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shreddedparchment · 4 years

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A Wife for Thor Pt.09

11/12/2020

Stirrings

Pairing: King!Thor x Reader Word Count: 6,297

Warnings: language, very light smut, sexual situations, weddings, marriage, pregnancy

A/N: So this is it. This is the one. I hope y’all like it. This is where plot rears its head. Or begins to anyway. I’ll leave y’all to enjoy it. If you do happen to like it and reblog it, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Please DO NOT REPOST my stories on any other blogs or sites.

REBLOGS are always welcome and appreciated!

Dinner with the Warriors Three is eventful.

Several plates have already been knocked to the ground. Goblets and large mugs of mead and ale drop to slosh across the floor in the ruckus.

With a small yeep you duck just in time as a large sturdy turkey leg dripping with honey glaze and butter flies towards you and then hits the wall behind you.

“Hey!” Thor disapproves at Fandral and Hilde, reaching out towards you with his large hand.

He curls his fingers at you, calling you to him and you rise from your chair. You gather your skirts and scurry towards him in obedience. He wraps his arm around your waist and leads you to sit in his lap, turning slightly sideways so that he can shift to protect you with his body if he needs to.

“Watch where you’re throwing things!” He chastises but is ignored.

Volstagg had also cried out when Thor had, and their voices all mix together.

“Hey!” He rises from his seat so abruptly that it falls back and clatters noisily onto the floor. “Stop wasting the best parts!”

From the spot beside you where the turkey leg had clearly been aimed at but missed, Loki wipes at the juices that sprinkled his face as it flew by.

Heimdall chuckles lightly, his deep timber made to rival Thor’s you feel. Hilde also laughs, reaching out quickly to take Fandral’s plate from him before he can grab another piece of food.

“If you couldn’t take the comeback, why did you mouth off?” Loki asks Fandral, other than his wiping, he seems unphased.

“It was a simple question, Loki.” Fandral counters.

“No, it was a jab.” Sif is actually smiling, and you’ve taken to staring at her every few seconds.

She’s not paying attention to you in the moment, so you sitting on Thor’s lap is not her focus. It gives you lots of time to just admire her beauty. She’s so freaking pretty!

She’s also very much a part of this group. You can see where she fits now and she’s indispensable to these lovely Asgardians.

“All I did was ask him if he has a girl!”

“That’s assuming a woman is what he wants.” Hogun rationalizes, reaching to grab the large roll on his plate.

It’s not a normal roll. It’s made differently than what you know. It tastes amazing, but it has flavors that you’ve never had on Earth before.

“Ooh, that’s a good point.” Hilde snaps her fingers, pointing at Hogun before leaning against the table, arms folded and pushing her empty plate away. “So, what is it, Loki? Male? Female? Non-gendered?”

Loki looks highly aware of the fact that everyone seems to be watching him now. Even you find yourself looking at him, waiting to learn more about your brother-in-law to be.

He finishes wiping his face, dropping his napkin on the table before he leans back, placing his hands on his thighs. He meets Hilde’s gaze and gives her a narrowed eye grimace as he answers, “I don’t have a preference.”

The table seems to deflate, all of them disappointed for some reason.

“Well, that’s gonna make it harder to find you someone.” Volstagg acknowledges.

“It means we’ll have a wider pool to choose from.” Heimdall reasons.

“Loki would need to learn to put others before himself before he can even think about being with someone.” Sif contributes, bringing down the pleasant atmosphere a little.

You can feel Thor tense underneath you, your hands hurrying to give his wide shoulders a squeeze where you’ve got hold of them as he looks to his left at his lifelong friend.

“Sif…” He pleads.

Suddenly, this moment seems endless.

Everyone is silent. Across the table, you see Loki looking a little wounded. Like he’s been punched in the chest. Not hard, but enough to make him flinch.

You don’t like it. You really don’t like it.

You look at Sif with new eyes. And you speak before you can stop yourself. The anger that builds in your chest bubbles up and it’s bitter. It tastes like acid.

Until this moment, you hadn’t realized how much her unwelcoming behavior towards you has bothered you.

“You’re joking right?”

She looks at you.

Thor’s arm loosens around your waist, his hand finding a spot on your hip.

She doesn’t seem to have anything to say, but you have plenty.

“I guess your rudeness doesn’t stop at me, but apparently extends to even your lifelong friends.” You’re seething, chest burning, head getting fuzzier as the adrenaline from confronting her getting the better of your senses.

“Cherub…” Thor whispers, not to stop you, but with worry.

A realization overcomes his face as it softens, and he sees how much her refusal to be nice has hurt you.

“Just so you know, since the moment I met Loki he’s been nothing but kind to me. He’s been friendly and supportive and helpful and already the best brother-in-law I could ask for. I was seriously excited to meet you and get to know you because I’d heard a lot about your accomplishments but since I got here you’ve been nothing but abrasive, dismissive, and inappropriate with the way you act around Thor when you think I’m not watching.

“As far as I’m concerned, the only one that needs learn to put others before themselves at this table, is you. And if I could have it my way, I would ask you not to come to the wedding on Thursday but I know Thor wants you there so, as your Queen, I’m ordering you to come, whether you like it or not.”

The room is silent. Even Vostagg has frozen, mid-chew.

You get up, Thor’s hand stuck to your hip as if glued there, but he doesn’t stop you. Everyone else stands, even Hilde and Sif. Though she does it more slowly, chewing on the inside of her lip.

“I can’t eat anymore.” You huff. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

You make for the door but stop as you reach it, hand placed on the handle before you turn back towards the table and find Loki.

“For what it’s worth, anyone you choose would be lucky to have you.” With a final firm nod, you shove the doors open and stomp your way back to your room, taking the stairs as quickly as you can while hiking up your dress so that you don’t trip.

Even though your hands are shaking, your heart pounding, you feel much lighter now.

In your room, you strip the day away, dress left in a mess just inside the door. Your shoes just after. Stockings. Bra. Underwear at the bathroom doorway.

The water is already steaming hot when you walk into it, a sigh of relief hissing through your lips as you dip down into the water until your shoulders are submerged.

You’re not sure how long you steep there in the water—it could be seconds or hours—before you finally hear the bedroom door open.

“Y/N?” The voice pulls you from your empty space, that soundless pit in your mind where you go when you drift off into non-linear tangents of thought.

It’s the space where most of your stories come from. A space no one but you knows about.

“Leaving me breadcrumbs, cherub?” Thor asks, his voice lower, still out in the room. “This trail is intriguing.”

Half of your lip curls up in a smile, you keep your back to the bathroom door, intent on keep your mouth shut as long as you can so that you can hear what he really thinks about what you’ve just done in that dining hall.

“Dress. Stockings. Brassiere.” He clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice cracks. “Underwear.”

He’s in the bathroom doorway now, and you hear the hiss of all of your clothing fall back to the ground as he drops it at the sight of you.

“Hello. Might I join you?” He’s actually asking and will go away if you tell him he can’t.

Because you still don’t want to speak, you look over your shoulder at him and give him a gentle nod.

You keep watching him, staring at him as he reaches up and unhooks the straps on his armor. He moves to the long wooden slat bench along the wall and places it there. He follows it with his black shirt, then he sits and pulls off his shoes.

As he takes off each piece, he looks up at you, meeting your eyes and watches you for any give in your mood.

Whenever he’s not looking at you, you admire the bend and shift of his muscular torso. There’s a power in his body that you’re familiar with. Not strength. That’s not what you mean.

He’s got muscles, sure, and he can lift probably tons. You’ve seen the clips of him in fights around Earth.

What you’re thinking about is the power underneath all the appealing surface. He radiates it and it’s intoxicating. It makes you feel safe when he’s with you.

With his boots placed aside, he stands and unbuckles the leather belt around his waist. He opens the front of his pants and pushes them down.

No underwear.

You’re seriously tempted to smile at the fact that he’s been going commando all day long. You resist.

He throws them behind him then sits on the edge of the pool before lowering himself into the heated water.

He sighs in comfort but doesn’t give himself time to relish in the feeling before he’s moving towards you, the sloshy water splashing his golden body.

You wrap your arms around yourself just as Thor wraps his around you too. He pulls you close, smooshing your breasts against his chest.

He dips down to kiss your bare shoulder, then your neck, side of your chin, then finally a small and incredibly irresistible peck to your lips that almost cracks you. You almost throw yourself on him.

Instead you pucker right back, kissing him because you can’t resist him completely.

He really does have you wrapped around his finger.

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I have worried how you would handle yourself in this position of authority that you’re marrying into.” Thor admits, tracing the curve of your shoulder with his large fingers.

He dips down again, kissing it then nips at it, teeth grazing lightly to pull on the skin.

It makes you shiver.

“You should give me some orders too.” Thor mumbles, his voice thick with arousal.

You really wanna laugh. Instead you keep silent and after a few moments, he pulls back to look at your face. Neutral. Eyes observant. No sign as to what you might be feeling.

The atmosphere grows more serious. Even though he’s got you squeezed to him, when he meets your eyes, you can see the worry there.

“Why didn’t you say anything before if you were that upset about Sif?”

“I did say something.” You remind him. “And I’m sure Loki did too. And Hilde.”

“No,” Thor shakes his head. “All of you said that she was jealous and unwelcoming. You are the only one that could have told me that it was really bothering you.”

And he’s right. You hadn’t exactly acted like it bothered you except a passing wish that you could get to know her.

With a shrug you shake your head.

“I didn’t realize how much it was bothering me until tonight. She wasn’t being awful or anything. She just hasn’t said much to me.”

He’s silent for a bit, your eyes on the water by his elbow.

His hands find the sides of your face and gently he coaxes your gaze up to meet his own.

“I hate the thought of you suffering in silence.” He says, deep voice soothing the knots in your chest. “Promise you will tell me if anything or anyone hurts you. I will try my best to make it better.”

“You can’t fight my battles for me, Thor. I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, I can see that. But you don’t have to. I’d like to be useful if it’s possible. This might sound a little pathetic, but I’d very much like you to make me feel needed.” He pouts, and even though he’s playing with you, his words are real.

He doesn’t like being caught off guard. Not when it comes to things he should know. And by the looks of his face, the way that his playful pout turns into a real downturn to the corners of his lips, you fall under that category of things he should be aware of.

You nod, head barely moving underneath his heated hold.

He leans down to kiss you, just a loving peck before he wraps his arms around you to squish you against his body again and he tilts his head, urging your lips open with the tip of his tongue. He breathes in, a small moan pulled out of him as you swirl your tongue around his, tasting him. The honey in his ale still fresh.

He pulls back, eye still shut as he groans again. “Mmph, I could kiss you all day long and do nothing else.”

You know what he means. There’s something about these kisses, so charged. They feel amazing, toe curling.

Whatever chemistry the two of you have is all consuming and you don’t mind.

“Also, in case you think it went without my notice, I want to thank you for standing up for Loki.” Thor pushes your hair away from your face, leaning down to press another quick peck to your lips. “It means a lot to me that he has someone else on his side. After everything that’s happened, it’s hard for some people to see that he’s changed.”

“He’s been very nice to me. I didn’t like Sif talking to him like that. I know that I probably stepped on her toes. She’s known him longer than me, but the look on his face after she said what she said…” It’s making your blood boil all over again.

“Loki has done many things to warrant her mistrust, but her words were cruel. I’m very grateful you spoke on his behalf. I’m certain it meant a lot to Loki too.”

You untangle your arms from between your bodies, wrap them around him under his arms and lay your head against his chest.

“He’s my family now.” You sigh. “Both of you.”

It’s your new truth. You’re not alone anymore!

“I will fight for both of you if anyone hurts you.”

You feel it so fiercely that you squeeze him, and he actually groans at the gesture. You know that you can’t hurt him though, and he’s just humoring you.

He chuckles against your hair, kissing your head as he holds you back.

“I’m so glad you chose to come meet me.” Thor whispers, running his hand along the curve of your back.

“I’m so glad they forced me to come meet you.”

