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chemicalpink · 3 years

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대취타 (DAECHWITA) | EMPEROR!YOONGI X READER | FINAL

Pairing: Emperor!Yoongi x Assassin!Reader

Words: 3.5k

Genre: Emperor AU, Historical AU (kinda), smut, angsty

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of historical public execution, oral sex (male receiving), lowkey breath play, unprotected sex

A/N: FINALLY IT’S HERE. I hope you enjoy, I had a hard time trying to make this not seem lame so here it is! please let me know what you think!

Summary: You used to be an assassin, got caught and works at the palace as a servant up until you are escorted to the main palace, either to meet your inevitable destiny or for a change of plans.

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

Forehead resting against your own as you found yourselves panting, him sliding out as your spasming cunt dripped with both of your releases onto the floor, placing one more soft kiss on your lips with his eyes closed “Marry me”

You almost sat up with a start. Suddenly the world was bright and hazy. Yoongi had opened his eyes and they were digging like daggers into yours, an unusual look on him. You looked at the emperor apologetically before turning your gaze to the end of the room where there was a pile of books, silently detangling yourself from him.

The silence was deafening.

Then again, who in their right mind proposed marriage while having their cock buried deep inside some assassin turned royal slave. All the same, Min Yoongi wasn’t exactly known for having a right mind. But it wasn’t just the fact that he had proposed seemingly out of the blue, more than it was everything that came with it. The words seemed to tangle themselves inside your brain as you hear him say them over and over again. That he couldn’t think of himself marrying some woman that was inferior to him in mind and spirit. That he had wanted to marry to someone he loved. To think that Min Yoongi had proposed you marriage not in the heat of the moment but fully conscious of his actions would not only mean that he was in it for the great sexual escaped you two regularly went on, but because due to some fucked up mindset the royal had, he believed he could love you.

Yoongi reached for your hand in an attempt to get your attention, face soft with post orgasmic bliss as he repeated the ill fated words “Marry me, Y/N”

You snapped out of his hold. “Yoongi I don’t think you understand the situation”

“What is it then, please do enlighten me, Y/N cause from what I understand is me asking for your hand in marriage, twice now” he blinks a few times, looking at you expectantly, crossing his arms like a petulant child

“FUCKING READ THE ROOM MIN YOONGI ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND”

“Well I’m not, but you seem to be”

“I’m a fucking assassin, my hands? they will forever be tainted red” you look down at your hands and the blond man comes near to hold both of them inside his

“Y/N I couldn’t care less about that, it’s not like I’m a saint either”

“You just don’t understand”

“Then help me out” somehow his ever consistent and aloof tone gave you more chills thana you could’ve imagined if he were to raise his voice at you “Y/N I’m serious with my proposal, the sex is amazing, but you’ve proven to be an excellent addition not only to my court, but to my life”

You are shaking, voice trembling and just above a mere whisper “I was the one that killed your mother on that freezing December night”

He freezes in place.

He seemed oddly composed for someone who had just been told the responsible of his mother's death was none other than the woman he thought he wanted to marry

You remember how a few years ago, he had gone on a killing rampage, exposing heads outside his palace as if they were homemade decorations, swearing to find the person responsible for his mother’s death and get revenge. It had been months of bloodbath. Some had considered the emperor’s son to have gone completely out of his mind.

You storm off. Not before accepting the responsibility of your actions, perhaps Yoongi had also been a good addition to your life “I’m fine with you deciding to execute me for my crimes, I understand whatever sentence is best fitted for me, your majesty” for the first time since you had arrived at the palace, you don’t dare to look him in the ye, opting to follow court protocol and bow deeply before taking your leave, attempting to detangle yourself from your messed up robes and even more messed up string of thoughts.

The following days to that conversation were a blur and for the most part, uneventful, the emperor had opted not to gravitate your way unless strictly necessary, oddly enough, the air wasn’t awkward at all, it was as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you in the first place. Yoongi had retreated to being an aloof ruler, along with regular trips to meet his once very occupied and spoiled rotten concubines, all the while you were kept apart from. Sometimes, you would receive jobs outside the palace and were expected to fulfill them according to instructions. More times than not, you were left wondering if you would make it back to the palace or if it was one hell of an excuse to execute you.

Hearing approaching footsteps, you couldn’t help but hide the best that you could behind one of the hostel’s walls. Hooded and well muffled with the cape, as you did your best to camouflage yourself into the shadows and become a mere wisp of darkness. A maid from the hostel trudged to the open window and closed it, grumbling. Lightning illuminated the landing. You took a deep breath and reviewed the plans that you had so painstakingly memorized throughout the three days you had been guarding that building on the outskirts of the kingdom. Five doors on each side. The target’s bedroom was behind the third one on the left.

Stealthy as a specter, you walked down the landing. You pushed the target's bedroom door, which opened with an almost imperceptible squeak; waiting for another thunder to rumble to close it carefully. A second flash of lightning illuminated the two figures sleeping on the canopy bed. Young Hee must not have been over thirty-five. His son, small and beautiful, slept soundly in his arms.

“I’m not murdering a poor kid’s mother”

“So you’ve gone soft”

“No I haven’t gone soft” “What could a poor merchant woman have done to you for her to deserve such an end to her life”

He sits down on his throne “You didn’t even hesitate when killing my mother, though”

“Yoongi I-” he turns his head to you, a sharp gaze following your every move, as if he was a predator waiting for the precise moment his prey took a wrong turn to jump on them. You turn your gaze to the floor immediately “Your Majesty”

“Listen Y/N- I’m a very busy man, so I’ll make it easier for you” he stood up from where he was sitting, and although you weren’t looking directly at him, you could hear him move around the room until you were able to see him stop right in front of you, a hand you were so familiar with once caresses your cheek as he grabs your chin and forces you to look at him face to face “It’s either her life, or your life. Easy choice, Y/N”

You can feel your heart wanting to burst out of your ribcage at that exact moment, finally understanding the importance behind such a horrifying task, the mirroring in the situation. And the choice was as simple as it could get. “Kill me instead”

You could see the rage inside his eyes, even as he stood still for a few second, steady as ever, unfaltering as he called over one of the palace’s servants to get him the royal seal, the infamous red ink that decorated the skin of those in line to be executed by the royal himself, an utmost sign of rage, of personally wronging the monarch. A sense of longing crossed his gaze for half a second as he locked eyes with you before he took your wrist in his hand and stamped the cold ink on it; you couldn’t keep your body from reacting to the action, whether it was having him touching you again, the almost imperceptible stuttering of his movements when he did so, or the knowledge that you’d have to face an execution, making you shake lightly as adrenaline filled your veins.

Preparations were something the emperor certainly didn’t scattered in, back when he became known as the cold hearted borderline psychopath he had a vaste fame of, ikt was mostly do to the whole antiques that surrounded his personal executions, the way that they seemed to mimic a kingdom’s festivity was almost breathtaking, were it not for the fact that the main entertainment of the day would be having you publicly executed. You had been waiting for that night for a whole week. Sitting in the wooden corridor nestled to one side of the golden dome of Min Yoongi’s personal library, remembering how the last time you had been there, things were so different from how they were now, where the emperor had asked you to marry you in the worst way possible and you had confessed the greatest murder of the dynasty; you let yourself be carried away by the music that rose through the amphitheater. With your legs dangling under the railing, you leaned forward and rested your cheek on your crossed arms. One could almost swear the palace was preparing for a wedding, if the way you were constantly dressed up and down during the week, the way the palace’s servants were constantly bustling around the building to ensure the greatest quality for the evening, the greatest night for the kingdom. The execution of the Empress’ murderer.

“You seem oddly calm for someone who's about to be executed” Jungkook mentions as he approaches where you were currently hanging out, a few minutes to spare before a small group of designated maids were to call you to get you ready for the night.

You look up at him tiredly, without separating your head from where it was laying, catching him taking a seat by your side in the most infantile way you had ever seen the royal guard do, shrugging to no one in particular, you add “You know, accountability and stuff”

“Oh and she grew a moral compass during her time here” if he was expecting a bickering comeback, the way you used to do back when he was designated to look after you, he was certainly not getting anything other than be met by an extended silence that seemed to rise the tension and seriousness of the whole interaction between the two “Why are you letting this happen to you?”

“What are you talking about” this time, you do turn to face him, confused as to where he was expecting the conversation to go.

“You didn’t kill his mother”

“I did”

He huffed out air, sounding a bit exasperated at your response; you could have even sworn you saw him roll his eyes faintly “No you didn’t, you were a mere 15 year old” there was a bit of laughter behind his sentence before he regained his composure and went back to his former self from a few minutes ago, looking at your face quizzically as if there was something hidden in there that held the answer to his question “So why are you doing this”

You try and miserably fail to convey a nonchalant look on your face as memories of your time with the emperor fill your mind, not just the carnal ones, but those where you would watch him work for his place in the royal hierarchy, the soft sides around the rough edges that were publicly hidden on purpose, turning away from the guard you say softly “Yoongi’s a great man”

“Okay sure, he could do with a more...tame temperament, but what does that have anything to do with you chopping your own head off”

You try your best to ignore the way your heart seems to physically ache at the thought behind the answer; you almost don’t get enough strength from within to mutter “I’m hoping to get him some closure, be an even better ruler”

“That’s- definitely not how it’s supposed to work Y/N” Jungkook says incredulously

“I was technically part of the killing so, it’s all the same”

He huffs before going to stand up, dusting off his uniform and already facing away from you, before you can hear him call for you one last time “Yoongi’s in his room, you know, he was looking for you a few hours ago, in case that information helps in any way”

So perhaps you were naive for thinking that he would answer his door, he would have no reason to do so, especially given the circumstances, if it were you, opening the door to the person that had confessed of murdering your mother, and having them come up at your room, you wouldn’t even need to think it once to decide not to further interact with them, but Jungkook had said Yoongi had been looking for you before, so the chance of him wanting to see you alive one last time were there. Unless you were reading it all wrong. You turned your back on the huge wooden door you had come to know as the emperor’s bedroom a few months back, resigned, when you heard the creaking of a door opening and a calm steady voice.

“So you’re going to just knock on my door and run away the same way you entered my life and are now leaving it forever?” his frozen tone still having an effect on your body as you turned to face him properly for the first time in what seemed like an eternity “Came to discuss a bargain for your life?”

“Not at all” you lock eyes with him when approaching him, until you were practically inside the room, his judgemental gaze still on you “I wanted to say my goodbyes properly, your majesty”

“Then don’t waste my time and come in already, Y/N”

The royal wasted no time in cornering you against the door, face so close to yours you could feel his breath on your skin, the tip of his nose nuzzling the side of your face and you knew him enough to know he had his eyes closed to keep his composure as he talked “I’m going to miss you like a fucking mad man”

It felt like falling back into routine, the way he kissed you, down to your neck up to your collarbone, pushing past the robes that covered your skin, in preparation for the ritual, his hands roaming freely in a familiar way, grabbing all the right places as he draws little sounds from your throat, all while he worked the both of you to where his bed was placed, although he was giving your body and pleasure a decent amount of attention, you couldn’t brush off the fact that he irradiated an angry aura, words left unspoken as he got his anger out by pleasuring both of you. Maybe himself more than you, as he removes himself from caressing your body as he usually did and positioned himself above you, his member laying flat on your already expecting tongue,as soon as you realised what his intentions were when he started undressing himself, his hips thrusting a few times in an experimental manner, soon enough finding a pace at the same time as you bobbed your head up to capture as much of his length as you could inside your mouth, your hands captured under Yoongi’s weight, unable to help you work him further, the way you’d done before.

You feel him start to thrust further into your throat at one particular kitten lick of yours to the tip of his cock, your head starting to hang from the edge of the mattress you two were on as he picked up the pace, his cock filling you up all the way until it hit the back of your throat a few times, you trying to whine around him, only further encouraging him to take a handful of your hair and push you further against him, your gag reflex taking the best of you as he held you there, nose close to his navel, deep grunts ripped from his lips, the air leaving your lungs and becoming slightly light headed after a few seconds of you tapping his thigh in a motion to let him know to let you breathe, at which Yoongi locked eyes with you, a mix of anger and longing in his yes as he thrusts a few more times as saliva started dripping from your mouth, tears decorating your pink stained cheeks before he removed himself from you, giving you a few seconds to gain air before he repositioned both of you. A deafening silence taking over both of you, as you were still catching your breath and he positioned his cock at your entrance, his tip, wet with your saliva, playing with your folds for a few seconds, as you take a sharp intake of air when he enters you and immediately sets a slow deep pace. You can feel his member filling you up perfectly, mind racing with flashbacks to all those other nights before where the emperor and you shared endless nights all over the palace.

The knowledge that this would be the last time creeping up in the back of your mind. You feel an unfamiliar wetness hit your neck where Yoongi was kissing your skin, rolling down as you identified it as tears, as he was still passionately thrusting into you.

“I don’t want to lose you” his voice barely above a whisper, trying to conceal the way his chest was tightened with sadness

“You have to let me go, Yoongi” one of your hands comes up to caress his locks as he pushes up to stare at your face, anger long gone and replaced with utter sadness before one last thrust has him filling you up with his seed, warmth enveloping you, a soft whimper leaving your lips as his cock leaves your cunt, a briskly wind coming from the window causing your body to shiver for a second at the loss of body heat on top of you.

“I guess this was it then” his cold and unnerved facade was on again, making the cold shivers in your body that much worse as you watched him adjust his clothes and walk out of the room, leaving you to dress yourself and ultimately face your fated destiny at the end of the day.

The palace’s front plaza is filled to the brim with spectators as the news got out that the Emperor was finally getting revenge for his mother’s killing, people from the kingdom and even some people from neighbouring ones all lined up in the outer sides of the fire marks that decorated the space to illuminate the middle path where you were placed in the end of it to walk your way up, two unknown guards on each side of you as each grabbed your elbows to push you forward, the rope certainly leaving marks on your skin as it was wrapped tightly around your wrists.

You could only catch a glimpse of Yoongi’s blond hair, wrapped in his infamous black and golden hanbok, drums roaring in unison, people screaming as you watched him take the sword from the swordsman that had prepared the ritual beforehand, as someone wrapped a cloth around your eyes and you were promptly pushed forward, legs buckling every few seconds as you came to realise what you were about to face, it hadn’t been clear before, mere seconds away, finally falling to your knees, head bowed down in resignation as you could barely hear the sharp sword cutting the air around you, gasps from the crowd filling the air along with the constant sound of the drums around you. You could only hope your death would bring much needed peace to the monarch and his kingdom. Your heart seemed to want to burst out of your chest, if anything, Yoongi was known for being an espectacular swordsman, which hopefully made the whole execution that much easier. You could hear cheers and a metal cutting the air before your body fell limp to the ground.

But your consciousness never left, the drums couldn’t be heard anymore, cheers were replaced with confusion as a pair of hands helped you up to your knees, fumbling with the cloth around your eyes to come face to face with Min Yoongi kneeling before you, a subtle smile on his face as one of his hands caressed your cheek before helping you up beside him.

“I’m sure you all must be confused right now” he announced to his subjects “This woman right here, has got more courage in her than anyone that has ever worked for me, any of us, for that matter. Which is why I’m asking once again, publicly, for the first time, for her hand in marriage” he turned to face you, as you were still dazed by the whole ordeal, his hand in yours being the only thing holding you down “Marry me, Y/N”

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fanmoose12 · 3 years

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catch me if you can

Сharacters: Hange Zoe, Levi, Erwin Smith, Kenny Ackerman

Genres: Mystery / Romance

Summary: The Ackerman duo. Just the mention of this name filled Hange with so many feelings. Mostly, when she reread the files of their cases over and over, until her eyes watered, she felt pricking annoyance. Sometimes, when she stared at the dead bodies of those scarce unfortunates who stumbled upon their crimes, she was filled with hatred and a pushing need for revenge. Hange couldn’t deny, however, there were times when she marveled at the impudence of their crimes. And, when she was investigating the Ackerman’s cases and saw just how meticulously planned they all were, she couldn’t help but feel something close to fascination.No one knew who they were. No one had seen their faces, no one knew their true names. Almost everyone knew of their crimes.Hange was determined to unravel every last one of their secrets. She will put an end to their crimes and then she will get the elusive Ackermans behind bars.

Chapter 12/?

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Сhapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

“Oi, lady, have you gone mute? Or did you call just to give me a silent treatment?”

Kenny, that voice belonged to Kenny. Kenny was just on the other line, Levi had finally found him, in the most unexpected way, in the most unexpected place.

Levi wanted to say so much, wanted to yell and scream, wanted to curse at his uncle before his throat was dry. But his tongue felt heavy, stuck to the roof of his mouth, and in that moment, the only thing he could manage was a breathy whisper,

“Kenny?”

The only reply he got was silence, which grew in intensity with every passing second. Levi could sense Hange’s bewilder and shock, her hard gaze was burning the back of his head. But Levi ignored her for the time being. He’d deal with her later, after he’d get out of Kenny just where the fuck he was hiding.

However… Kenny still didn’t give an answer. The bastard was going to end the call and throw away that phone, he was going to slip away and disappear again. Levi couldn’t let him. He was sick of chasing Kenny, of being three steps behind him.

It was time they talk, whether Kenny wanted to or not. Levi tightened his hold on the phone, lamenting that he couldn’t fist his hands in the lapels of Kenny’s stupid long coat to give him a firm, rough shake. Then, perhaps, Kenny would finally get his head out of his ass.

“I know you’re still here,” Levi gritted, his exasperation slipping through, “So stop fucking around, and start talking.”

Finally, that earned Levi a reaction. Kenny sighed, the sound alarmingly weary. “I told you to quit, didn’t I?”

“I couldn’t, and you know that.”

Kenny let out another sigh, this time accompanying it by a colorful curse. “Are you still running around city with that detective in tow?”

Levi chanced a glance of Hange. She was staring back at him, impatience written all over her face.

“Yes. What of it?”

“Can you shake her off?”

Could Levi do that? Possibly. But did he want to do it? Not particularly. He and Hange had an agreement, after all – Levi gets his uncle, Hange gets her missing girl. Fair and square. He wasn’t going to lie to her again, even for his uncle’s sake.

“I can’t. And cut the bullshit, Kenny. Tell me where the fuck are you.”

There was another beat of silence, this one was aggravating Levi a lot more. He meant to snap at Kenny again, but just as he was opening his mouth, a vile curse on the tip of his tongue, Kenny said,

“Remember the house we used to live in? When you mother was still alive? You will find me there.”

Levi took a deep breath, a million of questions ready to spill out. The call was disconnected before he could utter a single word.

Of course, what else he was expecting from his uncle? Cooperation? Clear communication? That was never their way.

What he found surprising, however, was that Kenny was hiding in their old house. Levi would have never suspected it as his hiding place. He didn’t know that house still existed at all, he thought Kenny had gotten rid of it a long time ago – sold it away or destroyed.

But he hadn’t. And now Levi didn’t know what to think of it. He also wasn’t sure how he felt about going back to his childhood home, a house he shared with his mother, a place where he had spent the happiest of his years, before the biggest tragedy of his life struck.

Would be overwhelmed with sweet nostalgia? Or be struck by immerse grief?

Or, maybe, he would be too occupied with yelling at his uncle to notice any kind of different, more solemn feeling. The third option was certainly the most preferred one.

Turning to face Hange, Levi was meaning to explain everything to her. But as their eyes met, the quiet of the night city was interrupted by a shrill sound of her ringtone.

Hange winced, silently apologizing, and took out her phone, putting it to her ear. Levi frowned, wondering who could call her this late in the evening. He had his suspicion, of course…

It was confirmed when Hange answered the call with ‘Erwin! Is everything alright?’.

Puffing an annoyed breath, Levi paced a few steps away, giving Hange at least the illusion of privacy. But as his legs carried him away from her, his ears strained, catching every bit of conversation that he could.

However, understanding what Hange and her boss were talking about proved to be quite a task, when her replies consisted mostly of ‘Yes’, ‘No’, ‘Huh? What do you mean’ and ‘It can’t be!’. Hange ended the call in less than a minute, finishing it with a decisive ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible’.

She approached Levi immediately after.

“We need to go to the precinct.”

What? Like hell they did, they finally found Kenny, what could be more important than this?

“Reiss showed up there.” Hange explained, answering his unasked question and furious expression. “He wants to give a statement about Historia’s disappearance.”

Well… that changed the outset a bit, Reiss’ statement was if not useful, then certainly intriguing, but they found Kenny. In Levi’s eyes, that was still the more important clue. Not to mention… that was his initial and only goal.

“I know where Kenny is,” he told Hange, expecting it to change her plans completely.

He should have known that steering Hange away from something she had already set her mind on wouldn’t be so easy.

“We’ll go there right after I take that statement from Reiss.”

She looked so calm and rational, a stark contrast to the storm inside of Levi. Did she really not understand how significant their finding was? Levi was ready to growl from frustration.

He took a step forward, his eyes narrowed. “Hange—”

“Levi.” she moved closer as well, almost invading his personal space. “We will do this my way, or you will do nothing at all.”

Oh, so she was threatening him now? As if that would ever work on him.

“Alright,” he conceded, crossing hands on his chest. “Let’s split up then. You go to Reiss and your darling boss, I go to Kenny.”

Levi thought he’d struck gold with his suggestion. Both of them would get what they wanted without sacrificing precious time. It was perfect, wasn’t it?

Hange evidently didn’t think so. She laughed in his face, stating, “Don’t take me for a fool. Do you really think I’d let you go to see your uncle all by yourself?”

So that was it. The good old argument making a return.

“Really, Hange? After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

Perhaps, some of his hurt had reflected on his face, because Hange suddenly deflated, something close to shame flashing in her eyes. “It’s not about you,” she mumbled, looking to the side.

“Not about me?” this spurred his anger even more. “Then, who is it about?”

Hange clenched her jaw. “It’s about your uncle, Levi. I trust you, but I cannot and will not trust him. Would you have felt differently, if you were in my place?”

Hange’s concern and doubts were certainly… reasonable. He knew Kenny would never hurt him, not intentionally, but would he feel the same if he didn’t know him his whole life? If they weren’t family?

Of course, he wouldn’t. And Hange had even more reasons to distrust him, fighting her on that was futile. He could try some more to convince her, could try and make a run for it, but he’ll just end up wasting even more time that was now so precious.

“Alright,” his shoulders slumped, as he surrendered. Arguing with Hange had a way of making him extremely exhausted. “Let’s go to your shitty precinct.”

“Really?” Hange raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You agreed that easily? I thought I would need to handcuff you…”

Well, wouldn’t that be an interesting twist of events. Maybe, he would have enjoyed it. Once the embarrassment wore off, of course.

“Thanks for sparing me then.”

“Mm,” Hange patted his shoulder with a smile. “Don’t do anything stupid, and you’re totally safe.”

Ah, what a relief.

“Shall we go, then?” she started walking, her arm already lifted to hail a taxi. She didn’t even wait to hear his answer.

Levi cursed and hurried to catch up with her.

___

The whole time they spent in the car that was headed to the fucking police precinct, Levi felt like he was sitting on needles. There was another reason why he wasn’t crazy about going to that place, and, although, it was nearly not as important as his primary one, now it was making his anxiety rise to drastic heights.

Here he was, semi-willingly heading to the police precinct again. To the place that swarmed with cops, where some of Hange’s colleagues were probably aware that he was a criminal, where he would once again meet with Erwin fucking Smith.

Their last interaction ended somewhat amicably, but what could guarantee this one would be just as successful? With man as cunning as he was, who could be sure what was going inside that big brain of his?

Besides… there was another problem, hanging heavily on his mind. And in the silence of the taxi car, Levi decided to try and deal with it.

“Hey,” he started cautiously, attracting Hange’s attention. She shifted in her seat to look more comfortably at him. Despite that, Levi kept his gaze trained forward. “We’re going to meet Kenny soon, and, hopefully, untangle all this mess, so… have you decided what will happen with him afterwards?”

What will happen with me afterwards, was the question Levi wisely chose not to voice out.

“What will happen to your uncle?” Hange pursed her lips, a point finger tapping at her chin. “I don’t know yet. I guess it depends on the solution to this riddle.”

“And his…” theirs, “previous crimes? Are you going to just forget about them?”

“I can’t really do anything else about it. Technically, we have no suspects or any kind of damning evidence. Technically, that case has been closed almost two months ago.”

“So…” he put his hands into fists, keeping them from picking at the fabric of his pants. He still didn’t lift his face, reluctant to look into her eyes. He still didn’t ask the question that tormented him the most, afraid to hear the answer.

“After all of this is over… you’re free to go,” apparently, Hange knew what he was thinking about, even without him asking the question out loud. “Like I said, there is nothing I can do to pin those thefts on you or your uncle, and since, unlike your uncle, you haven’t kidnapped a young girl…”

“Oh. So you won’t try to put me behind bars anymore?”

He was almost disappointed to hear about it.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Hange protested. “I would love to do that, but I have no means to do it.”

“The horrible bureaucracy saved me?”

That earned him a delighted chuckle. Levi’s chest swelled with pride because of this little achievement. “Unfortunately, you’re not the only criminal that got away because of it.”

“All the more reasons to thank it then.”

“Or curse it vilely.”

Levi shrugged, his lips curling in a smirk. “Depends on the point of view, I guess.”

There was a pause in the conversation, and when Levi chanced a glance at Hange, he found that she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her face was turned to the window, her fingers drumming on the seat between them in a slow, irregular manner. She seemed pensive. Levi wondered about the reason for it.

“Hey, since we started talking about it…” the rhythm created by her fingers grew stronger, more erratic. “Have you decided what are you going to do after we finish the case?”

Had he thought about? He hadn’t had the time. But even if he had, what was there to think about? He didn’t have a lot of options.

“I remember you mentioning some kids from Singapore,” Hange continued. “Are you going to go back to them?”

Going back to the brats? That didn’t sound all that bad. Just this morning they’ve sent him a photo of the three of them, telling that they’ve settled comfortably in Jean’s summer house. They said that they’ve missed him. Levi was feeling the same. But was that enough to build a life there, so far away from his home?

He could stay with Kenny, but what if Kenny went to prison? Would there be a reason for Levi to stay then?

“You know… I think we made a pretty good team. So if you ever tire of being a vile criminal…” Hange trailed off, letting Levi fill the blanks himself.

