into a woman. She stumbles, and instinctively he reaches out with his left arm and grabs her shoulder to keep her from falling.

“Sorry!” He says, helping her regain her balance. “Eşti bine?” he tries in Romanian first, “are you all right?”

She nods, taking a deep breath to settle herself. “I’m fine, thank you.”

American. Must be a tourist.

“Good.” Bucky releases her and steps back, hoping she didn’t think anything of the odd firmness and strength of his metal fingers. She’s beautiful, messy hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head. “Sorry, again, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh, it’s not a problem,” she says, “just found who I was looking for.”

His stomach turns icy. “What?”

“I know who you are,” she replies, “your friend, Steve, he sent me to find you.”

The mention of Steve makes Bucky’s chest tighten, but he doesn’t let his guard down. “Who are you?” he asks. “How do you know Steve?”

“Y/N,” she answers. “He and I have been friends for a while. I’m kinda new to the team… I can go places without triggering the news outlets.”

He glances around, not knowing who could be watching. “Let’s walk,” he says, keeping his head low. She follows him down the avenue and into an alleyway, walking by his side until he stops behind a trash-filled dumpster. His fingers curl into the collar of her shirt, and she lets out an ‘oof!’ as he pushes her up against the wall.

“How long have you been following me?” he asks.

“Long enough to know where you live,” she replies calmly. “Look, I’m not here to cause any trouble, he was just… you went off the grid after Hydra went down, the only thing that told us where you were was a security camera outside the drugstore down the street. You might have a beard, but facial recognition is a bitch to kick.”

Bucky tightens his jaw. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because Steve’s paranoid about who he’s friends with and I’m good at spying on people.” Y/N chews on her lower lip. “Wouldn’t be here if he thought I’d do anything else.”

He takes a deep breath. “Come by later tonight. It’ll be safer to talk.” Turning and stalking back down the alleyway, he mutters, just loud enough so she can hear, “there’ll be soup.”

***

He finishes his shopping quickly and returns home as fast as he can. After locking the doors and windows, he stores all his purchases in the crappy fridge and sets about cleaning the table. He’s only got one good soup recipe, the beef stew his mother used to make on Sunday nights. It’s a long process, but he doesn’t mind. The methodical cooking eases his mind.

He’s just finished dumping everything into a large pot when there’s a knock. He knows it’s Y/N, but he checks just to make sure before opening the door.

“You’re early,” he says.

“You never specified a time,” she replies, turning to face him. She’s let her hair down and changed into straight-fit jeans and a tank top. No bra; he can faintly see her nipples through the fabric and it makes his gut tighten with arousal.

“You know, you could have come to me,” she continues absentmindedly as he strides back to the stove, “I’m at the Epoque.”

“It’s safer here,” he says, “don’t need to be getting caught.”

She accepts that and gazes around the small apartment. His bed is just a mattress on the floor, one pillow that doesn’t match the thin comforter or the sheets. “Cozy.”

“It works.” He swallows, trying to focus on their dinner. “So… you must be special.”

“Special?”

“To be one of them,” he says, “one of the Avengers, or… whatever.”

Her boots click on the wooden floor as she steps around to survey his work. “I’ve got my powers. Nothing major, but I’m apparently a good asset in a fight. Not nearly as skilled as you.”

He sighs, barely able to look at her. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“I know.” She leans against the counter. “I’m strong. Not just lift-a-car-over-my-head strong, I can just… I can handle a beating, y’know? The last bad guy who punched me ended up with a shattered fist.”

“So you’re…”

“Relatively indestructible?” She shrugs. “I guess you could call it that.”

Food is on the table within ten minutes, and Y/N, surprised at the quality of her serving, digs in with gusto, mopping up the last of it with a chunk of fresh bread. Bucky eats slowly, keeping pace with her until their bowls are empty.

“So your powers,” he says, breaking the silence as they wash their dishes, “how did you get ‘em?”

“All I know is that I was born with them,” she replies. “First saw signs when I was five and my older brother accidentally knocked me off the playground. Fell six feet, and the ground caved under me. I didn’t have a scratch.”

Bucky watches her set her bowl on the drying rack and flexes his metal fingers. Titanium glints in the light of the overhead light. “So not even this?”

“I hope you’re not going to try and find out.” She grins and rests one hip against the counter, reaching out to run a fingertip over his wrist, along the border between two plates. “Men who hit without asking me first usually end up with broken arms and I’d hate to have to destroy this.”

Now she’s just being a tease.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and he snaps. Moving close with a single step, he grabs her face with both hands and kisses her. She moves into it, responding with a shove of her hips against his. Metal fingers curl into her hair, and she lets out a whimper when her scalp aches.

Before she can say or do anything else, he rips her top down the middle and tosses the ruined fabric to the floor. Her cheeks flush, and her eyes sparkle with arousal.

“You don’t play,” she murmurs, “you gonna finish the job or what?”

They strip each other in a matter of minutes. The minute Y/N jeans hit the ground, Bucky slides his hands under her ass and hauls her up, striding quickly to the mattress and lowering her down onto it. She’s wet, he can feel it against his bare cock, and she holds him tight in her hand, slowly moving the thick tip through her folds. He braces his hands on either side of her shoulders, lowering himself down to kiss her.