Both of you laugh.

~~~~~~~~~~

The planet is nearly decimated.

It’s a shell of what it once was, but dark still. The cold bites harshly.

The rough terrain is snow-covered. Ice grows from the ground into tall towers that rise hundreds of feet into the frigid air.

In a crater, full of crumbling structures that once stood tall and menacing, is the entrance to a cave. The darkness dips down and winds through the ice, unstable and shifting, with cracks along ground walls and ceiling.

Despite the bitter cold, a small green light begins to glow down in the darkest pit.

The cave suddenly stretches, a ginormous cavern hundreds of feet in Jotunheim’s depths.

Through the darkness paces a figure, small in stature but glowing an almost ethereal jade. The light pulsates, wrapped around a female form. Her body is perfection. The Venus made flesh.

Her long blonde tresses cascade along her back, a golden river flowing past her waist. On her head a smooth emerald helm with twin peaks rising up like horns on either side of her brow.

Her tunic, well worn in the exact same shade of green as her helm as is the rest of her outfit. Over a pair of leather pants, an armored soft strap skirt laces up along her hips, and tall boot with a helix design in line stop just above her knees.

Her bodice is laced at her front, leather ties tied tight to keep out the cold. Her strong yet slender shoulders are wrapped in a long green cape, gray bear’s fur lining the neck for warmth. It sweeps around her as she carves a line in the ice with her restless movements.

From the darkest corner of the large cavern comes a deep but weakened voice.

“Cease your pacing, Asgardian. Before I stop it for you.”

His words are followed by a wheezing breath, a cough, and a deep slow sigh.

The woman stops, crossing her arms across her chest as she stares into the dark.

“How much longer must we wait? I can feel him slipping away from me. His eyes have wandered, yet again.” She drops one arm, slapping at her cloak in frustration.

“Your obsession with Odin’s whelp escapes my understanding.” The deep voice breathes in again, wheezes as he breathes out. “Remember my intent, witch. I will kill the God of Thunder.”

“Yes, I heard you the first million times you told me. I do not need the constant reminder. Thor will die.” She sighs, turning to look towards the entrance of the cavern, in search for the handsome golden face that rests in her heart. “You can kill him, as long as he dies loving me and only me. Thor is mine.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s your fifth time zoning out, your mouth slightly open as you stare at the reflection in your new vanity shoved into Thor’s spacious room.

“Your Highness?” Estrid nudges you, leaning forward to try and catch your attention.

“Hm?” You jump, turning to look at her with wide eyes.

She smiles at you kindly, knowing the source of your distraction. It isn’t hard to guess.

“What color rose shall we put in your hair?”

“Um…” You look down at your wedding dress, carefully spread out around you and held in place by your new set of intricate silver armor. It was cold when they’d put it on you, the metal touching your bare shoulders, but it’s padded so that it doesn’t hurt.

The design is very practical. It’s real armor that you’re expected to wear for official military events or if there is an actual attack on the palace. You’re going to be a warrior people’s Queen and a warrior husband’s wife. The armor is made for you to use.

That doesn’t mean it isn’t also beautiful.

Thor made very specific requests to its pieces. Along the sides around your stomach is a delicate floral design. The shoulder pieces, not to be worn today because it makes you look gentler and more refined, are also decorated along its edges with vines of smaller flowers and at one outer corner of each piece is a blooming rose with its petals spread wide.

Along your wrists and forearms you wear bracers, just as beautifully decorated and there to help hold your sleeves down.

“Thor’s armor will be black?” You check, trying to remember what he’s supposed to wear.

“Actually, Your Highness, his Majesty’s armor will be silver, to match your own. With gold highlights along his breast plate. His cape will still be red. That is his best color.” She smiles, her hand resting by the collection of roses in a wooden box that had been filled this morning from the gardens.

“Then we’ll go with the red rose. The one in full bloom, and this lighter one, in half bloom.” You touch each one gently, caressing the velvety petals in admiration of their pretty color.

“An excellent choice, Your Highness.” Estrid quickly goes to attaching them, adjusting your hair on the top of your head and pinning them into place.

“Are you almost ready?” Hilde’s voice filters in, the door now wide open as she stands there staring in at you.

Her eyes are bright, her mouth open in awe.

“Does it look bad?” You worry, reaching up to touch your hair then reaching down to fuss with the armor.

“You look…” Hilde stops, at a loss.

“Beautiful.” David provides, a calm smile stretched across his lips.

“You made it!” You gasp, getting to your feet just as Estrid finishes with the flowers and rush to him.

He hugs you, laughing as you squeeze him tight.

“Ouch,” he says, teasing you.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” You pull away and he laughs a bit more loudly. “I thought you weren’t going to make it back in time. Where did you go?”

“I had a favor to do for your husband to be.” David explains, then pushes you back so that he can take a better look at you. “You are really, absolutely beautiful.”

That makes you feel better. More confident.

“He’s so right.” Hilde agrees, nodding with what looks like joy in her eyes.

“Thanks, Hilde. David? You are going to walk me down the aisle, right?”

David’s face goes blank. He looks to Hilde and then to Estrid before he meets your eyes again.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you!” You laugh, giving his arms a squeeze. “David, you’re the closest thing I have to family in my life. You’ve been a real father to me through all of this and everything before. Of course, I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

David’s eyes slowly grow misty, his smile growing wide by the moment before he pulls you back into a gentle hug.

“It would be my honor.” David whispers just for you.

“Ooh, none of that.” Hilde interrupts, reaching out to pull the two of you apart. “No crying, you’ll ruin your makeup and Estrid will have to do it again.”

You all laugh. Sweet chuckles of impending excitement as the hour that will change your life grows closer.

You seriously cannot believe that in less than two hours, you’ll be married. More importantly, you’ll be the queen of an entire people.

Most of them have been so welcoming. They’ve eaten up any information they could get on you and you’ve been so grateful for their kindness.

“Hey guys? Anyone here?” A soft lilting voice flitters in from the doorway and you turn to see who posses such a sweet sounding tone.

What you find, you aren’t expecting.

Completely contrary to the small and gentle voice stands what looks like a large collection of massive rocks piled up in the shape of a burly man.

There is a definition at the end of its arms of hands, feet without shoes at the ends of its legs. And at the center of the large mass that makes up its head is a kind looking face. Pure eyes. And he’s got it all topped with a slick black suit and a light blue tie.

He lifts his massive hand and waves it. It’s a minute movement as he stands up straighter with all eyes in the room on him.

“You’re a Kronan.” You realize, pointing at him rudely.

“Yeah, my name is Korg. Thor’s best friend and best man. Even though I’m not really his best man, since there is no best man in Asgardian weddings which is a shame since I would probably most definitely have been his choice. After Loki of course. That’s his brother. And probably Heimdall. His other best friend. And the Warriors Three. But definitely before Miek.”

You chuckle once, a slightly surprised and nervous laugh before you reach out towards him to shake his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you, Korg. Thor was telling me about you yesterday. I’m Y/N. I’m so glad we can finally meet.” You wait patiently as his face goes slightly slack for a moment then he eagerly reaches out to take your tiny hand in his huge one.

He barely closes it around your own but shakes it with enthusiasm.

“Thor said you were a pretty lady. He failed to tell me about how nice you are. You’ll have to come over some time. To my house? We can play some Fortnite. I’ll even let you take the mythic.” He spouts, and you laugh again, just once.

“Oh. Okay. That’s so nice of you.”

He takes his hand back and Hilde finally moves to stand beside you.

“Did you just come to meet Her Highness? Or do you have a message from Thor?”

“Oh, yes. I nearly forgot. Thank you, Valkyrie. The car is here and ready to take you on the drive through the city?”

“Drive through the city?” You turn your confusion to Hilde and she waves to Estrid for your cloak who then rushes away to fetch it.

“It’s a quick procession through the main roads. Since the city temple hasn’t been built, this will be the only way for the people to see you. Normally they would come to the temple to be witness to the ceremony.” She explains.

“So, that’s why we’re having the wedding and the recep-the feast in the throne room.” You realize, nodding as Estrid lays your cloak over your shoulders then clips the thick red cape around you.

“That’s right.” Hilde smiles. “Is Thor already down there?”

“Yep. He said to ask you to be quick.” Korg nods.

“Why?” You wonder, turning that twist of confusion back to him.

“Uh, he said he’d like to have his wife already and be on his honeymoon. Then he said some other things that I don’t feel comfortable repeating about curves and skin, which I don’t have, by the way and I find it a little cruel of him to mention how good it tastes, especially that of his pretty lady. Felt a bit like bragging to me. Kind of rude, to be honest.”

“Thank you, Korg!” Hilde interrupts as you press your hands to your cheeks and feel them burn.

“I’m gonna kill him.” You wheeze.

“Why don’t you head down and let him know we’re on our way? Tell Armod to prep the heater. It’s cold today.”

You know she’s only assuming for your benefit. She doesn’t feel the bite of the cold here like you do.

Korg lumbers off without another word while you turn to David.

“You’ll be here when I get back?” You worry, for some reason desperate to make sure he’s here to walk you down the aisle.

Now that you have that image in your head, you don’t want to let it go.

You hadn’t thought about having a husband since you were a little girl but even then, you’d imagined a father walking you down the aisle. You’d never thought you would get the chance. And you have it now.

“Of course.” David puts his phone down and reaches out to take hold of your elbow. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The next hour is a rush of movement. Gentle pushing and tugging and guiding from Hilde, Loki, and finally Heimdall and Thor as they settle you into a large levitating carriage. It’s not Earth tech, with the clear curves and colors of Asgardian design.

It’s open, so you understand the need for the cloak now. Armod is sitting at the front of this little ship, hands on a weird sort of lever that is supposed to make up the steering wheel?

The whole thing reminds you a little of the speeders in Star Wars.

“What is this?” You ask in wonder, looking underneath the vehicle as if you might see how it works.

“This is a Skiff. Modified to comply with Earth regulations. Normally the steering mechanism would be at the back of the ship.” Heimdall informs you, moving to touch a small panel on the side which pulls a small step out towards you. “Your Highness?”

You take his hand, and he helps you up, Thor following shortly behind him.

He sits beside you, still not having said a word.

As you turn to look at him, admiring him from his booted toes to his silver winged helm, you realize that he’s staring at you.

“What?” You gasp, reaching down to touch the fabric of your cloak and the bottom edge of your armor.

Does it look weird? You in armor is not a look you’d ever thought you’d be rocking.

The heat of Thor’s hand traces along the bottom seam of your armor on your back. Fingers tickling the curve of your bottom before he wraps his arm around your waist and pulls you close with gentle strength.

“You’re the most beautiful creature in all of the nine realms, and beyond.” He gushes, and you laugh nervously.

Looking away from him because your neck, ears, and face are burning up and you can’t believe such a sappy grouping of words just came out of his stupid handsome mouth.

You feel his lips pressed to your temple, then cheek. You turn to look at him, wondering about what expression he’s wearing but instead he’s kissing you, eye shut, completely lost in the affection.

When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours. Breathing a little hard as you yourself shiver.

“I love you.” He whispers, so soft and quiet only you can hear him.

“Thor…” You breathe, reaching up to hold his hand as he places it on your cheek.

“You don’t have to say it back. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same. I just want you to know that this is it for me. I didn’t expect to feel this way by today but now that I do, I’m so grateful for you and I promise to do everything in my power to make you happy.”

His confession leaves you weeping, eyes flooded with tears that streak down along your cheeks.

“Thor…” You gasp, pulling him down to kiss him again, just one quick kiss so that you can free your mouth up to speak. “I love you, too. I didn’t know that I could feel this way so quickly. But I do. I love you.”

Thor smiles, the brightness in his face is radiant and you’d swear he is literally glowing.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, a laugh in his voice as he reaches into his own cloak to pull out a sleek black handkerchief.

He pulls it up to your cheeks and gently wipes the tears from your cheeks.

“Because you’re saying all these stupid sweet things that I want to hear and I’m so fucking happy, alright?” You sob just once, reaching out to push against his chest but he catches your arm and pulls you into a hug as he chuckles.

The Skiff begins to move, and you and Thor pull apart when the cheers begin.

You’re still trying to catch up in your mind to the mass of people waving and cheering from the sides of the main street through the city. There are endless flashes from human reporters who came to take pictures. In no time at all, the Skiff is pulling up to the front of the palace.

David is waiting for you and he frowns at the tear stains on your cheeks but a quick look at Thor and his dip to kiss your lips wipes all worries from his mind.

“See you in there, cherub.” Thor calls to you, leaving you just outside the doors of the throne room.

Estrid meets you there and quickly goes to work on fixing your face.

“It’s okay.” You squirm, trying to keep Thor in view but the doors close and all you get to see is the long table on the right side of the room with two large chairs meant for you and Thor during the feast and an array of smaller tables on the opposite side of the room.

Along the left side wall, at the very back are a group of men and women, all wearing stiff black suits. The ambassadors?

“They were happy tears.” You continue to resist, eyes lingering on the scary government group.

“Hilde will tear my hide, Your Highness. Please.” She begs and you stay still for her even though you doubt that Hilde would ever hurt anyone like she suggests.

“Are you nervous?” David asks, reaching to straighten your hair.

“No.” You admit, shaking your head only when Estrid is done with your face.

Instead her hands are on the clasp of your cloak as she peels it off of you and throws it over her arm and then moves around you to straighten your dress.

“I’m so ready to be his wife, David.” You sigh, the feeling of madness on the edges of your mind. “Is that weird? It doesn’t feel weird.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not weird, if it’s really how you feel. I only want you to be happy.”

“He makes me happy. Really. I was worried about Jane in the beginning and scared about loving him if he didn’t love me back. But he’s more invested in us than I thought he would ever be. He’s being real, I think. It feels real. When he tells me he loves me, it doesn’t sound like a lie.”

David watches you, then taps Estrid on the shoulder. “Thank you, I think she’s ready. Tell them we’ll be right in.”

Estrid gives you a curtsy and disappears through the doors.

You steal a look and spot Thor rolling back and forth on his feet in front of the throne as Loki talks in his ear beside him.

He looks towards you and he smiles, stopping his nervous movement as he locks eyes with you.

Your heart stutters. The doors close again.

“Y/N…I want you to be vigilant with your emotions. You say that his declarations don’t sound like lies and they might not be. But lies like that never sound like lies.”

Your heart sinks a little, your mind racing with every moment that Thor has been sweet with you.

“It’s real, David.” You protest.

“Yes.” He nods, taking your hands in his. “After watching the two of you together, I believe both your emotions are real. Just as you say. I only want you to guard your heart. I want you to protect yourself.

“Marriage is not easy. I have only my own experience to speak from, but there were many obstacles that I did not expect. Laura and I hurt each other many times.” David explains.

“But you and Laura were together until the end. You were both so in love.” You hadn’t known his wife long.

She’d passed only a year after you having known her but every time you’d seen them, they’d been the picture of romantic love and true friendship.

“We were.” He nods, “But it wasn’t always easy. She and I both made many mistakes. Small ones and mistakes that challenged the very core of our relationship. Mistakes that almost tore us apart.

“And this is your first relationship. The first time you’ve ever given yourself over to someone like this. I’m worried for you. That’s all.”

“And that’s why I love you. You’ve been here for me when I’ve needed you most. I will be careful but I want to embrace what I’m feeling.”

“And that’s all I want too. Just your caution. Protect your heart, Y/N. No one else will protect it better than you.”

Really, you understand his worries. This is such a risk not only for you but for Thor too. The two of you hardly know each other.

Your chemistry is through the roof, but there is so much about who you two are as people that you still have to learn. Your lives as King and Queen will also play a part in how your marriage will come together.

Will you have time for each other? Time to make an heir? Time to spend time with whatever family you’re able to make?

“I can’t promise you that I’ll guard my heart well.” You shake your head but squeeze his hands tighter. “I can only promise that I’ll be true to how I feel. If something starts to go wrong, I’ll be open about it. With Thor and with anyone there to support us.”

Because let’s face it, you’ve known for a while that you’re absolutely fucked when it comes to Thor.

You’re head over heels and grateful that he is too. At least your marriage will begin with love even if in time, that fades. You’ll always have the memories you’re making now.

“I suppose this is the apprehension every father feels when his daughter marries. I’ll have to suck it up. But just know, that if you ever need a place to go, if something should be terrible enough that you need to leave, my home will always be open to you as sanctuary.

“I will protect you, as best I can when the time comes.” He pulls you to him, hugging you tightly.

“If,” you correct him. “If the time comes.”

Because you’re certain in your bones that Thor loves you and you love him, and the only thing that could tear that love apart is each other and you can’t see either of you making such a stupid mistake.

The large wooden doors open. David pulls back and takes your hand, wrapping it around his elbow. He lets you take a breath before he takes that first step towards the throne where Thor stands waiting, beaming with joy as his future wife approaches.

#king!thor x reader #thor odinson x reader #thor x reader #arranged marriage au #royal au #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #a wife for thor #a wife for thor pt09 #thor x reader fic #thor x reader fanfic #thor x reader fanfiction #thor x you #king!thor x reader fic #king!thor x reader fanfic #king!thor x reader fanfiction #king!thor x you

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anotheranimestan · 4 years

Note

Heyooo I legit just found u bc of the bakugo series, and then I went on a spree reading your account- ugh I’m in love!!! Do you think you could tag me when part 3 comes out?

Ahhh! Thank you so much! ❤️ You guys have no idea how much a few words of encouragement means to writers 😭.

No need to tag tho because here it is!!!!! 😃

Sorry it took so long. I wanted to write it as best as I could! I don’t want disappoint anyone who’s been enjoying so far. ☺️

All Bark No Bite (pt. 3)

(Final part)

Bakugo angst + ~sexual tensionnn~

Please, children avert your eyes. Things get a LITTLE inappropriate here 😳

Read part 1 and part 2

wc: 2.4k

He’s an asshole...but he’s a HOT asshole 🤤

You’d never seen his room before. It was much different than you’d imagined. You’d expected burn marks all over the walls or blown up debris of things scattered about. Maybe a bunch of mirrors so he could look at his self-confident, conceited ass all night. But actually it was kinda of nice. Pretty neat. He had some posters hung up and some books laying around. Black sheets and blankets. And it smelled oddly sweet in here, sort of pleasant believe it or not.

You’re so used to him yelling and exploding so it was weird seeing him so relaxed, in his natural habitat. Doing normal things. Like eating a snack, tapping his pencil in concentration, fidgeting with his hair. He even spun around in his rolling chair a few times mindlessly. He was acting sort of...cute? It was unnerving being attracted to him like this.

But as soon as he noticed you watching him it was all over. You were making him self conscious. He didn’t even realize he’d let his guard down like that.

“That makes absolutely no sense, dumbass.” His voice was bored and over it.

“What are you talking about!? I’ve explained it three times!” You retorted indignantly.

“Exactly. I thought you were smarter than this...” He jabbed before turning around and flipping his notebook shut.

You’d spent twenty minutes attempting to teach him what he’d missed in class earlier today but he was insufferable. Easily the worst student on the planet. Every time you explained something he’d tell you how to teach it better. Who does that!?

“Whatever moron. I didn’t come up here to try and teach your pea brain. I—“ The words were harder to say than you’d expected. Painful actually. They really didn’t want to come out. “I just wanted to say sorry for getting you—“

He whipped a pencil and it hit you directly in the forehead.

“Ouch, what the fuck?” You hissed, rubbing the sore spot. How’d he get so much damn power behind that thing?

“Don’t apologize. It’s weird.”

“What!?” You threw the pencil back but only managed to hit his shoulder.

“Anyways...” He ignored you, completely unfazed by your assault.

“You’re easily the most—“

“Anyways...” You swore if he cut you off one more time you were going to smack the shit out of him. “Aizawa thinks you’ve lost your mind.”

The unexpected information took you aback.

“He saw you try and get yourself blown up in class yesterday... No sane person is stupid enough to pull a move like you did.”

Ah yes... he meant the time you wrapped the man’s hand around your neck, tauntingly, in front of like 20 classmates and two teachers. You’d been trying to avoid asking yourself the question of why you did that. You claimed it was the best way to shut him up....but there were other ways to do that. More reasonable ones. You wouldn’t admit you’d daydreamed of doing it before and subconsciously took the opportunity. Red embarrassment flashed through your body again. God knows what they were all thinking when they witnessed that. You desperately wished people would stop reminding you.

Suddenly the need to defend yourself bubbled up. “I—I only did that because I knew you wouldn’t do anything.”

He scoffed. But didn’t deny it. “If you’re going to try something stupid. At least do it right.” He chastised.

Your body froze as he stood up and walked over, crouching down directly in front of you.

“If I wanted to choke you. I’d do it like this.”

He wrapped his hand around your neck. Demonstrating the best way to actually cut off someone’s air flow. But he did it so gently you barely even heard his explanation. You were just flashing back to last night. Instantly your entire body lit on fire. Replaying this scene in your head was strong enough. But reenacting had you completely out of sorts. Kissing him again but this time going full out. You wanted to bite him, just to hear him make that deep moan into your mouth again. Just imagining it was making you flutter. Aching to have him pressed up against you like that, relieving some of this pressure that was building up in your body. You felt yourself unraveling. About to pounce.

But he interjected with something that stunned you once again. “The way you did it would be better for...other forms of choking.”

Dear god. Surely he knew what he was doing to you. If he kept this up any longer your heart or your lungs were definitely going to give out.

But you mustered up your last two brain cells that weren’t absolutely losing their shit over him and carried on with your normal banter.

“Yea yea, I get it. You can stop now.”

He didn’t budge. His hand still snug around your throat. You obviously didn’t mind it there but it was incapacitating your brain function.

You gently pushed it away and he didn’t resist. But where he put it next was no better.

He traced the side of your cheek and along the outline of your lips. Just staring at them, eyes lost like he was thinking deeply about something. He wasn’t giving you a moment of a break. No room to breathe.

Your nerves were through the roof, your heart was beating so loud you could hear it in your ears. Desperately you tried to change the topic. “So is this your attempt at being nice? Advice on how to murder someone?” It’s amazing how your mouth just spewed shit out even though your brain was actually dead.

“Sure.” Now he was tugging at your bottom lip. Completely unbothered by you baiting him.

“Ah. A nice Bakugo? I must be having a dream. I guess now that you’ve lost to me your whole tough guy persona has been killed.”

That snapped him out of it. But now he was looking just as intensely, directly into your eyes.

“Don’t push it.”

“Or what?” Faking composure was coming so easily much to your relief.

“Do you want to find out?” He growled.

“You’re not scary.” You said rolling your eyes as hard as possible.

Something snapped in him. He couldn’t hold himself back anymore. Within a moment he had you on your back. Your body didn’t even have time to process. Even if it did, would you have stopped him? He trapped both your wrists on either side of your head and your feet under his ankles. His arms looked glorious as he held up is body weight.

“How about now?” His voice was deep and savory.

There he went. Invading your mind again. His scent. That lust-filled look in his eyes. The way he was thoroughly enjoying being on top of you. The adrenaline was coiling through your body. He had you right where he wanted you. He could do anything he wanted to you. But that “annoying little mouth of yours” wasn’t done quite yet.

“Whatever. You always do this. But you won’t actually try anything.”

“You think I wouldn’t hurt you at all? I literally want to kill you sometimes.” He had a smug little grin on his face. But his eyes couldn’t pull themselves from your lips. After experiencing them once he could barely stop thinking about them.

“You’re telling me? I fucking hate you.” You lied.

It made his smirk form into that wicked, shit-eating grin he always wore. The one that gets deep under your skin and makes you want to punch him in the throat and yank him onto you at the same time.

“Kissing someone is a weird way to tell them you hate them.” He was really cutting into you now.

You hissed. “Hey. You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.” He raised an annoying little eyebrow.

Your brain wanted to choke him (the murder kind) but your body was screaming something completely different. The emotions swirling around in your chest was so overwhelming. Finally you burst.

You trapped one of his arms and corresponding leg and threw your weight to roll on top of him. One of your favorite moves from self-defense class that you knew would come in handy. Now you straddled him and using every ounce of your weight tried to pin his wrists down.

You expected him to fight you like the vicious little monster he is. But instead when you looked down he was just staring back at you. You were stunned at how good he looked at this angle. Did he have any bad angles?

“Finally. You made a move.” He said pretending to sound impressed. “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Yea well...” You scoffed proudly. “you think you’re so fucking tough. Now looo—“

The words flew out of your mouth and you were tumbling again. This time he just grabbed your waist and tugged you with brute force. No technique needed. He easily overpowered you.

“Yea, that wasn’t going to work out. It was a cute try though, Little Bite.”

He laid directly on top of you now. Your legs spread as he rested his hips between them. His full weight pressed into you making it flutter. Your arms had somehow wrapped themselves around his neck and rested on his back.

The tension in the air made it difficult to breathe. But you were fully unconcerned with getting oxygen right now.

Nose to nose now he said “We’ll just count this as my rematch. Clearly I won.”

“You suck at flirting.”

Flirting? Where’d that come from?

“Seems like it’s working pretty good to me.”

That smug fucking face again.

“You’re such an ass.”

He bit his lip.

“Fuck...I love when you insult me like that.”

A beat passed and that was all it took. You smashed his lips onto yours. Wrapping your legs around him and squeezing. Too close wasn’t close enough.

He kissed you like he wanted you bad. Like you were his favorite meal and he was absolutely famished. It was so intense and passionate that neither of you could catch any air. Every insult, all the bickering, every jab had built up to this moment and was fueling it like gas to a forest fire.

His warmth was overtaking you. His body was so heavy, crushing you just liked you’d been daydreaming about all this time.

Your mind shut down all functions except desperately trying to use all five senses to their max capacity and commit every bit of him to memory.

He felt you pawing at the edge of his shirt and sat up. He peeled it off slowly. Letting your eyes adjust to every inch of him.

Your hands were instantly stroking every one of his muscles starting at his shoulders and trailing down his soft skin slowly...slowly to the edge of his jeans. Your index finger sat teasingly on the front button as you admired his perfectly toned body.

But before you even had time to think about what you wanted to do next he took your wrist and secured it down above your head again.

He dipped down and went straight for your neck.

Greeting it with a warm wet kiss from his tongue, his lips wrapped around your skin and sucked gently. You felt the blood pooled with pleasure rushing to the area. His other hand started exploring your body. Finally he was getting to put his hands on you the way he really wanted all along.

After you started tugging on his hair, desperately trying to avoid any scandalous hickeys he rolled you around again.

Letting you on top to straddle his hips. Giving you only a little bit of freedom though, as he locked one arm around your waist and the other started caressing your thighs slowly working his way north.

After squeezing your ass until his heart was content he clamped down both hands on your hips. You couldn’t bare it anymore. Your hips started gently grinding against him and you bit down on his neck all at once. You felt the angle of his pelvis rubbing into you creating little rumbles of pleasure.

“Fuck y/n..” he muttered under his breath.