If he understood what Hange was offering correctly, then… Oh. Levi felt his chest warm up, moving downwards, spreading that pleasant fluttering to his stomach.

Hange still was staring at the window, refusing to meet his eyes. Her reflection, however, was perfectly visible to Levi, and the slight rosy color on her cheeks made his own heat up.

“What, are you proposing I become your crime solving buddy?”

Hange shrugged, feigning disinterest. “I could use some of your skills.”

“I’ll think about it then,” he said, mirroring her detached voice.

Hange faced to him with a beam shining on her lips. It was enough to make Levi smile back.

___

Despite the late hour, the precinct was bustling with activity. Remembering his last visit and the half-dead building he found that time, Levi wondered if he just caught the police station on a particularly slow night, or if that was how it always operated, and the amount of officers running around that they saw now was unusual.

"So Reiss is actually here," Hange muttered. "Or something really bad has happened. Can't imagine what else could cause this commotion."

Oh, his assertion was correct then. The precinct was so active just because of Reiss’ arrival.

Hange walked through the precinct with confidence in her stride. She greeted every officer they passed with a quick nod, they answered her in kind, and, thankfully, most of them were too busy to pay attention to Levi. He would love if it stayed that way for the rest of their visit.

They took the stairs, crossed a couple of hallways, turned a few corners, and there they were - walking up to Hange's office. There were a lot more familiar faces there - Levi could see Nana— something, talking with two officers, and Mike, leaning against the coffee machine at the other side of the room.

Hange immediately changed their trajectory, heading to him.

"Mike!" she shouted, causing him to turn in their direction.

As they approached, Levi raised his hand in greeting. When they were close enough, Mike raised his hand too, but instead of a friendly salute, Levi received a dizzying, lip shuttering punch.

Woah, apparently he was not only a towering height, but a mountain of muscles as well, the force of that punch reverberated through his skin and almost sent Levi flying through the air to land right on his ass. Mike certainly wasn't going easy on him.

Comprehending what was going on around him became a vexing task after that hell of a punch, but Hange's loud, laced with anger voice still cut through the fog.

"Mike! What the fuck? Have you gone mad?"

Mike's answer was much quieter, Levi only barely managing to catch 'You're the one to talk..."

Whether Hange heard her tall friend or not, she gave no reaction to that line. Instead, her strong arms wrapped themselves around Levi's shoulders, making the ache in his jaw turn into a barely noticeable dull. She made him face her, her fingers gripping his chin. Despite the outrage swirling in her gaze, her touch was gentle, more like a caress.

"God, Han, he's alright, it was just a punch, I'm sure he had worse. And, he more than deserved it."

Hange looked up at Mike, long enough to give him a death glare and hiss, "Shut the fuck up now."

When her eyes were back on Levi, her voice softened considerably. "Hey, Levi, are you alright?"

He gave her a nod, tenderly clenching and unclenching his jaw. Seemed like... Mike was right. He did have it worse.

Besides... having Hange so close, seeing that worried look in her beautiful brown eyes was... extremely pleasant. Enough to make him want to remain in this position for a while longer, just to enjoy that blessed feeling for another moment.

"I told you everything was fine with him," Mike grumbled suddenly, startling Levi. With Hange in front of him, the rest of the world was left in blurs, even the man who assaulted him had faded to the background. "Now, leave the thief alone and hurry to Erwin. The big man is already in his office."

That got Hange's attention. "By the big man you mean..."

"Yep, it's Reiss. I’m sure I don't have to tell why making him wait is extremely unwise."

"Got it, got it," Hange pushed the hair back from her face, taking a step back, much to Levi's disappointment.

"Don't you worry, I'll take care of your buddy," Mike reached out to Levi, and the arms that Hange still had around him tightened. Levi felt an illogically massive amount of pleasure.

"Mike, don't you even think—"

"I won't hit him anymore. I swear," he added, when Hange just kept giving him a look full of skepticism. She left it on for another second, and then nodded, letting Levi go.

She marched off to the office without another word or even glance. Without her, Levi was suddenly too cold. And the jaw ache returned with vigor.

"Here," Mike thrusted a handkerchief in Levi's hands, pointing to his still bloodied chin. Levi accepted it with a grateful nod, wiping the blood with a disgruntled grimace.

"Now let's go, I won’t waste my smoke break babysitting you." Mike pushed him forward, back to where Levi and Hange had come from.

As he finally got a good look around the room, Levi noticed that they had an audience, quite big and intrigued one. They kept staring at him as Mike led him to the elevator. Thankfully, no one uttered a single word, or, god forbid, a question.

Levi would have breathed out in relief once the elevator doors closed, if his companion wasn't so... unnerving. Mike didn't say a word, didn't as much as glance in his direction while they rode the elevator. He was silent when they left the elevator. He was silent as they moved towards the exit. He was silent as they walked outside. He was silent when he lit up his cigarette, was silent when he offered another one to Levi. Mike was silent before he took his first drag and after he let the smoke out. He inhaled deeply through his nose, and only then he fixed his eyes on Levi.

Levi held his breath, the tips of fingers trembling in anticipation for what was to come. Hopefully, not another punch.

"I was with Han, you know? When she found that note of yours. When she realized who you actually were."

Oh... Then Mike's ire was more than justifiable. And Levi digressed – a punch would be probably a less painful option than having this conversation.

"Did she..."

"No. I've never seen Hange cry, but—" Mike put cigarette back to his lips, inhaling it slowly, as though calming himself down. Levi waited for his answer with a bated breath. "I've also never seen her look so lost. At first, she wasn't even angry or hurt, just confused. I couldn't bear to see that look on her face. So when today I saw you waltz in our precinct like that, with Hange by your side..." he trailed, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry." Levi said.

He really was. He didn't mean to, didn't wish to hurt Hange. That was never his intention. And yet, he still did hurt her. That mistake would weigh on his soul forever.

"I know you are," Mike replied, surprisingly easy. "I used to think you're a scumbag and that my nose has failed me…"

Shit, he was really serious about this whole nose thing?

"But it turns out you're not that bad. You did lie and broke Hange's heart," and for that, Levi already received a punch in the face. "However, Erwin told me what happened yesterday. You really called him and asked to take Hange home?" Mike chuckled. "Man, that took some balls."

...To put it lightly. The memories of his last clash with Erwin still elicited a shiver from him.

"I was actually worried he'd throw me in jail," Levi confessed. "I'm surprised he didn't."

"Oh, believe me, he was very tempted to." Mike revealed.

"Then why didn't he?"

Mike shrugged, shaking off the ash from his cigarette. "Because it wasn't his call, it was Hange's. Whatever that she sees in you, it is enough for our Han to trust you. And Erwin respects her enough to not get involved in that."

Oh. That was actually reassuring. Perhaps, now Levi could stop feeling like a naughty schoolboy in Erwin's presence.

"But if you make the mistake of hurting Hange again," and just like that, the reassurance was gone. "We will make sure that you regret it. Next time, I won't be pulling back my punches."

So that hit was Mike going easy on him? Fucking hell. Levi hoped he wouldn't anger that man again. His skull may not survive it.

As Mike grew silent once again, Levi finally remembered the cigarette he was still holding in between his fingers. It almost burned out, he hurried to take a drag before it went out completely.

He regretted his decision almost immediately. Mike had a fucking terrible taste in tobacco.

Discreetly, he put the cigarette out and threw it into a trashcan.

"What do you think they're even doing there?" Levi raised a finger in the general direction of where Hange, Erwin and Reiss were. "Reiss showing up, it's a big thing, isn't it?"

"The biggest one we had in a while. Have you seen that shit inside? The precinct isn't that lively even during daytime. The bigger commotion would have happened only if we got you Ackermans in handcuffs."

Luckily, that would never happen.

"And? Do you think something... useful might come out of his visit?"

"Don't know," Mike stared down at his cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. "To be honest, I thought that Hange's new case was just another dead end. But now guy as big as Reiss gets involved? I guess it's more complicated than I expected it to be."

Complicated? That was one way to put it. Levi was still baffled by the notion that Kenny was working with Frieda Reiss. Clearly, this case was much, much more complicated than they've anticipated. Clearly, he needed to get to the bottom of it as soon as possible.

As though hearing his thoughts, Mike put his cigarette out. "C'mon, let's get you back before Hange bites my head off."

"Doubt that four-eyes will care so much about me."

Mike raised an eyebrow, his face screaming bullshit. But he said nothing, only smiled enigmatically and patted his shoulder.

"Whatever makes it easier to sleep at night, man."

___

Inside of Erwin's office was brighter than Hange had ever remembered seeing. Usually he used only two sources of light - his battered desk lamp and computer screen. But today, the ceiling lights were on. Hange didn't know that he even had them.

What's more, for the first time in a while, the leather couch standing beside his desk was occupied - by Reiss and a woman Hange had never seen before. Although, Hange had never seen her, that didn't mean she didn't know her. The hair color, the face structure - it was almost identical. Eyes, however, were different. Historia had definitely inherited them from her father.

Compared to Reiss’ bright ones, Alma’s eyes seemed practically lifeless. Her expression was completely neutral, like she wasn’t entirely there, her thoughts a long distance away from Erwin’s office.

So that woman was the mysterious mother? Hange longed to hear what she had to say.

"Sorry for the wait," she flashed everyone in the room a smile and swiftly strolled inside, taking a seat across from Erwin.

"You're dressed very smartly this night, detective Zoe. I do hope I didn't interrupt your date."

The smile didn't slip of her lips, as Hange shifted, facing Reiss. "I appreciate the concern, but it is uncalled for. Nothing more important than my job."

"Your date must be very understanding. Is that the same fella I saw you with last time? I thought you'd broken it off."

Ah, so Reiss was keeping tabs on her? Lovely.

Luckily, Hange was keeping tabs on him as well. She shifted her gaze to Reiss’ companion.

"And can I ask you who is that, Mr Reiss? Is this your—"

"That's my secretary," Reiss' smile became just a fraction more strained. Hange internally cheered. "Alma."

The same name that was listed in Historia's birth certificate. That bit of doubt Hange still had, now vanished without a trace.

"She's got valuable information regarding your recent case. And since you and I are already acquitted, I decided to accompany her."

"How nice and generous of you," Hange told Reiss, before returning to his secretary. "It's nice to meet you, Alma," she put her hand out for a handshake. Alma accepted it, albeit weakly. And only after receiving a nod from Reiss. Interesting. And creepy. "Why have you come to see me?"

The question was directed on Alma. But Reiss was the one who answered it.

"Alma has something to share regarding the disappearance of her daughter."

"Oh?" Hange shared a look with Erwin. His bush eyebrows were up to his hairline. So he had no idea about it, huh? Well, wasn't it good to finally be one step ahead of him?

But for the moment, Hange had to feign shock as well.

She cast her eyes down, hands dropping to her lap. "I was under the impression that Krista was an orphan." Then, with a slight frown, she added, "Why didn't you report her missing then? We caught news of her disappearance almost a week later."

"I..."

Alma paled, her hands began to tremble. Hange's grin began to spread, she almost got them—

But then Reiss— damn him— interfered. He covered Alma's hands with his, holding them gently, like a caring father.

"Alma and Krista had just recently reconnected," he explained in a quiet, saddened voice.

"Yes," Alma confirmed. Seemed like Reiss' support has given her the needed strength - she sounded surer now. But her gaze kept its strange detachment. "Krista and I rarely talk. I had abandoned her at the orphanage when she was just a newborn, so there are obviously... some tensions between us."

Despite the emotional flavor of her story, Alma was anything but. She was talking about her missing daughter and the rocking relationship that bounded them, yet nothing of it was mirrored in her. Her voice didn't waver, no muscle twitched on her face. Alma looked bored, like she was talking about something more trivial than even weather. Damn it, even Ackerman would have done a better job at pretending.

Although, perhaps, Hange was judging his acting skills a little too harshly. Earlier that evening, his kiss was more than just convincing. Hange felt tingle in her lips at the mere thought.

The sound of Erwin clearing his throat brought her back to present, rather abruptly.

"That is a very tragic story, Miss... Alma, but what is the reason for your visit?"

"Oh right," she freed her hands from underneath Reiss' and grasped her purse, opening it. "I found this on my lawn."

After a moment of rummaging through the purse, Alma laid before Hange a phone that was wrapped in a cellophane bag. Huh, for a simple secretary she knew more than enough about preserving evidence. Not to mention that if Hange found the phone of her missing daughter lying on the lawn, preserving evidence would be the last thing on her mind. But, oh well, what wasn't suspicious about that woman?

Reaching out to Erwin, Hange silently asked him to pass the sterile gloves. Any other day she wouldn’t think twice about simply grabbing the piece of evidence, but if that's how they wanted to play, she would have to indulge them.

Once the latex was pulled onto her long fingers, Hange took the phone - eagerly, impatiently. It all might be just a ruse, and she'd be damned, but she was intrigued by it.

The phone wasn't in the best shape - a large crack ran through the screen, the sides of it were covered in bumps, and at the bottom of it— oh, just a speck, but it was undeniably blood.

Hange shivered at the thought about its origin.

Once unlocked, the phone destroyed the little doubts she had. It really belonged to Historia, the picture on the lock screen confirmed it. The photo showed Historia, who was smiling at the camera with all of her loveliness, and Ymir, who was facing away, her lips at Historia's cheek. Ah, so that's why she was so dead set on saving her? Interesting. And so romantic. Hange didn't expect such a thing from Ymir.

"You found it on your lawn, right?" Erwin asked, signaling Hange to pass him the phone. Once she did, he looked at it, with both skepticism and curiosity.

"Yes," Alma said. "I called Mr. Reiss as soon as I did."

"Alma hopes that the phone would shed some light on where Krista disappeared."

"Hm." Hange couldn't shake off the feeling that she was walking straight into a trap. Why did Reiss decided to finally act, and why today of all days? Was he aware that they got to one of his daughters, and now were close to finding another one? Did he even care? And what was the importance of the phone? It was some sort of distraction or diversion, Hange was sure of it. But for now, it would have to remain a mystery. As suspicious as Reiss' actions were, there was a more pressing matter now. They had to get to Kenny Ackerman, and get out of him everything he was willing to share. Hopefully, with Levi by her side, he'd be much more amenable.

"Thank you for your cooperation," getting out of off her stupor, Hange smiled and shook first Reiss', then Alma's hand. "If we find anything regarding Historia's whereabouts, we'll alert you immediately."

"Krista." Reiss spoke in a voice so low that Hange had to take a double take to confirm that yes, that scary tone was coming from the honest, kindhearted, absolutely innocent politician.

"What?"

"Krista, Alma's daughter is named Krista. And you were just talking about some Historia."

Some Historia, huh?

"My mistake," Hange chuckled, rubbing her neck. "It was a long day, sorry."

"Forgive that slight mishap. Detective Zoe works day and night to find your daughter." Erwin chimed in, calming everyone down with his soft, unassuming smile. Hange could barely keep her delightful giggle.

Your daughter, Erwin said, while looking Reiss in the eyes. So he already caught on? Hange wasn't surprised.

"Thank you for the visit and have a good night, Mr. Reiss, Miss Alma. My assistant will walk you to the door."

Reiss nodded, his eyes still darker than a night's sky. He helped Alma get to her feet and led her to the door, where Nifa, Erwin's assistant, was already waiting with a tired gaze and polite smile.

They left, without looking back even once. Alma didn't say goodbye to Hange, didn't grab her arm and beg to bring her daughter back home. God, that woman could have at least tried to do a more believable act.

Once the door was closed, and they were left alone, the amicable expression was gone from Erwin's face. His jaw was set, his lips pressed in a line, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I hope I don't have to tell you that you're walking on a thin ice, Hange. And that this endeavor of your—"

"I know."

"And working with that Ackerman—"

"I know." Hange repeated, firmer this time. She knew the dangers, knew about possible consequences. Last night, Erwin made sure to explain it to her in vivid details. "But this girl is in trouble, Erwin. I can't let it go before she's safe."

"Your heart was always your biggest weakness," the stoic mask on his face hardened, and then cracked, revealing a fond smile. "But it's also your biggest strength. Don't lose it."

Standing up, Hange hid Historia’s phone inside the pocket of her jacket, then flashed Erwin a cheeky grin. "Is that an order, Captain?"

"It absolutely is, detective. You may go now. Someone is very impatient."

Hange followed Erwin's gaze, turning to the door. Even through the closed door, Levi's silhouette was transparent. He was pacing back and forth, and Hange could bet that he was scowling. She confirmed that guess as soon as she left Erwin's office.

"What the fuck had taken you so long? C'mon, four-eyes, we have to hurry."

Right, Kenny Ackerman was waiting for them. Kenny Ackerman who most definitely had the answers, who probably knew where Historia was. Hange couldn't allow another second go to waste.

She quickly skipped to where Levi was standing, prompting him to start moving.

"Let's go then! The solution awaits!"

___

"Wait!" Hange stopped them as soon as they were out of the precinct. "We need to call Ymir."

Levi groaned. Why, oh why, would she want to call that impossible brat?

"We wouldn't have found your uncle if it wasn't for her help. The only thing she asked in return is to find Historia. We owe her that much."

Perhaps, that was true, but Hange hadn't considered one very important factor - Levi really, really didn't want to face Ymir again. The last embarrassment was still too fresh in his mind.

"We haven't found Historia yet," he tried to argue.

"But we're as close as ever," Hange chirpily replied, overthrowing his whole reasoning with just one hopeful sentence.

Well, his battle was doomed before it had even begun. Levi lamented this loss with a sigh. "You're too kind, four-eyes."

"And you're too cranky," she retaliated, following that devastating blow with a mighty clasp to his back. "Call taxi for us while I talk with Ymir, okay? You know where to go, right?"

"Yeah," he nodded, sobering a little. Amidst his banter with Hange, he had completely forgotten that right, he was going to visit his childhood home, the same house where he had found the breathless body of his mother at the ripe age of nine. The feelings this trip was awakening in him were still unclear.

"And where exactly are we going?" whether his face, voice or general stiffness betrayed him or Hange was just that attuned to his emotions, but worry took residence in her gaze. She froze with phone raised to her ear, waiting for his answer.

"It's at the edge of the city."

"Near the docks? Some kind of abandoned warehouse?"

"Um." Something pointy stuck in his throat, making it hard to speak. However, Hange's gaze didn't waver, as she continued to expect a continuation from him. Swallowing his discomfort, Levi muttered, "We're going to my childhood home."

"Oh." The hand holding the phone lowered. Hange took a step in his direction. For one terrifying second Levi thought she was going to hug him. But, apparently, she decided to spare him from further embarrassment and concluded that gripping his shoulders tightly was enough. She stared straight at him, and in the darkness her eyes shone with sincerity. "If you want - or need - to talk about this, I'm ready to listen. If you—"

Fucking hell, compared to Hange, every other human seemed like an utter piece of shit.

"It's fine, four-eyes. It's just the house where I found my dead mom."

Saying that was obviously a mistake. Hange gasped, her eyes widening. Her hands on his shoulders tightening. "Levi, that's—"

"Yeah, one hell of a traumatic experience, especially for a brat who barely turned nine."

Another wrong line. Now Hange looked close to tears. Levi didn't know what urge was stronger - to wrap himself around Hange and ask her to never let go, or tear his hair out.

"Listen, I've dealt with it a long time ago," he didn't, hadn't even tried, but today and right now was very obviously the wrong time to go soul-searching and uncover what consequences his mother's death had on his psyche. "Don't worry about it."

"I can't help it, but if you insist..."

With that lost expression on her face, Hange looked so damn adorable, Levi was pissed off at himself for being so unwilling to look away. Thankfully, she saved him from this heavy duty by being the first one to turn around, the phone back to her ear. Levi turned away as well, escaping temptation. His finger was just hovering over the order button, when it dawned at him.

"Wait!" he pulled Hange back to him. "Did you just call me Levi?"

It wasn't the first time this evening as well, but all the previous occasions had him too occupied with something else to notice that slight change.

"Where did the damned Ackerman go?"

"Um." If he hadn't spent the previous two days learning just how bold and forward Hange was, he'd say that right now, she looked ashamed. The red in her cheeks certainly spoke in favor of that theory. "I'll be dealing with two Ackermans from now on, right? So to avoid any confusion..."

That was a very logical, reasonable explanation. So why Levi wanted it to be something more— personal?

"The taxi will be here in five," he said, distancing himself from these pointless, foolish thoughts.

"Ymir said she'll be waiting there for us," Hange nodded readily. "Shall we go?"

And so they went.

___

By the time Levi and Hange walked out of the taxi, Ymir was already waiting for them. She was standing near the sidewalk, leaning against a shiny black motorcycle.

Levi rolled his eyes at the sight of it. Of course, Ymir rode a motorcycle. As though she wasn't already a personification of every possible lesbian cliché.

"Oh what a baby!" squealing, Hange ran up to the motorcycle, looking it over with eyes burning from excitement. "I'm sure Historia would love to take a ride on this beast!"

"What can I say?" Ymir huffed, puffing her chest. The smirk on her face was absolutely horrendous. Even Kenny couldn't quite recreate a look of that much self-confidence. "Chicks dig bikes."

"That they certainly do."

Aha, so Hange liked motorcycles. Levi made a mental note about that.

He then left behind Hange's shrilling coos and Ymir's bratty replies, taking a step closer to the house he had grown up in.

It was dark now and seemingly empty, but years ago it was always filled with light. It was filled with life - his mom's cheerful laughter, his uncle's merry jokes, Levi's own insistent, curious questions about everything he encountered. It was filled with love— but now, it was just a house - old and cold.

Although, other than that, it looked exactly like Levi had remembered. A light green house in the suburbs, with a garden, little white fence and even playground, all of it was a gift from Uri Reiss, the only real friend his uncle had.

Oh, how his mother loved that house. How she enjoyed tending to the garden, how she laughed when she watched Levi play on a swing. They were happy in this house, the happiest Levi had ever been.

Standing before it now, after so many years, felt strange. Noticing all the little signs that someone had been looking after the house - the lawn was moved, the trash sorted and neatly packed, even the lane was swept - was even stranger. And he used to think that Kenny had sold the house long time ago. Evidently, the old bastard was more sentimental that he let on.

"Hey," a gentle voice was in his ear, strong hands on his shoulders. "Do you need a moment or—"

He was grateful for Hange's concern. But that concern - as sweet as it was - was misplaced. They didn't have time for it.

"I'm fine," he assured, lamenting that he was too prideful to take Hange by the hand. Not that he needed it, but— it certainly would make him feel better. "Let's get moving."

They did, all three of them in perfect unison, and be it her detective's sense or simple intuition, or, perhaps, Hange really could read him as easily as a book, but she took her hand in his, squeezing his palm reassuringly. It certainly worked, her touch was like a magic that chased away the tense feeling in his muscles. Now, Levi could almost breathe freely.

When they reached the door, Hange lifted her free hand, probably with intent to knock. What a dork, Levi thought fondly. Pushing her aside, he kicked the door open with one mighty hit of his leg.

"Levi!" Hange yelled in shock. "You can't just—"

"My house, remember?"

Without another word, Levi passed the threshold, Hange and Ymir trailing after him.

Even engulfed in darkness, the inside of the house looked just like he remembered - soft, crème carpet under their feet, fern that had grown so much bigger standing near the door, a photo of—

Oh. Levi averted his eyes with lightning speed. The last thing he wanted to do was to start crying. Especially with Ymir present.

The house seemed emptier with each step they took. Doubt started to arise within Levi, and along with it - his anger. If that son of a bitch lied to him—

But then he heard it. Just at the edge of his hearing, but that sound was as familiar as it was unmistakable. The sound of Kenny playing with his lighter.

He hurried in the direction of that sound, it led him to the living room. The room was dark, the only source of light was the old TV-screen that did a very poor job of illuminating the rest of the room. Levi could barely see the outlines of the couch, but the figure lying on it— oh, Levi knew it so well.

The sight of Kenny with a bottle of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other was all too familiar. And just as infuriating. Still holding onto Hange, Levi marched to his uncle with the full intent of kicking his insolent ass.

Kenny shot to his feet moments before they reached him.

"Levi!" he spread his arms in a greeting gesture. Levi's scowl darkened. "You brought friends!"

"Kenny—"

"And before you or your detective—" Kenny swept his eyes all over Hange, his grin growing, "friend punch me, let me show you something."

"Something?" it came from Hange, who sounded simultaneously intrigued, cautious and fucking furious.

"Someone," Kenny corrected with an enigmatic wink. Before Levi or Hange could force him to explain, he shouted, his voice carrying over the entire house, "Girl! Come here, you have guests!"

There was a beat of silence, then, they heard a sound of hurried footsteps that came from the upper floor. Levi held his breath. Hange did too, and, holding her hand, he could feel her pulse beating strongly.

At last, the door to the living room opened.

"What the hell do you want from me again?"

Levi's jaw dropped. Dressed in lilac top and shorts, with her hair up in a messy ponytail she looked a bit different from the perfect girl from the photos, but truth was impossible to deny.

Before them— in the flesh, stood Historia Reiss.

#fuck i don't have a silly joke this time soooo just enjoy?#levihan

55 notes · View notes

cheelduh · 3 years

Text

How to get your crush to walk you to the nurse’s office (Highschool AU)

This is part 3, but it can be read alone!

Pairing: Childe x fem!reader

Warnings: Swearing, Mentions of a monster schlong, and unedited.

Parts: 1 2

Synopsis: Childe offers Lisa a shady deal to yet again sit next to you. However, all his efforts are in vain after he makes a complete fool out of himself by tripping over literally nothing because of a stupid cold. Maybe getting a cold isn’t so bad if he gets to be escorted to the nurse’s office by none other than yourself.

Note: Pure unedited crack luvs. Can’t wait for Childe rerun tmr I hope I get the ginger and the emo nun! 🥲💖

The eyes on you are suffocating, to say the least, enough for you to consider peeling a layer of your own skin off just to breathe. Every now and then, you get a teasing glance from a classmate, and you're sure you'll be an entire puddle of guts on your desk before home room even gets a chance to begin.

There's no doubt it's Signora that spread the news of your date yesterday as a means to some sick revenge. Knowing this was going to happen, you packed some salt in your backpack to cancel out all her evil. Now all you need is a chance to knuckle ball it in her face.