For a split second he flashes back to being seventeen, lying between the legs of the prettiest girl he’d ever known and trying his best to make it through his first ever round of lovemaking.

Except now, he’s no fumbling virgin. He’s a grown man who knows exactly what he wants and almost exactly how he’s going to get it.

He enters her with a low groan that muffles against her lips. She moans, fingers digging into his back as her legs wrap around his waist. Her pussy’s warm and slick on his bare flesh, and it’s all he can do to remember some form of self control when he begins to move. He’s gentle at first, but when she rocks her hips up to meet his thrusts and he suddenly bottoms out, he gives way to lust.

She cries out when his pelvis snaps against her ass. Her nails dig into his skin, the ache developing into a sting that only drives him on. His thrusts grow into strong, frantic beats that make the slap of skin on skin resound through the room. She tosses her head back, her moans unrestrained. When she arches up, her stomach rubs against his, and he gives her a teasing grind, humming against her mouth as she cranes her neck to kiss him again.

“Harder,” she whispers, “give me all you got.”

Bucky shudders when she hitches her knees on either side of his ribs, opening herself up more. It takes every ounce of strength not to look down at where he’s inside her, where soft meets hard. If he looks he’ll finish right there. Instead he buries his face in the crook of her neck, picking up his thrusts until she’s shaking and bouncing with the force of them.

“Oh, fuck!” She gasps loudly, mouth open in a smiling cry of pleasure. “Right there… that’s it...”

Bucky can only grunt and pant in answer. He’s never felt so primal, chasing pleasure like it’s nothing. When he loses his rhythm and slips out of her, she doesn’t waste any time to take advantage of the situation. She rolls onto her stomach and arches her hips into the air, legs spread wide. He kneels up, kissing and nipping up her spine until he thrusts back in, hands squeezing at soft skin. Her body ripples when his hips smack into her, and when he brings his flesh hand down on her ass, fingers grabbing at the smooth roll of her hip, she clenches tight, mouth open in a whimper.

He loses track of how long he fucks her. All he knows is warm skin, the scent of her sweat, her slick pussy tight around him, and the sound of her practically sobbing his name when he speeds up. He’s getting close, though, and he doesn’t have quite enough control to hold back.

Reaching around her waist, he skims his fingers over her sex, rubbing quick circles that make her clench tight around him. She reaches back, taking his other wrist in her hand, and pulls him over her. His metal arm curls around her shoulders, holding her close as he ruts them both closer to orgasm.

She finishes first, a cry in her throat choking off as she writhes and squirms under him. He doesn’t wait for her orgasm to flame out, just shoves forward with a primal growl and lets his own release pour into her. He doesn’t let her go until she’s begging for air, gasping, and he leans back, watching her pull away. She’s swollen, the lips of her sex slick and slightly puffy, and she squeezes her thighs together as a trickle of white dribbles over the crease in her thigh.

“Jesus,” she sighs breathlessly, running trembling fingers through her hair, “how long have you been working that up?”

Bucky chuckles, reaching up to push one of the windowpanes open. “Longer than you’ve been alive.” He slumps down next to her, rolling onto his back as cool air washes over them.

They stay there for several minutes in almost complete silence. When Y/N asks where the bathroom is, Bucky takes her into the shower, cramping together in the tiny stall as cool water washes over them.

She stays the night, stretched out and naked on half the mattress while Bucky slumbers behind her. For the first time in months, he feels relaxed, all anxiety and tension drained out of him.

She wakes sometime in the night, and he opens his eyes to find her rubbing up against him, lips pressed against the stubble on his jaw. He lets her crawl on top, finding him already hard and ready through the darkness. She sighs when he enters her, and Bucky, caught in the hazy middle of sleeping and waking, glides his hands over her hips to hold her as she rocks back and forth.

In the morning, they make potato cakes, bacon, and coffee. Bucky lends her a shirt, and she leans up against the counter, bare thighs peeking out from under the hem. She looks tired and worn out from the night before, but her smile is bright in the morning sun.

“Are they gonna come for me?” he asks, watching her nibble on a piece of bacon. “Steve, the others?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I made Steve promise not to come after you. He just wants to know that you’re alive, that’s all. He’s not here to recruit you back.”

Despite her words, Bucky’s stomach twinges. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see him. Or anyone.”

Y/N seems to catch onto his anxiety, because she sets her food down and locks her fingers in his metal ones. “You don’t have to,” she explains gently. “He won’t even know where you live. All I have to do is tell him that you’re alive and safe and—”

“That we slept together?” Bucky tries to joke.

“Well, I’m definitely not going to headline it,” she laughs. “I’ll definitely be keeping that to myself.”

She leaves late that night, after a dinner of ordered pizza and crappy soda. Before she goes, she scribbles her private cell number on a scrap of paper pinned to the fridge, and he makes a note to salvage his old Blackberry that hasn’t been used in months.

He kisses her goodbye and watches her drive off in a rented Mercedes. The apartment feels too quiet without her now. He wishes he could keep her with him, but her life must be busy if she’s with the Avengers… it’s selfish to keep her back.

When the phone is charged, he sits back on the couch and tucks in to a rerun of an old nature program. It’s almost two in the morning when the phone buzzes with a new text. The number on the screen is hers, and he clumsily navigates the small device to see the message you sent.

> Back home. Call me when you get a chance. -Y/N :)

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