You both were getting more and more bothered and aroused. His hands never stopped grabbing and tugging at you. His moans growing more fervent as he whispered into your ear.

He was just toying with the idea of peeling off your shirt when...

“THIS IS THE POLICE! COME OUT!”

Your soul practically rose out of your body as a loud bang almost broke the door down. Bakugo’s hand slapped over your mouth. You’d screamed without realizing it.

Kaminari’s laugh sounded through the door. “Oh my god Bakugo! You scream like a girl!”

Mina shrieked. “No, stupid! Y/n are you in there!?”

Your life was ending.

“Get the fuck out of here before I come out there and break your skulls!” Bakugo barked at them.

They didn’t say anything but you heard their quick footsteps as they ran down the hall still shrieking like banshees.

“Oh god..” you groaned as you tried to roll away from him, using his bare chest to push off.

But he wouldn’t let you go. “Where are you going?”

“Aren’t you going to go hunt them down and threaten them or something.” Typical Bakugo behavior.

“No, I’m busy.”

You had to stop your mouth from falling open.

“They’re probably going to tell everyone.” You prodded. Expecting his temper any second now. Like he was a bomb about to go off. You pulled away again in preparation, sitting fully upright now.

“I’ll deal with them tomorrow. I’m dealing with you tonight. Now get back over here before I get mad.”

You shrieked as he muscled you back into his arms. He bent you back around him as snugly as he could. Moving your chin to the side, he kissed your neck, sweeter this time. Instinctively your hands ran through his hair. Fuck the rest of them. You could get lost in this hot head all night. And you were as he started gently sucking on your soft spots again.

But he pulled away abruptly. Like he’d just realized something. “How are you gonna become a pro hero if a moron like Denki can scare you like that?”

You smacked the back of your idiot’s head lightly. “Don’t fucking ruin it.” You groaned.

“Fine.” He grinned as he went in for the kiss that started the rest your next piping hot and sticky couple of hours together.

~💥💥

TADAAA! What did you guys think?? What was your favorite part overall?

I’d love hearing your thoughts and opinions 😃 makes me a better writer

Also special shout-out to @jennammaee ! Pt. 2 of this series has been my most successful post yet, so thanks for encouraging me to write it!!

Tags: @sweetsailor000 @yumxmii @fullsundear @frosted-flakes @marloalmore @aprilbouz01 @deneuves @softestparker @davidbowiehotashell-blog @mocha-focha @piii-chan @v0dkadaddy @xxjosiexx

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skaylanphear · 3 years

Note

Hi there! Do you have any advice on improving traction towards a fanwork/fic? I love writing—and it's not for notoriety by any means—but having validation and feedback also feels nice (I hope that's not conceited). What would you recommend to someone without a large audience/follower base? I do "advertise" on tumblr when my work is written/updated on AO3. How did your journey start? Thank you!

This is an interesting question and I doubt most people are going to like the answers, but here we go:

So, first and foremost, you need to be realistic about why you're creating in the first place. If you're doing work in a fandom that is older, where content has stopped coming out, or that is simply smaller, you're not going to get much engagement, period. There will, of course, be activity in these fandoms, but it will be far less and the people involved—while they may view your work—will be less likely to comment/spread it around simply because there's not much going on. So if you're creating in that sort of environment (which can be a really good environment if you're looking for something chill with no pressure), then you have to be prepared for low engagement, even if the people you do meet and who are willing to talk about your work are more regularly in your sphere. You can probably make better/closer friends in these sorts of fandoms, if you're willing to try.

But, on the other end of this, if you're coming into a huge fandom late, it's also going to be harder to wade through the massive following to get your stuff out there. For example, in both the Miraculous and Sk8 fandom, I started work pretty early on, when the shows were still gaining traction, and so my "name" as a creator gained traction parallel to that growth, as opposed to when I started writing in the Voltron fandom. With Voltron, I came in super late and so what few fics I had that did gain traction took a lot longer to get there because people already had their fav content creators in the fandom, etc. It's not impossible to get popular in this situation—far from it—but it does take longer.

You'll also benefit from having finished works early on in a fandom's lifespan, at least with writing. This is because there's less competition for views and so more people will be filtered to your work, initially. This means that you have a better chance of getting those comments and kudos. Having a finished work increases this engagement because people look for finished works before works in progress. Generally, the length of a fic doesn't matter much for popularity, so long as it's DONE. When I was writing in the ML fandom, quite a few of my earlier fics were shorter, and they compete in popularity with my longer fics, because people care more about having a finished story, not a long story. That's why when it came to Only Practice Makes Perfect in the Sk8 fandom, I worked hard to get that shit done, because it was the most popular story I had in the fandom and I decided—like an idiot—to make it a long fic. Which, yeah, means people probably love it/remember it more in the long run, but if I hadn't finished it in 2 to 3 months, I'd have lost considerable traction as far as making a name within the fandom.

This leads into one of the most important points, if not THE MOST IMPORTANT point in gaining an audience—consistency. If you do want to be a successful creator, you Have To Be Consistent. This is the most difficult hurdle for all creators, and it is oftentimes impossible to make happen. If you want to aim for professionalism, which a lot of fandom creators don't care about (which is fine), then consistency is how you get there. Nobody wants to read a fic or follow an artist who doesn't stick to creating what they start (RIP all my unfinished works and the people who left me as a result, LOL). Using my most recent works as an example, I very, very, very consistently updated Only Practice Makes Perfect multiple times a week. To the point where people got comfortable expecting it, which is the key variable here. When people become comfortable that you will regularly create content, they not only stick around, but will be more interactive with you and your work. Nobody likes the disappointment of getting involved with a work only for that work to rarely get updates. Most people don't have the attention span to care. I'll admit, if I read a fic that's not finished and the writer takes one week to update, then one week, then THREE weeks, I probably will, like, forget about it. That's just life.

The best thing you can do is schedule. And again, this is the HARDEST thing to do, because it holds the creator to a deadline. Most people who create in fandoms don't want that kind of pressure—and that's fine. I go back and forth on when I have scheduled releases and when I don't, depending on what I'm aiming to do. But if you to retain your audience, telling them that you will update a work regularly on such and such a day and such and such a time, it creates something for them to remember. If they're invested in your work, they will think, "oh, it's Friday, that means such and such is coming out with something new." But, with that in mind, you also have to commit to a schedule that people will remain invested in. Which basically means you can't put things out more than a week away from each other, unless you're really, really famous, lol. If I told people I was going to go on a two week update schedule, I would lose most of my audience. But a week is long enough for people to both still remember and anticipate. That's just how the scheduling of the world works. And if you're an artist that's working on a big project, then you have to share progress, or pieces of what you're doing on a regular basis. That's what generates "buzz" and keeps you relevant. And, yeah, that's a really hard schedule to commit to, because it's a lot of work. BUT this consistency is where you see people being successful. Popular youtubers may not have gained their popularity by being consistent, but most sure do retain it that way. And again, there are outlying exceptions, but they generally ARE exceptions.

Speaking of hard work, here's probably the second hardest thing to accomplish—you have to be prolific. Especially as a writer. You have to write A LOT if you want to gain an audience. And yeah, that means you have to work, a lot. I love my work, so I enjoy that "grind," and I also have developed a lot of strategies to work around writer's block and every other obstacle that tends to catch people up. I work in a very professional manner—I do outlines, and drafts, and plan. I do a lot of stuff that people who do this kind of thing for fun can't be bothered with (and that's fine), but that's because I find it to be what works best in creating an efficient environment. I'm also very, very NOT lazy, lol. I was raised in an environment where you have to work for everything that you want. My parents didn't buy me my first computer, or snowboard, or what have you. We were tight on money and if I wanted something, they couldn't help me—I had to get that shit on my own. And I also grew up on a farm, where hard work was a staple of how you did things. You did things the right way, even if it was the hard way. You can't cut corners and it's the same with this. If you want it, you have to actually do the work, that's it. Some people get lucky with popularity, most don't. Most famous actors didn't become well-known off their first efforts, they had to keep trying and keep working and then they have to continue to do that to stay relevant. So if that doesn't sound great to you, then you might want to not focus on your audience and just create because you enjoy it, lol. Sometimes that's what I do too, when I don't wanna deal with the pressure.

Moving on, here's another point that nobody is going to like. Simply put, you also have to be good at what you do. I think some people don't realize that I've been writing fic for over fifteen years. I currently have nearly 2 millions words worth of fics on AO3 and that doesn't include a majority of the stuff I've ever written. I practice A LOT. I write every day. And I'll tell ya, when I started out in middle school, my stuff was not good. But I worked hard, I ignored the hate, and I kept going. That is the only way you will ever get better at anything. There's no quick way to become a better writer, or artist. And a vast majority of people are only going to pay attention to your stuff if it's quality work. Getting to that point is a process, on top of then creating stuff that fits into popular molds. Not only am I good at what I do (and I don't care how arrogant that sounds—I've worked my ass off), but when it comes to fandoms, I rarely write "rare pairs" and "crack ships." Generally, if it's popular, that's where I am. That makes a big difference and I honestly don't have sympathy for people who write rare pairs and such and then complain about lack of engagement. You knew what you were getting into (it's mostly the Miraculous fandom that gave me this bitterness). If you're not writing what people WANT to read, then your audience is simply going to be smaller. And that audience doesn't owe you their attention, no matter how frustrating it is or how good your work is. I could be the best writer in the world, but if I'm writing RekixCherry fic, I have nobody to blame but myself when nobody reads it. BUT if that's your passion, and writing a certain unpopular thing makes you happy, then, again, you need to not be concerned with traction and your audience.

The last point I'll make is that it matters HOW you present yourself online. A good chunk of the well-known creators in any fandom are, simply put, older people. And those that aren't, and are able to connect with those older creators, have generally created a bubble around themselves of maturity and, like, of being nice, lol. A lot of creators are skittish these days, and if you're an asshole (anti) or fight a lot over stupid shit, you may get a bigger audience, but you will isolate yourself from other creators. And this is important because oftentimes it is your exposure to other creators that will get your work circulating. The reason I got popular in the ML fandom? I wrote a short angst fic and a really popular artist shared it/talked about it and the rest was history. But if I'd had a habit of being an asshole, probably wouldn't have happened. And, granted, I'm not saying don't voice your opinions, but if you're loud all the time, it does turn people off. Especially creators because they are oftentimes the ones being attacked. They don't want to pull more of that negative bullshit into their lives. I'll admit, when I was in the ML fandom, I was down for a fight, but then that's what people came to expect, and it probably did turn others off, and then when I didn't fight, or didn't think the way my audience thought I should, it, again, turned people off. It's really not worth it unless being that type of person IS your platform.

So, that's all the advice I can give, I suppose. And even if you do all this stuff, that still doesn't mean you're going to be popular. At the end of the day, the thing that I stick to is this—I do what I want, I love what I do, and I work hard. If I'm in a position to worry about all that other stuff, then sure, I do, but otherwise… There's no easy way to become popular and, quite frankly, it's better to just "live" working hard and being a decent person than it is to focus on all this bullshit. I've created a working environment where I function within these "points" quite naturally, so it's not something I think about (except for schedules, lol). Sometimes I get popular in fandoms, sometimes I don't. At the end of the day, it comes down to how much work you're willing to do, because you will always be giving more than you are getting back, so you have to at least enjoy what you're doing.

Seriously, just do it because you love it. And if the pressure of everything above is something you don't love (I like a good, high pressure situation, lol), then don't do it that way—it's not worth the grief.

#skaylanphear replies #anonymous

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honeygingergemini · 4 years

Note

Hey bb I'm here for two things! If you do taglists can I be added to all your cevans characters? And to request a daddy Steve and princess reader. Maybe her innocence and sweetness turning soft daddy on? Or anything you'd like. Thank you❤❤

Hello :))) First I’m so sorry that I took so long to get this put a lot of stuff happened in a short amount of time but its finally finished and I hope you love it!<3

I’ve read this a thousand time but I know there’s still typos please ignore them <3

warnings: innocent reader, fingering, attempts at dirty talk and praise kink

word count: 1.9k

My Little Princess

As much as you try, your mind keeps replaying the conversations from work. You and the other ladies of the office always eat lunch together and gossip about office drama. Today was no different. The trending topic of the office today was Michelle and her engagement. The dialogue quickly changed from how big Michelle's ring is to what she had to do to get that ring. Or better yet, what she had to suck.

“I bet she blows him off every night.” Kim spills between bites.

“Blows?” All five heads turn in unison eyeing you with suspicion.

“Uh yeah babe, blow job.” Tina mutters in a condescending tone you don’t catch.

“What’s a blow job?”

You squirm from embarrassment. Hours later and you can still feel the twinge of humiliation bubbling in your chest. Of course it would be you, of course it had to be you. The only woman in the world who’s never given a blown job. It’s not like you didn’t know what a blow job was, because you did! You just hadn’t known it had different names. You shuffle again, blowing out air from your nose.

“You okay, princess?”

“Hmm, yeah yeah, i’m fine.” You tuck yourself closer into Steve’s arm trying to focus on the movie infront of you, but you can’t.

“You’ve never given Steve a blow job?” Amanda asks, genuinely curious.

“W-Well uh- no.” You fumble with your shirt, not wanting to meet anyone’s gaze.

“Wow, true love actually exists, he looks at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars and you’ve never blown him off.” Kim touches your shoulders. “My dear you’ve won the jackpot, whatever you do, do not let him go!”

Your mind begins to wonder. Thoughts of uncertainty creeping in to fuck with the foundation of your relationship. Have I been doing enough? You and Steve have been together for a year and you thought everything was going well, but now you’re not so sure. You thought your sexual life was moving perfectly, up until today. You two haven’t slept together but you’ve done other things to satisfy the primal needs. Heavy petting, hunching, intense kisses that leave you dizzy. Never once in any of those moments did you feel they may have not been enough for Steve but now that's all you can think of. What if he’s bored of me?

“Hm.” You turn again causing Steve to pause the flick you two are watching.

“What’s wrong, doll? You can’t keep still today.” You untangle yourself from Steve and turn around to face him. Your knees press into the couch, putting you in a comfortable kneeling position.

“Steve.” You begin fumbling with your fingers. “Are you… bored?” Your voice is small but your heart is loud.

“Of?...”

“Are…. are you bored of… like of... of me?” You peer up at Steve through shy lashes.

“No.” His face twists with disgust and confusion. “Why would I be bored of you, we’re just watching a movie”

“No,” You cut off the clueless man spread out before you. “Do I… satisfy you?” Steve’s face remains blank through three blinks then his boisterous laugh appears, sending tiny swords through your center and brings you to a death by embarrassment.

“Steve, I’m serious.” But that only fuels his laughter more. “Steven!” Your whine pulls Steve from his laugh and he sees you’re physically uncomfortable.

“Baby? Doll, come on…” Steve’s large hands grip your head to face him but you shuffle out of his hold. “Hey, where is this coming from?” You chew your bottom lip contemplating whether or not you should reveal the conversations plaguing your mind.

“If you didn’t satisfy me, I wouldn’t be with you.” Steve grips your waist and pulls you onto his lap straddling his thighs. “Hey.” His head dips down to meet your low eyes. “You please me, you always do.”

“So it doesn’t matter that i’ve never given you a blowjob?” Your mouth moves faster than your mind, further embarrassing you. Your question is met with a deafening silence.

His face is full of concern and now you're upset with yourself for even bringing this shame home with you. “Princess, where is this from? Seriously.”

“Well, the ladies and I were at work and Michelle got engaged so then we started talking about blowjobs and i didnt know what one was, well I do know what a blowjob is i just didn't know it’s formal name and-”

“Hey!” Steve cuts off your soft rambles causing you to breath. “Look at me?” Hie large fingers cup your chin and bring your eyes to focus on his warm blues. “You’re enough for me.” He seals his words with a kiss. The kiss was sweet. Affirming to my insecure soul. The next kiss was less noble but just as passionate. The familiar burn sets in your chest as the kiss grows more heated. Steve’s skillful tongue wraps around yours in a way that is profane. A soft whimper escapes you as your boyfriend pulls away from you.

“Stand up for me baby.” Steve commands through hasty breaths. You quickly stand before him, chest rising with anticipation. Steve’s sizable hands familiarize themselves with your body like they've done time before. He takes his time squeezing your breast. Even through the thick material of your top you can feel Steve's hands radiating heat into your skin. His hands then find your midriff rubbing his calloused hands into you making you squirm.

“Steve,” You cooed impatiently.

“Yes pretty girl?” His hands are placed on your hips now, working your jeans down your legs. His lips find the trimmings of your lace panties, placing soft microscopic kisses along the ‘v’ of the material. You intake sharply when Steve's lips meet your clothed mound.

“Turn around for me sweetness.” you spin slowly moving on a form of autopilot. “Sit back.” He holds your waist guiding you to sit back down on his lap. He brings his knees between your legs before widening his stance, leaving you unable to close your legs on your own.

“Baby?” His hands trail up your midsection, to tweak your beaded nipples through the thick material of your top. “You know how much i love you, right?” With each word warm air caresses the skin behind your ears. You feel amazing, he hasn't done much and you feel over the moon. A light pinch brings you to reality. “Hmm baby?”

“I’m sorry,” You apologize for your hesitation “Yes I know how you love me.”

“How much.” His colossal hands continue their assault on your chest. He gently pulls a nipple between his index and middle finger. A soft moan leaves you barely audible.

“A whole-” Your answer is cut off when you feel heat separate from your own grazing your pussy. Unbenounced to you, Steve's hand had made his way to your slit and began to slowly circle the area. Another soft call leaves your silk lips.

“Answer baby”

“You love me a whole lot, to the moon and all the stars and back”

“That’s right baby,” He pushes his finger into your clit with a little more pressure than before. “To the moon,” He pulls your panties up wrapping the moistened core around his thick fingers “To every single star.” His fists tighten as he prepares for destruction “And back.” he pops the fabric of your under garments and you gasp. His lips meet your neck again and place more kisses to your pulse points.

“You know how much I love you,”His fingers introduce themselves to your slick folds. The sounds of light sloshing make you aware of just how turned on you are. Your head falls back unable to maintain even breathing. “You know, so how could you let one conversation mess with your mind?” The conversation that once brought you immense embarrassment was now a complete after thought. Steve's fingers were torturing you sweetly. Your clit vibrates against his tough skin as his warm slick lips meet your juggler leaving open ended kisses.

“You’re so pretty baby.” kiss. “My little princess.” kiss. “You gonna let me make you feel good?” Instead of a kiss Steve licks down towards your collarbone.

“Yes.” You hiss unsure of how to react. You’ve had intimate moments with Steve before but nothing like this. “Yes Stevie, please make me feel good.” Steve pushes his nose into the back of your neck inhaling deeply,

“You're so sweet honey, so polite.” His left hand is firmly pressed against your core while his right hand runs underneath your top lifting it to reveal one breast. He presses down on your clit causing you to whimper.

“Stevie.” you whine. Your body begins to wither on top of him. “Please baby, I need more” Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you grind into Steve’s stiffness. Steve dips his middle finger into you. “Mmhhmm” you cry out from the pleasure. Your skin is hot and your ears hear a slight ringing.

“You see how you make me feel, doll?” and you do. Your hips gyrate over his in a circular motion. You feel his hard stomach against your back then his well built member pressing firmly into his denim causing you to moan. Your music only fuels Steve more.

“One day,” His ring finger joins the middle one and he speeds up his violation. “Instead of my fingers it’ll be my dick in you.” Steve’s control is admirable. With every dip of his digits a wet click follows as a response. The once light sloshing is now replaced by intense leaking. You can't remember a time you've ever been this wet. Your arousal is overflowing. “I’m gonna fill you up baby, I’m gonna make you feel so good.”

“I love this sweet pussy.” He whispers more so to himself rather than to you. All you can do is moan.

“You’re gripping me so tight baby girl… you like me playing with your pussy?” Your head is spinning, Steve’s voice is the only thing cutting through the white noise of your mind. Steve has never spoken to you this way. His words ignite a fire in your core as the familiar build of an orgasm approaches. He takes notice of your approaching release.

“I want to see you squirt pretty girl,” Your hips jolt forward as Steve curls his fingers within you. “Come on, be a good girl and squirt for Captain.” He’s now slamming his fingers into creating a vulgar splashing everytime his palm meets your mound.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god.” Your voice raises higher with each connection. Your right nipple is exposed to Steve taunting him. His lips wrap around the nub causing you to arch closer to him. He swirled the muscle in his mouth around your nipple in a way that was heinous.

“Please Stevie, please.” You sink your nails into his high attempting you bring your bodies closer, if that was even possible.

“Come on, I want my sweet girl to feel good.” The combination of Steve’s lengthy fingers continue their manipulation to your internal walls, his right hand presses firm semi circles into your pleasure button and you see white. Your orgasm ripples through you like an intense wave. Your literal wave splashes across Steve’s thigh and he chuckles. You’re faintly aware of him licking your arousal off his fingers.

“Stevie…” You sobbed from the stimulation. “Stevie.” His name is the only thing coherent in your mind.

“I know, I know pretty girl.” Steve coos. His hands slow pace calming you down through the aftershocks of release. “You look so beautiful when cum.” He smiles widely as he smacks your thigh.

“I can’t wait to see you do that on my dick.”

#smut writing #steve rogers #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #ginger requests #chris evans x reader #chris evans smut #steve rogers x you #steve rodgers imagine #steve rogers fic #honeygingergemini #chris evans black!reader #chris evans x black reader #steve rogers x black!reader

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glenncoco4 · 3 years

Text

You Can Count On Me

A/N: Chapter 7

••••

As she waits for the car in front of her to pull ahead, Kensi basks in the warmth of the bean juice as it moves its way down her throat. She so focused on her morning joe that she doesn’t notice the lone figure standing on the curb. Her brow furrows in confusion as he steps up to the side of the car. “Oh, my god, babe, what are you doing?”

The dirty shaggy blonde flashes his partner the gross yellow caps that are surrounding his teeth, earning a cringe. “Had a little LAPD undercover field trip early this morning. Can I get a ride?”

She extends her head towards him, sniffing as the unknown smell assaults her nostrils. “Is that you?”

“I like to go method, you know that.”

“That’s really disgusting.”

“I have to be convincing and the smell is a big part of that.” He places his arm against the window sill, sending his girl a wink. “So how bout that ride?”

“I love you but I wouldn’t let you ride in my trunk smelling like that.”

“Are you serious?”

It takes everything in her not to dry heave as a new odor enters her bubble. “Serious as that smell coming from your clothes.” Shaking her head, the brunette smirks, sending him a playful wink before driving off.

“No, no. No, no. Come on, Kens!”

“Bye, cutie.”

Letting out an exasperated sigh, he watches the retreating taillights fill his vision, leaving him stranded on the side of the road. “This is love.”

••••

Later that day the junior agent listens to the older man’s theory as to which direction the missing marines may have headed, but her instincts tell her that what he’s saying isn’t necessarily true. “I’m not so sure, Major. I found SUV tracks heading in the other direction.”

The older man rolls his eyes, almost challenging the brunette. “I’m pretty sure they’re heading away from Mexico.” He dismisses the pair, focusing on his own agenda before walking over to the rest of his team. “If you’ll excuse me.”

“Did I just get blown off?” She turns to her boyfriend, honestly wondering why she’s at all surprised by the Major’s reaction.

“Like Ronald McDonald at a PETA convention.” He shakes his head, knowing if anyone can track, its one Kensi Marie Blye. Without an ounce of doubt in his eyes, Deeks looks to her. “Hey, trust your gut.”

A barely there smile rises to her lips. She sees the absolute faith he has in her shining bright in his cerulean blues. It’s calming and gives her a moment to center herself. “Looks like somebody was being dragged, which seems to fit the scenario.” She follows the trail, but stops when its clear that it goes on for miles.

Realization hits her and she tries to bite back a smile thinking about how her partner his gonna respond to what they have to do next. “You ready to go for a little ride?”

The words leave her lips and he can’t help the smile that spreads to his face. The image of her in nothing but satin lace saying those exact same words has him in a trance.

She sees his eyes glaze over as he licks his lips. Shaking her head, she can only imagine what’s going on in his head right now. “On the bikes, Marty, on the bikes.”

“So no hot desert sex then?” He playfully pouts.

She ignores his question, walking off towards the dirt bikes in hopes that he didn’t notice the blush rise to her cheeks.

••••

Two hours later, Kensi suddenly stops, pulling of her helmet as her partner follows. “I’ll never understand why you do this for fun.”

The corner of her mouth curls into a smile when she watches him shake his hair. The dirty clothes mixed with his sun kissed skin does things to her, a lot of things. “You look rugged, babe. Wouldn’t make you for a four-star hotel camper.”

“Kens, the last time we went on vacation you and Kip went on an ATV adventure while me and the cupcake girls stayed at the pool all day and got pedicures.” He suddenly pauses, the first string of words suddenly washing over him. “Wait, you think I look rugged?”

“Yeah, like Malibu Ken, he wasn’t anatomically correct either.”

He eyes his girlfriend, challenging her. The squawk of laughter she lets out makes his heart flutter. He’s been working on her sense of humor for 20 years now, when she thinks she’s being funny somehow it makes the situation all the better. His little weirdo. But that also doesn’t mean he can’t ‘fight’ back. “In that case, I guess I’ll just have to keep what I have to myself.”

“You wouldn’t last 10 minutes.”

“Oh you think so?”

Her eyes follow him up and down as she examines his body, bitting her bottom lip. “I guess only time will tell. Oh, yeah, I forgot to ask, are you good with me walking around the house naked tonight? It’s just these clothes are so constricting today, I need a little bit of air.”

“Uh.” He’s left frozen in the hot desert sun, well all but one part of him. She’s gonna be the death of him, but what a way to go.

••••

Dread fills her being as she watches the guy who was chasing after her partner come back on the ATV. Her heart races, thinking about how his lifeless body could be laid out alone somewhere, but before she can get too deep into her thoughts the perpetrators surround the bulldozer spraying bullets right towards the brunette and marines.

They’re so focused on those they can’t see that they miss the lone assailant approach them on their side. Just has he lifts his gun, a series of bullets hit the man from out of nowhere.

Kensi’s brow furrows, wondering if their back up has finally arrived when out jumps her rugged looking boyfriend covered in more dirt than she remembers. She’s so angry with him for losing contact that she doesn’t even have time to take a relieving breath that he’s alive.

The detective hops over the scrap of metal, coming up beside his partner. “Did you miss me?”

“Where have you been?”

“They killed my bike.”

They crouch down even further as the bullets continue to fly, their eyes lock, trying to come up with a plan. Any plan that will get them out of this alive.