Fingers crossed, you pray to the archons that Childe didn't slip anything about your...brick slip yesterday. It's a good thing you weren't in a school uniform yesterday because that would've been the end of your high school life right there.

Thinking back to it, you collapse into your open hands. How could you have beaten a bunch up losers up...risking your flawless reputation for a sadistic ginger with an affinity for chaos? And worst of all, why did you care about them shit talking him in the first place?

"You okay dear? Something you want to tell me?" Lisa feigns concern, already knowing why.

With a sigh, you blink an eye open through the gap in your fingers. "Doing just fine."

"Oh it couldn't have been that bad." Her eyes shine in mischief. "I bet Childe was a real gentleman."

"He sure was." Kaeya pipes up from the back, leaning in to show you the image on his phone. It's a picture Childe took of you absolutely oblitering an ice cream cone.

You groan and slump deeper into your chair from embarrassment as Kaeya and Lisa engage in chatter, mostly revolving around your date.

Ignoring them completely, you start to ponder about Childe. Where is he? You were sure he'd be here bright and early to reminisce on your eventful date yesterday, which mostly consisted of a competition of who could win the most stall games at a local festival.

Maybe he'd even tease you about the Monoceros Caeli keychain attached to your phone. The very one he'd won for you, and the reason that started the competition in the first place.

Your cheeks warm when you fidget with said keychain, and you can't tell if the fast pace of your heart is because you're nervous to see him or because of the biology quiz you have second period.

So wrapped up in all these foreign emotions, you fail to notice the shadow that looms over you, a glittery finger guard tapping at your desk.

The student council President, Ningguang, plops down a stack of budget files on your desk during homeroom. She's gives you a light smile, and you know what's coming when you meet her alluring gaze.

"Be a dear Y/N," Ningguang smiles, tight lipped, all pretty with her hair pinned back to crown her face. "Even with all hands on deck, i'm afraid the student council's efforts will not come to ripeness concerning all of this paperwork."

This isn't the first time you've done her a favour by becoming the president's personal accountant, and it definitely isn't going to be the last.

Ningguang is powerful, with wit like no other, and you want to be able to call in a chit when the time comes.

"Of course," You reply with a smile that rivals her own. "I'll have them done by the end of the day."

"Excellent. I knew I could count on you, Y/N." She departs elegantly, probably opting to sit next to Beidou and bicker.

You're halfway on the third sheet for total income, a minute before class starts, when you're interrupted. Childe stumbles through the door quite noisily, a shitstain of a grin plastered on his face that is directed at you.

You sigh and shake your head as he approaches you. Thankfully the seat next to you is occupied by—

Shit! Where's Lisa?

Across the classroom, Lisa gives you a thumbs up with a bar of vending machine chocolate in her hand. You should've known she'd betray you yet again.

Childe slides in smoothly after bumping fists with Kaeya, and he falls short of containing his giddy nature.

"Hi Y/N." There's something weird about him today, because you're sure you haven't seen his cheeks so flushed ever. His eyes land on your phone, which is splayed on the desk, and the keychain widens his grin.

You snatch your phone and hide it in the middles of your thighs, but the damage is already done. The urge to shrink against the wall has never been as strong as it is in this moment.

"Hi." It's a miracle you haven't combusted on the spot. Is it usually this awkward? Everything went so fine yesterday, so why can't you ease into it today?

He takes that as a go ahead and instantly reaches for your hand on the table, but you retract at the speed of light.

"Don't even think about it." You're ready to connect the tip of your trainers to his bleached asshole, nose crinkled at his behaviour.

Kaeya whistles lowly, leaning forward for the HD show that is your life.

Childe's smile is sheepish as he's scratching the back of his head. "So we're not on that stage yet huh? I seriously thought you had a change of heart after you beat up those high schoolers for m—"

You muffle his statement with a hand on his mouth, and send a pointed glare to Kaeya. "You didn't hear shit."

The Captain of the skating team nods innocently, and salutes. "Yes boss."

Returning your gaze to Childe, who looks like he's having the time of his life with your small hand on his mouth, you narrow your eyes. "Stop trying to spread rumours."

He can only hum in reply, but you feel a weird pressure on your palm and—

The smug asshole kisses your palm.

You pull back your hand and wipe at your pants, full of disbelief. "Did you just??? Did you just? Kiss my hand???" Mouth twisted, you have no idea what to think.

Childe's throws his head back, and his laugh rings in your ears. You hate yourself for wavering slightly at the sound before smacking his arm. His laughs turn into coughs, probably because he may have swallowed his saliva down the wrong pipe. Charming.

Where the fuck is Zhongli? It's already been five minutes too long into homeroom.

Rolling your eyes, you opt to continue and scribble down budget numbers and add sums up or whatever you were doing earlier after Childe pipes down, choosing to admire you quietly by leaning his weight on one arm. It's enough to make you squirm, face flushed.

"Can you not?" Clicking your tongue in disapproval, you don't look up as you speak.

"If you give me a kiss, then maybe." Childe's cheeky, ridiculously so, and he points a finger at his cheek.

"I don't negotiate with terrorists." You deadpan, fingers itching to choke something or rather...someone.

Childe pouts, and then his eyes close for a second, almost as if he's exhausted when he gives you a sort of smile. With how he's leaning in so close, you can easily spot the swelling in his eyes and the paleness of his face.

For the first time today, there's no bite in your tone when you ask with a slightly raised brow. "Are you okay Childe?"

"Yeah!" He's quick to answer ecstatically, snapping out of his tired haze by straightening himself up. "Better more than ever now that I've seen you, girlie."

You blush madly, the compliment enough for you to drop your pen on the ground. It rolls over beyond your reach.

"I'll get that." Childe jumps out of his chair and you're unable to stop him as he goes to go fetch your pen like the chivalrous idiot he is. There's a slight pause in his movement, his body taking longer to process the messages his brain is sending.

He recovers from the muddle in his cognition by shaking his head, and casually goes to pick up the pen, then ends the move by falling over backwards in unconsciousness.

"Childe!" You lunge for him, managing to catch him a second prior to his ass hitting the floor with the help of Kaeya, who somehow looks like he's expected this outcome from the very start.

The entire classroom clamps up and turns to look for the root of all the commotion.

"Don't just sit there and watch!" You hiss angrily, waving them off. "Someone get Zhongli!"

Aether doesn't need to be told twice as Venti and him race down the hall together. Venti probably just to use this opportunity of sudden chaos to skip homeroom.

"Looks like a fever." The Captain accesses the situation as a small crowd forms around you two. "There's no way he didn't feel it in the morning."

"The absolute idiot." You groan at his words. "Of course he'd try to have a pissing match with a cold."

"I'm still here you know." Childe slurs, leaning into you for warmth, chest rising and falling softly. "Just a...a little sleepy. Am I dreaming angel?"

You roll your eyes, but don't make any moves to lean away from his touch. "Anyone got a water bottle?" Curling your hands around his shoulder, you shift your gaze towards the crowd.

Somebody passes you an emerald green water bottle with dandelion charms that clink against the hard plastic handle from a nearby desk. It screams stupid, but you don't have time to judge the owner.

Opening it up hastily, you're about to let Childe take a sip until it's snatched away from you at the speed of light.

"Hey what gives!" You call out to Kaeya, who inspects the bottle closely with his one eye. He then nods in affirmation as if his suspicions are confirmed.

"I wouldn't recommend it." Is all he says when he motions for you to take a whiff, which you do so reluctantly, eyes closed.

The scent hits you all it once. It's watered down vodka, except without the watering down. Tears form from the intensity.

"The goddamn bard." You choke out, and it earns you a drained chuckle from the ginger that has his head situated on your forearm.

He has half the mind to nuzzle in further, but the position is convenient enough for you to crush his skull if you wish to do so. So he refrains, albeit reluctantly.

Zhongli manages to make it in less than two minutes, sipping on a cup of steaming tea as he breaks apart the crowd to crouch down. "Is everything alright? I came as soon as I could after I made this tea. I assumed it was just another prank."

Everyone in the room shakes their head incredulously.

"Unfortunately it isn't a prank. Childe fainted briefly." You tell him politely despite the urgency, since you're whipped for all your teachers.

"I didn't faint!" Childe groans, exasperated. "Got a little dizzy s'all."

"Yeah," Kaeya cuts in to summarize the situation. "I'll be happy to take him to the nurses office with Y/N—"

Zhongli clears his throat. "You won't be going anywhere Mr.Alberich. I'm sure you have five overdue assignments in my class. Y/N here can walk him just fine." He then attempts to wink at Childe secretly like the wingman he is, but everyone in the classroom and their grandma notices.

The facepalm you do is not enough to render you brain dead.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh for the nth time today, and it's only eight thirty in the morning. "No worries, Lisa can help—"

"Sorry cutie. I'm manifesting for the biology quiz." Lisa deflects, lighting three candles on her desk unceremoniously with her eyes closed.

You don't understand why no one has confiscated her box of matches yet. This entire school is a law suit waiting to happen.

You succumb to the team effort everyone is trying so hard to display. "I guess I can go." The hall pass is already written, signed, and neatly folded into the chest pocket of your uniform. "How did you even..."

You don't even get a chance to finish before both you and Childe are whisked away to the outside of the classroom, the door shutting behind you with a slam. Your ears perk up at the sound of a lock clicking in place.

"Looks like you're stuck with me." The smug bastard still has the audacity to beam even when he's pale in the face. "Might have to hold my arm. If I fall and crack my skull—that wouldn't look too good on your record." He makes grabby hands, like a toddler.

The smile you give is unnerving, and with the speed of a snail, you manage to loop in your arm with Childe's. "Another word and let's move on to how your hospital record is going to have more than just a cracked skull."

"If you'd nurse me back to health, it'll all be worth it." The quip he sends without a beat lacks its usual goof, but it does manage to get some sort of reaction out of you.

"Whatever. Let's just get this over with."

—

Childe's busy thumbing at his phone while you pace at the foot of the bed, arms crossed with a frown etched on your features. You hope you don't look too worried, don't want to give him the wrong idea.

"Can we just get this over with?" He wails uncharacteristically from his spot on the white sheeted bed after ruling out everything he wanted to do on his phone. His hair is tousled more than usual, as a by-product of his constant restlessness.

"Shut up." You answer monotonously, arms crossed as you lean against the wall. "Let her finish her tiktok."

Barbara—the daughter of the school nurse, has her phone on the window, lip syncing and dancing to some music on beat as she films a tiktok with the utmost of important.

It's concerning that her father isn't here to tend to your needs, but apparently he's in the middle of a meeting with principle Varka. Said meeting had been going on for the past few months, but this school is devoid of logic anyways so nobody really questions anything.

"I'm literally dying here."

"Archons you're such a baby," Shaking your head, you approach his bed with a newfound annoyance. "Barbara has to create a tiktok at least once every twenty four hours or her fan club goes feral and..."

"Tries to jump off the roof as the ultimate sacrifice to her majesty." Childe sighs, and for the first time you sense his irritation. "Got it."

Just in time, Barbara finishes her cute little dance and comes over to where Childe is laying.

Childe doesn't miss the way your scowl has dissipated, and you give Barbara your undivided attention, hearts in your eyes from all the adoration. He has half the mind to call you out on it, no doubt a little jealous over how the young highschool idol can get you to show more emotion than him.

"I'm so sorry! I started those tiktoks out of mild interest but now I have an obligation to my fans." The younger apologizes profusely, getting to work almost immediately.

"No worries." Childe starts, staying still as the blonde examines him. "I'm sure it's nothing too serious. Y/N here is being dramatic, she probably just wants to spend some alone time with me."

You inhale sharply, turn to Barbara, and ask. "If I jumped out of the window right now from this floor, would it be a quick and easy death?"

The younger girl's eyes widen, and Childe stifles his snort.

"Kidding." You raise your hands up to cease her worries, and then motion towards him. "Common cold?"

"Yes," Barbara moves on and writes down something on a slip. "We'll just keep him here until his parents can pick him up."

"My parents can't pick me up." He asserts in a casual tone. "Don't call them."

"We still have to call them. If they don't come, you're to stay in this bed all day." She hands you the note, which is a viable excuse for all the classes he'll miss today. "Give this to his homeroom teacher. You'd also better get to class, your hall pass is about to expire."

"Hold up." You remark, barely paying attention to the note that you've shoved down your pocket. "I'm not leaving him here alone." There's no room for argument, your decision is firmly stated.

Childe hypes you up in his weakened state, disoriented. "You tell em girlie."

"He won't be alone." Barbara flashes you a reassuring smile. "I'll be monitoring him until his parents get here."

"No, no, you don't understand." You argue, inquiring all the doubts you have. "He's gonna try to pull some shit and I'll have to be here to stop him."

"Ease up babe." Childe tries to calm you down, despite the giddiness in his chest at the realization that you want to take care of him.

His subconscious begs him to let you stay, to let himself be doted and cared for the way he's always wanted you to, but he knows he can't let you skip class. Not when you've worked so hard and come so far. "I'll be okay for a few. You can go back to class and then visit me during break."

You bite your lips, head jumbled with all the different possibilities of how shit can hit the fan. "I can't! What if Signora shows up? She'll poison you in this weakened state to get back at me for trying to exorcise her." The hesitation in your features gives away everything.

Childe's eye twitches at the thought of Signora out of all people getting the best out of him, and also the absolute audacity you have to be calling him weak. Clearly all his efforts towards the little shows of dominance (e.g. Shoving Pallad against a locker, spraying a hefty amount of cologne on, being an asshole in general, etc.) have not bore fruit.

"You tried to exorcise her?" Barbara gasps, momentarily reminding the two of you that she's still present.

"Her evil has no bounds." Your expression is hard to read, dead serious. "I do not regret my attempt at cancelling Satan's hell spawn."

Childe himself has been cancelled hundreds of times over the span of highschool because of all his problematic traits (e.g calling Venti a twink) and it is not a pleasant experience.

Though it does give him a sense of comfort, knowing that arrogant bitch Signora is finally getting what's coming to her, even if she is one of his friends.

Serves her right for trying to Pavlov her stupid Chihuahua into biting the closest human being just by the snap of her manicured finger. As if it's persistent yapping and tendency to run in front of cars isn't enough torture to deal with on a daily basis.

Childe's yanked out of his thoughts rather forcefully at the sound of the door opening abruptly, the handle crashing into the wall, shocking Barbara's attempts to reassure you.

He knows who it is because of his top tier gaydar, dreading what's to come.

Scaramouche is a morose son of a bitch with a mean streak that hasn't been broken since he was an itty bitty shit in the fourth grade.

"I can't believe you let yourself get sick!" The navy haired boy exclaims in disbelief, doubling over with tears, clapping his hands to add on some extra effects. "Natural selection finally decided to stop pussy footing around your primate-looking ass."

You press your lips together. "Isn't he supposed to be your best friend?"

Scaramouche sputters violently, using the wall as leverage to hold himself up. "You told her I'm your best friend? Oh fuck. Oh this is good. What else did you tell her huh? That you have a monster cock?"

"First of all, you make me reconsider my opinion on the death penalty, dickhead."

Barbara is mortified. Childe continues on anyways.

"—and I do have a monster cock. But why are you so interested in my monster cock huh?"

Scaramouche scrunches his face up in disgust, amusement nothing but a distant memory. "You don't have a monster cock you plebe."

Childe has an awfully scandalized expression on his face, but smoothly enough it transitions into an unsettling grin that you're all too familiar with. "You didn't deny not being interested in my monster cock though."

It's your turn to be mortified, shaking your head at the banter that goes on back and forth.

"How did you even know he was in here? We aren't even in the same class."

Scaramouche raises a brow as if you're some sort of toddler that's babbling out a mixture of Cheerios and spit, maybe a few digested strawberries here and there. He waves his phone in front of you, "posted it on his story."

"What the—give me that!" You snatch his phone right up, staring at the screen in bewilderment.

There's a video of you doing trick shots with your tech deck on the ledge of a nearby window with a pressed expression while waiting for Barbara to finish up, captioned with: "In the nurses office rn pray for me 🙏, there's this cute girl in front of me should I ask her out?"

You check the poll and ninety five percent say yes. Scaramouche voted no. You have mixed feelings.

Shaking your head, you give Childe, who's unable to sit still, a look of pure exasperation.

Scaramouche claws his phone back from you rather harshly, the bells on his hat jingling, making it hard for you to take him seriously when he sneers your way.

"You should be thankful you're the lover of my comrade." He shivers slightly at the word comrade. "or I would have obliterated you on the spot for that little stunt."

Childe doesn't even pretend to look fazed at the older's threat when he says "as if I'd allow a kumquat headass like you to touch my girl."

You and Barbara hastily jump in to stop the bloodbath that is seconds from happening. "No!"

Luckily, no limbs are teared apart.

#genshin impact #genshin impact oneshot #kaeya alberich #childe #childe x reader #fanfic #genshin oneshot #genshin tartagalia #tartagila #aether #venti genshin impact #genshin impact venti #kaeya genshin impact

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lightsovermonaco · 3 years

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 10

Masterlist

Shoutout to my bestie @acollectionofficsandshit for all the drunk comments she made while betaing this one... Wish you guys could see them lol

Word Count: 4.8k

Recommended song: “Amnesia" by 5SOS

Pierre paces in his dinky trailer at the Circuit of the Americas and desperately tries to forget you exist. He had already taken down the pictures on the wall but the images were burned into his brain. He had shoved your shirt under his bed, having absolutely no idea how it had made its way halfway around the world to taunt him.

He was slowly unraveling like a spool of thread on a loom as you wove him irrevocably into the tapestry of your life.

The race in Austin started in less than two hours and you hadn't texted him. Not once in the handful of years he'd known you had you neglected to wish him luck before a race, even if it was 2 am your time or you had exams, you always took thirty seconds to warn him to be safe and finish well.

He was beginning to think you hated him for how he'd acted at the gala last weekend, jealous and possessive from afar. Talking to you would have been the better choice. But seeing you laugh and dance the night away had hurt too much. He’d slipped out early after Victoria assured him she could find a ride and sped home to fall apart.

He had only barely managed to piece himself together in time for the race.

Pierre checks his phone for the third time in as many minutes and swears under his breath. He didn't know why he expected it to ring and for your face to pop up at this point. Even if you called to tear into him, he'd still fall to his knees at the sound of your voice. He just wanted to hear you speak, didn't care what was said, only that he could latch onto your words and lose himself in them.

Hope sparks when his phone chimes but he nearly throws it across the trailer when he sees Charles' name.

Heard from her yet?

No. At this point I'm beginning to think I never will again.

Maybe she fell asleep early?

It's 5 pm in London. I'll bet you she's eating a bowl of takeout from the Chinese place down the street, not sleeping.

Its still possible. Don't dwell on it. This isn't the headspace you wanna be in before a race. Block it out. I don't wanna see my best friend wind up hurt today.

Pierre didn't reply, if only because Charles was right. Worrying would get him nowhere. After his shitty qualifying yesterday, he started thirteenth on the grid so he had his work cut out for him. Austin offered plenty of opportunity for overtakes; he could get the job done if his team made the right calls.

And if he made it to the podium, you would have to text him.

The thin mattress groans when he sits to unlace his hastily tied race boots. He folds his legs to sit criss cross and places his palms on his knees. The familiar pose already has some of the tension leaving his shoulders as his eyes slide shut. He breathes in for ten seconds, reflecting on what ails him. He holds the breath for five seconds before releasing it slowly.

He repeats the process until he comes to terms with the fact that you won't be wishing him luck. That was your choice; there was nothing he could do about it and therefore no sense reading into it. He had done all he could to convince you to trust him. The ball was in your court; he had to be patient and wait for you to take a shot.

“Focus,” he murmurs to himself, forcing any erroneous thoughts from his head. “Walk through the track.”

The circuit at Austin was challenging, consisting of a mix of 20 sweeping corners and scattered hairpins. He was almost lucky in a way to be starting so far back on the grid because turn one was only a few hundred meters from pole and their tires would be slightly colder and less grippy upon arrival than his would be. The few extra seconds afforded to him by starting thirteenth could mean the opportunity to leap frog past his rivals in the first corner.

The counterclockwise circuit meant he would have to keep an eye on his front left tire too, as it would wear faster than the others. He'd change gears an average of 66 times per lap, higher than similar length tracks like Monaco. Pit stops cost an average of nineteen seconds, meaning he would need to build a significant gap to the driver chasing him in order to avoid the threat of any undercuts.

There were too many variables occupying space in his mind to afford you a sliver of it.

Some time later he decides that his four leaf clover tucked safely in the worn leather of his wallet will provide all the luck he needs and switches on his pre race playlist after popping in his ear buds.

"Sights on the podium," he murmurs to himself, hand on the doorknob. "Let's race."

The bass flows through him as his feet carry him to the Alpha Tauri garage on autopilot, through the back entrance and to his plain white driver room. The familiar beats are a numbing salve spread on his frayed nerves, his anticipation rising like a crimson wave in his veins. He leaves his clothes in a haphazard heap in the corner and changes into the white fireproofs hanging nearby, thoughts momentarily veering to you knocking on the door and stripping them right back off.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he runs through his usual stretch sets until Pyry arrives to walk him through reflex exercises.

"How's your head?" Pyry asks, running him through more cool down stretches. "Do we need to take a minute and do some meditation?"

"Beat you to it," Pierre grunts out, pushing back against the hand on his head to work his neck. "I'm good."

"You sound better than you have all week, I'll give you that. Keep that focus, use it to propel yourself forward."

"Run me through the lineup again," Pierre requests, "I need something else to think about."

Because if he let his mind follow the path it wanted to, it would inevitably lead to you and undo the work he had done to avoid that. He needed to be empty of anything that wasn't racing, anything else was an unnecessary distraction that had the potential to end in disaster.

Pyry rattles off the grid in order of who Pierre needs to overtake, pausing between each name to give him time to recall their driving styles and potential chinks in their armor to exploit. He knew from tapes of previous years that Stroll often ran wide into turn one, giving Pierre the option to brake late and sweep up the inside. Vettel was half convinced the track was cursed, so his mind would work against him enough that Pierre could exploit it and get past at some point. He continued until he got to Hamilton and Max locking out the front row, where he would need a bit of luck to overtake.

"You got it?" Pyry asks, stepping back.

Pierre rolls his shoulders and nods.

"Get shit done mate," Pyry says and bumps fists with his driver. He slips out to allow Pierre a moment to center himself before slipping into his race suit, leaving it half unzipped and tying it around his waist before following his trainer.

Pyry leads the way to where the matte navy and white car waits, mechanics swarming it like studious worker bees tending to their queen. No one talks to him save his engineer because words from anyone else threaten to break his carefully constructed race mentality. If they wanted him to bring home points, they knew to leave him alone once he was suited up.

His mind is blank of anything but statistics as he twists his ear buds in and pulls on his balaclava and helmet. As his vision narrows to the sliver of track he can see through his visor, so does his focus. With forty minutes to lights out, he's directed out onto the track. He rips the wheel to the right as he exits the garage, getting a decent powerslide for his efforts.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would land on the podium, if only to see the look on your face when he did.

**********

It took an unfathomable amount of restraint to keep yourself from calling Pierre to wish him luck.

You texted Max instead, wishing him a safe and comfortable podium a half hour before lights out. He hadn't responded, likely already in the garage with his trainer going through his pre race routine.

The pace Max had set the day before had awarded him pole position and the margin between him and Hamilton had been enough that you were confident in his ability to hold off the Mercedes for all fifty six laps.

If you were honest with yourself, you were disappointed that the Alpha Tauri you so desperately tried to ignore would be starting in thirteenth. You try not to think about it, instead queueing up SkySports and opening your laptop for pre race coverage. You avoid the interviews in favor of listening to the commentators analyze the grid.

"It should be an easy win for Max as long as he fends off Hamilton until the first round of pit stops. The undercut works well here, as Red Bull proved last year, and I'm sure they plan on doing the same thing this year."

You hum in agreement, gingerly sipping your steaming tea. You really ought to consider a career as a sportscaster at this point based on how often you came to the same conclusions they did.

"I think one of the biggest shakeups is Russell starting all the way up in eleventh after his amazing qualifying for Williams yesterday. Think he can hold onto that position?"

"He's got some fierce competition not far behind in the form of Alpha Tauri. Gasly starts thirteenth- surprisingly far back on the grid given the otherwise flawless performance he's shown this year. But it seems likely that he should be able to overtake-"

You flick the tv on mute, unable to stomach listening to them sing his praises. You numb your mind with social media until the Formula 1 theme plays on your laptop, alerting you that there's a few minutes until race start. Tire blankets are peeled off and the drivers weave their way through the formation lap with the exception of Kimi who takes his traditional straight line approach to warm up his supersoft tires.

Most of the front runners are on ultrasofts, indicating a two stop strategy. It was Pirelli's recommended approach, and you were glad that Horner heeded their advice for once and let Max use the ultras in Q2. It would give Max the upper hand over Hamilton who starts on the yellow sidewall tire and thus slightly slower lap times.

Crofty and Brundle break down the notable turns as the cars line up on the grid, pointing out the sharp hairpin only a few hundred meters from pole position. If Max got away clean, he would be ahead of the cramped pack and have an even better edge over the silver arrows who would be forced to queue behind him.

The traditional "lights out and away we go" kicks off the grand prix, engines roaring into the first turn. Max does manage to get away clean and is awarded with an immediate advantage. Turn one proves tragic for the Alfa Romeo of Raikonnen and the Asthon Martin of Stroll who collide and cause Kimi to spin. They rejoin at the back of the pack, your eyes snagging on the navy and white of an Alpha Tauri as it streams past.

Your heart spins in a similar fashion when the GAS driver tag leaps up two places in the timing table, suddenly in eleventh due to the incident. Your gaze snaps to the laptop humming on your legs before you remember its Max's driver cam you queued up. The Dutchman is silent as his engineer relays information about the incident and informs him of the widening gap between those chasing him.

“Confirm received,” Gianpiero says calmly. No matter the situation or how heated Max got, he always kept his head. It was what made the duo such a good match and had likely kept Max from going off the rails on more than one occasion.

“Yeah,” Max says shortly, clearly pissed about how quickly Hamilton was approaching. “Let me know when I’ve got enough charge to get out of range.”

“Yep, will do. Just keep this pace and you’ll hold him at bay.”

Live coverage replays the incident between Stroll and Raikonnen from the view of onboard with Pierre. The instant the 10 on the halo appears in the center of your screen you suck in a breath. He yanks the wheel to avoid colliding with Ocon, who had to do the same to keep from hitting his teammate as they navigate through the carnage.

You chew on your lip and try to refocus on the battle between the front runners. Not much is happening in the midfield for the next thirty or so laps and Max just barely manages to build a solid enough gap between himself and Hamilton to dive into the pits comfortably without losing places.

Your phone rings and you answer it without checking who it was as the only person you wouldn't answer was currently occupied.

"Hello?"

"Why the fuck didn't they pit Daniel?!"

You grin, noting the blistering beginning on his front left tire as SkySports switches to his onboard camera. "Because he's about to pass Charles," you tell Dan's girlfriend. She didn't call you often during races. It was likely that she knew you were nearing your wits end and this was her way of offering support.

"He won't be able to with those tires- oh." She breaks off when Daniel passes a DRS detection zone and his rear wing opens, allowing him to pass the Monegasque with ease.

"Told you," you say with a touch of reprimand. "You're always too nervous about those things. Daniel knows how to drive, just trust him to get the job done and he'll bring home another trophy for your apartment."

"I don't live here," she points out and you roll your eyes. She had lived in London as long as you had known her, but she was almost always at Daniel's apartment whether he was in town or not. Daniel digs in as the camera follows him for a lap, highlighting the widening gap between the McLaren and the Ferrari.

"You basically do. At this point, you're paying rent for a dusty one bedroom apartment on the east side that you set foot in maybe once a month." She scoffs but you push on, "a waste of sterling if you ask me, when you're at Daniel's every time I ask you to do anything."

"You act like I never- there goes Pierre!"

His name sparks dread in your gut as your attention flicks back to the screen in time to see him overtake Bottas on the inside of turn one. He'd managed to claw up to fifth with the move, somehow gaining places while you weren't looking.

"Good for him," you croak, trying your best to be genuinely happy for him. He was pushing the car to the limit and you'd be amazed if he didn't wind up on the podium along with Dan and Max. Charles and Hamilton were the only ones in his way, and something told you Charles wouldn’t put up much of a fight when his mate reached his gearbox. Hamilton would prove a challenge but he had been making tiny mistakes all day. Nothing significant, though enough to add up to him barely holding onto second while Daniel rode his gearbox.

"He's got ten laps to get past those two," she murmurs as if momentarily forgetting you were on the phone.

"Can we talk about literally anything else please?" You whisper, half tempted to shut off the race completely.

"Babe, you have to face the music at some point. Either you never want to see him again or you love him, which is it?"

She never failed to be anything but brutally honest. You appreciate it because everyone else let you brush off your problems, but she called you on your bullshit. She would needle you about it until you folded.

"I think it's better for both of us if I pretend we never met, don't you?"

"Easier for you, yes," she agrees. "But it'll kill Pierre. You don't think you could keep in touch with him, just as friends?"

"I don't know if I can handle that. I can barely look at him without wanting to bawl my eyes out."

She sighs, pausing to contemplate what to say. Voice soft, she continues, "Why don't you just take him back? Clearly it's ruining both of you. Are you really gonna let the press wreck the best you ever had? I know its hard but-"

"I'm not like you," you cut in. "I can't just ignore the articles and the comments and pretend there aren't people out there that hate me for being with him. They came to my house, disrupted my family. Hell, Ben can't even go to school without being mobbed by his classmates demanding answers. If my suffering is what allows my family to go about their lives then so be it."

"If that's what you wanna believe."

You sigh, tangling your fingers in the hem of your shirt. "It is."

"Alright," she says, voice teetering on a knife's edge. "I know better than to try to change your mind when you're like this. He's on the podium by the way. Oh, and watch what you say to Max- Pierre will read into it."

She hangs up without a goodbye, leaving you to deal with the realization that the podium is indeed VER RIC GAS on your own. Your eyes are glued to the Red Bull and McLaren drivers, blatantly ignoring the one in the white suit as the anthems play and the champagne is sprayed, turning away to busy yourself with making coffee when Daniel hands his liquid filled race boot to third place.

You weren't quite sure how you were supposed to watch what you said to Max- there was no reason to in your mind. Max was your next closest friend on the grid and you had every right to congratulate him if you wanted to.

Resolute in your decision, you text Max and Daniel a quick congratulations before shutting off the TV and closing your laptop.

Max's insane custom ringtone he'd selected for himself nearly makes you jump out of your skin when it blares from your phone.

"Hey great race-"

"Did you see it? I wasn't sure if you'd watch it- did you see my move on Hamilton when he tried to get past me?" He was talking a mile a minute like he was still out on track. "I was like- and then Dan tried to overtake me on the final lap and I was like no way! And then-"

"Max," you chime in, dragging out the 'a' with a sing-song voice. "You're rambling."

"Oh right. Yeah but I made it! Led every lap and finished with another win."

"That's great." You force as much enthusiasm in the words as possible, trying to match his chaotic energy. "You did great. I know it probably doesn't mean much, but I'm proud to be your friend. You beat a world champ!"

"It means a lot-"

"Who's that?"

You stiffen at the familiar cadence. You had assumed Max was back in the garage when he called, but he must have still been in the podium room. You could picture him in his race suit, smudges of grease and dirt staining the pristine white. Beads of sweat probably ran down his neck, begging to be brushed away by your tongue.

"Uh, no one," Max says in a lame attempt to cover up his digression. "I gotta go," he whispers to you.

"Let me talk-"

"Wait don't," you start, but the call ends abruptly and you blink. You stare down at your phone, completely dumbfounded. Of course his instinct would be to talk to you, to share the euphoria of a podium with you. It was the first victory in three years he wouldn't have you to celebrate with.

It was only a matter of time until his resolve popped like the cork on his champagne.

**********

Pierre's phone is in his hand as soon as Max hangs up. He hefts his trophy in the other, a wild grin on his sweaty face as he snaps a picture. He makes sure he's the only one in the frame, shamelessly wanting himself to be the center of your attention.

"Mate," Daniel pipes up, catching his eye, "you think that's a good idea?"

Pierre sighs, cutting the Australian a glare. "I'm just trying to fill her in."

"Wasn't your plan to give her space?"

"It's been a week, isn't that long enough?"

"Take it from me, sometimes it takes months for someone to figure things out. Hell, you know how long it took me to sort through my feelings for-"

"I know," Pierre cuts in. "I know. I just- a snap can't hurt can it? C'mon, I just got a podium! If it goes bad I can blame it on the post race jitters."

Daniel holds up his hands and shrugs. "You're a grown man. Do what you want."

Pierre studies the photo, scrutinizing the way his hair was plastered to his head and the awkward way he'd posed to keep anyone but himself out of the frame. It's his genuine smile that he knows will do you in, and ultimately the reason he sends it.

His phone is a lead weight clutched in his grip as he winds through the paddock, constantly stopped by vips and team members congratulating him. None of what anyone says registers, he just tries his best to match their mood and sputter praises about his team's contributions to his podium.

The snap you finally send back is only from the eyes up, but it's enough. He's surrounded by people in his driver room, but for ten seconds it might as well have just been him staring at a sliver of your face on a screen.

The tiny lines at the corners of your shining eyes tell him you're smiling, which is a step in the right direction even if you won't let him see your entire face. It's enough to reignite the hope that slumbered in his chest while waiting for you to pull the trigger and make a move.

He sends back a video of the people in the room, who cheer when they realize they're being filmed. 'Wish you were here,' is what he captions it and sends it without giving himself a chance to overthink.

Ten minutes pass with no reply.

The beer he’s already consumed have given him a pleasant buzz as well as an excuse to make a bad decision or two. He takes another video of the room to post to his Instagram story, 'Missing you' written in the lower left corner.

Fuck, he hopes you'll see it and regret leaving him on read. Instead all he gets is a text from Charles chastising him for stirring up drama.

Really Pierre?

Blame it on the alcohol, he texts back.

I know you aren’t drunk. You can’t form a coherent sentence when you are.

Guess i gotta drink more then

Pierre doesn’t turn anyone bearing alcohol away. He's two celebratory shots deep when Daniel finds him sulking in a corner. "You've got my girl texting me freaking out over your story. I've seen it and I gotta agree with her. Was that really necessary?"

"She left me on read," Pierre says like that was enough explanation. His head was spinning and it was getting hard to keep the room upright. "And it's the truth. I miss her like hell. I want her here. She was supposed to come, you know? I was gonna have her fly in with me on the jet. She doesn't start class again until June. I had this whole week planned out. I was gonna show her Texas- she’s from New York and..."

He trails off when he notes Dan’s pitying smile. Daniel sighs and runs a hand through his curls. "I know. I get it, okay? I know it's hard but you can't force it. You've gotta let her come back on her own, all you're doing now is pushing her away."

He was fucking clueless when it came to these things. He'd had you for a few precious moments and now that he'd lost you he didn't know how to act. His mind was running on hazy autopilot; he barely knew which way was up, let alone did he trust himself to make any sort of important decision.

He stares down at the shot he'd been handed at some point before throwing it back. The cheap whiskey burns his throat but he barely registers the sting. "Should I take it down?"

"She already saw it," Daniel says gently, as if he anticipates how bad the fuck up will hurt. And it does. It hits him like a tire wall at two hundred kph, knowing that you were probably ranting or crying on the phone with Daniel’s girlfriend. "But yeah, that's probably best. People are already wondering what happened between you two, no need to throw fuel on the fire."

"You're probably right-" Pierre cuts off when Charles arrives with a grimace on his face. He shakes his head and gives his friend’s shoulder a squeeze.

"For once I'm not the dumb one."

"You're a dick, you know that right?" Daniel says, allowing Pierre to delete the post. It takes him a few tries before he gets it down, but undeniably rumors will be circulating in the morning if they weren’t already.

"Honestly what were you thinking?" Charles demands, edging towards full blown yelling. "I told you to leave her be. The gossip stemming from this isn’t gonna help.”

The last thing he needed was someone else telling him how stupid his decision had been. At least Daniel had the decency to show sympathy.

"Honestly?" Pierre responds with the same intensity, his anger flaring. "Honestly, Charles, I was thinking that she was happy for me but was too afraid to take the leap. She haunts me. Every second I’m awake I have to force myself away from her. Even when I’m asleep I can’t get away from her. So I don’t know, maybe I wanted to haunt her too."

“This isn’t the way you win her back and you know it.”

“I know!” Pierre throws up his hands. “But what else am I supposed to do? She won’t talk to me. She has no problem talking to Max or Daniel but apparently she draws the line at me.”

“You know it’s not-” Daniel's eyes flick to his phone and he fights back a grin. All it does is remind Pierre that he lost the person that could bring that sort of smile to his own face. "Fellas I wish I could stay and help but I gotta get going. Charles, I think Pierre needs another drink." He slaps five American dollars in the Monegasque's hand. "First one is on me."

Pierre is too deep in a spiral to care when his friend drags him from the party to a bar just south of the circuit. Somehow it was within walking distance; the floor was sticky and the lighting was for shit but he didn't care.

Pierre's focus was on downing shot after shot, erasing the broken image of you his mind had conjured up. He never should have posted the story. It only served to feed into what the media had been speculating for the past week and dredged up more tension between you.

Pierre stops checking his phone two shots later. The liquor provides a wet blanket over his senses, dousing him in cold water and scrambling his brain. He could barely remember his own name, but yours still lived in the corner of his mind.

Even drunk, he refused to forget you.

Two hours and who knows how much alcohol later, Charles helps Pierre back to his hotel room.

Pierre falls asleep as soon as he hits the mattress, head too blurry to dredge up memories of you.

#are you feeling the angst yet #pierre gasly #pierre gasly X reader #formula 1 #f1 #formula 1 imagine #f1 imagine #formula 1 fanfiction #formula 1 fantasy #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #f1 fantasy #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 fic #formula 1 rpf #f1 rpf #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly fanfiction

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jangmi-latte · 4 years

Note

May i request headcanons for all dorm leaders reacting to a drunk s/o. Thank you!

❞ 𝐓𝐢𝐩𝐬𝐲? 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤? 𝐎𝐫 𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝? ❝

➻ content: four doughnuts!

➻ warnings: slightly nsfw on leona’s part!! mentions of alcohol!

➻ comments: since i haven’t tweaked my rules *wink* just yet, i’ve made coco use the cafe’s wheel to pick four dorm leaders for this request! hope you don’t mind! also, i don’t and haven’t drunk alcohol — ma'am this is a cafe —, therefore i did as much research (also known as making my waiters drunk) as i can when it comes to being drunk. cough also from seeing my relatives and friends go drunk cough.

Ⅰ.

༄ kalim is from a wealthy family so it’s no surprise he’s exposed to alcohol, mostly wine but kalim – being as he is still under age – doesn’t really like drinking.

༄ what he didn’t expect was for someone to sneak alcohol into one of his banquets unnoticed. even jamil didn’t notice due to his hectic schedule.

༄ sam, what have you been selling in your shop–

༄ it was a clear liquid. having nearly the same viscosity as water, you were unaware of how much you were drinking. let’s say you’re unaware of what alcohol tastes like. sure, it tastes weird but oh boy, the heat that spread out through your neck and body was quite addictive. the way it tickles your tongue makes you giggle at times.

༄ this is some odd kind of water huh, just what else does the land of hot sands have?

༄ as it was your first time drinking, it wasn’t a surprise to see you get drunk after three glasses. apparently, it was white wine. is kalim familiar with this kind of alcohol? yes. but he doesn’t know it was being served.

༄ kalim started to notice your sudden change in demeanour when you started to giggle a lot. you would suddenly cling on his arm or nuzzle your nose against his neck.

༄ kalim's delighted by your affection, oblivious to the fact you're drunk as fuck and will continue to giggle out of nowhere.

༄ if jamil pointed out your sudden change of attitude, kalim would go “oooohhh” and just laugh along with you.

༄ now jamil would question if kalim’s drunk too.

༄ if your laughing would go out of control, ah, our little sunshine would try to stop you and drag you away. you’re light and you’re not struggling so he could easily drag you away from the banquet and into a spare room that’s next to his.

༄ if you woke up with a hangover the next day, kalim is immediately by your side while also asking help from jamil to tend to you.

༄ you can not get away from his stories and it would make you extremely embarrassed that you suddenly turned into a maniac during one of his parties. did anyone take a video? who knows.

༄ you now hereby made a mental note not to drink alcohol ever again. just wait till you go to kalim’s hometown where there’s A LOT of alcohol to drink. you can’t avoid it but hey at least you know how you act when you’re drunk.

༄ kalim won’t be talkative about what happened but can you guarantee it won’t slip from his lips every now and then every time a banquet is brought up to a conversation?

Ⅱ.

༄ okay, let’s give more attention to leona’s homeland, yeah?

༄ so there’s a party. it’s not dedicated to anyone, perhaps it’s an event or an occasion for the land. the royal household mostly consists of adults, it’s pretty self-explanatory that there will be alcohol.

༄ leona is used to the taste of alcohol. he isn’t exactly an active drinker but his tolerance is high. it would take him how many glasses before he’s drunk. there are different types of alcohols on the table. ranging from beer to whiskey. heck, there’s even absinthe.

༄ he chose to drink the safest alcohol served and that was a martini. since leona doesn’t want to interact with anyone – his brother is loud and catching most of the attention anyways – he just sat at the sides. he couldn’t really sleep with how loud his home was.

༄ what caught his emerald eyes was you. Oh man, was he surprised. you were easily drinking shots and shots of vodka without any trouble. sure he has seen you drink before but seeing you be this energetic and even rather frisky was….quite a turn on.

༄ though he is quite worried, he would love to see what happens when you get drunk. he thought you would just drop and fall asleep on the table.

༄ hell no.

༄ the moment you spotted him with half-lidded eyes, you sauntered over to him with a shot in had and sat on his lap. was he bothered? not in the slightest but he would glare at some men who would stare at you being all wanton on him.

༄ his first instinct? protect you. sure, you’re tipsy or drunk but that doesn’t mean leona would take this as an advantage and just have sex with you despite your seductive advances. he doesn’t mind you being all sexy on him but you don’t know what you’re doing, it’s his turn to pull the responsible card in the relationship.

༄ your consent is very important to him and drunk isn’t consenting.

༄ another thing, he wants you to just put a show for him ONLY, not in public. he’s possessive but your body is for his eyes only.

༄, when you pressed your lips against his, leona would kiss you back for a brief second before pulling away once he noticed your sultry touches. you’re whining but this is leona’s chance to carry you to his room. both your drinks left downstairs while he just cuddles you to bed.

༄ he’ll stop any of your persuasive actions since he could see you’re eyes drooping. he can make love to you some other time. sober you is better. if you won’t stop, ah leona would just passionately kiss you ‘til you eventually passed out.

༄ but that wouldn’t stop any future teasing from him. he’s not gonna lie, it was sexy to see you try and dominate him but again, be sober.

Ⅲ.

༄ like leona, vil is not an exception to the haven’t-encountered-or-drank-alcohol-ever gang. being a popular influencer/model/artist means being invited to gatherings or after production dinners.

༄ he had a couple drinks here and there but vil doesn’t like getting drunk or even intoxicating himself too much. he knows what a drunk mind can do and he has an image to hold to even let something as getting drunk slip his mind.

༄ in short, vil hasn’t experienced getting drunk and avoids doing so.

༄ he’s also picky with what alcohol he consumes. he prefers those that have a small alcohol percentage, those that don’t leave a smell, and those that aren’t strong to taste. he’s strict with his beauty regimen.

༄ so, let’s say you were invited to one of vil’s productions and had an after-production dinner. it wasn’t exactly a formal dinner, just a casual one held by the director in a private restaurant.

༄ there was wine and brandy. our dear model picked wine, of course, and you somehow got curious with the taste of brandy. he wouldn’t stop you, he simply warned you to keep the amount stable and not drink too much. he’ll keep an eye on you just in case you might get carried away. better safe than sorry.

༄ vil took only one glass and was drinking it slowly while you looked like you were going to puke. but it was somehow addicting so you took another shot. he was occupied by conversing with other artists/staff that he would simply look at you from the corner of his eye at all times.

༄ up until he noticed you leaning on your hand propped up by your elbow and just staring at the glass did he finally approach you and immediately asked how many shots did you take.

༄ “four....?” you slurred before pulling him to sit next to you and leaning on his shoulder while hugging his arm.

༄ you were quiet, thank goodness you weren’t really that drunk, but you’re intoxicated alright.

༄ “vil…?” “yes?” “what is rook doing over there?”

༄ okay, now you’re hallucinating. you were pointing at a staff member who nearly had the same haircut as rook. it was his cue to bring you back to pomefiore. Once he was able to excuse himself, he helped you stand up.

༄ sadly, you couldn’t really walk properly without tripping and all that so let’s be thankful that vil does weights. he isn’t keen to the idea of carrying you back and calling a cab to head back since it isn’t really a sight to see.

༄ so, he called rook and made him open the mirror while he carried you bridal-style back to the dorm.

༄ epel is jealous after he found out you were able to have alcohol.

Ⅳ.

༄ we’re going to add our king of hearts to the haven’t-encountered-or-drank-alcohol-ever gang.

༄ okay, maybe just the never-drank-alcohol-gang.

༄ riddle has a strict regimen on himself too. he considers alcohol as a junk food so it’s a big no to him. it’s also going to be a taboo for his mother.

༄ along with kalim, he’s still a minor. alcohol is not that really discussed with anything involved in a conversation with him. academics and schools are top priority, alcohol has no space in his brain nor diet.

༄ he’s not dumb with what alcohol looks like though, so when he saw you drinking beer when he visited ramshackle, he was beyond confused and surprised. his antennas shot up too.

༄ he would scold and question on why you’re drinking something that can harm your liver and you just calmed him down by saying you barely even drink these and that you needed relief from school requirements. you also reassured it was only one bottle and you would drink it slowly. you won’t get drunk.

༄ our king of hearts is confused. since when was alcohol a mood reliever?

༄ he would huff and keep an eye on you despite being all cranky. you would just giggle it off and begin doing your homework again while he tutors you. both of you wouldn’t even notice the increasing bottles of beer that’s popping up beside you as you subconsciously drank more.

༄ don’t ask where the beers are coming from.

༄ when you started to huff and get irritated at riddle did he notice your sudden mood change.

༄ his eyes grew wide when he saw four bottles of beer beside you. poor boy doesn’t know what to do. should he bring you to bed? feed you something? wait, are you even drunk?

༄ you were getting all cranky, you were ‘tsk’ing and growling at certain things. you would rant and pull on your hair when you would get a mistake. it was so unlike you that riddle doesn’t know if he’s getting mad himself or concerned.

༄ he eventually needed to call trey for help. when the vice dorm leader arrived, trey quickly calmed you down and sent you to bed where you quickly passed out.

༄ poor riddle received a thorough explanation from trey about what happened and that, as your boyfriend, he should be more aware.

༄ riddle just removed all alcohols of any kind from your existence the end.

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lilbabycee · 4 years

Text

bunny // steve rogers (part two) 🐰

READ PART ONE

↳ summary: the reader gets an unwelcome visitor

↳ relationship: soft dark!steve rogers x brat!reader

↳ word count: 5.3k

↳ warnings: sugar baby au, eventual dark steve, daddy kink, eventual smut, mentions of substance abuse, unhealthy coping mechanisms + relationships, the reader is rich and a little bit of a bitch

↳ author’s note: it’s back! :) enjoy my loves! x

chapter two: it was for me too

---

"if you really listen, then this is to you mama, there is only so much I can do tough for you to witness it but it was for me too"

- r.i.p 2 my youth, the neighbourhood

---

You can do nothing but nod dumbly, eyes roaming the large figure standing in front of you. The only thing that snaps you out of your trance is Natasha’s quiet exhalation of breath through her nose, her little laugh making you woman up and place your hand in Steve’s larger one.

“Likewise,” you speak lightly, your words little more than puffs of air escaping your mouth. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second and the longer you look at his face, the more that you start to believe that you know him from somewhere. But he drops your hand the moment that recognition starts to claw at your brain and the up-and-down look that he gives you snaps you out of any deep thought.

“So, bunny,” a teasing voice comes from beside you, causing you to tear your eyes away from Steve’s. From the way he’s smirking at you, you assume that Sam was the one who spoke up. Turning your whole body away from Steve, you saunter up to the handsome man glowing like bronze underneath the warm light and take the drink he pours for you with a sultry smile - and you know that you should never take drinks from strangers but without really knowing why, you already trust this man.

“That’s me,” you throw him a wink, sipping from the glass slowly.

“Where’d you get a name like that?” He pats the arm of the sofa and as your smile grows, you perch yourself on it, crossing one leg over the other. Natasha follows your lead, situating herself on an armchair to your right, in between the couch that Steve sits on and the one that holds you, Bucky, and Sam. You open your mouth about to answer Sam’s question, but Natasha swiftly steps in.

“I gave it to her,” she grins, running a hand through her loose waves. You can see both Sam and Bucky’s eyes follow her movements which makes you laugh a little, the hunger displayed in both the pools of brown and blue almost overtly obvious.

“Why?” Bucky’s voice rasps, his tongue coming out to wet his lips. Your eyes can’t help but follow the movement - you’re not blind and he’s a very attractive man - but you stop short when you realize that someone is searing holes into the back of your neck. Looking to the side, you can see that Steve has sat down in his previous seat, hands resting on thick thighs and legs spread wide.

His eyes are on you - unflinchingly, you note, even as yours meet his; it’s obvious that he saw your eyes glued to Bucky’s lips. You engage in a quick staring match and even though you’re not usually the type to back down easily, the way that your face heats up and his gaze makes you feel has you looking away after merely a few seconds.

Your eyes refocus on Natasha and stay there.

“It’s because she’s like the energizer bunny,” your best friend snorts, taking the proffered glass of rosé from Sam’s hand and taking a sip. Her statement makes all the men laugh - apart from Vision because he’s too busy whispering in Wanda’s ear for him to be involved in the rest of the conversation and by Wanda’s reaction, you can tell that their conversation isn’t exactly fit for public consumption.

Natasha continues, tracing a finger along the rim of her glass, “Once she gets on something, it’s… she’s, like, stuck on it, you know? Can’t get enough of it - she goes crazy over it, gets super excited and stuff. It’s cute-”

You interrupt her with a groan, causing a chorus of laughs and ooh’s to rise from the group. “Nat- I-I don’t even like that nickname anyway. I’d rather you call me literally anything else-”

“Okay, bunny,” Bucky grins at you and you reach over Sam to swat at his very hard arm, all traces of your previous nervousness having dissipated with the alcohol. Your hand comes back sore but to humor you, you suppose, Bucky recoils from you and dramatically sinks down in his chair, wailing exaggeratedly.

“Sounds good, bunny,” Sam joins in, flashing you a cheeky smile that only earns him a blow on his equally thick bicep that leaves your hand stinging but he too rubs at his arm after drawing a sharp intake of air through his teeth. They’re funny, so you throw your head back and laugh - really laugh - and find yourself slipping off the side of the couch and into Sam’s lap. You let out a little squeal as Natasha and Bucky laugh at you.

“Whoa there, bunny,” Sam chuckles, hands immediately coming up to grip your waist tightly. “Slow your roll.”

You scoff and roll your eyes, but you’re only mock-annoyed: “Christ, Sam, take a girl out on a date first.”

The response you get from the man underneath you is mirthful - “You’re the one who landed on me, darlin’” - and causes you to smile, but then you feel it again , his eyes so intently focused on the side of your face. You choose to ignore it because if this guy has a staring problem, he can take it up with-

“-you,” Bucky flicks Sam’s ear playfully. “I get plenty of women.”

“Oh yeah, Barnes? ‘Cause your lap is lookin’ awfully empty -”

And the two go back and forth like this for what seems like an eternity. You know that you’ve lost Wanda to Viz , the seat that they once occupied currently vacant. You kind of want to be annoyed at her because she promised that she’d help you with what you really came here for in the first place, but you can’t because, for the past few weeks, you and Natasha have kind of maybe been avoiding her to some degree because, really and truly, she’s been such an uptight bitch - and you say that in the nicest way possible - so you want her to get some dick in peace so that she can release all of that backed-up tension.