With not much time Deeks realizes the action he needs to take to ensure the best possible outcome for their safety. “Alright, you know what? I’ll draw their fire, you make a run for the SUV.”

“Are you sure about this?”

“Not really, no.”

Before she can respond he’s halfway across to the trailer spraying the men with bullets, once he’s found cover behind the old truck, Kensi makes her move as her partner covers her.

She quickly makes it to the SUV just as one of the guys loads the rocket launcher. As she’s messing with the wires, a whirling sound fills the air followed by a loud explosion. Looking up, her heart sinks once again, knowing that’s the exact same spot where her love was. “Marty.”

Giving up. That’s all she’s thinking about now as the perpetrators continue their assault. They’re outnumbered and Marty is more than likely dead. It’s hopeless.

As she lays there in the seat of the vehicle a sudden twirling noise fills the air, to much of her relief she soon recognizes the sound. Help has arrived.

Staying down until backup has taken care of the men, Kensi takes a calming breath as a lone tear escapes her eye. God how is she going to go on with her life? How will she explain it to his mom? How will she explain it to their friends?

“Look, baby, I know you’re tired, but you can sleep when we get home.”

Her eyes go wide at the sound of the oh so familiar surfer drawl that belongs to her best friend. Before she can even process what’s going on in her head, her body is jumping out of the seat and lunging into his arms. “I thought you were dead.”

“I’m okay.” He places a kiss to the top of her head. To say the explosion knocked him on his ass is a bit of an understatement. He was this close to being engulfed in flames, so close in fact that the back of his jacket is charred. So close to losing all he had with her and leaving her by herself. That thought alone, sends his mind into overdrive.

Realizing that their coworkers could be walking up at any minute, they quickly pull apart, the aching to be close to one another radiating through their beings. Sharing a look, they center themselves and get back to the art of deception. Rushing over to the marines, the partners help load them into the chopper and take a much deserved sigh of relief. All in a days work.

••••

They finally get back to the mission later that evening to grab their things, gladly leaving their paper work for tomorrow. The pair say their goodbyes to the rest of the team before heading out to their respective vehicles, but the shaggy blonde stops her from getting into her car. “How about I pick you up from your place and we go for a ride?”

“I like the sound of that.”

Observing the area around them, the detective makes sure the coast is clear before taking hold of her hand, his thumb moving back and forth across her soft skin, bringing both of them a sliver of comfort.

His eyes find hers, there’s so much he needs to say to her, but now is not the time. “I love you.”

She’s caught a bit off guard, not by his words, but the turmoil and sadness written in his eyes. “I love you too, Marty.”

••••

She looks across the vastness that is the ocean. The golden and pink hues that envelope the world around them is one of the most magical things that she’ll never get tired of. But the view is the last thing on her mind because something’s been off with her boyfriend for the better part of the day and then their interaction in the parking garage, has her wondering. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I-I need you to...”

“Need me to what?”

His chest rises and falls as he takes a calming breath. He’s not really sure of what he’s about to asks her...actually he is. Turning towards her, he’s met with her concerned loving mismatched eyes, and it gives him the courage to continue on. “Marry me.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Great, Marty. That’s just great. You have an entire rolodex of words and those are the ones you choose.”

“Marty. Baby. Stop.”

Taking another deep breath, he tries to gather his thoughts.

They sit in silence for a few seconds before he finally gains his courage once again to confess what’s been at the forefront of his mind for the past couple of hours. “Kens, I love you. In some way I’ve always known that I was in love with you. You’re my best friend, the person I want to share everything with. I don’t know how you did it but that 8 year old little girl I met 20 years ago made me feel the safest I’ve ever felt in my life and she’s been doing so ever since.” He reaches for her hand, needing contact now more than ever. “I know this is sudden, but when you think about it, its really not. We know everything about each other, we’re a part each other, past, present and future. I want you to know that you can count on me for the rest of our lives. Baby, I’ll always be here loving you and being your biggest supporter. I so very much want you to be the same for me, so...Kensi Marie Blye, will you marry me?”

There are tears in her eyes, this is sudden and happening oh so fast. Her heart is racing and her thoughts are all over the place. Sliding across the old leather seat, she brings her lips to his. “I love you so much, and I want all of those things that you do, but I think I need a little time to process everything. Is that okay?”

He should’ve saw this coming. I mean they’ve only been dating for a week and this topic has never come up. His best friend is one of the most level headed people he’s ever known, so he recognizes that she needs time to process this commitment and all that comes with it. He places a reassuring kiss to her lips, a barely there smile across his face. “Of course it is. I didn’t mean to spring this all on you. It’s just what with today and the explosion, I knew I didn’t want to waste another minute.”

“And we’re not.” She assures him, if there’s one thing she knows its that life is short and there’s no promise of tomorrow, but she still needs to gather herself and her thoughts. If they’re going to do this, she needs to have a level head not be wrapped up in the near death experience of today. “We’re together. I just want you to know that no matter what, I do want everything with you. I just need some time to process everything.”

“I understand.”

She places a kiss to his lips once more before her head finds his shoulder. “I love you.”

His head finds hers as they stare out across the cliff side sunset. The tension in his body slowly releases as her fingers intertwine with his. As long as she’s still here, that’s all that matters. “I love you. I love you so much.”

#Densi #Densi Fanfic #Kensi Blye #Marty Deeks #Kensi x Deeks #NCIS: LA #NCIS: LA Fanfic #You Can Count On Me #AU

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satsuma-saturn · 4 years

Text

Why Do I Love You? - Asmodeus x Reader

A/N: I’ve been writing this for way too fucking long lmao. I’ve never written smut before, so this isn’t the best, but I tried. It’s also been a hot min since I’ve posted a fic. Hope y’all enjoy. Requests are also still open, if anyone’s interested.

WC: 2215

Warning(s): nsfw content, oral sex (m), angst (ya gotta squint to see it lmao), slightly graphic details of violence (no actual violence), slight description of the feeling of drowning, but no actual drowning.

fic below the cut .3.

Love is a dangerous game, especially the kind of love where you feel as though your lungs are filling with water, your chest being crushed from pressure. Still, love can make you feel alive, reviving and bringing new life to you. Call it a gamble, a game of chance. Many avoid love, not wanting to play a game they’re gonna lose.

Asmodeus has been alive for so long that he doesn’t even remember how long he’s been in existence. Over the course of his long life, he has had many lovers, who have all come and gone at one point or another. Yet, with each and every one of those lovers, it wasn’t love, but lust. The demon is well versed and knowledgeable with the concept of lust, being the Avatar of Lust. It’s all he knows. Of course, he’s okay with it, as he doesn’t need to love anyone to be adored by all. In fact, it’s not something he often thinks about, since he is the Avatar of Lust, not the Avatar of Love. Everyone will love him no matter what he says or does. At least, that’s what he believed. Was it possible for anyone to not grovel at his feet, lusting after him? Often, he finds himself reassuring himself that, no, it was not possible for someone to not love him. He is perfect.

When the human first arrived in the Devildom, of course he was intrigued. New blood, someone he could add to his body count, so to speak. It had been quite a while since he’d been in contact with a human, other than Solomon, the shady sorcerer. Frustration consumed him as he learned that the human isn’t susceptible to his Charm, which is known to charm even the strongest-willed witches and wizards. How can an ordinary human with no magic whatsoever remain unaffected by his Charm? Still, it’s never deterred him. He is known to be persistent, and won’t stop until he can get the human in his bed and gain their affection. The human is realistic, honest with him. Something he isn’t used to. Everyone has always been so quick to shower him with praise, complimenting his face, fashion, body, skills in bed, whatever. They don’t worship him, unlike his partners in the past. Despite that, he always finds himself wanting to hear the human’s thoughts and opinions on everything about him.

Butterflies fill his stomach at the thought of the human, something he isn’t sure he’s felt before. Why should he care about someone who doesn’t think he’s the best creature in existence? When the human disagrees with him, he finds himself getting frustrated, throwing makeup brushes and lotion bottles around his room. When he calms down, he reluctantly picks them up, wanting to keep his room immaculate, but not wanting to actually clean his own mess. Yet, he keeps going back to them, only for them to be swept away by one of his meddling brothers, Mammon in particular? He doesn’t understand why they would want to even be in the presence of that greedy scumbag. Too many times, he’s had to complain to Lucifer about some of his more expensive skin or hair care products going missing.

Placing his hand on the table next to the human, he leans toward them with a small grin on his face. Their eyebrows raise in a question, as if asking what do you want? He’s getting to that. Be patient, human. “So, I went shopping with Mammon the other day and I bought tons of new lotions and oils. I was wondering if you wanted to try them with me? Of course you do, what am I saying? Who wouldn’t want an excuse to hang out with me?” With a small sigh that he chooses to ignore, they stand up to follow him to his room. Excited, he practically skips to his room, the human in tow.

Upon reaching his room, he wraps his fingers around the doorknob and pulls it open, stepping inside to sit on his bed. The human follows, shutting the door behind them. “Oh?~ Naughty human,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eyes. They just sigh and settle on the bed, not too far, but not close enough. That’s okay, he’ll just close the distance. Scooting over, he reaches over to his nightstand, where he had set his lotions in preparation for the human arriving home from Hell’s Kitchen, where they’d gone with Beel.

“You’re annoying,” they say, rolling their eyes at him.

“Ah, but you love it~” He coos, snapping open the lid of one of the many lotions, squeezing a dollop of the cream into his hand. “C’mere.” The demon gestures to the human, rubbing the lotion onto their skin when they oblige. “This lotion will make your skin so soft~ And it makes you smell absolutely delicious~” His voice drips with seduction, tempting the human to let their guard down. To let him in.

“It does smell pretty good,” they admit, watching Asmodeus massage their hands with his slender fingers. A fanged smile appears on the demon’s face as he works, rubbing his thumbs in small circles on their palms. Once he’s finished, he lets go of their hands, reaching for the lotion bottle once more. Maybe it’s some Devildom magic, but the lotion seems to be working immediately, the human notes to themselves, feeling the soft flesh of their hands.

Humming, Asmodeus massages the lotion into his own hands, watching the human out of the corner of his eye. Just watching them, he feels the urge to pounce on them, ‘helping’ them give into their darkest desires. Unfortunately for him, his Charm doesn’t seem to have an effect on them, which is irritating, to say the least. What made them so powerful that they, an ordinary human being, could resist the temptation of the Avatar of Lust? He was curious, really. Curious to crack open their head and discover what’s inside. Amongst the blood and brain matter, he was sure to find something. The source of their power, maybe. Though he would never actually hurt the human, just the thought of the sickening crack of a skull got him excited, his pants becoming a little too tight. No, he could never hurt them. They mean too much to him. Hell, he can even go as far as saying that he loves them.

“Dude, what the fuck?” The human’s voice draws him from his reverie. Their eyes are a little too focused on his growing erection, he notices. “Are you getting hard from putting on lotion?’

“No. I just love you so much~,” he croons, his tone dark, sending a shiver down the human’s spine. Was the shiver from fear from his sudden mood change, or was it lust? His question is soon answered when the human slides off the bed, slipping in between his legs. They look so pretty on their knees, though it isn’t too often that he gets to see them in that position. The sight excites him.

Looking down at the human kneeling between his legs, he runs his fingers through their hair, as they rest their hands on his clothed thighs. His breath catches in his throat as he stares down at them, their eager eyes shining brightly back at him. Pink eyes follow the human’s hands as it inches closer to his crotch. He swallows thickly as their fingers latch onto the zipper of his pants, pulling it down, all while making eye contact with him. Their eyes are darkened with lust. For some reason, he feels a sudden pang of anxiety, but the routine is the same as it always is. The human notices and pauses, their eyes filling with concern.

“Are you okay, Asmo?” They ask, their voice soft, filling him with a new warmth.

Shaking his head, he swallows again and replies, “No, it’s okay. You can keep going.” As an afterthought, he adds another sentence to his reply, “Only if you want to, of course.”

“I want to.” Their eyebrows furrow. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re acting...strange.”

His signature grin creeps onto his face. Is he okay? No. Is he going to pretend that he is? Yes. “Of course, sweetheart. You’re always so concerned about me,” he says, a giggle bubbling from his throat as his manicured fingers brush the human’s cheek. “And I’m not strange! You’re so cruel to me!” A fake pout spread across his lips as he teased the human seated between his legs.

He squeals as the human smacks his inner thigh. “I’m not cruel. You’re just sensitive.” They stick out their tongue at him and he goes to bite it, but they’re quick to reel it back in. “Don’t bite me, you toad.”

“C’mon,” he whines. “Just do what you came here to do and suck me off! I need you right now~” He palms himself through his pants, impatient.

“You’re so whiny,” they remark, smacking his hands away so that they can pull down his pants. He huffs, but doesn’t reply, just closing his eyes instead. Once his pants are down, he feels their hands on him, feeling him through his boxers. A small groan escapes his lips as he opens his eyes to look down at them. They're just a simple human. How could they have enraptured him in the manner that they did? The demon of Lust, pinned under the thumb of a weak, powerless human.

Grinning up at him, they shimmy his boxers down his legs, allowing his hardened cock to spring free from its confinements. A bead of precum oozes from the reddened tip. The human swipes their thumb along the demon’s slit, collecting the precum on the digit. They lick their thumb, looking him in the eyes the whole time. He shudders, the human’s actions exciting him.

Slowly, they lick along his length, starting from the base, slicking it in their saliva. They’ve barely done anything, but he’s putty in their hands, twitching and groaning softly. “You’re so sensitive,” they say, pausing their ministrations to blow on his tip, feeling a shudder wrack through his body. He bucks his hips lightly as they wrap their lips around his tip, giving it a soft suck. Annoyed, they pull away, sitting back on their heels.

“I’m sorry! I’ll be a good boy, I promise!” He whines, trying to slip his cock back between their lips.They’re stubborn, though, and seal their lips shut. “C’mon~ Please?” Seeing that they’re not going to give in so easily, he pulls back, starting to stroke himself, using the human’s drying saliva and his own precum as a lubricant. His hand slides up and down the length of his cock with ease and he can see the human in front of him, watching.

After watching him for a few seconds, they nudge his hand away, replacing it with their own. Asmodeus whimpers softly as their hand glides along his length. The whimpers turn to moans when they start teasing his slit with their tongue. Warmth encases his cock as the human takes him in their mouth, sucking as they slide more of him into their mouth. His hips buck again, and he can feel the human gagging and trying to keep his hips still. Their gagging just turns him on more, making him want to fuck their mouth until he cums. Yet doesn’t, allowing them to keep control of the situation. He’ll be the perfect pillow prince for them. Maybe they’ll even fuck him, if he’s a good boy.

His fingers comb through their hair as they suck him off, gently pulling them further down his cock, feeling their throat clench around the intrusion. They gag again, focusing on breathing through their nostrils. He isn’t going to last long, he can feel it. Their throat is just so warm and tight.

Not too long after, he reaches his breaking point, spilling down their throat without warning. They pull away, wiping saliva and cum off their face. He stares silently at them for a few seconds, before grabbing them and pulling them up towards his bed. His human is so beautiful and he wants to show them how much he loves them, but they pull away, shaking their head.

“No, this isn’t about me. I just wanted to help you out,” they explain, making their way to the door. “This lotion smells really nice, by the way.” The door opens and Asmodeus starts to speak, causing them to pause briefly in the doorway, waiting to hear what he has to say.

“I love you,” he says. His eyes widen as he realizes what he just said, but it’s too late to take it back.

“I love you too, Asmodeus,” they reply, shutting the door behind him. Their response stuns him into silence, though he wants to call them back in.

But why do I love you?, he wonders to himself. Why now? After centuries of only loving himself, why does he love someone else? Loving someone else adds unnecessary complications to his life. For his whole existence, he’s worn his heart on his cheek, not on his sleeve. The bitter taste of defeat lingers in his mouth as he stares at his door that the human had just left through.

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aclosetfan · 4 years

Text

This is a really incomplete idea BUT it’s about Brick’s hat(s). And hopefully someone else finds this and enjoys it! More under the cut, it’s a long post :)

I think it’d be funny if boomer and butch get him a shitty novelty hat for birthday/holidays/etc because 1) they don’t know what to get him 2) they’re like 12 with four buck to their names. so they just go from charity shop to charity shop looking for ideas. Brick probably doesn’t ask for much (I don’t think any of them do. poor kid syndrome amiright? I personally never think they’d be well off in childhood).

So anyway butch and boomer are bumming through the charity shops and boomers like:

“Holy shit, Butch!”

“Wut?” Butch looked over pulling the charred and ruined Halloween mask that someone had donated for god knows what reason off his head.

“Dude it’s perfect!” Boomer came running from three aisle over, waving a garment around in the air.

“It’s a hat.” Butch pointed out bluntly, unimpressed, and pointed to the mask atop his head, “I think we should get this.”

“But it’s red!”

“He’s got one of those. Wears it frequently.”

“But not like this!” Boomer boosted, “See.”

Boomer turned the hat around, so Butch could see the bill of it. It was one of those novelty snapbacks, inscribed on the front was the playboy bunny logo.

“Dude.” Butch smiled, giggling with Boomer, albeit a little nervously.

He was familiar with the playboy bunnies work, it wasn’t like he was a virgin or anything (except he secretly was), but he had never actually seen a genuine centerfold spread like some of the older boys at the detention hall had talked about. When he thought of playboy, he thought of the Victoria Secret models he saw plastered to the side of the store at the mall. They made him feel weird and his hands would get all sweaty, so he tried his best not to look too closely.

“Dude we should get him this!” Boomer continued to smile, “It’d be, like, so funny.”

“Yeah.” Butch nodded, as his smile grew. He didn’t 100% get why it was so funny, but the idea of having something with the playboy bunny logo on it seemed cool to him. It made him feel kind of like one of the older boys.

Him and Boomer snickered all the way to the cash register, and when it was their turn to pay, Boomer nudged him ahead, ducking behind him with a giggle. He glared at his brother over his shoulder, but allowed Boomer to twist a nervous hand into the fabric of his oversized sweater (the one his brothers had bought him last year. They bought it 3 sizes too big cause he kept growing out of everything too fast. It was 1 size too big now). Boomer liked latching onto their sleeves when he got nervous.

He didn’t get what the big baby was so nervous about though. They were just buying a stupid hat. The lady cashier watched them with thinly veiled boredom and Butch threw the hat down on the counter.

Raising a penciled on eyebrow, the older women examined the hat, “Playboy, huh? You even know what Playboy is kid?”

The question made the back of his neck burn. He had never heard a lady say playboy before, it was weird. From behind him, Boomer pressed his face into the back of his sweater to muffle another giggle.

“Uh, duh.” He sniffed, “We know, lady.”

“Have you actually seen a playboy before?” The cashier snorted, ringing them up, “Not just the logo?”

“Yes!” Butch huffed, defending himself, “The Internet!”

(It was a semi-lie—they had tried looking it up on the internet, but Fuzzy didn’t have a computer at his cabin, HIM wouldn’t let them use any of his flashy spy monitors, Mojo was lame, and the library had parent controls)

“Surreee.” The lady drawled out and rang them up, “Dollar fifty.”

He didn’t make eye contact with her as he handed over a crumpled dollar bill and took two quarters from the take-a-penny-leave-a-penny. When she gave them back the hat, they ran out of the store like they had committed a bank robbery.

When Brick opened the present two days later, he threw the plastic bag it had come in to the side and frowned.

“A new hat?”

“Yeah,” Boomer nodded, putting down the cheap Polaroid camera Butch and Brick had shoplifted from a secondhand shop downtown (still too expensive to actually buy), and reached for the hat, turning it around in Brick’s hand, “but look!”

Brick’s smile grew, as the logo registered in his head. “Oh, shit,” their brother laughed, “is this playboy?”

“Betcha you won’t wear it.” He goaded his brother on as he tossed the new (used—looked like it was taken from Pokay High’s sports department) rugby ball from hand to hand.

“Betcha I will.” Brick shot back, carefully removing the ratty cap he had had since forever and replacing it with the new one.

“Sorta big.” Their brother murmured, adjusting the strap.

“Your fat head will grow into it!” Butch joked and Brick punched his arm.

“Shut up, dipshit.”

“Do you like it?” Boomer beamed, ignoring the bickering.

Brick looked at their brother with a smile, precious anger dissipating, “Yeah, dude, it’s funny.”

———————————————————

Then it becomes a thing//like Brick really loves his hat collection:

“Truckin’ ain’t easy.” Brick read out loud with a snort, and replaced the hat he was wearing with the new one.

He thought for a moment then shook his head no, “nah. Not today.”

He had so many hats to chose from, it was almost overwhelming. They were all basically offensive on every level and he tried to wear them all as often as possible. The highlight reel included:

Kitty gang

Swag.

Yolo.

Lmao.

Weed jokes. Lotta weed jokes.

Thrasher.

Fish love me. Woman fear me.

Met god. She’s hot.

Blow me for luck.

Beer drinkers get more head.

The carpets do match the drapes

FuCk

Birthday Bitch

Deadass fuck thots on god

Hello I am Mr. Cunt

Master Baiter

Drive fast. Eat ass.

At 17, he had a vibrant hat collection. Anytime his brother’s saw a red hat with a shitty gag, they snagged it for him. Recent political events had bestowed upon his brothers a plethora of new material:

Make racists afraid again.

My other hat’s tin foil

Made you look

The list went on. His fuck cops wasn’t popular with local authorities. And how could he forget his most favorite powderpuff girl cap. That pissed them off to no end.

“Brick!” Butch yelled down the corridor. They were at Mojo’s this week, “Hurry up!”

“Uuhhhhh,” he mumbled to himself, as he stared at his wall, ignoring his brother. He hung them all up to make it easier to chose. His collection covered the wall.

His hand floated left to the one that said FuCk, but the one that said bad hair day caught his eye and his hand twitched to the right, “uuuuuhh, hmmmm.”

He floated toward the ceiling to look at the top of the wall, “welllllll...”

They’d be fighting with the girls today and because he liked making Blossom mad, he figured he needed to chose something more crude.

“Oh my god!” Butch cried outside his bedroom door, “Just fucking pick one!”

“Mmmmm.”

“Brick!” Butch pounded on his door, “I swear to god, I’ll burn them all if you just don’t pick one!”

“HMMmmmmmm!”

“Brick, it’s been thirty minutes!” Boomer whined, joining Butch, “The girls are waiting, we can’t cancel on them again! We’re bad guys, but we aren’t bad guys.”

“Ahhhhh—“ he sucked on his teeth in thought, “five more minutes!”

His brothers groaned in unison from the other side of the door.

“This is your fault, Boomer.” Butch whined.

“How?!” Boomer protested.

“Cause I wanted to get him that mask.”

————————————————————

His hat—his first hat—is lovingly preserved. He can’t risk losing it or damaging it any further. Before they started buying him new hats, most of the boys misadventures (the chaos they did NOT plan) were dedicated to saving Brick’s hat from the clutches of (insert one-shot villain here). It’s his security blanket. He breaks it out on the lazy days in.

He does though often lose his novelty hats. A violent gust of wind will rip one from his hat or a fight will cause it to disintegrate. But because Brick considers being the hat guy a personality trait, I think he’d have a spare one on hand at all times:

“My hat!” He cried, as the tornado-like monster blew through Townsville, ripping his hat from his head, and then disappeared into thin air, “the fucker took my hat!”

“Brick!” Blossom cried over the wind, “calm down! It’s a hat!”

“Yeah my hat!” He argued back. He wasn’t fond of the idea that him and his brothers and the girls now had to cooperate with each other, but desperate times called for desperate measures. “Butch! Boomer! I want my hat!” He hissed and his brothers nodded, understanding immediately what he meant.

“Right!” Butch dropped Buttercup, forgetting whatever fight the two had found themselves in.

“Got it!” Boomer jumped up from where he had been sitting on Bubbles, squashing her to the ground.

“What was that thing!” Brick barked at Blossom and she wiped the blood from her nose.

“I only know as much as you do, considering it literally just happened. Maybe it has to do with air—“

She cut off and looked at him, as he adjusted his emergency back up hat onto his head.

“What!” He hissed when he realized all three of the girls were giving him odd looks.

“Dude,” Buttercup asked from the ground, “do...do you just carry extra hats around?”

“Of course I do!” He spat, disgusted that they’d think so low of him not to, “Extra hat,” he pointed to his head, “emergency beanie,” he pulled one out of his pocket, “and extra hair ties,” him and his brother lifted up theirs wrists. “We live by the aesthetic, we die by the aesthetic, anymore questions?”

“Yeah!” Boomer huffed in his defense, “what’s it fucking matter to you anyway!”

“Don’t you three have bigger issues to worry about then our business?” Butch hissed, kicking at Buttercup.

Buttercup rolled away from the kick, dodging it with a laugh.

“What’s so funny!” Butch demanded and Buttercup shook her head, ignoring Butch and pointing up at her sister.

“Holy crap! He really is your counterpart, huh? You guys are perfect for each other!” She laughed wheezing.

“Hey!!” Him and Blossom bristled together, “Shut up!”

————————————————————

When he learns that over excessive hat use can lead to hair breakage and premature balding his heart breaks, so he starts buckling them to his belt loops instead when he remembers to give his hair a break.

#rrb Brick #ppg Brick #head canons #fic drabbly #theyve got a bad sense of humor #but so do i #:)#trucker hat jokes are peak comedy #you can buy any of the hats i mentioned on amazon

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aliciadelaplaya · 3 years

Text

So what should TRF do, exactly?

Yet again there have been almost defeaning calls on SM for TRF to DO SOMETHING about the Sussexes. So, I’d like to address this question, maybe throw in something of a reality check.

Most people should know by now that it is not in HMTQ’s power to remove the Sussex titles. This can only be done by an Act of Parliament, and primary legislation at that.

This means that the “motion” has to be debated by both the House of Commons and House of Lords.

Now, just think for a minute, a debate, in the house of commons, with all those Black Female Labour MPs banging on about removing the titles from the, supposedly, first bi-racial member of TRF. Goodness, if people thought that the Sussexes incoherent and contradictory mud slinging about “conversations” about the colour of Archie’s skin was damaging to TRF, how much worse would it be to hear elected representatives of the British people (however ignorant, biased and downright stupid) accuse TRF of racism in The Mother of Parliaments. Now that would be seriously damaging.

And of course The British Government has far more important things it needs to Parliamentary time for.

Also, there is some sort of notion floating around Social Media that if HMTQ asks Parliament, then it will immediately be given. Anyone who knows anything about the hundreds of years that it has taken the UK to go from an absolute to constitutional monarchy knows damn well that a) HMTQ would never dream of asking and b) HM’s Government would in no way automatically acceed to any request made by the Sovereign.

Some people seem to think that we live in some sort of medieaval kingdom with an all powerful Monarch.

Yet, there are still those who are jumping up and down, calling HMTQ and PC fit to burn because they are “Not Doing Anything”

OK, so put your money where your mouth is?

What should they do?

Exactly.

Go on,

tell us.

What would you do if one of your sons or brothers, daughters or sisters had got themselves ensnared with a dangerous narcissist? When every word of warning, every well-meant piece of advice does nothing more than drive them further into the arms of their addiction.

What would you do if their mental state before they met this person was a matter of family concern and now, far from your care, deaf to your entreaties, was publicly deteriorating to the point that they have become a world-wide laughing stock?

Tell us. What would you do? They are an adult, one who has not been sectioned, free to make their own choices, to lead their own life. They are your family. What do you do?

How exactly are you going to stop him talking about you, spreading lies and gossip? Go on, tell us, we’re dying to know.

What would you do if your beloved family member had made it clear to you that if their spouse leaves them, they will kill themselves? Go on, what would you do?

What would you do if you believed that anything your family did could be the cause of anger on the part of the narcissist and put your loved one in danger. What would you do, exactly, to stop them? Please tell us. There are a lot of people out there who would love to know.

“Cut them off” many people are crying! But that is what we know PC has done, albeit after providing his younger son and his wife with a substantial gift to help set them up in their new lives, as per the Megxit agreement.

Tell the truth about the surrogates? Yes, we would all like that, we know that niether of those children were born of her body, that they are not entitled to a place in the line of succession. Yet, however much we jump up and down and say that TRF is “public property”, the fact is, they too are still entitled to basic human rights, and one of those is privacy. It is not for TRF to tell the truth about the surrogacies, it is not their story to tell. It is for Harry and his wife. One day the truth will come out, it always does. The TRF can not be the ones to let the cat out of the bag. They just can not.

OK, so people jump up and down saying that HMTQ and PC are showing weakness by not responding to all these attacks. So tell us, what exactly would you do? Exactly, what would you have done when?

They said that you don’t own the rights to the word Royal (which is true)? When every single speech that woman made duing lockdown by Zoom has a dig at your family. Would you respond? How? Exactly.

When they set up a photoshoot trampling over war graves, insulting the memories of both the US and the UK fallen? What would you have done to stop it? Go on, do tell?

I can’t be arsed to dig out the list of all the insults, swipes etc that these two have levelled at TRF, HMTQ, PC etc. Geniunely because I’ve forgotten most of them, there have been so many, they have lost their currency, they have been devaluted. Even the massive fall out from the “bombshell” whineathon with OW, was overtaken by more whinging, it’s a deluge. How could the sitatuation have been helped if, as it was rumoured PC wanted to do, each accusation was thoroughly challenged. Can you imagine?

How many of you own or run companies? How many of you have had, in any shape or form had people complain to you about products or services? How many of you have received unjustified/maliciious/ignorant complaints - 100% I would guess. And what is the best way of dealing with these? Do you engage and argue with every minor point, do you want to “win” the argument. Does it make you feel better to win by beating the complainent over the head with your greater wisdom, teaching them a lesson, showing them for the stupid, ignorant people they are? What happens if you engage? It never bloody stops. But if you reply thanking them profusely for the incredible amount of time they have taken to give you feedback, if you thank them for their custom, if you offer them a discount/money back. If you ARE NICE TO THEM. Guess what? THEY HAVE NO WHERE TO GO! NOWHERE. Believe me, I’ve done both and I can tell you hands down which is the most satisfying and, ultimately the most productive in the long term.

The situation is the same here, if TRF engages in any shape or form it will be playing directly into the Narcs playbook and the Sussexes will push back, it will excite them, thrill them, give them power. It will be more fuel for their global whinging and victimhood. It will be more interminable articles in Hello and Page Six (Does anyone read these publications) Look at the few times TRF have pushed back and H has come in, all guns blazing with legal letters (and what happened to all that, we wonder). Have you noticed that since the word got out that TRF were not going to stand by silently, the BS stories about HMTQ having zoom calls with the mythical child, buying waffle makers have stopped?

They are much more careful now when they try to bring HMTQ into their lunacy.

“Love me, hate me, but NEVER ignore me” is the Narcs motto and it will be driving Harry’s wife mad that they have been completely iced and are not rising to their constant baiting. But some of the Megxiteers are. Effectively, the Megxiteers are doing the Sussexes work for them. That sure is some fuel for the narc.

It makes me laugh when the MSM and SM get their knickers in a twist about the latest fuckwittery coming out of Montecito (or whever they don’t live). They want the child to be christened in Windsor with HMTQ present. Don’t make me larff! That is never going to happen. This is absolute kite flying at it’s worst. It’s poking the bear and all these ridiculous Royal Reporters nod their heads and make seemingly wise podcasts about the prospect of this happening (and they can do it with - mostly - straight faces), as if it was actually a possibility when I’d like to think that they, like me, believe that H and his wife have been well and truly iced, they are personas non grata.

When the wife buggered off back to Canada after the Commonwealth service leaving her useless husband to tell more lies on his own, rather than with her at his side, I was convinced then that she will never set foot on these shores again and I stand by that view now as I did then.

So, the latest stick with which the megxiteers have chosen to beat TRF with is that the second child is now on the website as being in the line of succession. Yes, it is an absolute abomination, yes, it offends every fibre of my being, yes I want to expose these two evil hypocrites for this egregregious fraud that they are perpetrating on TRF and the rest of the British people. Of course, like most of you, I want to see justice done, and I want it done NOW. But life isn’t like that. and just as Caesar’s wife has to be above suspision so do our (much loved) RF. Look how we all noticed the careful wording of the Baby congrats on the birth of the second child, they know, we know, but TRF have to play a staight bat, they just have to.

While, in the SM bubble we can all get ourselves wound up, upset, angry, sure that the monarchy will fall etc etc outside, in the real world, most people don’t give a flying fuck about Harry. He’s an idiot, an ex-royal, gone, finished. He is not important either inside or outside TRF.

HE IS IRRELEVANT.

And, if anyone is wondering while all this stuff about book deals is coming out now. I give you this:

The Mail on Sunday appeal - will probably run into next year The Bullying accusations - will probably run into next year. Tom Bower’s book (this is a biggy) - to be published next year?

The Sussexes are aware they are losing popularity, that is why each pronouncement is more and more ludicrous and each Hello article more and more desperate.

The Sussexes are aware they are under attack by forces outside TRF, and they are making their pre-emptive strikes at the low hanging fruit, the soft underbelly of his family.

TRF are doing exactly the right thing. Keep Calm, Carry On and while ignoring them won’t make them go away, it will make them look increasingly ridiculous.

This is true strength, not to rise to the bait, to carry on regardless. Remember our Queen has a strong and deeply held Christian faith, turning the other cheek is part of that, whether we like it or not. TRF should not, under any circumstances sink to the level of Harry and his wife.

Let’s just enjoy the H show for what it is, a mentally unstable ensnared fool doing everything he can to ensure he continues to receive the favours (sexual and otherwise) of the narcissist he married. Because, imho, that is what it’s all about.

Remember the engagement interview. “I hope she loves me as much as I love her”.

Sorry mate, that ship has sailed and nothing, nothing you can do will bring it back.

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kanene-yaaay · 4 years

Text

Go Virge, go!

Kanene’s note: TODAAAAAAAAAY IS A SPECIAAAAAL DAYYYY!!! DO YOU KNOW WHY?? THAT IS RIGHT! BECAUSE TODAY IS @why-not-a-tickle-blog BIRTHDAY!!!! Gooooosh!!!! I know I already did a whole speech before, mah friendo, but you’re just so amazing and lovely! Aaaaaa I’m happy for being your friend! <33

Okay, I got a little carried away! Enjoy the gift! x3

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* This characters don’t belongs to me! They all belong to Thomas Sanders and his series Sanders Sides!

* This is a SFW Tickle-Fanfic, so, if you don’t appreciate this kind of content, please, look for another blog. There are a plenty of fabulous arts in this site!! ^w^)b

* Oneshot. Something around 3.800 words.w-)b. Lee!Virgil and Ler!Patton in Human AU.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any and every advice is very very welcome! \(-w-)/

* Since it’s a gift: Essa fanfic não será traduzida, mals. Thankys for reading, my lollipops, especially you, Livvy!! Have a wonderful and incredible day just like you!

[~*~]

Patton was confused. A lot.

And that wasn’t even a whole brand-new thing in his life.

Patton got confused quite frequently, being honest.

He got confused when he accidentally fell asleep on the couch and woke up four hours later with all his house painted in the dark of the night and without a single drop of memory about where he is or who he is for some minutes. Patton got confused when his attention was caught in some adorably adorable video of kittens being the best thing in the world and quickly ran to Virgil’s room just to show them to him, not understanding why his friend can’t stop looking at him quizzically until Virgil finally asks why does he has a spoon in the knot of his cardigan and Patton jumps because HIS COOKIES ARE IN THE OVEN AND HOW MUCH TIME HAD PASSED-

Oh. Wait. That is not what he was talking about. Focus, focus!

Anyway. Life is confusing, feelings, thoughts, actions, trying your best, keep going, look at the refrigerator just to realize you have no idea of what you were supposed to be searching in the first place, humans…

Yeah, especially humans.

Patton stared at the figure of his friend laid on the couch, absently looking at his phone while a piece of smile adorned his face. The movie both decided to watch paused in the background as the one currently in the kitchen waited for the popcorn get ready, his hand held lightly his chin and a frown rest peacefully in his features, mirroring the same expression he always saw on Logan every time he was confronted by a problem whose solution seemed impossible to find.

It was The Pose of all the incredible genius in the world, right? Therefore, in some moment about now the answers of all his questions should magically pop before him, unfolding and refolding in logic patterns just like in all the mystery series and books.

Right about noooow…

…

Now?

…

Well, it didn’t work.

Patton pouted, turning to pour the warm and probably delicious snack in big bowls that both would pretend they wouldn't be able to finish before even getting in the middle of the so expected movie. He grabbed the bowls and headed to the other room, reprising the entire day in his mind, a faint echo of Logan saying that could help basing his decision.

Everything started in the morning with Patton arriving at their breakfast table only to find Virgil, but not his usual Virgil.

That was a Virgil without his hoodie.

Not that it was a totally strange thing! Usually by his free mornings he would prefer to wander in the house on his comfortable pajamas, however the thing today is… he wasn’t on his pajamas. He was prepared to fight the world – actually Virgil was just going to work, but he said this sounded more badass - on his black Slipknot shirt, jeans and the hoodie nowhere near to be seen.

Besides that, today was predominantly cold. Cold enough for the one wearing glasses end up missing his favorite cat cardigan by the time he arrived their house, searching for the so dearly craved cloth in every little corner until Patton came across the scene of his friend - his best edgy, lovely friend cutely wearing it and being equally playfully bratty when tried ask it back, pulling out his tongue out as his form dazed in a chase the moment Patton’s promise of ‘physically fight for it!’ – which was a lie, obviously. He gave up the vestment the very moment his eyes locked in a Virgil playing with the cat ears sewed in it – flew from his mouth.

And, after getting tired out, they cuddled! Okay, this wasn’t nearly a strange occurrence between both, albeit was one of those rare moments when Virgil was the one who initiated it, laying on his lap with a pout and a sharp look, as if he dared the other to say something (and Patton didn’t!! He swears!! Squeals. Do. Not. Count. As. Words.), feeling comfortable enough to even start a Poking War as they were accommodating themselves on the cushions, rays of giggles, squeaks filling the place for some heartbeats before both decided to metamorphose their last bit of routine into a movie night.

Which was exactly what they were doing!

Now, don’t get Patton wrong. He was absolutely delighted by everything! Knowing Virgil felt comfortable, safe enough to act nonchalant around him was so heart-warming he could almost feel himself melt in happiness!

….But…

But there was this signal in the back of his mind. A particularly different gleam in the other’s eyes he had already seen before, however couldn’t quite place its meaning yet. Some words unpronounced amongst his lightly snarky demeanor. Some little thing that made Patton feel playful and happily bubbly as well, except he couldn’t really grab the exact information, the exact why or the exact memory.

Not yet, at least.

[~*~]

Virgil was about to fucking quit it.

No, actually, he was about to fuck quit everything when he woke up of his incredibly, horrible, wonderfully teasy tickle dream. The tingles of the dreamy tickles still ghostly buzzing on his body as he quietly giggled, burying his face in the pillows and kicking about everything on his bed, eyes firmly closed as the memories bathed his mind in a flow made to increase awfully his lee mood.

And then one of his favorite artists posted some new things on Tumblr, which obligated him to see all their new posts and, who knows, accidentally click in the tag ‘My arts’ of them, which end up with him re-finding other works he had already forgot about, path that consequently leaded to some more reblogs and therefore another bunch of tickle blogs which, of course, made his lee mood at work almost unbearable.

At least he had the cold to blame if someone questioned about the persistent blush spread on his features.

After everything, finally: The calm and quiet of home, broken by his determined decision to try to make – somehow - Patton tickle him. His friend was soft and playful by nature, and he already knew Virgil liked tickles (quite of an interesting story involving a meme, a movie and the power going out. Heh. Do not ask about it.) so, I mean, the worst part was already gone, right? It wouldn’t probably be that bad. Virgil would just act naturally, smoothly following a few advices he found in some blogs discussing this topic and hope, for the sake of his life, the Universe wouldn’t follow Murphy's Law for ONCE.

Of course, that didn’t happen. OF COURSE.

Virgil tried first to be a bratty. He stole Patton’s cardigan and even ran across the house in an attempt to maintain his new possession. He stretched while laid in Patton’s lap: no hoodie, ticklish spots right there. In the last shot he even let himself giggle every single time his mind wandered to the dark corner designed especially for the subject. The one wearing smudged make up even started a poke war!! A poke war!! What kind of poke war doesn't evolve to a tickle war where he would, so sadly and despise his best efforts, lose spectacularly??

He crossed his arms and DID NOT pout, blowing grumpily some strands of hair that fell in his vision’s field.

“I would sell my soul for a tickle.” Virgil growled, his usually careful façade crumbling under the quite persistent thoughts of fingers spidering on his ribs, counting each one of them before lazily dragging the tip of the nails to his quivering tummy, dancing and poking unbothered by his squi-

“What was that?”

Virgil squeaked, jumping some centimeters in the air when the voice of his approaching friend filled the room, the words getting stuck in his throat, his head shooting in the other’s direction, wide eyes.

“What.” He eloquently offered.

“I was too far, didn’t hear what you said, sorry. Could you repeat, please?”

Virgil tried – failing - to not blush. Patton was… actually being serious, right? That wasn’t any kind of tease, even if the traitor little demon he usually called brain unhelpfully unlocked all the memories of all the tickle fanfics he read that began with that exact same words. “Nothing. It was nothing.” He promptly ignored the way his voice came out slightly high.

“Oh, okay!” Patton kindly smiled, putting the popcorn on the coffe table and looking for some space on the couch to lay down while Virgil pressed play, the show’s opening quickly filling the air and silence hanging between both. Patton stopped. Suddenly Virgil felt a shiver run across his whole body, his gaze turning to his friend, only to find the one wearing glasses staring at him intently.

“You like tickles.”

The word only was enough to jolt his body back to a sitting position, butterflies starting to wake up, proceeding to fly the most desperate as possible in his stomach, his brain fuzzing, crumbling for answers of How and When and What the Fuc-

“What? NO! I mean, yes but how- when did you just…”

“Oh!” Patton gasped and Virgil felt his whole face in flames once the realization of the shiny gleam in the other’s eyes, almost as literal stars shining, hit him. Maybe… Maybe something he had done before finally work? “That is why you initiated a Poke War? Were you trying to make me tickle you? Vee, you just needed to ask!”

Yep. No. Nope. No way. That was definitely worse.

Virgil tried to hide himself in his hoodie, deciding he could very much rather perish in his Lee Mood than stare at the pure love and awe gazed right in his direction. His lips curving in a shadow of a smile for a second when he pressed himself further on the furniture, noticing with a grumble leaving his mouth the only armor he owned was the cat cardigan. Hood pulled up and his face firmly pressed on his knees, he ignored the way his excited giggles started to bounce and dance in his throat, resulting in his own body bounce a bit.

“Knock knock…” Virgil felt a light tapping on his knee.

“Fuck off.” The hissed answer ran without letting he even think about it, too much occupied in pretending to not notice how much this position left his entire tickl- I mean, sensitive torso vulnerable and how much not seeing what was happening increased second by second the tingles and shivers crazily racing in his skin.

“Gasp! Virgil!” The one dying in the cat cardigan internally rolled his eyes at the literally audible gasp his friend vocalized, almost being able to see the playful mood taking over his expression as it always has when they swore around him. “I should tickle you for this, Mister Potty Mouth!” Yes. Yes!! Come on, come on! “But I won’t.”

Hey now, what.

“What?!” His head shot upwards absurdly fast, a fact which, obviously, he would deny it to the end of his living and non-living days.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide or ignore your desire for tickles every time you have them! Especially…”

‘Please – see? I know how to use some freaking good words. - Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say, Patton. You’re cool, you’re a funny guy, you have good intentions but you have any ideas of what the fuck will happen??’ Virgil found himself almost pleading, the sentences already running in his head, but his lips firmly gripped in the fear to let out more than these simple words.

“… Since I’m totally okay in tickling you! Oh, wait. Did you just squirm? Aww, Virgil!! That is so, so adorable! You’re blushing, too! Awwwwww!!! Okay, okay, okay, I’m… Imma gonna die of cuteness. You’re truly the most precious being I’ve ever met!!! Wait, what I was just saying…?”

‘I will die! No! I’m already dying! See? You already accomplished what you wanted!! Let’s move on to the next damn part!’

“Oh right!” Patton lightly hit the side of his head. “I’m glad to tickle you! Truly! All you have to do is…”

‘Dude, Patton, Pat-Pat, Popstar don’t…’

“Ask me! Please, please, please!!” Virgil stared him dead in his eyes, crossing his arms, his cheeks so hot that he was surprised his face didn’t melt yet. “Aw, don’t give me that look, kiddo!” Virgil just narrowed his eyes further. Patton pouted, his ‘Puppy Eyes’ expression – more like an unfair weapon - showing and nailing cracks on Virgil’s resolution.

They stayed like this for a while, until Patton abruptly lifted his hands, his fingers wiggling on Virgil’s direction, the movement so out of blue that catched his friend out of guard, a true yelp jumping from him before he grumpily growled and let himself fall on the cushions.

“I can’t.”

“Of course, you can, kiddo! I’m rooting for ya! Wanna see?” And then he started to fold and unfold his fingers, approaching them to Virgil inch by inch “Go Virge, go! Go, Virge, go! Goooo, Virgeyyyy, go!” Inch by inch. Close and then even closer. The boy with a wobbly smile in his face felt like he couldn’t tear his eyes from the movements, the butterflies seeming to freak out in his stomach in the rhythm of the cheers.

He hides his face behind his hands. Patton was going to be the end of his existence.

“Stohop it.” Dammit. He was breaking.

‘Come on, guy! You can do this!’ He internally whined.

“Ooh, is that a beauty giggly giggle what I hear? The cheering should be working then, don’t you think?! We believe in you, Virge-poo! And we can’t wait for when we…” Virgil dared to spy the scene between his fingers, only to see Patton’s hands barely touching his sides, his fingers positioned in a claw shape. “… getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha, getcha!!” They suddenly moved, clawing unbearably away and terribly close at each couple of words.

No. Virgil did NOT squeal nor squirmed closer to the fingers. Fuck you. Nobody asked. That is none of your business anyway.

‘Just… just don’t think about it! Pull it off. Like… I don’t know! Like a stupid band aid!’

“It is going to be so much fun! I didn’t even tickle you yet and you’re already giggling excitedly! Think in all your wonderful, beautiful laughter flying everywhere when I finally tickle, tickle, tickle, tickle you silly!! You’ll be giggling up a storm! Happy gasp! Pun inserted!”

Virgil obligated himself to take a deep breath and not stare the warm, teasy hands which were oblivious of the intern turmoil caused as they rested on his sides. Their tips very lightly, almost impossible to feel and – even more difficult to ignore - poking the ticklish skin, as if they simply couldn’t bring themselves to stay still. The one laid on the couch and yet hiding his face felt the urge to kick just to get off all the pleasantly nervous energy building up in his body.

“Virgey-wiggly-wiggley…~”

“TICKLEMEPLEASE!”

Patton squeaked excited, the teasy grin immediately giving space to the joyful smile. “Of course!” He grazed his fingers up his sides to his ribcage, the nails lightly drawing circles around each one of the ribs, receiving a quick tasering in the middle of them before going up to the next one, letting for a piece of moment Virgil’s bubbly and more high-pitched giggles fill the room alone.

The cat cardigan owner ran the tip of his fingers up and down, up and down, up and down his sides, watching in complete awe the way the other squirmed at each infinitesimal move. He stopped the movement on his right side, his eyes gleaming behind the lenses as accompanied Virgil adorably wiggling away from the reminiscent tickles, as if he tried to escape from the evil fingers scribbling in that exactly spot which connected his left side to his tummy and leaded cute, sweet titters escape from his gigantic smile.

A devious plan shinned in his head.

Patton ceased the tickling in order to give him a breath, smiling at the pout that didn’t take too long before blooming in the other’s features.

He quickly poked his left side, immediately hearing quiet, bubbly giggles dance across the air as Virgil wiggled to his right, only to be warmly welcomed by scratches of one single finger on his lower back, making his breath stop so fast a snort escape. Virgil widened his eyes, his hands automatically clapping in his mouth at the same time a big, gleaming grin took over Patton’s expression. They stared at each other, fingers never stopping, squirms never ending.

“No.” His voice was slightly wobbly, giggles beginning to intertwine his words as his friend scribbled softly again. “No no no! You are a- dON’T!- such a dork!!! No!!”

They initiated the cycle again. Every time Virgil squirmed to escape from the left tingles to the right tickles one more finger was added to the attack, soon leaving the blushed poor victim kicking sporadically when the ten fingers resumed their light, tickly attack. “I’m going t-t-to kick you!!” and then was subdued to the snorts and squeals painting his fast titters.

The one who wore the cat hoodie which moments before had slipped from his head in the ““fight””, now showing clearly the red strongly flaming his cheeks and the tip of his ears shook his head from side to side, the frown he tried to form being immediately won by the smile taking over his features. Virgil let himself embrace the feeling completely over, laughing freely, almost doesn’t believing this was actually happening.

That it didn’t matter how much he tried to escape nor squirm, the tickling just followed his movements, just as all his (fake) protests didn’t stop the excited, evil teases pouring from the other’s mouth. Not to tell how only the big, happy gaze from Patton was definitely not helping in the slightest his current state at all!

He was certain. There was no way out of this. He was going to melt and d i e.

And he was loving every single second of this.

“Aww! Tickle, tickle, tickle, Virge!! Look at the happiness shining in your face!! Someone really, really loves some tickly-tickles, am I right? But don’t worry, Virgey-wiggley! I will give you all the tickles you could ever want! Like here!” He booped Virgil’s bellybutton “Here” A couple of fingers slid on his waistline “And here, and here, and here and everywhere!” Fingers flew quickly, traveling on his hips, collarbone, sides, behind his ears…

The incapacity to know where Patton would strike next killed every single drop of coherent thoughts of his mind, which could only focus on the tickling and how much it was unbearable and everywhere and it t i c k l e d . His giggles grew to chortles, his hands flying from his own face to lightly push Patton’s, dislocating his glasses and freeing surprised chuckles mixed with his own squeaks.

“Virgil!!” Patton ceased the playful attack in order to retire the other’s hands off his face, before both knew they’re wrestling, laughter cutting their acts and weakening their movements. “Virge!! I will go to another spot this way!”

In a blink of an eye one of his friend’s arms hugged his sides and Patton felt a malefic grin crawling his lips without even noticing its presence. Very much different from Virgil, who in the same heartbeat realized his mistake, using the opportunity of the instant of distraction to lightly push the cookie lover off him, quickly dashing across the house. All his instincts gleaming and sparkling the sign of ‘Survive’ in his veins.

The only reason of what Virgil forgot about the numbness from spending so much time laid on his legs, resulting in trips that definitely made him lose some crucial speed as he encircled the couch, capturing with the corner of his eyes the scene of Patton jumping of the cushions and following his escape route. The crackling dancing in the air owned by nobody specific.

His heart beat faster, the joy raced his nerves and made his tummy tingle in advance just for imagining the exact moment where two arms would hug him firmly yet gently from behind and his ears would be set on fire the very same moment Patton would say-

“Gotcha, Giggly Storm! I gotcha, gotcha ya!!” Patton dug his thumbs right above Virgil’s hips, the remaining fingers clawing the poor, sensitive skin in his back, leading belly laughter to took over his friend’s sentence, his knees buckling and legs uncontrollable kicking as Patton sat with him on the floor, pressing his back on his chest and resting his head on his shoulder.

“Patton!! Pahahatton, come on, no!” Patton just hummed, two fingers calmly walking on Virgil’s waistline. “Don’t you dare!! Don’t you fuckin- gah!” The nails began to slid in the length of the belly, going from a side to another as elected soft snorts and bouncy giggles.

“Tickle, tickle, tickle, Virge!! Did you thought you could run away from the Tickle Monster? Poor unfortunate soul ~. Now the Tickle Monster has to give you a bunch of more ticklish tickly tickles just for this, don’t you think?!” And then Virgil felt the tickles speed up to scribbles and clawing and wiggles delivered in every inch of his tummy. Going in random patterns, drawing forms on his sweet spot, up and down, from a side to another, over and over again. Quick enough to make him sporadically squirm and kick, a rain of squeals, yelps and squeals flowing from his lips, yet soft and light enough to let him rest his head on the other’s chest and just enjoy the feeling.

“Awww! Look at how much shaking your tum-tum is! It is probably so happy in receiving its so much craved tickle tickle tickles, right, Virgey-poo?” The answer was only a blushy Virgil hiding his face on Patton’s neck, giggling nonstop.

“Nonono!! It’s not!” And, if that move only led to a now very exposed neck to be gifted with some special scratches? They both pretended it wasn’t on purpose.

Patton just rolled his eyes, playfully exasperated, quietly chuckling when the other jumped with the quick squeeze delivered on his hip.

It didn’t take long before Virgil let out his first ‘Stop’, which Patton happily obliged, don’t having the heart to move when he realized Virgil’s breath becoming calmer, his eyelashes closing as he snuggled closer to the one wearing glasses.

The duo knew very well they would probably regret napping on the hard, cold floor later, yet none of them managed to bring themselves to care, especially when Virgil’s quiet snorts with the second tickle dream of the day lullabied Patton to an equally peaceful dream.

[~*~]

Random non-said thing: Patton only remembered that information because the movie they’re going to watch was one of the trilogy they were watching when Virgil gathered up enough will to tell him he likes tickling.

#Happyyy dayyyyy <333 #Sanders Sides tickling #Kanene's fanfic #Kanene's Au #Lee!Virgil #Ler!Patton #I just realized the title sounds like that cartoon Go Diego go. Not changing it looool xDDD #Ticklish!Virgil #Soft and Playful tickles #Cute #This is so cute because they're precioooous #Tickle fic #Tickle fanfic #Kanene's Art #Sanders SIdes Human AU #<3 #<33 #I really liked writing this one <33 #Sanders Sides tickles

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curious-menace · 4 years

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Arkham Scarecrow SFW Alphabet

im really enjoying writing arkham scarecrow. maybe ill do something similar to my random riddler headcanons posts with some scarecrows

long post under the cut

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Uhhh, the short answer is no. Jonathan is almost wholly incapable of what most people would term “affection”. His idea of loving is not using you for his experiments, only giving you small doses to build up your immunity( not that that will stop him from enjoying watching you panic). Jonathan leans heavily on gifts and words of affirmation as his language of love ( assuming he can even feel that emotion). He calls you “my dear” and “my darling” or once “my pumpkin” if he had too much to drink.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Jonathan would make a good friend if he could ever be wrangled into admitting it. He’s a complete bastard, but he's a loyal bastard. He always goes above and beyond for his friends but it's always in a “aw shit. My favorite idiot needs help AGAIN?!” begrudging , kind of way. You probably met in university/college and if you've stuck with him this long he’d be hard to get rid of.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