You love her, really, but a sexually frustrated Wanda has the potential to rival your mother in terms of how completely unbearable they are to be around.

You turn to speak to Natasha but then Steve clears his throat loud enough for everyone to hear which causes all chatter to cease. He sighs loudly, running a hand over his bearded jaw before he speaks. You can’t help but take some more time to admire the beauty of his jawline, so defined and sharp that you wonder if it could cut up the skin on the insides of your thighs-

“I mean, while I’d love to continue this,” Steve checks his Rolex, “we should probably get down to what you girls really came for.” His eyes land pointedly on you, and you realize that you’re still sat comfortably on Sam’s lap. You sit back even further, wrapping your arm around Sam’s shoulders. Steve’s fists are clenched so hard that you’re sure that his blunt nails are digging into the palms of his hands.

You decide that you’re not going to move.

“Right,” your best friend leans forward to put her empty glass on the coffee table where your own lies and clears her throat. She then says your name and gestures vaguely to where you’re sitting, “she’s looking for an arrangement similar to what Wanda and Vision have-”

“-and since Wanda isn’t here to help us explain exactly what all of that consists of,” you butt in, pressing your long thumbnail to your lower lip and pushing it into your mouth, “we were wondering if you gentlemen would be kind enough to help us out?”

Natasha’s head snaps to yours, her eyebrow raised in a way that says this is not what we agreed on and you reply with it’s fine, but then she responds with why don’t we just wait for Wanda and you don’t even think that warrants a reply. You give her a deadpan look and she physically holds her hands up in surrender; you both know that Wanda’s not coming home with the two of you tonight. The three men around you look lost so you direct your attention back to them.

“So?” you follow up, sucking lightly on the end of your nail. Even from where you’re sitting, you can see Steve’s darkened eyes - his pupils are blown and they only leave a thin ring of blue around them. The rise and fall of his broad chest has gotten just that little bit faster.

He’s so pretty.

“The arrangements are different for all of us,” Bucky downs the amber liquid in his glass. “So it’d just depend on who you’re interested in gettin’ to know, doll. Got anyone in mind right off the bat?”

Oh wow - you didn’t expect to be put on the spot like this so early into this conversation. But you don’t mind; the pressure or awkwardness that should come with a question like this in a situation as unique as this one doesn’t come. You only smile coyly, batting your eyelashes and looking down.

“Oh, well,” you start shyly, swinging your legs innocently. “I don’t really know about all that yet-”

“It’s alright, bunny,” the voice ignites a fire in your veins so you know who’s just spoken. “We’ll make this decision easy for you. She’s mine, boys.”

This makes you choke yet again, causing you to clear your throat loudly. Your fingertips press down on your cheeks just to see how warm your face really is from this blatant stake of his claim on you. Normally, you’d be the first one to protest, completely indignant that this man thinks that he owns you in any capacity. But there’s none of that kind of passion here; rather, you’re more- no, probably not- no, definitely turned on by his words.

The two other men, much like Natasha did only a minute ago, throw their hands up in acquiescence. In fact, they both seem so moved by Steve’s words that they trip over each other to speak.

“Yeah, that’s all good, man.”

“Sounds good to me, pal.”

There’s a lull in the conversation while you all digest the implications of Steve’s exclamation. You twist your fingers together, scraping your nails against each other.

“So,” you drag out the last syllable. “Is there some kind of… contract or something?”

---

You wake up in a bed that feels far too crowded to be your own. There’s a body wrapped around yours, another set of legs intertwined with yours and an arm draped over your torso. In your groggy state, it takes all the willpower that you can summon to turn your head to the left and check who the fuck is sleeping in next to you in- your bed (???).

The hand of the arm that isn’t currently being pinned down by another human being comes up to rub at your eyes, clearing up your bleary vision so that you can try to successfully identify your intruder.

You could say that you’ve never woken up in a situation like this but that would be a lie and your New Year’s resolution this year was that you’d try to be more honest - so the truth is that this is definitely not the first time that you’ve woken up in a situation like this and if anything, this is probably the safest you’ve felt out of all of those scenarios.

Half of the person’s head is buried underneath the duvet so you squint a little in the obnoxiously bright morning light - you silently curse the sun for not wanting to take a fucking day off today - so that you can try to make out a defining feature of the body on top of you. Once your eyes focus, the mop of red hair spread across the white sheets makes you groan and close your eyes again.

You honestly didn’t have a game plan if it wasn’t Natasha.

Confused, you attempt to think back to exactly what happened last night. Since you’ve woken up with Natasha, you give yourself the benefit of the doubt and assume that nothing too compromising happened last night. After nights like Peter’s, you normally cannot immediately recognize the person next to you, so you’re going to take this as a glass half full kind of moment and call it a plus.

Nothing illegal took place as far as you can remember which is another first for you - apart from your excessive underage drinking but you turn twenty-one in a year so you shrug it off.

Wow, maybe I am growing.

After your conversation with those men - there was no contract - you had sent Wanda a text to let her know that you and Natasha were heading home. There was nothing at this party that you hadn’t seen before, so frankly, your work there was done and you had no more business at Peter’s. Speaking of, you did manage to run into him right before you left just to say goodbye to him - ever the gracious guest - and tease him some more about MJ. Naturally, he turned redder than the burgundy suit pants he was wearing and gave both you and Nat kisses on the cheek before almost running away from the two of you.

That gave you a good laugh.

You were halfway to Nat’s car when none other than Steve Rogers appeared from the shadows to put your number on his phone. He said nothing other than I’ll call you before walking further down the valet parking to get his own car. Natasha beeped her horn at you when she saw you lingering - you were staring at his ass - so you hurried to hop in the passenger’s seat of her black sports car after she shouted for you to get in the Porsche or I’m leaving your ass on the side of the road.

And now your phone rings; you can’t help that the weaker side of your brain wants so badly for it to be Steve. He left you with a promise - albeit a vague one - and you think that you’re going to hold him to that, although you don’t know how exactly how you’d go about that since he’s the one who has your number.

Shit.

Natasha groans loudly at the shrill noise coming from your phone speakers, grabbing a pillow and shoving it over her face.

She says your name exasperatedly, “I thought I told you to put that shit on silent-”

“Sorry, sorry,” you tell her, rolling your eyes because you don’t remember her telling you that, and then you sit up. At this moment, you realize that you actually aren’t in your own apartment and are in Natasha’s very grey and white bedroom that you always have something critical to say about. Reaching for your phone, you’re shocked that it’s not dead and is at a respectable 16%. The caller ID shows you nothing useful - unknown caller - and this only gives you some more hope that it’s the handsome man you met last night. You clear your throat before pressing that green button.

“Hello?” you wince at the dryness of your throat, spying an unopened water bottle next to where your phone lay. You grab it and pop the cap hastily, taking a swig while you wait for the reply of the other person.

A very distinctly feminine squeal makes you sigh in disappointment before you pause, the familiar voice making you smile sleepily.

“Shit- fuck, get out of my way- brother-” the person says your name loudly and you know by the rich accent and the impatient tone that it’s-

“Shuri,” you muster up as much enthusiasm as you can for a call this early in the morning - you pull your phone back from your ear to see that it’s actually already 10:33 a.m and wince - because you are actually genuinely excited to hear from your Wakandan best friend. Natasha pulls the pillow off her face at the sound of the girl’s voice through the speaker, and a grin of her own lights up her face.

“Hi, bitch!” Shuri yells and you close your eyes, shaking your head but smiling nonetheless. “I’m almost at your place - I’ll be there in ten.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of your chest and you rub the sleep out of your eyes. “Whose phone are you calling from? And Shuri, I’m not at home right now-”

“‘Koye’s - mine’s dead and in the back. Are you with Nat?”

“Well, yeah-”

“Are you two fucking? Without me? ”

The redhead next to you can’t contain her laughter either, curled up in the sheets next to you gasping for breaths.

“Sorry to break it you like this, babe,” you play along. “No, Peter had a party last night-”

“I know - I heard about it. Sounded like fun, but my Baba and I had to do some appearances in D.C yesterday before we came to this goddamn crowded city- brother, I’ll call it whatever I want to call it - Bast, get out of the car.”

There’s some rustling and the sound of a car door slamming before Shuri releases a deep, tired breath.

“I didn’t know you were coming this week,” Natasha has sidled up next to you, resting her head on your shoulder so that Shuri can hear her voice after putting your phone on speaker.

“Neither did I,” the Wakandan princess snorts, the sound of deafening car horns and faint yelling in the background almost drowning out her lilted tone. “It was kind of a last-minute decision. But enough about me - you don’t care about all this stuff. I heard you guys met with Bucky Barnes last night-”

“How do you know Bucky?” You frown, picking at your nails.

“Long story,” she says flippantly, sighing before clearing her throat. “But that’s not the point - I know what kinda guy Bucky Barnes is. What kinda business did you two have hanging around people like that?”

“Well, I wanna hear the story-”

“Shut up,” Natasha doesn’t even look at you when she says the words. “We’re- actually, it’s not even me- she’s looking for a-”

“-sugar daddy?!” Shuri exclaims so loud that both you and Natasha flinch as you move the phone further away from you. Maybe putting her on speaker was a mistake. “What- no, Okoye, not me...yes I’m sure,” the princess’ voice becomes more hushed, “bunny...what do you of all people need a sugar daddy for, miss princess of New York?”

Nat chortles louder than you like so you shoot her a glare, smacking a pillow over her face before redirecting your attention back to the confused girl over the phone. “Daddy cut me off and-”

Shuri;’s laugh is completely mocking and would definitely be offensive if it were anyone else, but you can do nothing but sit there and pout. Natasha’s laughter becomes louder and you roll your eyes, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. You throw your phone at your best friend, causing her to almost fall off the side of the bed trying to dodge it.

“Shut up, both of you,” you scowl. “Shuri, let me know when you’re here - I’m going to go take a shower and reflect on my taste in friends. You guys are both the worst-”

Already halfway inside the en-suite, you only hear a faint chorus of “ We love you too!” before the lock clicks behind you.

---

When you stroll out of the private elevator that leads directly to your apartment, you’re staring at something funny that Shuri’s sent you on Instagram as you walk through the front door, a blindingly white smile on your face. The chunky black and white Balenciaga sneakers on your feet pound the floor lightly and your hand comes up to tug absent-mindedly at one of the strings of Natasha’s black hoodie before running it down the leg of the matching cycling shorts. You push your sunglasses to the top of your head, the minty flavor of your gum filling your tastebuds and the loud sound of your nails clicking against your phone screen echoing against your high walls and tall ceilings.

The sound of a throat clearing makes you blink hard, your eyelash extensions brushing your skin as you look up to determine the identity of your intruder.

Once you see who it is, you physically are unable to prevent the loud “fuck” from falling from your lips. So when she stands up from your couch in your living room with her arms folded over her breast implants and her full, fake lips pursed while her eyebrows shoot to her hairline, you can’t help but laugh, surprised that she can still look like a raging bitch with all that botox in her face.

Her grating voice squeaks your name indignantly making you roll your eyes as you drop your oversized black bag by your shoe rack. Kicking off your trainers, you breeze right past her and flop down on one of your sofas, the plush material soothing your aching bones.

It’s been five days since Peter’s party and since then, Wanda had given both Bucky and Sam your number upon their request - you’ve been texting them all week. As much as you love your friends, these men are hands-down two of the funniest people that you’ve ever met. Despite your frequent conversations with his two best friends, there’s been radio silence from Steve Rogers. You don’t want to give these men the impression that you’re desperate - even though that’s exactly what you are - but you’re getting impatient. You don’t chase anybody; not once in your entire life has anyone made you work for their attention, so this whole situation is making you antsy.

You’ve just returned from the gym with Sam and Bucky where you were shocked to turn up outside only to see the two men shirtless, a huge but not unwelcome surprise in more than one way - “you have a fucking metal arm?!” - and it was truly a gift from above to essentially watch them work out from your place on the treadmill. You couldn’t even run - you almost fell on your goddamn face - because you were so distracted by the strong, glistening men across from you. You had instead slowed to a walk, texting Natasha and Shuri, sending them videos of these gorgeous men lifting seemingly impossibly heavy amounts with such ease and agility.

You couldn’t deny that it was making you feel things.

They then insisted that you should come and lift with them because “it’s rude to stare, bunny” and that was definitely less fun than just watching them.

And now here you sit, lounging carelessly and purposefully ignoring the presence of the woman sitting across from you. She sighs loudly, drumming her freshly-manicured red claws on the armrest of the couch, her eyes glued onto your face. Clearing her throat louder this time, you can feel the heat of her gaze on your profile burn hotter.

“Honey, are you just going to let me sit here all day?” your mother whines - like a child, you think - and flicks her hair face from her face.

“Yup,” you pop the ‘p’ and then fall silent, chewing your gum audibly, satisfied when you see her eye twitch in your periphery.

The two of you sit like this for a while, the deafening quiet weighing heavily on your mother’s shoulders. She’s always been a woman who’s liked to talk, fill moments of peace with mindless chatter and you’ve hated it all your life.

“Stop slouching,” your mother suddenly snaps, letting out yet another sigh, but one of relief as if it’s been painful for her to hold in her chest. With the silence effectively broken, you give a sigh of your own and finally meet her eyes, the same pretty color as yours shining back at you like a mirror. Then you assess the rest of her: the bleached blonde extensions, over-lined lips, and the designer coral pantsuit. You hold her gaze as you slip further down onto the couch, your posture even more relaxed than before. She narrows her own at you and a Chesire cat grin spreads on your face.

“You didn’t come here to correct my posture, mother,” you tell her, looking back at your phone, “so to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“You haven’t been returning my calls,” she arches an eyebrow, dusting an imaginary piece of lint off of her pants, “even though I told your dad to tell you when you called him a week ago-”

“You don’t think there’s a reason that I’ve been dodging your calls?” you ask rhetorically, running the pad of your thumb over an eyebrow. Your birth giver cocks her head at you curiously, as if she’s truly confused as to why you don’t seem to like her-

“I don’t know why you don’t like me,” she states airily, examining her nails contemplatively. Your eyes dart back to hers in surprise, your jaw literally dropping because you’re that floored. “I’ve been nothing but kind to you-”

“Get out,” you say quietly, immediately shutting her up.

“What did you say to me?”

“I said get out,” you repeat, tossing your phone onto the couch behind you and standing up swiftly. Your mother is still sitting across from you, so you gesture with your hands so as to emphasize your point. “You should be lucky I haven’t fucking blacklisted you from this apartment-”

She exclaims your name, “-don’t cuss at me-”

You power through, “-after all you’ve done to me - so what I mean, mother, is get the fuck out of my apartment!”

Your voice carries through your home. When the echoes finally stop, the woman in front of you turns her nose up at you, clutches her taupe Birkin, and clicks those stupid stilettos all the way to your elevator. When she presses the button, she turns around to glare at you, failing to notice your defensive stance or how you’re fighting tears that you thought you’d already spent years crying out.

“Your father will be hearing about this,” she smirks and the doors open, bathing the side of her face in bright, artificial light. You don’t even look at her as the elevator chimes and the rose gold doors slide closed. But when they do, all of the breath leaves your body in a loud sob, your shaking hands coming up to wipe at your eyes.

The ringing of your phone interrupts you, the caller ID a number that you don’t recognize. In your current state, you answer it unthinkingly, not even registering that you’re about to be speaking to a total stranger.

“Hello?” You sniffle over the phone, running your sleeve over your cheeks to rid them of any tear tracks.

The person over the line greets you by saying your name in a deep tone that shoots straight to your panties, meaning that you know exactly who this is. It’s the call you’ve been waiting for the whole week and of all times, this is when he decides to pick up his damn phone and remember that you exist?

Motherfucker.

“Steve,” you breathe, gulping down large amounts of air to try and keep any residual tears at bay. “I-, uh, hi.”

His chuckle on the other end of the phone causes your cheeks to heat up because it should be illegal to sound like that. “Hi to you too, bunny-” you interrupt him with a shaky breath that’s louder than you anticipate, “-hold on, have you been crying?”

Shit, you think, massaging your temples. “Yeah,” you admit, sniffing again. It’s likely that your ears are deceiving you, but you think that you hear him groan, a sinful sound from deep in his throat that makes even more moisture pool in your underwear. “It’s not a big deal though - it’s nice to hear from you.”

“Are you doin’ okay?” he asks softly, making your heart do little flips in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you state almost automatically, hoping to brush off any concern and move on. You walk over to your fridge, scanning the contents before your eyes land on the row of clear, blue-capped bottles with a pink flower on the front. You put your phone on speaker and place it on the counter as you snatch one of the bottles of water from the shelf, cracking it open and taking a long swig from it.

“You don’t sound fine,” Steve protests, sounding borderline amused. “Maybe you can tell me all about it when I take you out to dinner tonight.”

He tells you mid-swig and of course, there’s no way for him to know his, but you’re so taken aback that you falter, subsequently choking on all of the water in your mouth. The coughs that wrack your body are violent, and there’s a burn in your throat from the strength of your body’s automatic reaction. You have to shut the fridge door and turn around, bracing a hand on the island counter where your phone lies.

“Sweetheart?” he probes, probably holding back a laugh but you can’t really discern whether or not that’s true over the ear-splitting sound of your coughing.

“Sorry, sorry,” you apologize, wheezing through the paralyzing attack on your body. “That sounds great - where are we going?”

You finally recover, taking another - slower - sip of your drink, tears stinging your eyes.

“Hey now,” Steve laughs again, and you can’t help but notice how carefree he is now compared to the night you met him. It makes you smile. “That’d be telling. Just be ready by 8 - I’ll get my driver-”

“-oh no, that’s okay - if you give the location to my driver, he can take me-”

“No,” his voice is booming, even through the phone, and it gives you pause. His authoritative tone should’ve made you cry, especially with all that’s happened in your past, but instead, a tidal wave of desire makes you shudder and threatens to pull you underneath the surface. “My driver will pick you up at 8,” he repeats and you press the power button on the side of your phone so it shows you the time: 2:49, “and I’ll send over something appropriate for you to wear. Are we clear?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, sinking your teeth into your bottom lip.

“I asked if we were clear, sweetheart,” his voice has taken on a warning tone now and you can’t deny the heat that courses through you.

“Yes, sir,” you give him the answer almost instinctively, frowning afterward because you feel like you’re in school.

“Good girl, bunny baby,” he coos and it’s this that makes you almost audibly moan.

You? A praise kink?

Absolutely.

“I’ll see you then, hmm, honey?” he prompts you to respond. Normally, you don’t let anybody that you’re romantically involved with call you honey because it reminds you so acutely of your mother, and you suspect that she knows that which is why she keeps calling you that stupid nickname. But with Steve, you already feel like you’re in no place to be making demands.

And for the first time in your life, that doesn’t bother you all that much.

“Yes, Steve,” your eyelashes flutter and you squeeze your thighs together, trying to ease yourself of the growing discomfort at your most sensitive area.

“Good, good,” he speaks, sounding distracted. “I’ve got a meeting now, bunny - talk later.”

You don’t even get an opportunity to say your own goodbye before he ends the call. You save him to your contacts quickly before you forget, and then a thought hits you that makes you freeze.

How does he know your size and - more importantly - how the fuck does he know where you live?

tagged: @evnscvll @donutloverxo @stargazingfangirl18 @literaturefeen @smutdiariess @90sinspiredgirl @cruelsummer-s @honnneyybee

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers blurb #steve rogers blurbs #steve rogers headcanons #steve rogers headcanon #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers imagines #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfiction #sugar daddy au #soft dark steve rogers #sugar daddy steve rogers

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pixie-cocaine · 4 years

Text

Down A Peg

Genre: Smut

Pairing: Businessman!Brat!Jinyoung × Dominatrix! Reader

Warnings: Pegging, slight mistress kink, dirty talk, Jinyoung cries lol, pretty harsh punishment (rough caning. don't worry tho, the after care makes up for it. Probably.), mentions of breaking skin from caning wounds and bruising 😬, slapping, hair-pulling, strapjob, fingering (m receiving), nipple play, degradation, just pure filth man 💀

Requested: months ago, but yes

Note: Jinyoung has a key at some point and it disappears, but you're not gonna say shit about it. Also it gets lazy near the end, excuse the grammar mistakes.

Word Count: 6.3K (pls don't let this flop, I am exhausted 🤩)

The last thing Jinyoung thought he’d be doing, was going to a professional Dominatrix session. If anyone had even dare mentioned the idea, say a month beforehand, he’d give them the nastiest grimace manageable and avoid them like the plague, not that he didn’t do that to anyone who tried to weasle their way into his private life anyways. It made even his own subconcious howl with laughter at the position Jinyoung had put himself in now.

So much for trying to s tay away, huh?

He didn’t even think something like this could happen. Hell, one minute he was filing more stacks of papers as his assistant talked his ear off, which he had vehemently told her not to do, and the next he found himself bored, and scrolling through a Domme website the night that followed.

But here he was; standing outside the neat black building with his phone in one hand, and a hand cupped in his pockets as he raised an eyebrow before going in. Past the glass doors, he found his surroundings consiting with soft shades of brown. A mahogony reception desk sat to the front of him against a wall, a long hallway next to the desk, and neutral white lights giving the atmosphere a professional look. His legs moved on their own accord while he focused on stabalizing his breathing, not used to the clamminess now making his palms sweat against his sides, and before he knew it, he was standing at the front of the office.

A woman in her early-to-mid twenties sat before him, smile sweet and chestnut brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her eyes were soft, almost inquisitive as they assessed Jinyoung’s appearance and outfit, which consisted of a beige turtleneck and black dress pants. She seemed pleased with the effort he put into his looks if her satisfied hum was anything to go by.

“Hello, are you here for an appointment?”

Her voice was cheery, like the chime of a bell, and her face beamed with a radiance that Jinyoung wouldn’t think someone who worked in her place of job would exude. He cleared his throat, “I am, yes.”

“Your name?”

“Park Jinyoung,” she nodded and typed something into the computer to her left.

“And your mistress for the night is Madame Black, correct?”

Jinyoung felt odd with how casual this was going. He’d expected.. something else? No, that was a lie一Jinyoung didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a bad experience, he guesses. He just wasn’t used to the way this was such an open transaction, as if he was going to the doctor’s for a checkup or something. It left him confused as he thought of a couple of his previous encounters with people he trusted on his sex life. The way they scrunched their faces in a disapproving frown when he said he wanted to try subbing, only to backpedal at his embarrasment. The rest just flat out didn't know what they were doing. It was almost laughable how little they knew. But this... This seemed like a whole new ballgame.

“Yeah,” He shook his head in confirmation, the sudden movement making him look like an overenthusiastic dog. The woman laughed at the new show of excitement and leant over the console so she could murmur to him despite the space being completely empty, save for both of them, of course.

“Third door down the hall, you’ll know it’s hers when just standing outside of it makes you wanna piss your pants. Don’t forget to change into one of the robes in the room just to your left. Oh! And just a heads up, Jinyoung,” She smiles with a mischevious glint in her eye and reaches out to drop a black key into his awaiting hand, “She may seem nice, but Madame is not one who tolerates brats. Do go in with the knowledge that she’s not afraid to bite.”

Jinyoung raises a brow at her tease, but smiles back at her nonetheless, "Who says I'm afraid of being bitten?"

With a jerk of his head in what he hoped was a nod, he fought not to not scurry down the hall in his newfound anticipation, smirking to himself at the knowing face of the desk worker.

Jinyoung was jittery with each step that brung him closer to his destination, which now stand a couple feet from him, the deep ebony-shaded door looming with a question that made Jinyoung have second thoughts despite thinking it through for hours; ‘Can I handle what’s behind this door?’

Jinyoung rakes a shaky hand through his hair, trying to take deep breaths as he pushes the cold metal of the key into the lock, twisting it to the right until he hears the telltale Click! Of the latches unslotting while he turns the handle and pushes the inlet open, taking a moment to survey the room before him, then kicks the door closed after he steps inside. Of course he can. If the voice in the back of his head said anything, it probably wouldn’t even be a good experience much different to the other ‘dom’s’ he’s had sex with.

Almost immediately, the tart scent of lavender wafts into his nose. The room was spacious, dimly lit by the soft golden glow of candles occupying the corners which cast shadows across the silky wine carpet, and the delicate shades of a peachy pink had consisted of the walls surrounding him. A king-sized bed with fluffy red covers sat against the back wall, a plush pink chair facing it, and you perch right at the bottom of the bed. Jinyoung feels his heart shake at the sight of you.

Just the way you sit with your legs crossed over one another had his cock stirring behind the silk black robe that curtains his naked frame. You wear a gorgeous tan lingerie set, the top is a thin see-through camisole which stops just above the curve of your upper stomach, displaying the supple mounds of your breasts over a sheen of lace, and the bottoms are a simple high-arch panty, the same fabric and look of the top, but with a skirt-like covering which flutters around the curves of your hips whenever you move. The fact that the set shown your bare body in such a delicate show of wispy materials was what made Jinyoung even more worked up. Your position was relaxed as you sat, holding a glass of champagne, and you cocked your head to the side slightly upon Jinyoung’s arrival. You offer a smile.

“Why hello there!” You gleam, and at the sheer enthusiam which you eminate, Jinyoung finds himself mirroring the smile without his own accord. Something about you just dusts away all of Jinyoung’s previous nerves.

“Hey,” Jinyoung sifts through his head to find the right words, “Madame Black?”

You giggle at the way he says it, obviously giving away that he wasn’t fully aware of what he was about to get himself into, “Yes, that’s me. You must be Park Jinyoung, I’m assuming?”

A nod was your answer.

"Don't be shy, take a seat," you nod towards the chair before you, and Jinyoung obliges, smiling at you as he goes to sit himself down in front of you.

"First of all, I would like to discuss boundaries, even if I’ve already gone over the form you filled out," you begin with a wink, "what’s your opinion on rimming and ass-play in general?”

Jinyoung feels his eyes bug out slightly at the way you so seamlessly jump into it. Shameless, aren’t you? But he isn’t complaining.

He clears his throat and, suddenly unable to look you in the eye, settles his gaze on his lap as if it were the most interesting thing in the world, “I’ve dabbled in it by myself but never really experienced proper ass-play things with somebody else,” mustering up his courage to flick his eyes back to yours, he smirks, “I’d like to try it with you if possible.”

You nod, “how about being rough with you? Hair-pulling, slapping, throat-fucking, etcetera?”

He seems to strongly approve if the fast dipping of his head means anything, and if that weren’t enough to give you a gist to how much he liked the idea, he isn’t afraid to say so.

“Anything that will leave me sore, I’m completely into. I like seeing the after effects.”

“Cum-eating and degradation?”

“Very eager to try.”

“Alright, anything else you’d like to add into the mix?”

Jinyoung muses, then shakes his head, to which you hum at.

“Now, Jinyoung, I’m going to ask you a question, and you’re going to answer with a very well thought-out response,” you raise an eyebrow at the brunette, eyeing him down like the first meal you’d seen in days, “Are you sure you want to do this?

Jinyoung can feel his heart thrum against his ribcage, like the hard beat of a drum, when he hears your words. You were definitely experienced in this, even someone with half a brain could tell. He could feel his lips stretch into a smile, an idea coming to mind as you gently set your champagne glass on the floor a couple steps away from your feet, then sit back up to cock your head to the side.

“If I’m being honest, Madame,” He scorns the name out, mocking your authority, “I don’t think you’ll be any better than the self-proclaimed ‘dom’s’ that I’ve been with.”

"Huh."

"I mean—look at what you're wearing—how am I supposed to believe that this is a dominatrix scene and not a sub session where I can easily just knock you around?"

Wow.

You can’t quite bite back the loud, boisterous peals of laughter that bubble up frrom your chest fast enough when you finally register his words after staring at him for a couple seconds, vacantly blinking at the brunette and trying to figure out if you heard him right. You wipe a tear from your eye, still tittering, “And what makes you think that just because I'm wearing delicate and frilly lingerie doesn't mean I can't fuck your guts out, Mr. Jinyoung the powerful CEO?”

Jinyoung frowns, “How do you know that I’m a CEO?”

God, this was getting more interesting by the moment.

Shaking your head, you rake your eyes up the sultry expose of his hardened calves and legs, slowly meeting his eyes once more, and grinning as you do so, “You must think I’m dumb. You act like that smug little face of yours isn’t plastered all over the city. Regardless..,” You lean forward, "Yes or no, Jinyoung? I promise, I'm well worth the money."

Jinyoung thinks for a moment, still in shock from the mention of his job, even if he already knows his answer before he says it. This was his chance to experience what he'd always wanted. Maybe. You already knew his kinks due to the form he had to fill out, as well as the little transaction, so he had no doubt that you knew which buttons to press, but he wanted to know if you could take him beyond his limits like he's always hoped for. If you knew how to press those buttons just right, or if you were just another let-down with a more professional look and platform. This was it, and he was going to make you work him over as much as you could.

"Yes, I'm sure I want to do this."

Jinyoung feels a shudder wrack his shoulders at how smoothly your facade transitioned to one of pure intimidation and stony expressions. The smile that once graced your seemingly sweet attributes was now wiped away and replaced with a carefully adept mask of indifference.

You keep his stare whilst you bend down to retrieve a big, black wooden box from beneath the bed, setting it beside you as you stand from your spot and lift the lid from the case to pull out a leather clasping, as well as a thick and textured blue dildo which was, admittedly, one of your biggest straps. You look to Jinyoung as you began attaching the proper clippings and belts in order to fasten it around your hips.

“On your knees.”

Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, Jinyoung slowly pushes himself away from the chair and sinks down to his knees, mouth watering at the authority in your tone of voice, and blood beginning to heat underneath his skin as you secure the harness and move to close the distance between the both of you. Deft fingers trace the sharp lining of Jinyoung’s jaw, trailing a line to the dip of his chin before taking it between your thumb and forefinger with a force that worries the bone slightly.

He's pretty, you think. One of the prettiest men that have ever occupied your time as a dominatrix, with full lips and features that would deem him model-worthy. You smile. You would have fun making a mess of him.

“Safeword?”

Jinyoung is taken aback for a moment, allegedly in a daze to the golden view from below you. “Hm... 'Promotion'?" He smiles at his own small joke.

You hum, grabbing the ribbed silicone that stare back at Jinyoung, and pressing the tip to the seam of his mouth with short, prodding impels.

“Open,” you murmur.

He obeys, albeit after frowning slightly; letting his lips part to engulf the width of your strap, wasting no time in stooping his head lower so he could stop midway on your cock, his throat constricting around the foreign object now lodged in his passage. You moan down at him with a hand raking through the soft tresses of his hair in appreciation at his eagerness.

“Suck.”

And he does.

Jinyoung started out strong at first; bobbing his head as he craned his neck this way and that to really go in on you without hesitation, hollowing his cheeks and looking up at you with a determinbed look, but after a while of swallowing your cock like he had one chance to impress you, he makes a rasping sound in the back of his throat, vaguely like the creaking of bed springs, followed by a lewd slurping noise before he goes to pull away. You catch the back of his head with a hand, raising an eyebrow as you shove him back down to where he’d stopped previous.

Jinyoung gags, a beautiful, surprised chuck of sound that makes you sigh at the way he sought for purchase at your thighs, a poor attempt to steady himself when you were already pulling back to drive your cock back down his throat with a fist-full of his hair. A range of noises that originate from Jinyoung bounce off the walls of the room, mostly different variations of kecks and physical strains on his trachea, but some being choked-off whimpers and half-strangled gasps of which he could actually get in between you fucking into his face and withdrawing.

You finally slow your pace to more shallow strokes, and looking past the pretty shine of Jinyoung’s now tear-stained face, you can see the tent in the flap of his robe. You favor him with a devilish grin, one that he sadly can’t see due to staring down at where you had your cock in his mouth.

“Look at me, whore,” the stern demand comes out in a throaty growl as you use your hand, still laced within the damp tresses of his hair, to yank his head back and up at you, resulting in both a muffled yelp and the back of Jinyoung’s neck popping at the sudden movement.

The sight was immoral in every sense of the word. His swollen lips, which were wrapped around the pink cock strapped to your hips, were left hanging open with obvious smears of glistening drool, still seeping from the corners, his cheeks streaked over with it in some places and mixing the stream of drying tears falling from his wide eyes. You can hear him begin to gag around the strap, considering he is shoved down to the hilt, but you only push his head down and keep him there. Instead, staring in amusement at the way he sputters and coughs, wanting to savor how his face begins to turn a lovely shade of red. When you are certain he can’t breathe, you pull him off and let him drink in desperate gulps of much needed air, the soft peach color returning to his face when his lungs begin to relax.

Stunning, you think.

Jinyoung gasps when you force him up to his feet by his hair, practically stumbling when you turn the two of you around so you can then proceed to to shove him onto the bed, ignoring the groan of the springs due to the impact. His head is a mess from the influxion of air he experiences. Only the ache between his legs keeping Jinyoung tied to this world as he softly pants, laying on his forearms with glossy eyes locked on yours and how you follow suit; crawling onto the bed and taking place hovering right over him. Jinyoung moans lowly when you lean in to press open-mouthed kisses, hot and wet, against his jawline, your hand snaking down the expanse of his hidden body to pull at the tied robe sash, and you treat yourself with a peek down at how it falls open to reveal everything he had to offer. Smoothing your fingers along the breathtaking show of defined muscle and healthy flesh, you curse.

“Of course such a little brat would have a fantastic body...”

Jinyoung lets out a complacent laugh at your subtle annoyance. He knows he has a good body, and he knows he's attractive, which makes you all the more irritated, considering he is perfect in every way, and you have no doubt in your mind that he uses it to get what he wants.

“You sure are taking your time,” He gripes out, hoping to stir your anger.

You snicker at him, and without thinking too much of it, strike him across the face, not waiting for his head to fully turn to the left before you grab his cheeks, force him back to you, and slap him again.

Once. Twice. Three times.

You feel his cock twitch against your thigh, and his mouth parts in pleased shock as he breathes.

“Say it again, bitch"

"I said, you sure are taking your—Ah!"

He's momentarily shocked into silence when you immediately shove your hands under his waist to hoist Jinyoung's legs behind his head, essentially folding him in half and displaying his exposed bottom, which is just as gorgeous as everything else about him. That's saying something, because an asshole, dick, and balls shouldn't even be in the same sentence as 'gorgeous.'

Jinyoung doesn't have time to protest, because as soon as he opens his mouth to fuss, he feels a strong, harsh slap land right on his hole. He yelps, kicking his feet out the best he can until he cries out again upon registering the next three smacks that rain down on the same spot.

"Rude, rude, boy. Has nobody ever taught you that you shouldn't speak back to your Mistress?" You growl, blowing cool air over his fluttering rim before patting his ass gently, "Stay like this or else I'm shoving an inflatable plug up your ass and stretching you until you rip."

Shaky and wanting, Jinyoung let's out a breath, doing as you say and hooking his hands into the back of his knees in order to press down and stay in said position. It unfortunately does put a strain on his lower back, but as much as he likes punishment, he's not betting on having his poor butt mercilessly torn open like you promised.

"What's your favorite color?"

The question half-startles him, "Red...?"

"Good choice," You chirp, and like that, you're holding his legs in place again; dangling a bottle of reddish-tinted lube over him as you happily squirt the cool gel onto his hole and two of your fingers. You tease him—gently running your hand up the soft skin of his left leg whilst you push the pad of your digit against his entrance, letting it breach slightly before pulling back to do it again.

"Tell me you want it."

He groans, "I want it..."

"Yeah?" You lie your cheek on his thigh, staring down at him with narrowed eyes. You love how exposed he is right now. Vulnerable to your gaze, and letting you touch him in such lewd ways. You always liked these parts of your sessions—where you could see the raw arousal in their faces. Letting your hand slide from Jinyoung's thigh to his cock, you begin simultaneously stroking him and, finally, pushing your fingers into his ass. He suddenly jerks upwards the best he really can with his legs behind his head, and you already know that both the sensations combined feel odd for him.

"Does it hurt?" You ask, half-wanting him to say it does so you can see the look on his face when you add another finger. But he doesn't, thankfully, and you whisk away the sadistic thoughts that you don't really want there. Instead, he shakes his head with a weak noise of slight discomfort.

"It doesn't hurt, but it feels... Weird?" Jinyoung doesn't seem so sure of himself when he actually says the words out loud. The confused frown knitting his eyebrows together mimes that of someone who was deciding on whether they liked something or not.

"Mm. Give it a minute."

And he does. He breathes heavily at the still-going stimulation to his cock, furrowing his brows everytime you move your fingers in a strange way as you try and find a pace, then, like clockwork as your digits graze upwards of his walls, he gasps, loud and surprised.

"Oh? Did I find it?" You grin, raising an eyebrow whilst continuing to abuse that spot inside of him. You revel in the way he moans. It's actually very melodical, everytime he reaches a high note it sounds like he's about to start singing, and it catches you off-guard when he keens before letting his lower body fall against the bed.

You tsk and shrug, "I was gonna be nice but it looks like you're just itching for punishment."

"Well what the hell did you expect when you put me in a painful position like-"

Thwap!

You give him another good slap to the face, then, almost too aggressively, force him to the edge of the bed so you can bend him over.

"Don't look at me, keep your eyes on the floor or I'll make it worse," you murmur, and with a mischievous smile, you walk over to the large black closet to the side of your bed. You can hear Jinyoung's heavy breathing reverberating throughout the room the entire time it takes to fetch your trusty cane and take position back behind Jinyoung.

The cane is long, about the height of a relatively high-standing desk, and decorated with accents of blood red while the rest is tinted a ravishing mulberry purple. It's thick at the top which makes it easy to hold onto, and it begins to slight as it reaches the the tip, which is skinny and carefully rounded.

"So, here's what we're gonna do," you begin, running your fingers up and down the polished rattan, "I am going to hit you with this cane as hard as I can, and you are going to count each and every stroke that I put on your thighs and backside. Do you hear me?"

Jinyoung sucks in a breath, but nods his head nonetheless.

"Come on, you know better. I need you to say it."

"Yes, I hear you."

"Hear you, what?" You lean forward to whisper into the shell of his ear, enjoying the way he lets out a small whimper and pushes his ass back against you.

"Yes, I hear you, Mistress..."

"Good Boy. Now, spread your legs a bit, and when you feel the cane, begin counting."

Jinyoung does as told easily enough; widening the space between his feet until his legs stand out in a small 'v' shape, and waiting in anticipation for you to begin the punishment. He can hear the blood rush in his ears.

Shwoop- thwack!

The pain that surges in a line against both cheeks is nothing short of winding. He thought it'd sting a bit at most but fuck, he had trouble keeping his legs from wobbling.

"One!" He shrills.

Shwoop- thwack!

"Two!"

Shwoop- thwack!

"T-Three!"

It feels like it goes on for forever if he's being honest. It's the same pain, but it gets worse with each swing and cut. It doesn't help that your cane had broken skin and drawn blood every couple strokes to both the backs of his thighs and cheeks, and you kept on hitting the same wounds.

"Twenty... twenty-one.."

"My good boy.. you did so, so well," You all but coo, dropping the cane to the floor with a thud as you lean forward to drape yourself over his back, careful not to make contact with his injuries whilst you trail your fingers between his legs so you can continue stroking his cock, grip loose and barely touching him with each swipe over his shaft.

"It hurts...!" Jinyoung's voice wavers, and you can finally hear the submission in his tone. You like hearing him like this; on the edge of breaking down, sobbing out his pain and pleasure, and all for you.

You smile, tightening your fist around his tip and holding it there just to savor the way he cries out and reaches down to try and stop your administrations, "But you like when it hurts, don't you? You like seeing how bad of a boy you'd been, and you like feeling those repercussions wear off even more, no?"

"N-no..."

"Mistress doesn't like liars, baby. Say you're sorry and maybe I'll make the pain feel better," You hum, only the slightest of touches ghosting against Jinyoung's nipples, butterfly kisses on the back of his ear.

"I'm sorry.. I-I'm sorry..!"

"Move up the bed. Hands and knees, still."

He's crying as he carries out your command, you realise. Tears, shiny, like the first drops of rain, run in flexuous tracks down his cheeks, and a blush dusts the ball of his nose. He makes no noise, but you can see the stutter of his chest and the way his breath hitches everytime he tries to take in a full inhale.

"See what happens when you don't listen to your Mistress? She has to hurt you, and she doesn't quite like hurting you to the point of drawing blood," you sigh and can't help but frown at the marks left on his body, especially the way you can identify the blooming bruises, which range from pretty shades of red to slowly darkening purples. Not to mention the many long cuts that litter just above the bruises.

"I-I'm sorr-sorry," Jinyoung involuntarily hiccups, and the way he reaches back and out for your top, tugging at the hem to get you to come closer, undoubtedly makes your mask slip a bit.

"Don't-.. don't look at me like that.."

But he keeps doing it. He keeps looking at you with those eyes. Those eyes that plead and beg in only the ways that make your body light aflame with desire to see him break completely under your touch.

"Fuck me... Please fuck me," He whispers, still looking at you from over his shoulder and holding onto your camisole.

"I bet you do. You've had that look in your eyes ever since you walked through the door. Don't worry, though. I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you hard enough to make your mind go blank, and I'll fuck you good enough that everytime you touch yourself, you'll wish it was my hands instead of yours," you crawl onto the mattress and keep direct eye contact as you do so. You want him to take in the fire in your eyes, and know that you mean everything you say.

And from the way he whines upon your hand encasing his throat when you take place behind him, lining yourself up with his entrance with your breath hot on the back of his neck, he gets the memo.

"Have you ever had a cock inside you, Jinyoung?"

"Only finger-ers," He gasps out, still catching his breath to make coherent sentences as his crying dies down.

You nod into his shoulder, "We're gonna take this part slow, then, okay? Deep breaths.. I'm pushing inside, now."

The stretch is slow and, admittedly, overwhelming; the way your strap's textured shaft tenses his walls around the thickness of it's outer layers has him clutching and the sheets and making all sorts of noises, from groans to whimpers, from low-tones to high-notes, then finally, you bottom out. Your hips meet the plush skin of his ass, which he yelps at, and you take a moment to massage the column of his neck, trying to get him to relax as much as possible. It is his first time with a dick up his ass, after all, and he'd just taken a brutal punishment with, from the looks of it, painful consequences.

"What's the traffic light say, Jinyoung?"

He knows what it means, and when he's actually asked the question, it sparks a sort of satisfaction in him. He means wow, someone who actually checks in with him during sex and doesn't just do whatever they want without making sure he's ok with it.

"Green. Just go slow, please? It still hurts a bit."

He's surprised when you actually listen to him, and begin pacing yourself slower; careful movements of your hips, barely even registered as thrusts, and soft brushes over the hardness of his nipples once again as a distraction from any lingering uncomfort.

"Is it ok to go faster?"

He nods, and turns his face to the side so he can look at you properly. He looks so good like this; watery eyes and a needy expression painted on his face like glass.

It's then that you find yourself kissing him.

It catches him off-guard, obviously, but he leans into it nonetheless, and damn did you know how to kiss. Your lips were sweet against his, mouth moving in tune with his own and it was quite easy for you to take control of things. One squeeze to his throat and he was putty.

You don't even notice that you're thrusting into him too fast until he grabs at your hip from behind and whines into your mouth, which makes you want to go all the more faster, but you don't. You groan, nibbling his lip before you pull away with a grin, and weave your hand into his hair so you can gently push his face into the covers. His arch is gorgeous. Just like the rest of him, you think.

"Jesus, you're a sight.. you know that?"

From the neat curtain of bangs, you can faintly see Jinyoung smile, "Do you like it?"

"Baby you know I like it," You curse as you smooth a hand down the sultry slope of his back, all muscled and strong yet delicate in a way that you find hard to explain.

He moans, loud and clear for you, "Then show me, mistress. Please?"

'Showing him' would be an understatement of what you did. It was like you were possessed; one moment he was on his hands and knees, looking back at you with that fucking face, and the next, you had him flipped over on his back, drilling into him like your life depends on it. You don't know how long you fuck him, but you know that you were in a daze as you snap back to the present.

It's brutal, the way you pound into him. Rough, animalistic, and downright cruel. He's trying his best to stay tethered to this world, but you make it extremely hard with the way you bull his knees into his own chest and stare at him, long and heavy, with each other's foreheads touching and a hand jerking him off at a rapid speed. He wails and cries out every couple seconds, his voice now strained in his throat and wearing thin like the threads of an old spiderweb.

"Is this what you fucking wanted? Huh? Well here it is so fucking take it, bitch. Take it all and don't you dare waste it or else I swear you'll regret it," You growl, your teeth clenched hard enough to put pressure on your gums as you unhook your arm from under his left knee and instead use it to choke him. He struggles at the lack of blood going to his brain, but nods regardless.

"I-I'm c—oh my god please—I'm cumming! I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna-"

"Then fucking cum, you filthy whore. Do it, all over your stomach. Make Mistress proud, hm? Make her proud of her good little fuck doll, I know you can do it, baby."

Letting go of Jinyoung's throat has more of an effect than you anticipated. The influx of air and blood, paired with his approaching orgasm, quite literally throws him headfirst into his climax. His mouth falls open in a silent scream as he writhes and twitches, spilling white on his lower abdomen, and one shot even glances him on the collarbones.

It's silent for a moment as he catches his breath, still shaking, and that's when you make the decision of discarding your strap-on into the basket near your closet with a single toss. Jinyoung, on the other hand, is on cloud 9. He feels like he's floating in a golden sea of bliss, which clouds of cotton candy hanging overhead, and he barely registers it when he feels your fingers on his body once again.

He looks down, "Hm..?"

"Pfft holy shit, look at you," You bring your palm to your mouth as you giggle at the man's euphoria, "Yeah.. Oh yeah, you're definitely feeling it, huh? Told you I was worth the money."

"No shit. That was... Jesus, that was insane."

"Mm thanks, pretty. Sit still, I'll be right back."

You hop up off the bed with another quick glance at Jinyoung before you disappear behind a misty glass door. While you're doing.. whatever you're doing, Jinyoung takes the time to sit up and try and find a comfortable position because of course it's now that everything finally settles in.

"Ow, fuck!" He hisses at the pain of trying to sit on his ass with all the cuts on it.

"Yeah, about that, put your butt up for a moment?"

He frowns, but upon seeing the tube of ointment in your hand as well as baby wipes and a lollipop, sighs and reluctantly bends over.

"I know, I know, but don't worry, it'll only sting a bit. Also, make sure to apply some Neosporin or disinfectant on the backs of your thighs and bottom until they begin to scab up." You drone on about how to take care of the injuries whilst applying the salve, the basics on how to not exercise while they're still open because the sweat can cause an infection, the usual things. When you're done both rubbing the medicine on him and giving him a jog through cautions, you finally twist the covering on the tube of ointment and reach for the wet wipes before meeting Jinyoung's eyes again.

"Roll on your back, please. Feet up in the air and spread your legs so I can see everything."

"Why?"

"Because," you smile, already nudging him to move into position, "You're all messy. I need to clean you up, don't I? Now come here, I even have a lollipop for you since you did so well."

It's soft how you take care of him, Jinyoung thinks. The mood switch is completely different from what you were like when you were fucking him like you hated him, because now, you're so concerned about whether you're pressing the wipes too hard onto his skin as you swipe the cold sheet between his legs and rear end.

"I'm sorry," you say, slowing down on cleaning him to snort at how hard he sucks on the light green candy, admiring how at peace he looks with the warm expression he wears.

"For what?"

"I probably went a little too hard on you. This was your first actual time with an experienced domme, and I'm afraid that I could've ruined it for future references."

"Oh no, don't feel bad. I liked it."

"You did?" Your eyebrows shoot up.

"Of course. This is probably the best I've felt in literal months."

And he smiles. He smiles genuinely one of the most breathtaking smiles you've ever seen, with a slight fan of creasing around his eyes from the rise of his cheeks, and a laugh like pure beauty. You return it.

"Well, I'm glad I could help, Jinyoung. Now, I think it's about time for you to go, considering the session is officially over, and you most likely have a lot of work in the morning," You wink and stand from your spot on the bed.

Jinyoung allows you to help him back inside his robe, even rub the dried tear tracks off his cheeks, and before he knows it, he's slowly walking away from your assigned room, looking back at you as you stand in the doorway with a hand on your hip.

"Goodbye, Madame Black."

"Goodbye, Mr. CEO. Come again sometime, I'm sure you'd love to be taken down another peg."

#HOLY FUCK THIS TOOK FOREVER #a lot longer than I expected #well all that matters is that its here now #hope you enjoy lmao #kpop smut #hard got7 hours #smut #jinyoung smut #got7 smut #sub!got7 #sub got7 #sub!jinyoung #domme reader #domme!reader #dom!reader #dom reader #sub!idol #sub idol #idol x reader

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somethingwritey · 3 years

Text

my writing samples!

if you’re interested in commissioning my work (or you just like reading excerpts), i’ve taken some time to prepare writing samples!

more commission information can be found here or you can private message me for further questions!

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💖 dramatic

this is an excerpt from a rangi/kyoshi one-shot i did recently:

Rangi’s exhalation is loud in Kyoshi’s head, but perhaps almost silent in the world. “I used to see you guys around the mansion,” she confesses. “I would… watch you two. It was my duty, of course, to watch him. But not you.”

This isn’t exactly news to Kyoshi. Rangi has spent lifetimes saving her from herself and the world. Her bodyguard before she knew she needed one.

“I know.”

“You wanna know what I thought?” Rangi shakes her head, a strangled bit of laughter escaping her lips. “When I saw the way he’d admire you? I thought… The Avatar and his servant… what a pathetically tragic way to love. So caught up in the power imbalance of it all.”

“Rangi -”

“And then,” Rangi stares up at the sky now, squinting into the brightness of it all. “I fell right into it myself. Only you’re not the servant, Kyoshi. You’ve never been the servant. It’s me. In love with the great and powerful Avatar. Hopelessly and endlessly lost in the difference between duty and pleasure.”

That is absolutely wrong. If nothing else, Kyoshi knows that. “You’re not.”

“In love with you?”

No. That’s probably true, even if Kyoshi still doesn’t know why.

“You’re not my servant. You’ve never been, and you never will be.”

Rangi finally meets her gaze, and Kyoshi is surprised to see a glassiness there, reflecting in the bronze of her irises. She reaches out and runs a hand along the girl’s jawline, gently tracing every scar, every ghost of pain.

“Whoever made me the Avatar was really, really stupid,” she whispers. “You would’ve made a better one.”

“I’m not Earth Kingdom.”

“I don’t care.” Kyoshi knows how the cycle works. And she still thinks the Era of Rangi would outshine any past or future Avatar.

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💖 comedic/light-hearted

this is an excerpt from a jay/carlos de vil one-shot:

“You have a crush?”

Carlos whipped around, staring at Jay who had just come up the stairs. “Where the fuck did you come from?”

“Uh -” Jay blinked, pointing down the stairs. “Downstairs? Look, someone said you go ... oh, you found a friend.” His gaze fell on the cat.

“He’s my new best friend.” Carlos was only half joking. “You’ve been demoted.”

Jay feigned hurt for a moment. On the whole, he didn’t look as drunk as Carlos would’ve expected. “So, this crush of yours,” he said at last. “Is he the reason you agreed to come?”

The irony wasn’t lost on Carlos, and if he weren’t too busy wishing the earth would swallow him whole, he might’ve laughed. “Uh - I don’t -”

“Come on,” Jay laughed. “I won’t tell anyone. Not even Mal. What’s he like?”

Carlos made a face. “The one time you’re not hammered at a party, huh? Just my luck.”

Jay shook his head. “Come on, man! Just give me a hint!”

Carlos mimed zipping his lips.

Jay is here. With you, his brain whispered unhelpfully. Not downstairs. Maybe you have a chance.

Jay smiled, oddly genuine. “I get that parties aren’t your thing, ‘Los. Must be one hell of a guy if he’s worth all this.”

“Yeah, well,” Carlos mumbled, picking at a spot on the carpet. “He looks cute when he says please.”