He never asks for cuddles and is pretty touch adversed as a rule. Sometimes though, He simply plonks himself in your space and expects you to know what he wants. Usually it's gentle backrubs/strokes like you would with a child. Sometimes he just wants your warmth to sooth his aching body. He’s heavier than he was in Arkham asylum but still very underweight so you shouldn't have too much trouble moving him into a comfortable position.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Absolutely not. I'm not convinced this man owns more than his books and the burlap sack on his back ,never mind a home. He has plans to take the cloudburst on tour, to go cross country and then across the world spreading fear. That would be a little difficult if he had gotham mortgage sending him nasty emails every other day about missed payments. While he can cook and clean, I doubt you'd want to eat anything he made. Ignoring his filthy hands, he's probably laced it with fear toxin or a lethal amount of hot sauce.

His homemade cleaning chemicals are pretty stellar mind you. They can get blood, piss or tears out of anything.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Scarecrow really is a ride or die kinda guy. If you've wormed your way into his life then he’s going to do literally everything and anything to keep you in it. He’s not above making you dependent on him for safety just to keep you around longer. He’s not a total monster to the people he cares about mind you. If you really didn't want to be with him, he’d let you go….eventually.

I'm not sure he fully understands the concept of a “breakup”on his end. He gets that you don't see eachother anymore but I don't think he quite grasps that it's not because one party is dead. There's a 99% chance he’ll use you for his fear toxin experiments as a way of kicking you to the kerb. If you wake up in a ditch with a text that says “we’re through” you should consider yourself lucky.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

I canon arkham scarecrow as having been engaged at one point in his life, possibly around the time of origins. I can imagine his partner gave him a “me or the fear toxin” ultimatum which has led to the man you know now. Despite how he looks, how he speaks and acts, he’s still open to the idea of a partner. He’s a loyal man who can't stand backstabbers, he’d appreciate someone like a spouse/husband/wife to have his back. If he decided he wanted to get married he’d propose almost immediately. It might be more of a business or thesis type proposal with lots of talking rather than flowers and wine and you're likely to be married as soon as you said yes.

He has a tiny pumpkin ring saved for the occasion. Something like this (image credit https://www.banggood.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s gentle, in a creepy way unsurprisingly. He was a little stronger than the average man before the incident with croc, all that cardio and fighting with batman made him a skinny legend amongst the rogues for how well he could fight. Now? He couldn't fight his way out of a paper bag. Mostly he's calm and soft, especially when you wouldn't expect him to be. He can still be an emotionally manipulative person but chances are good you're smart enough to see right through him. Calling him on his bs is actually a good way to endear yourself to him. He likes a challenge and he loves it when people think they can outsmart him.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Hmm. yes and no. Scarecrow is severely touch adversed, but...It's not like with Riddler; Edward is on the autism spectrum and genuinely gets overstimulated by a lot of physical contact, he doesn't usually enjoy it unless under specific circumstances. Scarecrow WANTS to be hugged and held on occasion, but the mere thought of someone in his personal bubble sends his hackles up.

When he first woke up after the asylum, he clung to you like a lampent. Scarecrow gives and recieves hugs like someone who needs them to breath.Your warmth soothes the aching pain when even drugs couldn't . By the time of Arkham Knight he’s grown cold and distant. His hugs are few and far between and unusually half hearted even when he initiates them. Maybe he’s just preoccupied with batman.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

I doubt he’d ever say the words ``i love you” but he’s absolutely going to quote love poetry at you, recite lines from his favorite literature “shall i compare you to a summer's day” and all that. That’s far better than a simple “i love you” right?

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Jonathan is sort of one note when it comes to expressing frustration. Coffee machine not working? Melt it down into fear toxin vials. Line at the grocery store? Gas everyone out of his way. He doesnt get mad, he gets even. He’s not a super jealous person, he’s probably the most secure in himself out of all the rogues in Gotham bar Selina and ivy. But when something does hit his jealousy bone just right? LORD HE IS TERRIBLE.

Unless you were the instigator, you are 100% safe but the poor soul who made the mistake of flirting with you will never see the light of day again.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

He can't really kiss to be honest. He lacks a lot of lip tissue and tongue dexterity for deep smooching. He’s quite happy to give you little pecks on the cheek but anywhere else will get sloppy and he's not a fan of that. Jonathan has actually started to bump you with his head like a cat in lieu of kisses. Rare as it is, when he wants kisses he has a tendency to nuzzle into the crook of your neck or rest his head on your shoulder. He likes to be kissed on the cheek , forehead and top of his head. Most other places are covered in scars and lack the sensitivity to enjoy it.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

He likes to scare kids. It's not as malicious as it is with adults, he just likes to yell boo at them, smiling as they scream and giggle and run away. It's probably the most innocent he’ll act around other people. He still doesnt like them per say but he’ll tolerate them in small doses.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Scarecrow , like most rogues, is not a morning person. He doesn't sleep well and he is hella grumpy when he first wakes up. Expect to watch him shuffle around his hideout like a zombie, still wearing a quilt and his dressing gown as he complains about everything from the weather to the loud creaking of the floorboards. You should present him with food and coffee and then retreat to a safe distance until he’s fully awake, otherwise he’s liable to turn on his grumpy old man routine on you. If he's feeling particularly sore or needy, he’ll ask you to help change his bandages and dressings .

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

It really depends on what he feels like in the moment. Sometimes he’ll leave you at home while he goes out to cause general mischief, sometimes he’ll bring you along as a look out. Sometimes it's a low-key night at the hideout reading and sometimes it's a caffeine fueled frenzie of experimentation and lab work with you as his trusty lab assistant. He doesn't sleep well at night, the aches keep him up. If he were ever to actually go to bed he might find that you make a great pillow.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

As much as he resents people having the upperhand with information, it's hard not for people to see his past. His scars are so easily visible, inside and out. He doesn't talk about his past unless prompted. But if you do he’ll quite happily answer all your questions; he’s not afraid of discussing it.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Jonathan is a very patient man, not just when it comes to revenge.It takes quite a lot to make him fly off the handle and he cools off again quickly. That's not to say he doesn't hold a grudge like he’s being paid for it, only that it's more of a simmering anger rather than a boiling one.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

He remembers most things about you, he has an excellent memory. But that being said he never lets on that he knows these things. He likes to hear you talk about the things that interest you, even if you've told him about it before. Watching you wax lyrical about your chosen subject makes him feel close to you.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

I don't know if it's a favorite or even a positive memory but when he first woke up from surgery after croc you were lying beside him. He was understandably confused, maybe even afraid, but seeing you there brought him great comfort. He didn't know what was happening because of all the meds, but as long as you were with him he was confident things would work out for him.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

He means well, you should always keep that in mind before you snap at him. He brought you to the arkham knights HQ to protect you from his plans, he’s given you micro doses of fear toxin to build your resistance and by the time of arkham knight you can hardly move for the amount of guards he has following you around. He’s overbearing bordering on controlling but I think it's because he simply can't admit the thought of losing you scares him, even just a little. You aren't a rogue, you don't know Batman like they do. He just needs to keep you safe from batman, from the police and from the ugly world outside.

Given how weak he’s been viewed practically all his life, I believe he’d resent the accusation he needed protecting. deep in his mind he knows no one man is an island. He appreciates little helps even if he won't say it. He doesn't need protection per say but If nothing else, after being injected with his new toxin, he's going to need someone who’s corpus mentis in his corner for court and medical proceedings.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

His idea of a perfect date is you two working on your respective projects in comfortable silence, maybe a trip to the museum if he feels like the exercise. Obviously that suits some people down to the ground, myself included, but he gets that it's not for everyone. He’s probably ok with you planning the activities provided you warn him beforehand.

Given everything he’s been planning for batman, things like important dates and even everyday tasks have a tendency to get lost in the fray. He's not doing it on purpose, He’s glad to celebrate these things with you if you remind him, He's just got his priorities in a funny order.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

He shuffles his feet when he walks and is one of those people who always has conversations in doorways. You can never be sure he isn't aware of these habits and is doing them on purpose. He also used to smoke quite heavily but has since given it up due to his throat and lung issues.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

It's sort of a mixed bag with him. On the one hand he knows he’s ugly, that's the point. You're MEANT to be scared looking at him, he’s leaning into it. But on the other hand his “look” is a carefully maintained visage; if it slips it might lose the intended effect. He might not be as scary to look at or worse, people might look at him in pity. It's not ordinary vanity or narcissism but yes, he is concerned with maintaining the way he looks

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

The concept of feeling whole is somewhat lost on him; He’s clearly missing a few screws even in his most lucid moments. That said even in the depths of madness brought on by his toxin, he still notices your absence. Still incredibly distressed In his cell in blackgate, he can often be heard crying out to you for comfort but is lacking the wherewithal to understand why you're not there.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Given that he has pretty extensive facial injuries, eating is pretty difficult for him. He used to really enjoy bagels and cubanos from gothams many deli’s. His favorite was a kosher deli in The Cauldron, before Joker ruined it. They’ve since rebuilt and while he can't eat many solids anymore , he still enjoys their matzo soup and smoothies.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Like most of the rogues, he absolutely can't stand bullies.He also can't stand physically aggressive people; if you're going to even TRY and intimidate him maybe you could use your words like someone with more than 2 brain cells to rub together, rare as that is in gotham. Back when he was a psychiatrist he hated people who were chronically late. Not his patients, most of the time it wasn't their fault due to executive dysfunction or traffic, but people who kept HIM back and made HIM late were the bane of his existence.

Z = Zzz (What are their sleep habits?)

Crane is a back sleeper who snores because of his damaged septum.He knows he makes a noise akin to a flip flop in a lawn mower but there is literally nothing he can do about it besides sleep on his stomach. He squirms around a lot in his sleep so even if he starts on his stomach, he’ll be on his back snoring like a dead horse in no time. The only thing that could keep him frontwise is if he were to sleep on you and have you hold him in place.

#Sfw alphabet #scarecrow #jonathan crane #headcanons #scarecrow headcanons #my headcanons #my stuff

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juyeoniemyhoney · 4 years

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can this morning never end

Namjoon is the most beautiful human being to ever walk the earth. It is natural that you have a crush on him. You expect that eventually, your feelings will die out but then, you find yourself squealing uncontrollably outside of the library that you and Namjoon had agreed to meet at for your pair-work assignment. You have always watched Namjoon from afar. It surprises you when you find out that Namjoon has been observing you too. Well, there’s a first for everything.

-pairing: Kim Namjoon x reader

-genre: FLUFF, a lil bit of angst, high school/secondary school au (where i live high school is called secondary school;-;)

-warnings: vulgarities, pretty self-depreciating writing if im gonna be honest so be weary, Namjoon is a little bit of a simp for oc in this one, the ending is lowkey shit rip im sorry

-word count: 3208 words

-A/N: hi hi im back, this time with a Namjoon fic. i havent been writing a lot because im so preoccupied with my exams. in all honesty, i shouldnt be writing at all but i have absolutely no sense of self control, so i wrote this. it’s not my best but i really like how joon’s so soft in this so i decided to post it anyway. don’t be afraid to tell me how you liked (or didnt like) this imagine! and requests are open! hope you enjoy this one:)

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As you approach the entrance of the library, your heart starts beating a mile a minute.

You stall outside the automatic sliding doors, mind racing with a million scenarios. You freak out a little and silently squeal, earning you disapproving frowns and judging eyes from passers-by. But you don't care. You've waited a whole week for today.

A week ago, during English class, you were busy writing instead of paying attention, as usual, when your teacher had given the class the assignment to write a scenario, of any genre but it had to contain the writer's techniques she had taught in class. And she made the whole class pair up. You, too lost in the world of fanfiction, had not been listening and frankly, you didn't really care, passing her words off as just more homework.

The next thing you knew, Kim Namjoon had turned around in his chair, calling your name in that deep, gravelly voice. At the sound of his voice, your head immediately shot up, eyes wide in surprise.

"Do you want to partner up?" he had asked, lips slinging into an easy grin, eyes curling up and that goddamned dimple making itself made known on his left cheek. He patiently waited for your answer, eyes periodically glancing down to your desk that was in disarray, pieces of paper containing your words messily covering every corner of your desk. You pray that he didn't catch a peep of your (admittedly) cringeworthy fanfic as you tried to subtly gather the papers before he could read too much.

"Um, partner up for what?" you questioned, confused, head tilting ever so slightly to the right in question, brows furrowed in misunderstanding. He mirrored your actions and your heart had unwontedly skipped a beat. A beat of silence passed, "For the assignment?"

Before you could ask what assignment?, your teacher had interrupted your conversation with a satisfied clap and a smile. "Alright, I assume you have all found your partners. I'll give you time to work on your assignment right now. Remember that planning is the most important stage of writing. Do approach me if you have any questions."

Namjoon had turned back to you with a wry grin that looked a tad bit awkward, saying, "Well, I guess we're partners now."

Which is how you find yourself freaking the fuck out in front of a library on a Saturday morning, mind racing with different, absurd scenarios and outcomes of this meeting. You decide to take another minute to compose yourself.

You wouldn't say that you like Namjoon per se. You just think he is the most handsome man to walk on this godforsaken planet. But seriously, that man is far too beautiful to be real. From the first time you met him til now, you have no doubt that that man is a celestial being, gifted to the world from the gods, purely to cleanse the eyes of us, mere mortals. To make matters worse, he is smart too; of a wisdom thousands of years beyond his age. You still can't believe you've had the god-given opportunity to meet someone like him.

Okay so, maybe you kind of like him a lot, more than you let on, but you're not really sure if you like him because he's Namjoon or if it's because you are lovelorn, touch deprived, or both.

You reckon it has taken more than a minute to compose yourself because by the time you snap out of your daze, you are five minutes late when you had actually arrived five minutes earlier than the agreed timing. You sigh and finally walk through the doors that welcome you into the cooling library, cold blasts from the air conditioning cooling down the fierce blush that had taken refuge on your cheeks.

You immediately proceed to find a seat but Namjoon texts you, telling you that he's already a step ahead of you, having secured a seat in a room with tables on the second floor.

When you reach the second floor, and make your way towards the rooms, you can see Namjoon through the glass walls, sitting down and silently reading a book as he waits for you. The closer you draw to the room, the faster your heart pounds in your chest. The sound is deafening and distracting and you don't even realise how fast you had walked until you are finally knocking on the glass door, sending Namjoon a small smile when he looks up at you.

"Hi, Y/N," he greets, smile widening into a grin so wide that it hides his eyes. Your heart stops but you hide it with a small smile as you settle down your things and yourself opposite him.

"So, what genre did you want to write about," he asks as you take a pen and a piece of paper out from your bag. You freeze when your brain registers his sentence. "The assignment is to write a story?"

Namjoon stares at you wordlessly for a while, speechless that it's been a week and you still don't know what the fucking assignment is. You, however, have no idea that he is thinking about how stupid you are and happily stare back at him, taking in his mono lidded, almond-shaped eyes and the dark brown of his irises. His nose bridge is straight and the tip of his nose is a little flat, like a koala. You have never wanted to boop a nose so bad in your entire life.

"Yeah, that's the assignment," he responds patiently, giving you a gentle smile. You can't help but feel that it seems a little tight and forced, like he is regretting asking you be his partner, and regretting that he didn't have enough time to reconsider. You ignore the feeling of dejection that slowly bubbles up inside of you.

"I thought that it'd be easiest to write romance since you're so well versed in that.". You freeze. Time seems to have stopped and your ears refuse to register the rest of what Namjoon is saying, tuning everything out but your deafening thoughts. You have to remind yourself to breathe.

"You know that I write?" you interrupt Namjoon. He stops and fixes you a look of confusion, like it is so obvious that you write. It's not that you've been trying to keep it a secret. The thing is, for most of your stories, Namjoon is the main male character. In most of your stories, you have described every single part of him in excruciating detail, his eyes and lips especially. When your friends had first read your stories with Namjoon as the male protagonist, they had caught on quickly, almost immediately asking you if you were describing Namjoon because of how well you had described him. A bad feeling washes over you.

"Yeah, you're always scribbling away during English so I got curious and asked a few of your classmates," he responds, flashing you another lopsided smile. If this were any other situation, your heart would have been absolutely eliminated because of that smile but in this situation, all you can think about is if he's read any of your work. Because if he has, you're done for.

"What did my classmates say?" you question hesitantly, still deciding if you want to know his answer.

"Well they said that you've been writing since forever. They also said that a lot of people know that you write. Oh, and they also said that you had some published works so I went to check them out—" Namjoon's voice fades out as he continues to talk.

This is it.

It's the end of your social life. Namjoon is going to tell his loud ass group of friends that you write stalker-esque stories about him and then one of his friends is going to accidentally tell their girlfriend and then the girlfriend is going to spread it across the school and you'll be known as the loser who writes creepy stalker stories about Namjoon—

"It was amazing," you hear Namjoon say in between your mild quarter-life crisis. You pause and look him square in the eye. You want to come off as serious but you falter slightly when Namjoon stares back at you, irises a whirlpool of dark brown and glittering fascination, a swirling vortex that draws you in with a vicious intent of drowning.

"Yes?" Namjoon questions you after a beat of silence passes. You want to ask him if he knows that he is reading about himself but you stop yourself. "You like my stories?" you ask instead, feeling a tad bit shy now that you've realised that Namjoon likes what you write about him.

He lets out a small laugh, "Is it that hard to believe that I like what you write?"

"I was just surprised." He flashes you another wide grin and there it is, those cursed dimples show themselves again, grinning tauntingly at you and your heart commits the highest act of treason when it starts to beat faster. You gulp.

"You shouldn't be surprised. It was really good. I really liked it when you described the male character. It felt like I was looking at him myself. That's why I asked you to be my partner. I'm sure with your talents, we can get a really good mark on this assignment."

Your heart thuds a little faster when Namjoon tells you that his favourite part was reading about how you described him. But it falls to your stomach when he tells you that he picked you solely for your supposed talents. You don't know why, but a part of you had thought that maybe Namjoon wanted to get to know you better, and was using this assignment as an excuse. You thought that it was finally happening, someone you like has finally noticed you. But it looks like you thought wrong.

"Thank you," you say meekly, flashing him a half-hearted smile that you're sure he notices from the way he stiffens. "So, you said that you thought that romance would be a good genre, but what do you want to write about?"

Namjoon is silent for a while, lips pursed in ponder. You wait patiently for his answer.

"Well, I thought that I'd wanted to write romance too," he answers flashing you an awkward smile. The silence that follows is palpable and suddenly, you feel so very exhausted. "Well then, that's settled. Now we just have to think of a situation."

"How about this one?" Namjoon asks immediately after you finish your sentence. He says it rather suddenly and it startles you a little. You can't help but hear a certain extent of desperation in this voice. He wants to get this over with, you tell yourself.

"How do you mean?"

"Kinda like us now," he starts but stops to think about what to say next. You remain silent. "We should just write about us but make it a love story. For example, the two main characters are supposed to do a project together so they meet at a library," he pauses to gesture to the shelves surrounding the both of you.

"Then they start working on the project and they start talking. Then, somehow, the boy confesses to her. And the girl tells him she's always felt the same way. We can come up with how he confesses since I myself haven't come up with that yet," he continues, softening the last part of his sentence into a mumble that you barely hear, but still do. You pause. What the fuck?

"What did you say? I didn't hear you," you ask against your better judgement, curiosity getting the best of you. "Huh? Oh, it was nothing."

A furious blush begins to spread on the apples of Namjoon's cheeks, and for some reason, your body begins to mirror him, heart pumping hot blood to the blood vessels that lay beneath the skin of your cheeks. Namjoon shyly directs his gaze to his lap, dark brown bangs, the colour of his eyes, coming down in luxurious curls and waves to hide his eyes. You can't help but think that you like to see Namjoon like this; soft and shy and vulnerable because he is usually so confident and suave. It feels like he is showing a new side of himself to you, like he is peeling back the layers of masks and personas he has built until he is left raw and natural, allowing you to see everything that he is. The thought of that leaves you feeling winded because it is exactly what you want. And suddenly, you don't feel bashful or shy because of his words. Instead, you are determined, hellbent on making something out of this and you hope with your whole being that it is a relationship.

You are about to say something, to question him, bombard him until he is spilling his feelings in fumbled words and sentences of desperation and want, clawing at you until you too, are raw and vulnerable. But he beats you to it, speaking in a soft, hushed tone, as if you are a stern silence that he is afraid of interrupting.

"I think you're amazing, Y/N. What do you think of me?"

He stares meekly at his lap, too afraid to even spare you a glance. You remain silent, building his desperation like you are some professional flirt. In all honesty, you really just want to tell him you like him too but you're just so scared. The evidence that he at least feels something for you is right in front of you and yet your brain rejects it like a vending machine rejects a bill, walls built far too high and thick that words are no longer enough to convince you. He has to show you. And you think he knows that too.

Namjoon's head shoots up to stare you in the eyes, a new found determination and confidence burning in his eyes. The way the light finds his dark brown irises makes your heart do a million somersaults. They light up and turn into a golden brown you can't help but compare to a sweet, caramel syrup that coats your tongue in golden, sugary gratification. You swallow so hard, you feel the sides of your throat rub together painfully.

"I think you're freaking amazing, Y/N. Every time I look at you, I always want to make myself better. For you. I want to become the best version of myself in hopes that it'll satisfy you and garner your attention. And I really like that you do what makes you happy. I absolutely love it when you write in English because you're always so focused and serious, plus, you make that really cute face when you're concentrating and it always makes my heart beat a little faster and it makes me hate that I sit in front of you because I have to keep finding stupid reasons to turn around just to look at you and I just think you're the most amazing, admirable, lovable person ever," Namjoon lets out. His words are rushed and desperate and you melt like goddamn candle wax.

"I'm— Wow, I'm— thank you, Namjoon. That really means a lot to me," you stutter, not really knowing what to say at first but finding your words soon enough. "Oh, and I feel the same way," you add, somehow missing the main point of your response. It doesn't matter anyway. He knows now. That's all that matters.

"Wait, really?"

You let out a laugh. "Yeah, Namjoon. Is it that hard to believe that I like you too?" you reply, a homage to your previous conversation.

Namjoon smiles a small smile, then it widens, and widens, and widens, until he is flashing you a blinding grin that could outright beat the glare of sunlight. "You said that you like me," he points out, eyes shining.

It is your turn to blush in embarrassment, cheeks feeling hot as you begin to sink into yourself, hair falling from behind your shoulders to hopefully make itself useful as a curtain to shield your red face from Namjoon. Something in Namjoon's chest begins to splinter at the sight. He is so very tempted to pull out his phone and snap a picture of you but he holds himself back at the thought that he is positive he has many more chances to do so. His ribs nearly break in half because of how hard his heart beats.

"It's a good thing that I like you too," he says gently, smile now gentle instead of blinding. "Also, we have a plot now!" he exclaims in excitement as he slides the pen and paper closer to himself, ready to start on your assignment.

"Wait."

"Yeah?"

"So, we're, are we? You know... Um, dating now?"

Namjoon's eyes widen in horror and he deflates himself, a disappointed frown pulling his eyebrows together at the centre and turning the corners of his lips down. "Shit, I'm sorry I didn't ask— I just assumed—" he cuts himself off, clearing his throat dramatically.

"Y/N, will you be my girlfriend?" he asks. Somehow, he still feels nervous even though he knows that you answer is a resounding, "Yes, I would love to be your girlfriend."

Namjoon lets out the breath he didn't even know he was holding and it comes out in a relieved sigh. "Thank God because if not our story would have a horrible ending," Namjoon comments, picking the pen back up and clicking it open.

"Let's write that," you cut in before he can say anything else. "Write a sad love story?"

Namjoon is going to tell you no, to completely disapprove of your idea because writing a sad love story is one thing but writing a sad love story that will be handed up to your teacher for her to grade is another thing. But then, he sees your eyes glisten in determination and he dispels his thoughts immediately, folding into himself like a goddamn lawn chair. He can't believe he was just about to say no to you. What the fuck is wrong with him?

"Please? I'm better at writing angst. Plus, we have a happy ending and that's all that matters," you press, trying to convince him. You don't have a real reason other than the fact that you write angst better. You also don't really know why you want to write angst right now when you feel as if you could fly. But it doesn't matter. None of it matters anymore. Namjoon is your's now.

Namjoon flashes you a dimpled smile, eyes curling up and glittering with mirth and unadulterated belief in you. You can't help but think that you want him to never stop smiling like that, looking at you like you are some sort of celestial being, hailed from the sky solely to bring him every sort of merriment known to mankind and the heavens. The thought of him thinking of you like that scares you, because you are always afraid of not being enough. But Namjoon diminishes all of your worries with a short sentence, manhandling them by the throat and shoving them off a cliff.

"Okay, I believe in you."

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imagineteamfreewill · 4 years

Text

Consort - Part 5

Title: The Culling

Pairing: Goddess!Reader x Dean

Word Count: 4,650

Warnings: In this world, each family gives up their firstborn son to serve at the temple when he turns 16. This chapter shows this sacrifice, and also includes descriptive memories of Dean’s experience with it. There will be mentions and descriptions of drugging, angst, manipulation of emotions, people forced into servitude, and implied depression. Do not read if you aren’t comfortable with these things.