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💖 alternate universe/timeline adjustment

this is a sneak peak of an unpublished equalist!asami/korra fic that i’m currently working on :) so stay tuned for more of this:

“Miss Sato,” a voice called from beyond the reinforced door. “You have a visitor.”

Her father, surely! Or one of his associates. But when door slid open and someone stepped inside, it wasn’t Hiroshi.

Asami turned towards the wall. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Asami, wait.” Korra didn’t try to get any closer. “I just -”

“Just what?” Asami muttered. Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “Wanted to see me put away? Make sure they’d gotten the right girl? A non-bender standing on the sidewalk at night is so dangerous, see. Glad you’ve got the police force cracking down on the issue.”

She could feel Korra’s frustration and revelled in it. She liked being able to get to Korra.

“No! That’s not! Ugh!” Korra paced, her footsteps heavy. “I don��t have much time! I just wanted to ask you to meet me! Away from anyone listening! Under the Silk Road Bridge.”

“I’d love to, but you see,” Asami gestured around her cell. She still hadn’t dropped the cynical act. “I’m kinda busy at the moment.”

“Your father is already trying to buy your way out,” Korra told her. “You’ll be released before most of Republic City wakes up. I know you, Asami. You wouldn’t… you’re not -”

“Not what, Korra?” Asami finally looked at her. Hard. “Like the rest of the non-benders? One of the good ones?”

“You betrayed us!”

“And you couldn’t save those people from being rounded up like animals!”

Korra opened her mouth, but no words came out. She threw back her head in frustration. “Fine! I’ll leave you alone! But tonight, at midnight, I’ll be under that bridge. I hope you will be, too. I just want to talk.”

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💖 angst/pining

this is an excerpt from a casey/izzie fic:

Casey couldn’t breathe.

She was used to the breathlessness that came with running, the burning and tightening of her lungs as she demanded more from them. But when her feet skimmed across the pavement, racing, racing, like her heartbeat, it didn’t scare her. Rather, she relished it, craved it. The way her whole body felt alive, how she could feel every tingle in her arms and legs, how everything seems to still and grow quiet around her - she loved it.

This was different.

Her vision tunneled, entirely swallowed by Izzie and the boy in the corner who had his tongue in her mouth. The people around her suddenly felt too close and the music too loud. She wished she had Sam’s noise canceling headphones.

Casey wasn’t even trying to inhale anymore as she stared, watching the girl whose lips she’d taken a chance on kiss a boy - a stranger. She could feel her chest burning, could feel the rest of her body screaming at her to take a breath, to do something. But she couldn’t. She could only stare until the need for air became too much.

She gasped, her feet moving against her will. The room smelled like too much weed, stinging her eyes and nose. Casey began to back towards the door.

It wasn’t that she was heartbroken; no, she knew what heartbreak felt like, and right now, that space was occupied by Evan.

This was on her. She’d decided to break off something good and consistent and wonderful to chase after someone who played hot and cold like Evan played video games. She had no one to blame but the person in the mirror.

Somehow, after being jostled around by several other bodies, she made it to the hallway. It was quiet, thankfully, the noise of the party muffled to the pulsing of the base inside the hotel room where she knew Izzie was still liplocked with that tall stranger.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

How could she have thrown away something so good for this?

She wanted to go back to being normal; to the time when she looked at Evan’s eyes and didn’t see Izzie’s reflecting back at her.

-----

💖 hurt/comfort

this is an excerpt from a nico minoru/karolina dean fic:

“You’re still glowing.” The words came out low. Nico’s eyes flicked up and down her girlfriend’s illuminated body, taking it all in. She knew Karolina could control her light now, which could only mean one thing.

“I wanted you to see it,” Karolina admitted, ducking her head. Now that Nico’s eyes were open, she could see just how much fear flickered behind Karolina’s warm glow. She had removed her arms from Nico now and twisted her hands together in front of herself anxiously. “I needed you to see it.”

Nico swallowed hard, unable to pull her eyes away. The light brought so many emotions flooding back. The first time she’d seen Karo glow. Early nights at the Hostel when the power would short out and Karolina walked around like a glowing flashlight. All the times Nico ran her hands down her hips and kissed her neck and watched her glow brighter than all the stars in the sky.

“I see it,” Nico promised.

“You’re not scary,” was Karolina’s response.

They were words Nico had said many times to Karolina, but never had anyone said them to her.

“Then why am I… like this?”

“Nico.” Karolina shook her head. “Your darkness isn’t evil. It just… is. And I know you can master your magic without the Staff. You’re more than its power.”

“Am I?” Nico didn’t know what she was. She’d been trying to figure it out for a lot longer than she cared to admit.

She was the Dead Girl’s Sister. She was That Goth Bitch. She was a loner, an outcast, a freak.

“You’re Nico Minoru,” Karolina said quietly. “And that’s… that’s enough.”

----

💖 fluff

this mal/evie moment is an excerpt from longer fic titled In Loco Parentis:

Evie had really outdone herself. She’d managed to put together a figure cutting, sapphire satin dress that fell off the shoulders in the most tasteful way possible. With her dark makeup and striking updo, Evie could’ve passed as at least twenty-five. And Mal had never wanted to kiss her more.

“I’m proud of you,” Mal said during a quiet moment, rubbing the other girl’s shoulders gently. “You look great. You did good.”

“Well,” Evie laughed, tipping her head back. “I did well.”

“Whatever, princess.” Mal’s voice had gone soft, her chin resting on Evie’s shoulder. Unable to help herself, she pressed a gentle kiss there, glancing up to see if she’d overstepped. But Evie didn’t look upset; on the contrary, her eyes were wide and her cheeks pink.

“So that’s what it’s like when a girl kisses you,” she breathed, tucking Mal’s hair behind her ear.

“Believe me,” Mal purred. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.” She waited for Evie to correct her grammar again, but instead, the girl pulled Mal gently out from behind her, capturing Mal’s lips with her own.

And just like that, Evie was kissing her.

“You’ve got lipstick on your face,” Evie whispered as she pulled away, doing her best to wipe it off.

“I don’t care.”

“I can’t fail you today.” Evie tugged at the hem of her dress, sighing. “I can’t. Mal, this means so much to you.”

But for the first time in a very, very long time, revenge on her mother was the last thing on Mal’s mind. Evie’s eyes and lips and voice took up all the space, blooming in her chest. “You can’t fail me,” she promised.

And that was the sheer and utter truth.

-----

💖 single character-centric

this is an excerpt from a catra-centric exploration:

She’s lost count of the nail marks.

When Hordak first threw her in this cell, Catra resolved to count every single tally Shadow Weaver left on the walls. But now that she’s fifty-two marks in - or maybe fifty-three? - her determination is beginning to waver.

She also doesn’t remember Shadow Weaver being locked up for fifty days. Maybe the nail marks don’t represent days at all - or maybe the old lady is as crazy as she is evil.

Lowering her gaze to the green glowing shackles around her hands, Catra tries - not for the first time - to wriggle out of them. Their buzzing is growing increasingly irritating.

How dare Shadow Weaver leave? Did she stop to think what would happen to Catra? Did it even cross her mind that she might be thrown in this cell as her replacement? Or maybe she did and just didn’t care?

Catra’s face twists in a grim smile. Of course her own fate hasn’t given Shadow Weaver any pause. She got what she wanted.

She tries to think back, to find the place where she went wrong - a single moment she can pinpoint where her plans went to shit. But the pieces just don’t fit. Nothing adds up.

Because Catra has done everything right. She’s climbed the ranks. She’s done her job well. She’s accomplished everything Adora could have and more. She’s surpassed even Shadow Weaver’s authority!

And yet, here she is. In chains. Awaiting punishment.

Adora always comes out on top. Hasn’t that been beaten into her since day one? Adora gets to walk away unharmed, with her new best friends and glowing hair. Adora gets Shadow Weaver, despite being a defector, a traitor, a failure!

I would’ve stayed for you.

Catra kicks out with her back foot and pushes away the tray someone delivered to her earlier. She’s not that hungry anyway - and certainly not for brown ration bars.

The tray makes a satisfying clatter as it skids across the floor, and Catra bares her teeth in a halfway smile. If she’s going down, she’s going to go down fighting. She’ll make it as difficult and as painful for Hordak as she can - right until the very end.

-----

💖 second person

this is an excerpt from a summer/tessa fic i wrote by request:

She’s happy now, you know.

She’s brighter and happier and just really fucking in love.

You can see it. You can hear it in the way she talks and the way her eyes light up when she walks into the room. You notice how she perks up when her name is dropped during casual conversation and how she makes a point of talking about her at every possible offhanded moment.

And honestly, you’re happy, too. You’re happy for her. You’re happy for them. Because they’re just so cute, and everyone says so.

And if you notice that Tessa is wearing her sweater - the one you used to wear because it made her mad and got those sparkling eyes to fix on you for just a few more seconds - you don’t say anything.

Because it wasn’t like the sweater belonged to you or was anything other than a polyester cardigan with a small hole in the elbow.

It’s not like when you draped it over your shoulders, she would roll her eyes and grumble and demand you give it back. Your heart wouldn’t jump, and your mind wouldn’t rush with the adrenaline that came with shooting a snarky response.

It’s not like you memorized the way she used to scoff - that sound in the back of her throat - or how she’d wave her hand dismissively while you wondered what it would be like to hold it and never let go.

It’s not like you’ve ever wanted anything from her - attention or otherwise.

It’s not like that sweater gave you an excuse to touch her shoulders, to catch a whiff of her perfume, to pretend the old sleeves were a good substitute for her arms.

When words finally do form in your mouth, they’re not the ones you want to say. They’re snarky or sarcastic or snide. They’re perfectly in-character for you, the airhead, the fair-weather friend, or just The Bitch.

Plain and simple. Easy to categorize and even easier to overlook.

You won’t think about what it feels like to hug her or how comforting it is to rest your head on her shoulder for those brief, world-stopping seconds - so close you can smell her shampoo and whatever else she uses to make those curls behave themselves. Those moments are meant to be locked away, to be kept safe, where they can’t become anything they shouldn’t. Because the two of you have come so far, but nowhere near far enough.

Yeah, you’re not my type.

It’s confirmation of a dead end.

-----

if any of these pieces catch your eye and you want one of your own, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me! i’m in the process of working on some really cool commissions right now, and i’m more than happy to add yours to the mix!

♡ ♡ ♡

40 notes · View notes

zackcollins · 4 years

Text

if you met me first ch. 2 || mathew barzal

chapter 1 || masterlist

Author’s Note: This was originally supposed to only be one part. Then I got an anon asking if I could write a part two because they’d like to see what would happen after the ending of the first part. Ask and you shall receive! But, uh... my stupid brain decided two parts wasn’t enough so, uh... they’ll be at least three parts. Knowing me though, they’ll end up being more than three. I hope you guys are okay with that (*insert sweat smile emoji*). GIF credit to chavelier!

Warnings: I don’t think there’s anything but feel free to tell me of anything deserves a warning. I’ll add it for you!

Word Count: 2.8k+

Title: If You Met Me First by Eric Ethridge

Additional: The reader is still gender-neutral. I made sure not to change that because I like consistency when there is more than one part and the previous part starts with a certain gender for the reader. Also! I’d like to thank @matbaerzal . I included something about a shorthanded goal for the Islanders but I don’t know much about their penalty kill alignments. She helped me with that by telling me some of the guys that are usually on it. She gave me five names but I ultimately picked Scott Mayfield. I’m not entirely sure why, if I’m honest. His name just spoke to me the most, I guess. Hope all of that’s okay and hope you enjoy this!

You sat there for a moment, phone gripped tightly to your ear. Mathew was breathing rapidly, starting to seem somewhat frantic. You sighed and bit your lip as you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I have feelings for you too,” you said, though it came out sounding like one word because you were so nervous.

You heard Mathew’s breathing even out as he let out a soft sigh. He chuckled before the line went dead. You dropped the phone on your lap and felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes. You sat there for a moment, wondering how you could ever have been so stupid to trust his admission. You felt betrayed by the person that mattered the most to you.

Not wanting to deal with anyone other than yourself, you turned your phone off and shoved it in your desk drawer. Anybody that wanted to talk to you could wait until you were done wallowing in the self-hatred of everything that had just transpired.

Needing something to distract yourself, you decided to deep clean your apartment. Twice. You wanted to make sure your mind was occupied so no thoughts of Mathew crept in. You also wanted to make sure that you didn’t miss anything from the first time.

When you were sure everything was cleaned, you washed the two weeks worth of laundry that had been gathering in your bedroom. It took you two hours to wash it all but you managed to get it done. It took an additional twenty-five minutes to fold everything and put it away but the laundry was finally dealt with after you had procrastinated it for the last week and a half.

When you needed a break from your chores, you switched on the television. You needed something to numb your mind and body; something to switch your thoughts off. Whatever deity existed must’ve been out for vengeance because the thing displayed on the television when it came to life was a rebroadcast of the Islanders vs. Flames game from that afternoon starting from the beginning of the second period. As much as you wanted to switch it off, something inside of you told you that you had to watch it.

As the second period progressed, you noticed that Mathew was playing with more enthusiasm and grit than you were used to seeing from him. He had bodychecked multiple Flames in an attempt to steal the puck from them. It had worked a few times but it led to an interference penalty on one occasion that Mathew looked none to pleased with. Luckily for him, Scott Mayfield was able to steal the puck from TJ Brodie and score a beautiful shorthanded goal short side on Cam Talbot. When the camera cut to Mathew in the penalty box, he was knocking his stick against the door and smiling with a relieved look on his face.

Your heartbeat sped up at that and you felt your stomach somersault. You cursed yourself for having a positive reaction to seeing him happy after what he had done to you. He wasn’t worth your time if he was going to toy with your emotions like he had, no matter how great of a friend you thought he was.

On the television, Mathew had exited the penalty box right as you had managed to get yourself under control. Josh Bailey had the puck and noticed Mathew behind the Flames defence. Josh quickly passed it to Mathew and Mathew sprung into action, skating toward Talbot. You gripped the arm of your couch, feeling every emotion you had tried to suppress hitting you all at once.

Mathew made it to the hash marks before he was hooked from behind by Rasmus Andersson. The referee shot his arm up and blew the whistle as soon as Talbot grabbed the puck after it trickled off Mathew’s stick. You sunk into the couch and covered your face as the referee pointed to centre ice.

You looked up as the referee was placing the puck on the faceoff dot on centre ice. You felt your entire body fill with dread as you watched Mathew skate in a circle by the Islanders bench. You didn’t know if you could handle seeing Mathew take a penalty shot. Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to change the channel or turn the television off. Something was compelling you to watch this and you were too weak right now to fight against it.

When the referee pointed to the puck and blew the whistle, Mathew quickly handled it on his forehand before skating down the ice. As he got closer to Talbot, he switched the puck to his backhand, then his forehand, then his backhand again and moved slightly to his left. Talbot froze briefly, opening his five-hole in the process. Mathew took that opportunity to hammer the puck in through Talbot’s five-hole on his backhand. Talbot tried to close his five-hole but all that succeeded in doing was pushing the puck over the line with his skates. The referee pointed to the net and blew the whistle. As Mathew went down the bench for his fist bumps, you noticed that he looked directly at the camera with a smirk on his face. You weren’t sure why but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had directed that at you specifically. Your stomach did another somersault at the mere thought of that.

The rest of the second period was rather uneventful. A couple penalties got drawn by both teams but no powerplay goals or shorthanded goals came of them. You were somewhat dreading the third period, unsure if you could handle any shenanigans that Mathew would inevitably get up to. You still felt compelled to watch the game and you were still too weak to fight against yourself so watch the game you would.

As the third period started you heard a knock at your apartment door. You found that odd because you hadn’t been expecting anyone. You wanted to ignore it because you weren’t in the mood for visitors but the knocking became insistent. You grumbled to yourself as you walked across the room and through the foyer to open the door. You had really regretted not looking through the peephole as soon as you laid eyes on the person on the other side.

“Mathew,” you exclaimed, taking a step backwards in surprise.

What surprised you even more was that he looked like he had been crying. As much as you didn’t want to see him right now (even though this was your first time seeing him face-to-face), you couldn’t in good faith leave him out in the apartment hallway while he looked the way he did. Your grandmother, who had been a therapist, would come back from the grave and smack you for being inconsiderate to someone that so obviously needed your help.

“Can I—“

“Yeah… yeah,” you interjected, somewhat absentmindedly. You stepped back further so Mathew could enter. “Let’s go.”

Mathew smiled weakly as he brushed by you. You blinked a few times and shook your head to make sure this was really happening. When it was clear that it was, you carefully closed the door and latched it. Even though Mathew had been an asshole earlier, something inside of you told you he posed no threat and that whatever he wanted was something that needed privacy.

When you turned around, you bumped your shoulder into Mathew’s chest. Mathew quickly reached out because you had stumbled a little. His face shifted from the anguish you get after a good crying session to guilt. You assumed the guilt was for standing too close to you and causing what happened to happen.

“Sorry,” he said, voice strained. “I didn’t mean… I just didn’t want to go into the apartment without you. I feel like it would’ve been rude because I don’t live here.”

You blinked when he took a moment to remove his shoes and place them on the shoe rack beside him before he followed you into the living room.

Mathew sat on the couch beside you and motioned in the direction of the shoe rack.

“Was… was I not supposed to do that,” he asked, voice a little concerned.

You quickly shook your head, holding your hands up.

“No,” you said. “Wait. I mean yes. Fuck.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed before looking at Mathew again. He looked confused but he was still looking at you intently.

“You were supposed to do that,” you said, sighing again. “I’m just not used to people doing it on their own volition.”

Mathew nodded and opened his mouth like he was going to reply but he quickly snapped it shut. His head swivelled to look at the television and that’s when you noticed that you had left the rebroadcast of the game playing. And, from what you could tell, Mathew had just scored.

You grabbed the remote but Mathew placed his hand over the top of it, blocking the power button. You tried to yank the remote backwards but something about the way Mathew was looking at you made you drop the remote onto his lap. Mathew smiled, although something about the way his eyes flicked from you to the television and then down to the remote told you the smile was a façade to hide how he was really feeling.

Not wanting to push Mathew and make him uncomfortable, you focused your attention back to the television. Just as you did that, you heard Mathew shift beside you. You briefly glanced at him but all he did was point at the television and smile while looking nervous. You raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

Just as you focused back on the television, Mathew scored his hat trick goal. You felt your heartbeat stutter and your stomach do a flip. When you looked at Mathew, he was staring intently at the television but you thought you saw a few wet lines on his cheeks. You went to say something but the announcer screaming Mathew’s name drew your attention back to the television.

When you looked, two minutes of game time had passed and Mathew had potted another goal. Your heartbeat faltered and your stomach did what felt like its millionth somersault of the day. As you watched everyone celebrate with Mathew on the television, you felt tears prickle the corners of your eyes.

You were watching the Flames fumble through a powerplay when you felt something nudge your leg. You glanced down and saw Mathew’s hand sitting on your thigh, palm up. You took the hint and placed your hand in his. Even though he had been an asshole earlier, you had felt the need to forgive him when he decided to come all this way to see you, even if he hadn’t actually said sorry yet. Actions spoke louder than words.

Mathew squeezed your hand, which made you look at him. He smiled softly, cheeks shining from obvious tear stains. You wiped away the tear stains right as the announcers screamed Mathew’s name again. You both looked at the television and saw that he had scored his fifth goal with only thirty seconds left in the game.

Mathew grabbed your other hand and squeezed them both. As the end horn sounded, Mathew dropped your hands and nodded towards the television. You raised an eyebrow but focused your attention where he had directed.

As the teams skated off the ice, a reporter pulled Mathew aside. He took his helmet off and placed it on the top of his stick.

“Mat,” she started, pausing when the crowd roared with a chorus of cheers and boos. She and Mathew both chuckled.

“You had the game of your life this afternoon. Was there anything that motivated it?”

Mathew put his glove in his mouth and nibbled on it for a moment. When he was done with that, he took the glove off so he could run his fingers through his hair. The reporter didn’t seem phased by the delay as she stood there, holding the microphone in front of Mathew.

Mathew sighed and bit his lip as he put his glove back on. He leaned against the top of his helmet and looked at the reporter.

“The person I’m in love with loves me back,” he said, smiling softly. “I needed to impress them.”

The reporter smiled as she looked at Mathew.

“They better be impressed. You scored five goals and had two assists,” she said. “Go get them, Mat. I won’t keep you any longer. Congratulations again. On your game and your relationship.”

The television screen suddenly went black after that. You turned to Mathew and saw him holding the remote, his finger on the power button. He quickly threw the remote to the side and you both jumped a little when it crashed into the glass top of the coffee table.

“Sorry,” Mathew mumbled.

You put your finger on his lips and shook your head.

“Don’t,” you said, dropping your finger. “There’s nothing to apologize for. I just have to ask one thing.”

Mathew looked at you and raised an eyebrow.

“Why did you hang up after I told you I felt the same way?”

Mathew sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“I called you during intermission,” he said. “Coach caught me with my phone and told me to hang up or he’d bench me for the rest of the game.”

You felt tension you didn’t know you had been holding onto release from your body. Mathew ran his thumbs across your wrists and you relaxed a little more. You melted into the touch and shifted closer to Mathew, dropping your head against his shoulder. Mathew took that opportunity to wrap his arm around you and run one of his hands soothingly along your back. You sighed and wiggled in closer to Mathew’s touch.

The two of you sat there in silence. You were taking in the moment of finally being cuddled against the man you loved more than anything. It felt better than any of your wildest dreams. It made you feel complete. It made you feel happy.

“I’m happy too,” Mathew said, kissing the top of your head.

You hadn’t realized you had said that out loud but you were glad that you had. Hearing Mathew affirm your feelings made you feel ten times better. It made you feel better knowing that he wanted this as much as you did.

“Why wouldn’t I want this as much as you? You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. It just took Tito telling me that every person I’ve ever dated had a carbon copy of your personality for me to notice.”

Realizing you said that out loud made your face heat up because of the response you got. You buried your head as far into Mathew’s neck as you could. Mathew chuckled and lifted your head up so you were looking him in the eyes.

“Hey,” Mathew said, tapping your nose with his finger. “It means I like your personality type. And, more importantly, I like the original the most.”

You felt your stomach do a somersault for the nth time that day as you looked at the pure expression on Mathew’s face. You smiled as you brushed a piece of Mathew’s hair out of his face. Mathew leaned into the touch, humming softly.

Your eyes darted down to his lips and then back to his eyes. Mathew nodded and that was all it took for you to surge forward and connect your lips with his.

As you kissed, your mind went blank. You couldn’t think of anything but the fact that you were kissing the man that you had waited what felt like forever to kiss.

When you pulled back, Mathew was panting slightly and some of his hair was stuck to his forehead. You swallowed and ran your fingers through that hair to brush it away. Mathew shivered and leaned forward a little. You leaned forward and rested your forehead against his. Mathew puffed a breath against your swollen lips, which caused you to shiver.

You pulled back right then to yawn and stretch your arms above your head.

“Sorry, I—“

“Fall asleep on the couch with me,” Mathew said, laying down on the couch and moving as far over as he could to make room for you.

“Don’t you have to get back to the hotel,” you asked, though you did lay down and cuddle against him.

Mathew chuckled and shifted around a little. You patted his shoulder when you were comfortable. He kissed the top of your head and slung his arm around you.

“Nah. We’re in our bye week right now. I don’t have to get back until tomorrow when I check out and we fly to St. Lucia.”

You hummed and closed your eyes.

Your eyes shot open a minute later when your brain registered what Mathew had said.

“I get to go to St. Lucia?!”

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unfortunatelysirius · 4 years

Text

UNEXPECTED | Regulus Black, Marauders Era

「 ❁ 」PROMPT 「 ❁ 」

Request // Regulus finds something unexpected—at a Slug Club dinner party, with a girl named Y/N L/N.

「 ❁ 」AUTHOR’S NOTE 「 ❁ 」

Sorry if this sucked.

LOVE.

Even the word itself felt like a promise. It could come like a metaphor, as gentle as misted rain, or it was a broken idea, radiating animosity that maimed worse than misplaced surgical lesions. Some folks went their entire lives without knowing it, feeling it, getting the chance to embrace and relish it—while others did indeed get a taste only for it to scorch like too-hot coffee. A funny little thing, love was. As scary as it was delightful.

Regulus Black didn’t know much about love. He only knew bleak sun—and a yearning that churned his stomach like butter. If he let his thoughts wander off too far, they’d explore territory too disturbingly foreign he’d have no choice but to retreat. His parents taught him discipline and obedience, but “love” was a rare occurrence; truthfully, the only person who ever even had an inkling of understanding for it was his brother Sirius, and the bastard left Regulus to bleed under the ripe moon. He knew what hatred felt like, same with spite, same with betrayal, same with repulsion.

Then he descended on the path weary travelers couldn’t cross.

It all started at the start of his fifth year, getting worse from there. He began noticing the Gryffindor who never stopped challenging professors and requested an extension on nearly every Charms essay. Who always wore an untidy uniform with the shirt untucked, cloak rumpled, and two different stockings. Who could be more quiet than a fairy’s whisper but the loudest personality in the room. Who once punched Giovanni Rivera, some snob in Hufflepuff, so hard in the nose he stayed slumped unconscious by a knight in the open dungeon corridor for an entire night.

He noticed you.

It was entirely accidental. Regulus was not someone to dive head-first, always treading the shallow end before walking into riptides that couldn’t be foreseen. He was caution in a world of chaos. He didn’t want to know the definition of “love,” even though he thought that was what he felt for Sirius. Brotherly love. The love someone had for another that protected them, provided for them in times of need. Then Sirius was labelled the family disgrace, shunned by Orion and Walburga; the perfect little Slytherin son, Regulus shunned him too. Regulus lost that feeling and failed to find it again, even in his circle of friends that mocked tainted blood and wanted more than meager lives. They aspired for a Wizarding World cleansed of impure magic; Regulus wasn’t sure what he wanted.

He quickly became lonely. As the days turned to months then years, he preoccupied himself with his studies—working diligently to fabricate a living lie like he had any future outside of the Dark Lord’s bidding. He envied Sirius for breaking from the family so soon, forcing Regulus into a compromised position; their parents scrutinized him more carefully now and expected more than he would have had to provide if Sirius was the pride-and-joy firstborn they could have turned into a great ally, rather than an adversary. Regulus hated it, hated that whatever he liked and the little joys he had in life were useless now that he had one reason to live. There was little to his life except growing up to be part of the Dark Lord’s army. Regardless of anything, he did know what he hoped for. The only thing that truly, truly belonged to him was his hope. It was different from his aspirations, as even those were polluted by conditioned hate.