Summary: Dean sets out with Y/N for The Culling, which brings back a host of memories he’d never wanted to think about again.

A/N: This is part five of Consort. Please heed the warnings. Feedback makes the world go round, so after you enjoy, make sure to reblog with your comments!

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Before Dean knew it, The Culling had arrived. His handmaidens woke him earlier than usual, and he noticed after he was dressed that a trunk of his own was sitting beside Y/N’s. They showed him the clothes that were there for him and encouraged him to pack a few of his books—it was to be a long trip. Joanna warned him one final time to guard himself, but the sadness in her eyes told him that she was giving up on him. She was starting to believe that he’d given in to Y/N’s manipulations, despite the fact that Dean still had no clue whether or not Y/N was actually using her powers to coerce him into loving her.

Dean was ready and waiting for Y/N when she finally returned to the bedroom. She was dressed in one of her long white gowns and it reminded him of the day she'd first informed him he was to be her consort. The slits revealed her legs as she walked, but Dean was more focused on the strange glow that was emanating from her. He couldn’t help but stare, even though he knew she could tell.

Finally, Y/N looked over at him and smiled. “You may ask your question,” she told him, chuckling slightly as Dean felt his cheeks grow warm at her acknowledgement. “It’s okay, Dean.”

“Where were you this morning? Why are you glowing?”

“I was in my garden,” Y/N replied. She took a seat on her chaise, facing his seat on top of his trunk. “The trees gave me the extra strength I would need on our journey.”

“Do you need their strength? I thought…” Dean trailed off, unsure if he should voice his thoughts.

Y/N smiled gently and shook her head. “I don’t need it, but I like to take a part of my temple with me wherever I go. It’s part of my home, just as it is yours. The trees give me part of themselves so I may feel at home even when I’m away.”

Dean nodded. He wished he’d been able to bring something from Lawrence with him when he’d left. “I understand. When do we leave?” he asked. “Soon, I take it?”

Y/N sighed and got to her feet again, glancing out the windows. The sun was only just awake, even though they’d both been up for hours. From his seat, Dean could see several enclosed carriages waiting on the road that led out of the temple. He hadn't seen them since his own Culling, and he felt his stomach sink at the site. Surely he wouldn’t be expected to ride in the same carriages that took him away from his family?

“Dean?”

He looked over, standing when Y/N beckoned him over to her. She took both of his hands in hers and squeezed gently.

“Do you remember what I told you on your first day as my consort?” she asked, and Dean shook his head in response. Her expression was serious as she continued, “You will have duties while we are away from the temple. You are to act as one of my guards, and to fulfill any needs that my handmaidens cannot meet. You are not to speak to any of the boys or their families, and you are not to speak to your family when we are in Lawrence. You may not refer to me by my name unless we are alone. Do you understand?”

Nodding, Dean watched Y/N’s stern expression morph into a happy one, and she squeezed his hands one more time before dropping them.

“Good,” she praised. “Now, let’s begin our journey. We have many villages to visit, Dean. Follow me.”

Y/N smiled again and moved around him to leave the room. The trunks were gone when he turned around, and after following her to the doorway, Dean took one last look around her chambers before stepping out into the hallway.

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The carriages weren’t at all what he had expected. The last time he’d been in one, the guards had given him a warm drink to make him sleep, so he didn't have many memories of them. He’d expected the insides to be plain and uncomfortable to travel in, just like the one he'd been put in, but this carriage, however, was magical in every sense of the word.

Once inside, Dean discovered it was much larger than it appeared to outsiders. The floor was covered with thick, plush rugs in rich colors, and there were lamps scattered throughout the space. There were plenty of pillows for Dean, Y/N, and her handmaidens to lounge on, and there was even a bubbling fountain in the far corner of the carriage.

Dean had taken up residence in the corner opposite the fountain, and he’d found that as soon as he settled down, his trunk appeared nearby. One of the handmaidens had fussed over him for a short time, but Y/N had called her away from him without explanation. He was left by himself, though he couldn’t complain. It was clear that the women were better suited to care for Y/N and her needs, so he simply pulled out one of his books and tried to focus on that rather than the upcoming events.

They’d been informed shortly after their start that the caravan would first be traveling to the farthest village, then working its way back to the temple. The stately man driving the first carriage in the train had listed off the villages for them. Lawrence landed in the middle of their journey, and Dean’s mind wandered as the man droned on about the various villages they would be visiting.

His mother had been stoic as the guards had led Dean away from her, Sam, and his father on the day of Dean’s Culling. They'd all known this day was coming and most tears had been shed in advance, but he was sure she'd cried after he was inside the caravan.

Him and the other boys had been led to the farthest carriage, and they had each drank a cup of the warm, thick drink offered to them by the guards. It had tasted like the medicine Dean's mother had given him as a child to help him sleep whenever he was sick, and he’d recognized the taste immediately. Knowing that they were drugging him had made everything worse, even though he’d understood the reason for it. Some of the boys had threatened to hurt the guards as they’d been taken away from their families.

The pit in Dean's stomach had grown as he climbed inside the carriage that would take him to his fate. It had been empty and plain, with thin mattresses and blankets spread out over the floor. He'd taken one of the far ones, wanting to be far away from everyone else. He’d grown up with the boys slowly climbing into the carriage behind him, but now he just wanted to be alone. Once lying down, Dean had simply closed his eyes and tried not to think about what his future would hold. He’d been asleep before the last boy was even inside.

Now, in the lavish carriage filled with luxuries he couldn’t have even dreamed of as a young boy, Dean continued to try not to think about those things. The words on the page in front of him were blurry and he sighed, closing the book and slipping it back inside the trunk. Reading had been a welcome escape and luxury over the past few weeks—or has it been months?—but it seemed that now he was doomed to have to think about what they were going to do. He could remember the bitterness and anger he’d felt at Y/N in the weeks that had led up to his Culling. He’d been so angry that he’d had to go while his younger brother got to stay with their parents and build a life of his own once he was old enough. A thread of that bitterness wove its way into Dean’s mind now, leaving a bad taste in his mouth, and he quickly shook his head to get rid of it.

Dean laid down with his head on one of the soft pillows and watched the fountain bubble in the corner of the carriage. Would all the boys and girls they took back to the temple feel the same way he had? Angry, bitter, and sad? What opportunities were they missing out on? He’d known several boys in Lawrence that had attempted to court before they were taken away, and he found himself wondering if those girls had moved on. In the temple, there was no chance for courting. Temple servants weren’t supposed to fall in love and there was no marriage or families, and if it was found out that people were trying to form a romantic attachment of any kind to one of the other temple servants, they were taken away. Dean had seen it. He wasn’t sure where the men had been taken, but he was sure it was someplace he’d never want to go.

A shiver ran up his spine at the thought and Dean closed his eyes, trying to sleep. He could hear the handmaidens fussing over Y/N, but no matter how hard he tried to ignore them, the noise kept him awake and his mind kept turning back to thoughts of the boys he’d soon see climbing into the other carriages in the caravan. The thought of this made him nauseous, and he spent the next few hours trying to keep himself from throwing up onto the soft rugs beneath him.

Days passed quickly in the caravan. Dean watched the sun rise and fall through a small window in the carriage’s only door, and he rarely thought of anything besides what was to come. He tried to read each day, but the words never stuck. The handmaidens would bring him food and water, and when he wasn’t trying to read or eating, Dean laid with his head on the pillow and tried to sleep so that the horrible, saddening thoughts would disappear. Sometimes he felt Y/N’s eyes on him, but she never called for him and the handmaidens rarely urged him to speak to them. He wouldn’t, even if they’d tried more often. He didn’t have the energy.

Almost two weeks into their travels through Camor, Dean was about to lay down and close his eyes to try and sleep when he heard Y/N call his name from the other side of the carriage for the first time since the start of their journey.

"Yes?" he asked, his voice like sandpaper after being silent for so long.

She beckoned him closer, turning around so her back was to him as soon as he was within arm's reach.

"Tell me a story, Dean," Y/N instructed, and she reached out with one hand to shoo away the handmaidens that had gathered around them as soon as Dean sat down. "Go care for yourselves," she told them.

Once they had left, Dean sat behind her and began to run his fingers through her soft hair as he thought about a story to tell. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of The Culling, however, and after a minute of silence it was clear that he had no story to offer.

"Your Majesty," Dean began, the title feeling foreign and heavy on his tongue after calling Y/N by her name for so long. "I'm afraid I have no stories to tell you today."

Y/N was silent for a long moment. Finally, she replied, "Tell me a story from one of your books."

Reluctantly, Dean began to braid her hair as he tried to recount the beginning of the book he’d been attempting to read. It was hard to focus on something other than what he’d been thinking about for almost two weeks straight, however, and he was halfway done with the intricate braid when he realized he’d stopped talking. He quickly tried to pick up where he’d left off in the story, but he couldn’t remember exactly where he was. So, he started over, but soon after his fingers fumbled their weaving and he trailed off once again. He frowned and undid the last few motions, and he was just about to start the story for the third time when Y/N pulled her hair from his grasp and turned to face him. She cupped his cheek in one hand and searched his eyes, and Dean was suddenly all too aware of the handmaidens watching their interactions with great interest.

“You’re distracted. What are you thinking about?” she asked, her voice soft.

Dean averted his eyes. “Nothing, Your Majesty.”

Y/N moved her hand so she was holding his chin between her thumb and forefinger, making it so he was unable to escape her gaze. “Don’t shut me out,” she murmured. Dean detected a hint of pleading in her words but he didn’t dare tell her what he was on his mind, especially in front of the handmaidens. As her consort, Dean knew he was supposed to be subservient to Y/N. Having thoughts about how much he despised being part of The Culling was the exact opposite of what he should be doing.

Finally, Y/N let go of him and stood. “Help him bathe when we stop by the pools,” she told the handmaidens, her voice emotionless. Dean heard a flurry of activity come from their side of the carriage in response. “Make sure he’s given all the food and water he desires, as well. If I find out that my consort is unhappy with something you could have provided, there will be a price to pay.”

Dean remembered hearing about the pools as a child. They were sparkling and a deep blue, and when they finally arrived, the handmaidens followed Y/N’s orders to a tee. Dean barely had to think about something he wanted or needed and it was presented to him, and the healing waters soothed the muscles that were sore from riding in the carriage for so long. No matter how comfortable it was, he’d grown used to sleeping on Y/N’s plush bed in the temple.

The journey continued soon after and Dean felt himself grow even more numb as they neared the farthest village. Through the small window he watched the empty sky turn into thick forests, a sign that they were closer to the outer edge of Camor than he’d originally thought. When he wasn’t asleep or trying to focus on what was outside, Dean’s days were occupied with haunted thoughts of what was to come and memories of his own Culling. Y/N sometimes requested stories from him, but just like before, he found himself unable to focus. He stumbled over his words or got lost during even the most familiar of stories, and soon Y/N gave up, leaving him to sit in silence for most of the day and let the handmaidens attend to him when he needed something.

An aching loneliness and grief had settled into Dean’s bones when the carriage finally stopped and Y/N stood. She crossed the room, stopping in front of him and reaching down to press a warm hand to his shoulder. He felt her tugging on his emotions until finally a swell of awareness filled him and all the exhaustion he’d been trudging through was gone.

“Come,” Y/N said, her voice and expression stony. “I need you with me.”

Nodding, Dean got to his feet and stretched his arms above his head. His muscles were tight from lack of use and he winced at the sensation. Y/N stepped out of the carriage with her handmaidens behind her, leaving Dean to catch up on his own.

By the time he was outside and in line with the handmaidens, the temple men acting as Y/N’s guards were already holding back an anxious crowd. The villagers were shouting at their group, and the anxiety coming off of them made Dean’s own stomach twist in knots as he climbed up the few steps onto the platform on the end of the first carriage, then took his place beside her.

Dean watched in silence as Y/N closed her eyes, and after a moment he felt a wave of calm wash over him, just like it had when she’d used her magic on the temple servants shortly after he’d become her consort. The crowd began to calm, both visibly and audibly, and Dean knew that she was doing this to help them. As much as he hated the thought of her using her powers to manipulate peoples’ emotions, he’d heard tales of people becoming injured when riots broke out during Cullings. It wasn’t just villagers, either—he knew several temple servants who lived with scars, limps, or near-constant pain because of what had happened in their villages.

“Thank you, all of you,” Y/N said. “Camor will remain safe and fruitful because of your sacrifices. I honor all of you each day.”

Her words echoed through the vast forests surrounding the villages as she reached over and took Dean’s hand, holding on tightly. He felt her sway slightly beside him, and then her eyes rolled back in her head and her knees gave out beneath her. Dean reached over, quickly catching her before she hit the floor of the platform. The handmaidens parted as Dean scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the steps, then back towards their own carriage. As he turned to make his way back, he met eyes with one of the young boys being herded by the guards. The fear in the boy’s expression made Dean feel queasy and he hurried back to the carriage without hesitation.

Once inside, he shut the door and carried Y/N over to her spot against the wall. Her eyes fluttered open as he set her down and placed a pillow under her head, and Dean met them when she reached over and took his hand.

“Don’t go,” she murmured. “Please.”

“Do you feel ill?” Dean asked, settling beside her on the rugs. He pulled over a pillow of his own and let her intertwine their fingers.

“No. I extended my magic too far, I believe. The people here were more anxious than they ever have been. It required much more of my energy than I had anticipated,” Y/N answered. She closed her eyes again, humming in appreciation when Dean began to speak quietly.

“Once upon a time,” he whispered, “there was a small family who lived in a village near a forest. They ran a bakery that was next to their home, and it always smelled like freshly baked bread and, if the two young children were lucky, sweets.”

Dean glanced at Y/N’s face one more time before closing his own eyes. She was smiling softly and he felt relief wash over him at the sight. As unsure about her as he was, he was glad he could come up with a story to tell her. At least this way he was being useful.

“The little girl and the little boy spent a lot of time helping their parents in the bakery. They would knead the dough for the bread or mix bowls of batter. Of course, they spent a lot of time playing in the forest as well, and it was on one of those days among the trees that the little boy discovered a cave. It wasn’t dark inside when he entered, and he was surprised to find another little boy sitting by a campfire inside.”

The story continued as the boy discovered the child in the cave was their long lost sibling, but before Dean could take it any farther, his mind began to wander back to the young boys he’d seen lined up to go back to the temple with them. Thankfully, Y/N had already dozed off and the handmaidens had returned as well. They were probably grateful for the silence in the carriage, as well as the rest that it provided.

Sighing, Dean rolled onto his back, keeping his fingers intertwined with Y/N’s. He could feel the carriage beneath them begin to move and it made his heart lurch. Somewhere at the back of their long caravan, there was a carriage full of boys that were afraid, angry, and heartbroken. They didn’t know what their futures held, but then again, Dean still wasn’t sure what his future held, either.

_______________

Traveling to each village and collecting the boys never got any easier. Y/N was exhausted each time after having to calm the crowds, and Dean tried his best to keep her company despite his preoccupation with what was happening outside. Each stop made his heart feel even heavier. All he could think about was the pain that the boys and the families were experiencing. He hadn’t had the chance to see what the crowd around him had looked like during his own Culling, but now he could clearly see the heartbreak and the pain in the eyes of the mothers, fathers, and siblings that the boys were leaving behind. It made him sick to his stomach, and sometimes after Y/N drifted off to sleep he found himself throwing up while one of the handmaidens held a bowl for him. They helped him clean up in silence, their own eyes sad. They were feeling the pain of the villagers just as much as he was.

After what seemed like a lifetime, they arrived in Lawrence. Dean hadn’t even thought about the fact that they’d be arriving in his village soon, but when Y/N stopped him from exiting the carriage after one of the guards opened the door, he realized what was to come. His stomach dropped and his chest grew tight at the sight of the dark wall of pine trees outside the carriage. Though they’d traveled far from the outer edges of Camor where the forests grew thick and were filled with unexplored territory, Dean would recognize those trees anywhere. He’d climbed almost every one of them before he’d even turned twelve.

“Dean,” Y/N said, her hand gripping his arm tightly. “You must remember your vow to me. You will not talk to your family, nor will you talk to any of the people here, even if you recognize them. I can sense that the crowds here are… greatly displeased with me. I need you to be ready to protect me if required. You will do these things for me, yes?”

He could feel her watching him and he nodded tightly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Very well,” Y/N replied. She dropped her hand from his arm and strode forward, descending out of the carriage with her handmaidens close behind. One of them gave Dean a pitying look over her shoulder.

Steeling himself, Dean followed the last of the women out of the carriage and towards the platform where Y/N always stood. He could hear the crowd almost immediately, and as he neared the spot where they normally stood, he realized that the platform wasn’t there. Y/N positioned herself near the carriage regardless. The dirt road was hard underneath their bare feet and Dean winced when he stepped on a rock, but he took his place by her side in silence, scanning the crowd for his family.

It wasn’t hard to spot them; Sam was at least a head above the rest of the villagers, and Dean met his eyes almost instantly. He swallowed thickly. The last time he’d seen his little brother he’d been just that—little.

Y/N began to work her magic over the crowd as Dean stared at his brother. He didn’t know what to do, and he was in the middle of trying to figure out how to communicate with him without speaking when Sam surged forward, pushing through the villagers. The magic Y/N had been working fell flat as the villagers immediately reacted to Sam’s urgency, and Dean quickly stepped in front of Y/N when they began to crowd closer to her. He had to spread his arms to hold them back, but his gaze was locked on his brother as he grew nearer and nearer. Finally, it was Sam he was holding back, and Dean felt his throat grow tight with emotion.

“Dean,” Sam breathed, his voice barely audible over the sound of the crowd. “You’re alive. You’re here.”

Blinking away unwelcome tears, Dean swallowed thickly and managed to choke out an apology as one of the men he was holding back tried even harder to get past him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Sammy. I have to serve her.” He didn’t add that part of him truly wanted to serve Y/N as well. He was beginning to realize that he knew what it was like to have her use magic on him, and the raw feelings he felt simmering whenever she let her guard down around him felt nothing like it.

“I know. It’s okay. We miss you.”

Dean nodded as the yelling in the village center began to dissipate. He watched in silence as Sam’s posture relaxed, and after Y/N called out his name, he turned to leave. Sam squeezed his shoulder before he was out of arm’s reach and Dean felt his chest grow tight with emotion.

Y/N was leaning up against one of her handmaidens when he reached her, and he carefully took them from her arms and led her back to the carriage without a word. He helped her lay down in her spot and then laid down beside her, letting her lace her fingers with his.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispered.

“You’re welcome, Y/N,” Dean responded after a second, trying to keep the grief Sam had brought up out of his voice. Tears welled up in his eyes as he laid there in silence, and after a while he finally closed them, ignoring the tears that dripped over the bridge of his nose and down the side of his face. Y/N wouldn’t be able to see them, and the handmaidens certainly wouldn’t mind. He had heard some of them weeping late at night when it was quieter than normal.

When he awoke the next morning, Y/N was sitting up and watching him. Her expression was stony and Dean felt his heart pick up its pace as he slowly sat up in his spot.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” he greeted, tentative and still fighting off the temptation to go back to sleep.

“I gave you explicit instructions,” Y/N ground out. Her eyes were fiery and Dean swallowed hard. “You were not to speak to anyone, let alone your family. The man you were speaking to was your brother Samuel, was he not?”

Dean opened his mouth to respond, only to find that his voice escaped him. He swallowed again and nodded dumbly.

“Answer me.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he managed.

“I’m no longer in need of your services, Dean Winchester. I shall see you again after The Culling.”

Before he could react, Y/N reached out and touched his forehead, and then Dean was suddenly no longer in the carriage with her. He was in her chambers at the temple, and his trunk was sitting there as if he’d never left. The hearth was cold and Dean shivered, then headed over to the servants’ door in hopes of finding some firewood. When he pulled on the handle, however, it didn’t budge, and neither did the chamber’s main doors when he tried them. He’d messed up, and now he was paying the price. He was trapped.

_______________

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sadaboutniall · 4 years

Photo

Without Fear

masterlist | tag | wattpad

Chapter Three. February, continued.

spending my evenings on the roof, can’t tire of thinking about you // and I wonder if this will all work out.

- without fear, dermot kennedy

They fall into an easy routine, Niall and Lu. His next night goes even better than the first, and it’s a steady rise from there—it doesn’t take long for word to spread on the island, and by the end of February people start turning up to the shop specifically for Niall’s sets. It buoyes Lu’s heart almost too much, the way he lights up when he learns people are coming just to see him. He’s a master with crowds—knows how to work them, how to hold them in his hand and make them cry, laugh, buy another drink, kiss the person sitting next to him. He knows how to make every single person feel like they’re the only one in the room—like they’re the most special.

He knows how to do it to Lu, too.

But it’s easy to forget, Lu thinks, when she’s stood side by side with him at the end of the night, collecting glasses and rinsing them before she hands them to Niall to load into the dishwasher. It’s easy to forget that she’s not special.

“You alright, Looney Tunes?” Niall’s looking over at her, one eyebrow raised in question. “Quiet tonight.”

Luna nods, unsure if the bait is hers to take or not. She feels closer to Niall than anyone else on this island, but she’s sure he doesn’t feel the same—and she’s not so sure he’d even want to spend too much time around her if he knew more than the superficial truth about her. Who could want to trust someone who ran?

“Yeah,” is what she settles on. “Just feeling a little homesick tonight, is all.”

Niall hums, knocking the dishwasher door shut with his hip. He leans his side against the counter, then, “want to talk about it?”

Lu shakes her head. “You had a great night, don’t worry about it. It’ll pass. It comes and goes in waves.”

“Course it does. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t talk about it, though.”

“It’s alright, Niall,” Lu says, but she feels it bubbling over inside her, escaping from the corner of her chest that she keeps it locked up in. It’s banging and screaming, rattling its chains, and Lu can’t help it when her next sentence comes out wobbly. “You didn’t come here to hear me cry.”

“Woah, hey, hey,” Niall takes a step forward, his hand coming down to rest on Lu’s upper arm, thumb running gently along her shoulder, “it’s okay, you can cry.”

“Sorry, sorry,” but Lu can’t stop it now. But it’s not like her homesickness, her anxiety, her general feeling of helplessness has gone away. It’s a constant, but dull, feeling behind her eyelids, in the pit of her stomach—one that, for the most part, she can swallow, ignore, force down enough to go about her everyday the way she needs to. But when she prods at it, touches the sore skin, everything bursts—and she ends up crying, fat, angry tears that she can’t control, in front of Niall. “I didn’t mean to—sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Niall pulls Lu in for a hug and he’s warm and broad and soft in all the right places, his arms coming to wrap all the way around her, his chin resting atop her head. “Let it out.”

“I don’t,” Lu sniffles dramatically, snot threatening to glob onto Niall’s striped jumper. “I don’t want to cry on your nice sweater.”

“Fuck’s sake, Lu,” Niall actually laughs, tightening his grip around Lu’s body. “I’ve a washing machine at home; modern technology is really something to behold, ya know. Snot away, petal. Use me as a tissue.”

And Lu laughs so hard that she actually does. Right onto Niall’s very nice, very soft, striped jumper.

The thing, Lu realizes pretty immediately, about shooting a snot rocket onto a cute boy’s sweater, is that it apparently diffuses a lot of the tension in the room. And makes you stop thinking about how lonely you are—at least for a second.

“Well,” Niall giggles as Lu covers her mouth in shock, one hand reaching for the paper towels by the sink. “I did tell you to.”

“I’m so sorry, Niall,” Lu rushes, stumbles over her words as she wets the paper towel under the sink. “I didn’t think I’d actually—you made me laugh.”

“Ah, so it’s my fault now?” Niall’s smiling, Lu can hear it in the lilt of his accent, even when her back is turned away from him. It makes her heart flutter in her chest, like a kid in elementary school getting a Valentine from her crush.

When she turns around, sopping paper towel in hand, her heart stops. Niall’s standing across from her in a sleeveless undershirt, his soiled sweater in his hands, and Lu’s never seen him like this: the gentle swell of his biceps, the cut of his collarbones, the curl of dark brown chest hair peeking out over the swooping cut of his tank top, the veins pressing against his forearms, toned from years and years of guitar playing. The tight tangle of tears in her chest dissolves almost immediately, replaced by a stirring in her lower stomach, a quick flash of warmth flushing her body. She sniffles, and Niall looks up.

“Not that your snot grosses me out that much,” he gestures to his sweater, “just didn’t want to get all wet while we clean it off.”

“Right,” Lu’s throat feels impossibly dry. “That would be bad.”

“Just cold,” Niall says, his voice dropping just so. “Not bad.”

“Oh,” Lu shakes her head, tries to snap herself back into it. “I can—do you want—sorry. I’ve got a bunch of hoodies upstairs, do you want one?”

“You have one that would fit me?” Niall asks, even though it’s a stupid question—Lu’s shorter than Niall, but with her curves (and the way she likes to wear her hoodies oversized), anything she owns will fit Niall easily. They’ll be big on him, probably.

“For sure,” Lu says. “I’ll get you something. It’s just—it’s all upstairs.”

“Grand,” a smile stretches across Niall’s face, dimples digging deeper into his cheeks. “I’ve always been curious to see the flat up there.”

Had Lu known she was going to have Niall in her flat tonight, she probably would’ve picked up a bit. Her shit is lying everywhere: hoodie on the floor, bra flung across the arm of the couch, slippers lying, upturned, on opposite ends of the living room. There’s a dirty bowl on the counter in her kitchenette, a wet towel hanging over the bar in the shower, and Ruairí is fast asleep on her pillow, curled up tight and safe against the night outside.

In her bedroom, Lu’s got her head in the closet, rooting around for a hoodie she knows will fit Niall. She’s no shortage of them: old college sweatshirts, band merch from when she was a teenager, freebies from work, a family reunion sweatshirt from what feels like a hundred years ago. It’s like rifling through her old life, going through them all, memories throwing themselves at her as she tries to decide which would look best on Niall, which she’d be most willing to never see again.

She finds Niall out in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter and trying to pretend like he wasn’t prying. The washing machine is running behind him, his sweater the only thing in it, and he smiles, gentle and warm, when Lu hands him one of her old college crewnecks. It’s navy blue, soft and worn around the collar and sleeves, and when he pulls it over his head it musses up his hair, sending it every which way. His head pops out the top and he’s red cheeks, a mess of hair, sleepy eyes, and Lu has to look away, down at her own feet in socks covered in purple stars, to keep her heart rate under control. He’s wearing blue ones, tiny little rabbits dancing around on them.

“Both love a crazy sock,” he says, and when Lu looks up his smile almost makes her cry. “Meant to be friends, I guess.”

“Guess so,” Lu says, mouth dry.

They stand in silence for a moment—Niall is so hard to read that Lu can’t tell, really, if it’s awkward or not. But he breaks it first, runs a hand over his stubble and says, “an hour for the wash to finish. If you want me to get out of your hair I can come back tomorrow and—”

“No, no,” Lu rushes, “don’t leave—I mean, it would be stupid for you to come all the way back tomorrow when you don’t have to. We can wait. Or, if you don’t mind, at least.”

Niall beams, running his hand over the back of his neck. “Don’t mind. Whatcha wanna do?”

“Uh,” Lu turns toward her fridge—anything to keep her cheeks from reddening as she stares at Niall’s face. “I don’t have any beer but do you drink wine?”

“Wine’s lovely. Red or white?”

“I only drink white, is that okay?”

“Ah, I’m a red drinker meself,” Niall pushes himself up from where he was leaning against the counter. “But beggars can’t be choosers. Whatcha got?”

Lu busies herself pouring two glasses of wine—the one for her a little deeper, because Niall’s driving—while Niall hums to himself and putters around her kitchen cum living room. She doesn’t let herself think about it, the intimacy of this all, how long it’s been since she’s had someone else in her private space. When she turns back around, Niall’s head is halfway out the window.

“Uh?”

Niall pulls his head back in, ducking down to avoid smashing it against the window. “You ever go out on the roof, Looney Tunes?”

Luna blinks, twice.

“Your roof,” Niall’s face lights up more and more with each word, “do you ever go out and sit on it? It’s perfect, look, totally flat, all you have to do is swing your leg—”

“Niall, I’m not swinging my leg over two stories of thin air.”

“C’mon,” Niall’s halfway out the window now. “Live a little, Looney Tunes.”

Luna’s final protest gets caught in her throat as she watches Niall fully disappear out the window. When she pokes her own head out he really is on the roof—not splattered on the ground outside—and he’s right: it really is only a short stretch to reach the flat bit of roof that overhangs the front of the cafe below. There’s more than enough space for both of them to fit on it, and the night outside is cold, dark, and beckoning.

Before she can think too hard, Lu passes Niall both glasses of wine, then grabs a blanket off the couch. She swings one leg out the window, mentally says a quick prayer, and stretches. Her socks hit the cold, flat roof with ease, and she feels Niall’s hand land gently on the back of her knee, guiding her down.

“See,” he smiles as Lu settles down next to him. “Easy peasy. I can’t believe you haven’t thought of this.”

“I never,” Lu shrugs, a proper response evading her. Had she ever even bothered to look out this window, in the month she’s been living on Inis Mór? If she had, she would absolutely have noticed how easy it is to get out here, and how perfectly suited this stretch of roof is for sitting on. She would’ve noticed the view, too—she can hardly see it now for how dark it is, but there’s no missing the way the Atlantic shimmers under the moonlight just a few miles away. The night smells like salt and over the gentle rise and fall of Niall’s breath Lu can hear waves crashing against the cliffs, against the beaches, against this island. Had she ever even opened this window, before Niall did?

“S’alright,” Niall carries on so seamlessly that Lu fears, for a second, she’s been speaking out loud. “You know about it now.” He scoots his bum forward, forward, forward, until his legs are hanging over the edge of the roof and he can swing them back and forth. It makes Lu’s stomach churn.

“Be careful, Niall,” she manages. “Imagine what your dead body on the ground would do for business.”

Niall barks out a laugh, full volume, no concern for the reverent quiet of the night. Lu can’t tell anymore—it could be three in the morning, for all she knows.

“Ah, people on Inis Mór are nosy as fuck,” Niall says, still laughing. “They’d come in droves just to see the spot, even after you’d peeled my body off the ground.”

“Ugh. Don’t talk like that.”

“You’re the one who brought it up, Looney,” Niall turns so he’s facing Lu. “Come, sit. Promise I won’t push ya.”

“You know, I hadn’t even considered that until you said something…” Lu gathers up the blanket and slowly, gingerly takes the few steps over to the edge. Niall reaches out a hand, cold and callused, to help her sit down. When he lets go, Lu shivers.

Side by side, blanket covering both their laps, Niall and Lu sit in silence and watch the night roll past them. Nights here are pitch dark, like nothing Lu is used to, and filled with more stars than she even knew existed. It’s suffocating and freeing all at once, the vastness, the emptiness, the closeness of it all. A million miles away from everyone and everything she knows—except for him.

“You can see the Northern Lights from here sometimes, you know,” Niall whispers, finally breaking the comfortable silence. Lu turns to look at him, and he’s still staring out at the dark sky. “They can’t really predict it, but sometimes you get a few hours’ warning that it might happen. This spot would be perfect.”

“Well if we ever get that warning,” Lu watches her breath condense and curl in the air as she speaks. “You can come over.”

“I’ll bring some good wine. This stuff is shite.”

“Hey!”

“Kidding, Looney,” gently, Niall knocks his knee against Lu’s. “You ever seen the Northern Lights?”

“Never. I’ve never even seen stars like this,” Leaning back on her hands, Luna drops her head back on her neck to face the sky. It really does seem like they’re infinite. “I can’t wrap my head around it.”

“Pretty stunning, isn’t it,” Niall leans back with her, his pinky finger brushing Lu’s where they’re both pressed against the roof. “It’s one of the few things here I never get sick of. If I ever left…”

“You want to leave?” Lu feels two things at once, then: her stomach, dropping in dread, and the rest of her body, flushing hot with shame. She hardly knows Niall, she’s only been here a month and only known him a few weeks and yet. The thought of being on this island without him. She doesn’t even want to entertain it.

“One day,” Niall says it so softly, so protectively. “I’d like to play my music to people who haven’t known me since I was born. I’d like to see places, too. If my music could take me places… I know it’s a pipe dream, but,” he trails off, Lu hears him swallow. “I can’t just stay here forever. I’ve got to try.”

It’s a nightmare, thinking about being here without Niall. But it would be a crime to let his talent waste away here. For a moment, Lu thinks she might do it: tell Niall about her life before coming here, about her job, about how she could make two phone calls and change his life, about how she knows, fully, without doubt, that someone, somewhere, in a high rise office building in Central London could make a star out of him. It would be cruel of her not to. She almost does.

She gets as far as “have you ever recorded,” before the washing machine beeps inside, and everything is ruined.

“Guess I should,” Niall sounds regretful as he makes to stand up, “get out of your hair and everything. S’getting late anyway and my mum will be wondering…”

He pulls himself up with ease, then reaches a hand down to help Lu stand up. She tries not to think too much about it: about the way his calloused hand feels like a comfort she hasn’t held since leaving home; about the way he climbs back in through the window first so he can help hoist her inside, his hands at her waist, grazing her love handles so gently, so carefully; about the way his shoulders flex as he shuts the window for her, making sure it’s locked before he draws the curtains down and fishes his damp sweater out of the wash.

Lu finds him a bag so he can take it home and hang it to dry—drying machines are few and far between here, and Lu is still figuring out how to make do without one on her own—and Niall loiters, just for a second, at her door before he leaves. He drags a hand through his hair, and Lu thinks about how it felt in her own, against her waist, brushing the skin on the inside of her wrist. She shakes her head as Niall rubs the back of his neck.

“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says. The air feels thick between them, like they’re both waiting for the same thing.

“You’re okay to drive?” Lu knows he is, he barely had two sips of the wine.

“I’m grand,” he promises, tapping his hand over his heart. “I’ll see you on Thursday night, then?”

“Thursday,” Lu nods. Three full days away.

“Try not to snot rocket on my jumper next time. And I’ll wash this one before returning it to you,” Niall smiles for real, dimples making an appearance, and leans in for a hug. He’s so solid, so soft, so warm, and he rubs Lu’s back, so gently, before he pulls away. It’s not long enough.

They can’t draw out the goodbye any longer—Niall repeats that his mum will probably be wondering where he is and Lu sends him off, heart bouncing against her ribs as she watches him clamber into his car in her hoodie. Once he’s pulled away and his headlights disappear, Lu shuts the door, locks up, and curls into herself in bed.

It’s only 6pm in New York.

She falls asleep.

####

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2460nodone · 3 years

Text

Hell is a Relative Term (1/2)

Title: Hell is a Relative Term Category: Plays/Musicals » Les Misérables Author: AliceInSomewhereland Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Supernatural/Romance Published: 05-21-13, Updated: 05-22-13 Chapters: 2, Words: 9,662

[Part I] [Part II]

Summary: Eponine is one of the few who stand between humanity and hell, sworn to fight evil and protect the helpless, even if it costs her her own life. Vampire slayer!Eponine. e/e. Rated for language/content

Original author’s note: Ok guys, here we go with fic #2 for the Fic War on tumblr! This one was a prompt from tumblr user poeticbibliophile: "Modern AU prompt? One line for you, m'amie — 'Are you afraid of the good you can do?' from Les Miz, V. Hugo. Tag me if you chose this. TY!"

Part I

What if I told you the stories were true?

What if you knew that there really are things that go bump in the night? Things that live under your bed and in your closet just as much as they live in your mind, things that stalk you in the dark and prey on your terror? That all the monsters your parents ever promised you were pretend exist? That sometimes, people die, evil wins, and that the light cannot always banish your fears?

The world was hell.

There was no other way to put it.

No one really knew why these creatures existed, but they did. They ruled the night, mauling and feasting and terrorizing the population all the world over. It had always been this way; God had long ago forsaken the world and its inhabitants. Hell had swallowed Earth, and its demons walked with sorry humanity.

But there were people to fight it. Men and women, chosen for their strength, their character, their skill. They were given tasks, they learned the weaknesses of the different creatures, and eventually specialized in one specific type of Hellbeast.

"Eponine!" a voice shouted.

A young woman, olive-skinned, brown-eyed and dark-haired, stopped short, closing her eyes in trepidation before slowly turning.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," the man said sternly. He was middle-aged, with a close-cropped, graying haircut and a beard that matched. "I want you to patrol tonight."

The girl, Eponine, clenched her jaw. "I promised my brother I would be home tonight. He needs me. You have Musichetta, send her instead."

"Don't question me," he scolded. "I'm sending you."

When Eponine opened her mouth to protest, the man cut her off. "You are a vampire slayer, Jondrette. This is your job. This is your duty. You were chosen to protect the people of the world, and you will patrol tonight."

"One of those people I have to protect is my brother, Javert," she snapped. She loved the man, but he so frequently forgot that she was one of the rare slayers who had people at home to take care of. She had yet to lose everything, and she planned on keeping it that way. "I have a duty to him, too. And I promised him I would be there tonight. Send Musichetta instead."

Without waiting for his response, Eponine turned on her heel. She knew that Javert would probably punish her later for her insubordination, but she didn't care. Gavroche needed her.

Eponine was a vampire slayer. One of few slayers, in fact. Most of the women who became slayers died young.

It was not a fate she coveted.

In fact, she hated everything this life. But she had been chosen, as Javert constantly reminded her, by a power bigger than herself. And since he was her Guardian – the Guardian of all the slayers in this quadrant – and essentially her boss, it was he she answered to.

She was on the train, headed home to her brother. The dark world rushed by her, and she wondered how many vampires were out and active tonight.

She hated them with a burning passion. When they Turned, they kept their souls, but the bloodlust was so intense that they rarely heeded what little remained of their consciences. Eventually, most lost themselves in the Hunger or went insane from the guilt of what they did when their urges were unbearable. Most that she had met, however, loved killing. She had yet to meet a truly guilty vampire.

True to legend, they could not be in sunlight, and a stake to the heart or a clean swipe of the head from the shoulders would kill them immediately. Crosses, churches, hallowed ground – all unbearable to them. They couldn't even speak the name of God; that's how damned they were. They were vicious, evil creatures, and she wanted nothing more than to kill them all.

She hated being a killer, but she loved the fight, loved the moment when they lost. She would watch them victoriously, almost arrogantly, as they died in front of her. It gave her a rush, and afterwards, she would run through the streets, high on adrenaline, hungry and horny and happy.

She would find Montparnasse when she could, but otherwise she would grab a burger and indulge at least one of her urges until the high wore off and the real world crashed down on her again.

Several weeks later found Eponine back on patrol and deep in the throes of combat with a vampire. She could almost taste her victory when she felt, rather than saw, the presence of more of the loathsome bloodsuckers.

Panic bubbled up in her; she faltered and was knocked to the ground. She could feel blood trickling down from her brow, and her opponent, standing above her now, bared his teeth menacingly. She was surrounded

"Good job, little 'un," a grating woman's voice cooed.

Eponine felt her insides go cold. From her place on the ground, she stared up into the eyes of her mother.

She had hated her parents when they were alive, and had not been surprised when the police showed up one night, delivering the news of their deaths. She was, however, surprised when she saw them months later, their faces twisted as they sucked a woman dry.

But that was years ago, well before she was a slayer.

"Hello little Eponine," the creature that was once her mother sang.

Eponine pounced, fighting like a madwoman. But she was outnumbered; she only managed to slay the original vampire she was battling before she was repeatedly beat down… by her mother and her father and the rest of their gang.

Her father wrenched her head back by her hair, exposing her neck. This is it, she thought, fighting against those who were pinning her to the ground. I'm about to become another dead slayer.

The vampire broke her skin with his teeth, followed on the other side by her mother, and Eponine heard herself cry out. It all seemed to be happening from somewhere else; she knew and understood that she was dying, but she couldn't feel it, barely noticed it. Heaviness spread through her body, and her eyes began to get heavy.

Just before they closed, she became aware of a movement to her left. Her mother was ripped away from her neck.

Then everything went black.

When Eponine woke, she felt like she had been out drinking all night. Her body was heavy, her head was pounding, and she felt sick.

When her eyes adjusted to the daylight seeping in through a crack in the curtains, she looked around – turning her head slowly so as to prevent the exaggeration of her nausea and headache.

The room was simple, bare. There was some framed art on the gray walls, though her eyes were too weak to make out the pictures. A small flatscreen TV was on a small bookshelf that was packed with more books than DVDs, and even more books were piled on the dresser near the bed, as well as on the nightstand next to her. Those, she could make out: The World According to Garp, an anthology of the works of Sartre, Catch-22.

The bedspread was red, the sheets were white. Thick, black curtains were pulled together, though a ray of bright sunlight streamed through a crack.

Where was she?

Eponine wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she was several pages into The World According to Garp (whoever lived here had great taste in literature – this was one of her favorite books) before a gentle knock rapped on the door and it opened.

A man stepped in. Tall, curly blonde hair, casually dressed in dark jeans, a white v-neck t-shirt (that gave her a peek of just a little hair on his chest below a defined collarbone), and a black jacket. He was like a marble statue come to life. His eyes, she noticed, were impossibly blue, and his face was achingly handsome. A small bit of stubble covered his jaw and the top of his neck. She had no idea whatsoever who he was.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked. Eponine, in spite of herself and the weirdness of the situation, found that she liked his voice.

Instead of answering – Eponine hated answering direct questions, especially when she didn't know the inquirer – she countered, "Who the hell are you, and how did I get here?"

The man perched himself on the edge of the bed, purposefully staying as far from her as he could. Still, he smirked at her. "I saved your life last night, Slayer. You were outnumbered by the Thénardier Coven, and they would have killed you."

Eponine glared at him. "They took me by surprise," she grumbled. Then, "How did you know I'm a slayer?"

The man snorted. "You slayers wear your rank like a badge of honor. It's impossible not to know."

Eponine actually felt a little affronted, even though he had answered the question lightly.

He shrugged, apparently aware of the insult, and added, "Plus I was watching you."

"What?" she asked, dumfounded and staring at him.

The man grinned again. "I was following the Thénardier Coven, and so were you. You fell for their bait, you know. They were planning to ambush you. You should be more careful," he admonished.

Eponine raised her chin indignantly, but said nothing.

"Yeah, you would've died if it weren't for me," he continued.

He was actually fishing for a thank you. She couldn't believe it.

"Slayers are only women," she pointed out, ignoring his comment.

He ignored hers as well. "You're sleeping in my bed, you know. I saved your life, brought you back here at my own personal risk, nursed your wounds. A 'thank you' wouldn't be unwelcome," he said pointedly. It angered her that he seemed to find all of this so humorous.

She sniffed, realizing that he wouldn't talk about anything else unless she voiced her gratitude. "Thank you," she said tightly.

He smiled. Dear god that was a beautiful smile. "Why, you're welcome," he deadpanned.

"Now, who are you? Where am I?" she asked impatiently.

The man frowned. "You may stay as long as you need. At least, until you are well enough to make it home. Get some rest, and I'll bring you some food. You need your strength," he said, ignoring her questions. He stood, reaching the door in two short strides.

"Why won't you answer me?" she asked, before he could take his leave.

He stopped, hand on the doorknob, the door partially open. Then he shrugged, turning back towards her and seriously replying, "This is the last time you'll ever see me, so it doesn't matter." Then he was gone.

Montparnasse was a vampire.

What was worse, he now belonged to the Thénardier Coven. They were the most violent of the covens in this part of the world, and the most deadly. But also one of the biggest.

Javert had lost many a slayer trying to eradicate their ranks, their power.

Eponine was determined not to become one of them. Especially since she was the human daughter of the clan leaders.

But Montparnasse had been her last friend from her old life. He was in love with her, as a human, but he knew she was uninterested in him, even before she had become a slayer. Still, he had let her use him (not that he didn't console himself with some on the side, anyway – he was no virtuous man).

She felt guilty about how she had treated him now, though. He hadn't deserved to be used for sex. He was a good looking guy, and could've found someone who might have loved him back, even if he had some issues with alcohol and was kind of a klepto.

Eponine found that she was crying as she drove the stake into his heart. She hadn't noticed during their fight, as she was far too entranced by their dance to the death. But she would not lose.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him as he died.

This time, she felt neither hungry nor happy, and definitely was not horny.

It was Montparnasse that she had gone to for that reason. And here she was, responsible for his death, in so many more ways than just this one.

When she looked up, tears flowing freely from her eyes, she thought she saw a flash of blue eyes and blonde hair disappearing into the shadows, but she couldn't be sure.

Marius, Azelma, and Gavroche were the only good things in her life anymore.

She had met Marius not long after becoming a slayer, and had fallen in love with him almost immediately. Sometimes when she had gone to Montparnasse, it was because she wanted Marius, and she could close her eyes with the other man and pretend that he loved her too.

The thought caused a wave of guilt to flow through her body. The hurt of Montparnasse's death (by her hand) was still very close.

Marius was kind to her, though. He was a sweetheart, always stopping to chat and inquire after her and her sister and brother, always ensuring that she was uninjured and being safe on her patrols.

She hoped that he might someday fall for her too. Eponine felt less damaged and depressed and hopeless around him. Perhaps he would even be willing to put up with the uncertainty of her life, her future, for a few passionate years by her side.

But one evening he ran up to her, more excited and worked up than she had ever before seen him.

"'Ponine! Oh, 'Ponine, I've fallen in love," he told her dreamily, taking her hands in his and spinning her gaily.

For a fleeting moment, Eponine thought her meant her.

"She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her hair is long and so blonde, her eyes are beautiful, and my god she probably has a wonderful soul to match."

Eponine gave him a strained smile.

"Can you find her for me, 'Ponine? You know your way around, and you're good at finding people."

Before she could stop herself, Eponine heard herself agreeing to help him.

She found the blonde beauty, all right.

Her name was Cosette.

She was the daughter of Jean Valjean.

Jean Valjean was the patriarch of the Fauchelevent Coven.

That idiot Marius had gone and fallen for a vampire.

Jealousy and contempt bubbled up inside of Eponine. She didn't know what to do with herself. Or with Marius. And when she had told him what she had learned, he had dismissed it.

"Not all vampires are bad, 'Ponine," he insisted. Eponine wanted to punch him for his stupidity. He might as well have been suggesting that he take a leisurely swim in the ocean in the middle of a hurricane. "She's a good one, I just know it. Besides, the Fauchelevent Coven has always been fairly peaceful. They don't attack humans, not like the Thénardier Coven or the Tholomyes Coven or the others."

Eponine stormed out, going on a hunt.

She would kill something tonight. She could only hope that it was a vampire, not that idiot, love struck boy she had left in the bar.

A few hours later, Eponine was on her third kill (she had been on the offensive tonight, though it wasn't strictly protocol to hunt alone and without a secure plan that Javert knew).

That's when she saw him.

When the vampire woman was dead, Eponine spun on her heal, flicking her sweaty hair out of her eyes.

"Why are you following me?" she demanded.

The blonde man regarded her seriously. "You seem angrier tonight than usual."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you stalking me?"

He gave this some consideration, before replying, "More like ensuring that you don't get yourself into any sticky situations again."

She took an involuntary step closer. His eyes were so blue. "Why?"

He shrugged. "You're not like the other slayers."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

He thought for a moment. "They're all driven by something. You just go through the motions, but you're so talented. What's keeping you from rising to your full potential? You could be the best slayer alive, if you wanted. You could eradicate the entire Bloodluster population if only you tried."

Eponine regarded him incredulously. "I don't even know you, I'm not talking to you about my reasons for slaying!"

He was watching her closely, looking for something in his face. "Are you afraid of the good you can do?"

Her face darkened. "Look, bro, my reasons for slaying are my own, and are certainly none of your business. And, I will have you know, I'm not afraid of anything."

"Whatever you say," he scoffed.

Eponine shoved him back angrily; he grinned, lazily taking a step back to keep his balance. It only pissed her off more.

"You're intriguing, little slayer," he said, quirking a half-smile at her.

Without missing a beat, she replied, "And you're an annoying jackass, mystery asshole."

He laughed at that.

Eponine still did not know his name, but she began to enjoy his somewhat constant presence when she patrolled. Somehow, he always seemed to pop up in time to see her fight, and ended up staying with her until her patrol was finished just before dawn. Then they would go their separate ways.

"Don't you ever sleep?" she asked as they walked slowly together through the empty streets. No one was ever out at this time of night except for the slayers or the occasional other fighter. She often wondered what his specialty was.

"Don't you?" he countered.

Somehow he always kept things balanced between them. She wasn't sure whether he answered her questions with questions of his own because that's what she did or because he wanted to maintain a certain balance between them. She was fine with boundaries, but the more time she spent with him, the more curious she became. She liked this marble man, this beautiful boy that seemed to gleam with the light of the sun even at night. She wanted to be his friend. She enjoyed hearing about his true friends, the ones that knew him as more than the Marble Man, and she found relief in telling him about her own fucked up life.

Rather than taunting her by knowing her name (which she had never actually told him) while she did not know his, he mostly referred to her as "Slayer" or "Little Slayer." She couldn't decide whether the whole thing was creepy and whether or not she liked his nicknames, nor could she decide if, when he did call her by her name, the shiver that went down her spine was because it sounded so foreign on his tongue or if it was because she liked hearing her name on his lips.

They had become friends, somehow. She wasn't sure what exactly had happened, but she truly did appreciate that he had saved her life, and he hadn't left her alone since, for whatever reason, and she had grown to like his company.

He was driven. He talked a lot about his dreams of helping the people, saving them from these circumstances, finding a way to eradicate the violent covens and hopefully rehabilitate the rest.

Eponine was less in favor of rehabilitation, but her Marble Man insisted that not all covens were violent like Thénardier. He told her frequently that she was blinded by her hate for her parents and what they had become. When he said this, she told him to fuck off and mind his business, usually storming off and leaving him behind. And he usually let her go.

It irritated her to no end that he knew her so well – seemingly without even trying – when she knew nothing about him. Was she that easy to read? He always seemed to guess her emotions – which she had spent so many years learning to hide – without any effort at all. He was always telling her about her potential, about how her circumstances could improve if she only tried a bit harder. He knew her name, he knew her story, but she knew nothing about him. Not even his name.

So one night, she asked him. They had been friends now for a few months. He had watched her fight, had even stepped in a few times when she got a little too close to death for his comfort (though she loved the rush that just escaping death gave her).

"What's your name? You know so much about me, but I know nothing about you."

He was silent for a long moment, and Eponine was fully expecting him to change the subject or stay quiet until she felt humiliated enough by her prying to change it herself, just as he always did. But tonight:

"I'm Enjolras," he told her quietly.

She froze in shock, unable to keep walking. He had actually told her. Her Marble Man had a name, and he had finally given it to her.

After a tense moment, in which she stared at him with an unattractively open mouth and he stared back with trepidation and dark eyes, he stepped up to her. She couldn't read his face as he searched hers, slipping his hand into her own.

Eponine wasn't sure what he found in her face, but he must have been satisfied because he was suddenly turning away, tugging on her hand to pull her with him so they could resume their walk.

But she didn't move. Instead, she tested his name, whispering it into the slight wind. "Enjolras…."

He immediately turned when she said his name, cupping the side of her face with his hands and bringing his lips urgently to hers.

Eponine was waiting for him; her lips parted almost immediately against his, her arms wrapped around his neck, and she pressed herself into him just as he pulled her closer with his free arm.

Enjolras deepened the kiss, meeting the tongue that had only moments ago held his name so tenderly. She shivered as his hand traveled down her rocky spine to rest at the slight valley that had formed at the small of her back.

He kissed her passionately, and she rose to meet the challenge, just as she did with her slaying. His kisses moved from her lips to her jaw, to her neck, to her collarbone. His hand preceded the actions of his lips, tracing their route before he made it. Now, his fingertips traveled down her chest, lips following as he unzipped the jacket she was wearing to reveal her cleavage.

Her hands were entwined in his hair and god she had forgotten how good this felt, and his fingertips and lips and tongue had just reached the top of her breasts when he cried out in pain, leaping away from her.

Eponine stared as a bit of smoke rose from his fingers, as though he had been on fire. He was staring at her with a torn, almost heartbroken, and pained expression.

She knew that she was staring back in horror. Her hand found the pendant buried in her cleavage – a silver cross. It was meant to protect her from her foe.

Anger like she had never before felt suddenly overtook her and she wanted nothing more than to kill him where he stood.

He just continued to stare.

"You're a fucking vampire!" she screamed at him. She could hear the hurt and anger and fear in her voice. What had she done?

"Eponine–."

"No!" she snapped, cutting him off. The way he had implored her with her name – without even needing to say anything else – had twisted her heart in her chest. "If you ever fucking come near me again I will stake you through the heart, and cut your head off, and cause you a lot of fucking pain as I do it!"

Enjolras listened to her scream, holding his burned hand in the palm of his uninjured one. Staring at her with almost heartbroken eyes.

Then he was gone.

#enjonine #enjonine fanfic #enjonine fanfiction #enjonine fic #eponine x enjolras #enjolras x eponine #e/e #é/e

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