He watched you frequently. He watched you curse his own brother, Sirius, for calling you a suck-up. He admired your appearance, from your Y/H/L Y/H/C hair to your facial structure, the effortless way you stood and walked, the kindness in your expression when guiding none-the-wiser first years. You were the same year as him, fifth year, and an entire breed of your own. Regulus didn’t know when he began falling for you. Well, the idea of you. You encompassed freedom, and fuck if Regulus didn’t crave freedom. He wanted to see himself careless, able to act out and be himself inconsequentially. This was an impossibility he loved to consider, like a dreamer in a room of realists. His parents expected the most out of him and in his crystal ball, all that laid in wait was the Dark Mark etched in his skin. Death and destruction. His head dark and heavy. It wasn’t happiness that killers strived for—it was pleasure. Power, too. Regulus knew he was different from the others. He had to hide it and fight every inch of himself that wanted what Sirius had. Freedom.

Regulus wanted to unleash every idea, every desire, every unspoken dislike. A brave heart scratched from under his skin, itching to have a say.

Sirius was the courageous one, not him.

He stuck to watching from afar.

You hated Potions class. You hated parties. You hated Slughorn. Most of all, you hated Slug Club parties. Dammit, you hated your life.

“Why did you drag me here, Lily?” you complained for the umpteenth time, fidgeting in your Gryffindor-red attire. You didn’t even like this shade of red. It was one of those colors you got tired of after seeing at every waking hour. All the assholes that prided themselves in the House the Sorting Hat bellowed, uniquely chosen for them… bleh! Dawning red and gold, parading around in Gryffindor scarfs bought for a bargain. You couldn’t be bothered. Lily had begged that the two of you go in a matching set, as one of your good friends. You never envisioned yourself agreeing. Fucking Lily, conniving you into wearing a dress like looked like it was sewn from a red Christmas stocking and attending a Slug Club party.

Lily smiled innocently. “You owed me a favor!”

A favor. You wracked your brain for any situation you’d been a part of where Lily offered her help. As your honorary big sister and a sixth-year prefect, she was the one calling for damage control whenever you did something warranting of punishment… and you didn’t want to fulfill your duties as a serious student. She chastised you at your worst but boosted you up too. Your best consisted of her praise and affection. You loved her, yes, but you didn’t love what owing her favors implied. It always wound you up in some unlikable predicament, such as this godforsaken party.

“I don’t owe you shite,” you grumbled, pinning your eyes on a table of refreshments over by the door. You belatedly noticed a figure standing by it. The air went still and silent, your blood pulsating like a gushing river of red. Your eyes narrowed just the slightest bit. Regulus Black was sharply—no, impeccably dressed, standing with his glossy dark hair in a neat do and his gray eyes watching the floor indifferently. When he got too close to looking at you, you quickly turned away. Lily was already raising a brow. “What? I don’t.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lily said amusedly. As she reopened her mouth to remind you of your every last unreturned favor and escaped week of detention, she spotted something over your head and a look of horror struck; you gauged this by the way her eyes bulged at the sockets. “Oh, Merlin—why the bloody Hell is he here? I’ll talk to you later, Y/N. Try to have some fun.”

She retreated like a squirrel from a hound, her body launching at the occupied Slughorn over half a room away. As she was nearly there a bulk dressed in black dress robes followed, at a tame pace compared to Lily’s. You knew it was James only by the unruly mess of black hair you saw from his enrobed backside profile.

You rolled your eyes and snuck another glance at Regulus. He wasn’t looking your way.

Try to have some fun, my arse.

You were here. Regulus didn’t know how, but you were. He hadn’t calculated what he’d do if you attended this party, not knowing you were a member. He assumed you weren’t, a rash assumption by all accounts, and that costed him. He didn’t want to be dogged by the thought of you all night, and now that your presence was mere feet from him, his mental duties seemed like lost causes. The burning urge to stare at you, consequences be damned, was incinerating—and control failed him left and right. Fucking hell.

Regulus filled a drink for himself. A punch of some kind. He drank it in one go, hoping the taste would eliminate you from his mind. If it were bad enough he could instead be hounded by his throbbing throat, gagging like no tomorrow. That would be better than this.

The punch didn’t work its magic. He looked again at you and calculated the inevitable penalty of making an approach.

Cursing his luck or lack thereof, he felt less inclined to drown himself in the punch bowl upon the appearance of a bloke he had in Potions, Terrence something. He was a Ravenclaw know-it-all, but he was Pureblood. He could go overlooked conversing with the fellow. Regulus was a master of mimicry and had his haughty Slytherin performance down pat.

The bloke asked too many questions and was evasive on topics Regulus had no interest in discoursing, but he was a well-welcomed distraction. Or ill-welcomed. Regardless of the reception, Regulus’s ambivalence towards you transitioned to an annoyance towards Terrence. Annoyance, that he could work with. He felt it most days. It was familiar territory. A stroke of olive on a canvas of emerald where you were lavender.

It worked. It worked until Terrence bid a hasty farewell, trailing after some quiet, expressionless brunette from Slytherin.

Regulus subtly scowled. Out of the corner of his eye he looked at you, surreptitious in a way he remembered from parties he went to hosted by well-known Pureblood families. You were in mid-conversation with some Gryffindor he knew from a mutual class the three of you shared. It was a bloke whose mouth seemed too keen on keeping a conversation going and hand was swaying too closely to your waist. Regulus’s eyes hardened without his meaning to, and before he knew it, his feet were in complete control; he walked to the two of you with renewed purpose.

You were ready to unleash your inner ugly. Random people kept coming up and trying to talk to you, each of them more mentally-taxing than the last. First there was Cornelius, an absolute walking disaster, then there was Dave, who went on tangents without checking to see if you were listening. Then Kala, then Paisley, then Travis. Finally, there was Justin. Justin was a compulsive flirt. You politely tried to get him to fuck off, but he just wasn’t catching the hint or acknowledging your blatant apathy in what he had to say. He wouldn’t understand discomfort on the part of his conversational partner if it slapped him in the face.

It was like a blessing and a nightmare when Regulus Black, wearing a cold expression and marginally more perfect up close than he was from a distance, appeared.

“Can I borrow you for a moment, L/N?” he asked, something off about his voice. Your eyes narrowed. If you had to garner a guess, you’d say he was straining to maintain a calm disposition, truly angry. The cold in his expression was cracking, giving way to heat. Had he noticed your wandering eye and wanted to clarify with you that he had no interest except to exterminate your muddy self from the Wizarding World? You were unsure; it was a common ideology among extremists, the hatred of non-Purebloods, but Regulus didn’t give off that ambiance. He didn’t feel like a future monster.

“Sure,” you said, sneaking a glance at Justin. Justin’s face wasn’t aggravated at the interruption, just confused that Regulus Black had been the one to interrupt. Regulus kept to himself usually… and he hated anyone who wasn’t pure of blood, supposedly. “Sorry to cut this chat short, Justin. I’m sure there’s plenty of other birds to talk into a stupor around here…”

Justin’s eyes lit up, disregarding the annoyance in your voice. “You’re right! Thanks, Y/N.”

You raised your eyebrows at him but bit back a less subtle remark, following Regulus when his hand prompted you at the shoulder.

“So, what was that back there?” you boldly asked, trying to avoid smirking. It was almost adorable, the way he swooped in and rescued you from a dolt. He couldn’t have approached you just to chastise your invasive stare or threaten you with death. You were taking a chance in assuming he came to save you the burden of dealing with Justin Doley’s bland chatter, but you didn’t care. You really didn’t. It was a sweet gesture if that were his true intention, but a niggling suspicion refused to believe it was. “Thank you, by the way. I was ready to lock my knees just so I could escape.”

Regulus’s face blanched, a tinge of hot pink flooding his cheeks. His brows made a cute little furrow that gave the impression of a natural unibrow. “Why would you lock your knees?”

“When you lock your knees, the blood stops circulating and can lead to fainting,” you said. Now you smirked. “Trying to avoid an answer? I’m hurt.”

He frowned at you. “I’m not trying to avoid anything. It was nothing. You looked uncomfortable…”

“I was more annoyed than anything,” you said, a correction you weren’t obligated to make. Seeing Regulus squirm was a pleasure on its own. He would already squirm, caught willingly communicating with a Gryffindor, but you had a tendency to go over and beyond in putting others on the spot. It made you a childish shade of giddy both inside and out, not that he would be able to tell. “You don’t have to keep talking to me, you know.”

“Oh,” Regulus said but didn’t move. He stayed rooted where he was, watching you with a piercing gaze. Now that you were close enough to reach a finger across the distance and graze those gaunt, knife-sharp cheekbones, you ogled him. You knew he was gorgeous from the brief times you interacted and the long, solitary moments you took to dissect him outside lessons, but being so close and with no time limit, you took a chance. Your chance was a rescue mission disguised as a private discussion.

A smile tore at your lips. “You clean up nice,” you said, your ogling session finished. You could stare at Regulus much longer than you deemed appropriate and actually did, but he was a moment and moments had the ability to pass you swiftly by. In this case, he’d leave without you getting to properly know him. Opportunistic as you were, you wouldn’t let him leave without taking what you could.

Why would you even want to know him? you asked yourself. He’s probably a Muggleborn-hater. The heart wanted what the heart wanted, try as you might to logicize.

Regulus frowned. “Thanks,” he said. He hesitantly snaked his eyes up and down your figure, stopping on your neckline. A beautiful necklace with your favorite gemstone adorned it, a gift from a Muggle relative. He cleared his throat aggressively. “You do too.”

He’s a shy bugger, isn’t he?

You inched closer, moving on a whim and putting your hand on his arm. Your fingers tightened around the material of his sleeve. He drew closer, like it was instinctive, and your eyelids fluttered as you basked in his perfumed, intimate proximity. You’d regret advancing on a Slytherin, especially one as admired and esteemed yet dark and dangerous as Regulus, but he just had this air about him. Like going from an altitude that took your breath away to one that had enough air to burst you at the seams. Like a butterfly with clipped wings, a scorpion without its stinger. He was tempting, but beautifully broken.

I know. I just know.

“When you came over, I thought you were going to confront me on how I haven’t kept my eyes off you all night,” you murmured. You met his gaze evenly, ignoring your pounding heart and fluctuating nerves.

Regulus froze immediately. “What?”

“Oh, did you not notice? Silly me,” you said, flaPping a hand like it never mattered in the first place. Truth was, your thoughts were frozen and fixated on his ignorance—ignorance you had just given a reality check. There had been no point, absolutely no hidden objective, in admitting your inability to overlook Regulus. Yet you had—and now he was staring at you like you had turned the color orange and horns magically sprouted from your head.

Then, like a switch went off that had full control over Regulus’s emotions and the way he expressed them, he smirked. It wasn’t a full smirk, just apparent enough you noticed it. All the tension contorting his face flattened, leaving him like he was relaxed, the opposite of how he looked mere seconds ago. Always the skeptic, you stared at him with narrowed eyes, scrutinizing him from head to toe. He didn’t lose the smirk, his arms crossing over his sleek robes in a devil-may-care fashion.

“Presumptuous of you to think I ever notice you in the first place,” he said, in that pompous voice you were used to hearing from Sirius’s favorite Slytherin, Severus Snape.

You laughed at his audacity and, hearing the music change tone and tempo, reached out a hand. You forgot your wit and lost all possible responses to give his arrogant retort. “Dance with me, Black,” you said softly, “before your brother comes to ruin my night, like the prick he is.”

Regulus raised his eyebrows, but he didn’t deny you. He interlaced his fingers into yours and his free arm, moving at whim and ease, came quickly to your side, enveloping your waist in a delicate embrace. A formal embrace that bespoke of the distance between you, the invisible rift. The dance he swept you in was unfamiliar, but it was simple enough that you could match his pace without tumbling over your own feet.

You felt everyone staring, but nothing mattered more to you than the feeling of his hand on your waist and the deep, unreadable waters of his foggy gray eyes. He was an enigma that swept coast to coast, tainting the sand with his attendance but leaving wild imaginations to run rampant wondering why he was there, what he did, who he was. Everyone knew of him, but no one knew him. You couldn’t deny you also didn’t know him. Really, you knew nothing about him except that he was a Slytherin in your year, the younger brother to Gryffindor’s infamous playboy, and a supposed Pureblood extremist. You were curious, though, and wanted to know all the dismissive facts that made up his mind and crafted a mental narrative even you found ambiguous. He had consciousness, and there was no way in Merlin’s sodding Hell he was a host to someone else’s thoughts, opinions, and interests the way so many other future killers seemed. Every now and then he showed you something unusual—a mannerism individual to him, words you recoiled back at hearing from his mouth. After he smirked at you and accepted your demand to dance, you lost yourself in the shock of his dismal composure cracking at the folds.

You never really believed in love.

Regulus never really believed in love.

But if you wandered too far into the bittersweet fantasy of happy endings…

Regulus could get lost.

The song changed again; slow and calm it became. Pressing your cheek to Regulus’s chest, you let the soft fabric of his dress robes sway you into an admittedly false sense of security. The hawk eyes following your every move disappeared with every cyclic step Regulus took. You were hypersensitive to his heartbeat now. It pounded against your cheek like a drumstick, a vibrato of epic proportions. You felt delirious with delight, yet a piece of you was stuck to the path your half-conscious feet made through the slow dance. It’s like you left a trail, and you’d have to pick up the pieces once Regulus became sick of your pathetic antics.

“Are you asleep?” he asked amusedly, his chest vibrating against you. It rattled you enough to awaken some semblance of nerves.

“No,” you said, shaking yourself out of the daze. You pulled back from him, bridging enough space to look him in his eyes. He had beautiful eyes a silly girl like you could get lost in. Any girl really. They were pools of fog made of spring mornings and forest hues. You just wanted to kiss his eyelids. What a strange desire, but you felt it all the same…

Regulus blinked and you were drawn back in the moment. He had said something.

You hummed in question, your eyebrows raising.

He shook his head, his face flattening until it was expressionless. “I have to go,” he said. You knew what lies looked like. He was a good liar, but you were a better observer. “I have a matter to discuss with Slughorn.”

You laughed. “That’s too bad,” you said, voice coming out like a purr. Your hand rose until it settled on his chest; your fingers curled around his robe, until fabric was fisted and cupped into a swirl. “We could have had some fun.”

“No,” Regulus said firmly. Almost too firmly. His hand jerked up to meet yours and his larger fingers interlaced yours, tugging in an attempt to prompt your release. Your refused to let go. “Y/N.”

“I like it when you talk all authoritative,” you said teasingly.

His face blanched and it was enough of a shock to make him lose all incentive to fight the good fight. You took this chance and drew him in, his feet stumbling in a clumsy attempt to regain balance. “Y/N, I—”

“What are you so afraid of?”

Regulus was afraid of a lot of things. He was afraid of what his parents would do if they figured out he didn’t despise tainted blood the way he was raised to. He was afraid of his peers shunning and scorning him for being caught dead with a Half-blood. He was afraid of losing himself in the moment just to sate his deadened hope and watching you get killed in the crossfire of his foolish, self-indulgent mistakes. He was afraid of many things.

He would never dare utter those fears aloud.

You watched the conflict flit across his face, erasing itself seconds after.

“What?” you innocently asked, noting that he had gone stiff. You were unaware to how deep his issues ran. You knew from Sirius’s running mouth that Pureblood households were devoid of tender moments and affectionate caresses. You wanted to imagine an alternative for them, but Sirius was a hellish hailstorm when honest; his feelings were subjective, but his experience was likely to ring alarmingly true. Regulus was quiet and allowed things to fester, so no one would ever know how he felt.

He looked at you now, a lock where his mouth was. No key in sight. His eyes were piercing and unquestionably inscrutable.

He had to leave before he lost control of his mouth. He couldn’t afford to involve you in his mess. He was a hurricane and you were summer rains. He would destroy you.

“I have somewhere to be,” Regulus said, no room left for an argument. His arms disappeared from around your waist and he tore his eyes away, like it was physically painful to do so.

You grabbed his wrist before he could melt into the dancing crowd. “Regulus, wait,” you said. You hated the way you sounded. You didn’t know him, but you felt strongly anyway, like he mattered more to you than was plausible for a girl and boy from two separate worlds. You couldn’t explain why you cared; you just did. He hid himself under the pretense of a rich, spoiled Pureblood who stood above the rest. He was hypnotically beautiful and bathed in greens and silvers. He was brilliant in ways Gryffindor House could only aspire to be.

Regulus didn’t respond to your plea. He stared at you, waiting briefly to hear what you had to say.

You didn’t have anything to say. You had something to express—and words weren’t always the best at expression.

You reached up to his face and palmed his cheeks, finding little skin and mostly bone. His cheekbones jerked underneath your grip. His eyes went slightly wide, like he disbelieved you had taken physical initiative with him. Your fingers didn’t dig or tear at his skin, nor did you impulsively decide that you had him in your grip and now was the time to hurt him. You didn’t want to hurt him. You wanted to show him that he didn’t have to be risk-aversive; he could fall clumsily into risk with you and the two of you would make it work. As long as he felt this bizarre, unnatural connection same as you did.

You’d find out.

You pressed yourself flush against him and drew your lips until you were a breath away. Then you kissed him.

The room and its occupants disintegrated, leaving only Regulus and you. Regulus dissolved into putty. His arms went around you again, one of them circling your waist entirely and a hand gripping your hip tight like letting you go would mean you never came back. His lips were soft if slightly chapped, moving against yours like they belonged there; there was no hesitation, no anxious energy. Regulus had lost himself in the moment, same as you. He wasn’t a Pureblood and you weren’t some Half-blood Gryffindor who had spent half the night pinning after a Slytherin who would keel over dead before wanting you. Regulus was different, and you hadn’t failed to sense it.

Regulus abruptly remembered his place and pulled from you. Your eyes were still fluttered shut, and it took several seconds before you noticed he was no longer wrestling with your lips.

You stared. Regulus wiped all emotion from his face, refusing to let you know he wanted a second kiss. You were not a good deceiver and every emotion you felt showed on your face, from confusion to lust to apprehension.

“That should not have happened,” Regulus murmured, glancing around. There were people staring; even some of your Gryffindor friends, like Lily Evans and Marlene Mckinnon, were aghast, eyeing the two of you like you had just committed a murder.

“Why?” you said confrontationally. “Did you regret it?”

Regulus glanced at you but didn’t say a word.

You could feel your heart plummet to your gut. “Yeah, okay,” you said, shaking your head. You knew he was being dishonest, but that didn’t stop you from feeling hurt at his blatant favoring of his reputation over a chance at this… this relationship. You jerked out of his slackened grip.

You fought tears as you walked away.

Regulus watched you go.

He knew what it felt like when towers crumbled and empires fell, as it happened frequently. His life fell apart more than it came together. He missed you the moment you left but he knew this was for the better. That kiss had meant more than Regulus would ever admit. He felt the connection and he knew there was a future that would happen if he allowed it, if he chose not to intervene. He was the inhibitor of a lot of good things, but he would rather see himself drown than another person swallow their breath underwater.

So he stared at your retreating back, wishing things were different.

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

But Once a Year (4/5)

This is a trick.

It has to be. Something Pan planned, or some nonsense only possible in Neverland, because one second Emma’s sitting outside the Echo Caves and wondering how exactly things could possibly get worse, and then the world decides to take her up on the challenge. She’s not where she was. Or when she was, either.

And the future isn’t entirely what Emma expects it to be, but that might not be entirely horrible and Christmas with a husband and a family that quite clearly loves her is only kind of messing with her head. God bless us, every one.

————

Rating: T Word Count: Another 9K or so, but with feelings AN: I had every intention of posting this on actual Christmas, but there was a Doctor Who marathon on and, well—I got distracted by other time travel. Hopefully my timelines are more consistent than River Song’s. Sorry, River Song. Here’s a whole bunch of kissing and feeling feelings.

Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll || Or start from the start

————

“Were you ever actually going to paint?”

No eyebrow movement that time, although Killian’s actual eyes widen ever so slightly and that particular reaction is starting to do dangerous things to Emma's ego. He keeps his coffee mug hovering just above his lips, which she’s certain is a carefully calculated ploy to also keep her staring at his lips, but that’s not all that difficult and she’d spent at least seven full minutes kissing those same lips senseless that morning.

In bed.

The one they’ve slept in — for four days straight now, which is probably more time than it should be, but he was right. Falling asleep with his arm around her is far easier than the opposite, and he only occasionally complains about the frost-like tendencies of her feet. Mostly into the back of her neck. That’s just where his mouth ends up.

So, everything is still going great. Not potentially problematic. Because neither Regina nor Tinker Bell have come up with a working time-travel theory, and Emma’s baking endeavors haven’t gone over all that well either, but she’s discovered Killian’s tendency for stealing batter, and that’s even more ridiculously endearing information that’s only sort of skewing with her sense of reality, and— “Is this you volunteering?”

Startling, Emma almost forgot she’d asked a question. His mouth does something else. Stupid, and distracting and he uses almond milk in his coffee.

Claims it’s a modern convenience he’s more than willing to take advantage of.

Great, great, excellent. Possibly falling towards something, in a free-fall sort of way, and Emma shakes her head. Brushes away dangerous thoughts and hard-drawn lines in the much more metaphorical sand, and she wonders if sand ever lingers in their entry way during the summer.

They must go to the beach.

Spend time on the Jolly Roger, and she hasn’t seen much of the ship, but she’s starting to think it’d be nice to pass an afternoon on the water, with the sun and the salt and— “Swan,” Killian says, obviously not the first time he’s tried to draw back her attention. Chair legs scrape across their kitchen floor when he stands, and Emma’s brain barely acknowledges that particular pronoun before he’s crowding her space and bumping his hips against hers and nothing like that has happened yet, because that’s not just a line, it’s an entire rhombus or some other geometric shape that’s more like a tangled mess and knotted feelings and she flinches.

When his hook drifts under the hem of her shirt.

Floral patterned, and far gauzier than anything Emma would even think about owning now. Or then, she supposes. Tenses continue to be their own specific type of issue, and she’s starting to like the clothes hanging in her questionably large closet.

They’re soft.

Which is probably not a commentary, or observation of whatever tense she’s willing to use, but it’s definitely different and possibly better and Killian chuckles in her ear as soon as her head falls to his collarbone. He kisses the top of her hair.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

Scoffing into his shirt threatens to rumple the fabric, and she doesn’t really miss the billowy fabric of what’s now years past, but she also wonders if he kept them and where he docks the Jolly during the winter, and she can’t start giving pirate ships nicknames. Not now. Not yet. Not when she’s got to leave, and that only makes, like, half her muscles ache, so it’s probably not as bad as it could be.

“They’re not worth that much,” Emma mumbles, the soft laugh she gets warming her from the inside out. A mix of magic and much more, and she’s back on the alliterative. As a defense mechanism or something.

For her heart, maybe.

“Luckily for you, I’ve got something of an eye for undiscovered treasure and—” “—Is this a line?” He laughs again, noses at her temple and the crown of her head and neither one of them mention how tightly Emma’s arms wrap around his middle. “If you can’t decipher when I’m flirting by now, we may have some issues.” “Some is a vast understatement.” “It’s going to be alright,” Killian promises, but it rings a little hollow and part of Emma knows. Still dark and distant, it doesn’t want to acknowledge everything it’s ignoring and a pointed voice echoes between her ears. With the same mantra.

Magic is emotion.

And Emma’s emotions are decidedly split. Just like Pan thought they’d be. Maybe she’s not just a coward; she’s selfish and greedy and inching dangerously close to a crying jag in the middle of the kitchen, but then Killian’s fingers drag across her spine and it’s a rhythm she can time her breathing to.

“We’re running out of time.” “That’s not entirely true. Time travel’s apparently heavily involved, makes deadlines rather defunct, don’t you think?”

Emma scrunches her nose, but the voice is back and it’s sharper and a little angrier and stamping on several different parts of her brain if the growing pain is any indication. All magic comes with a price. “Talk to me about paint instead.” “Not much to talk about,” Killian says, but the caution in his voice makes it obvious they’re both all too aware of what they’re avoiding. Possibly even dreading. Emma is, at least.

She’s going to strangle Peter Pan when she sees him.

“But you haven’t done it.” “Some other things have been going on, you see.” “Don’t you want to paint?” “It’s not particularly high on my list of ways to occupy my time,” he admits, one side of his mouth tugging up. Flirting is getting easier. Some joke about practice, Emma is sure. “But, if it’s something you’re willing to help with, and it will get those thoughts of yours to settle for a few moments, then—” “—Who says my thoughts aren’t settled?” Tapping the all-too-noticeable furrow of Emma’s forehead, Killian’s eyes widen again. “Absolutely God awful at masking them, m’dear.” “Maybe that’s just a you thing.” “Aye, my mind-reading talents have been well-documented, but I suppose if we’re going to wait for Her Majesty to come up with yet another pointless—” “—Kinda harsh,” Emma mumbles. He kisses the furrow. Traces the lines of her brows, and hovers just on the edge of her eyes, grazing cheekbones and the bridge of her nose, until Emma's skin is buzzing and her magic threatens to pour out of her, and she’s only just able to contain whatever wave joke is pressing against her lips. Good, since those lips can be put to much better use against Killian’s. “Better plan, anyway,” he mumbles, working his arm back around her waist. So he can tug her up, and pull her closer to him and neither one of those things feel like the multitude of other problems Emma’s overactive brain is dealing with and they do eventually get out of the kitchen.

Finish the coffee, and figure out where Hope’s favorite hat has disappeared to, because Emma’s rather quickly learned that this hat has legs that quite often move from its spot on the shelf into the hallway, and the overall width of Mary Margaret’s smile when she opens up the farm’s screen door isn’t as jarring as it would have been a week earlier.

Getting back home takes longer than it probably should — ducking into the alley behind Granny’s for at last forty-two seconds of totally uninterrupted kissing, and Emma’s not entirely sure this is what being a newlywed is like, or was, she supposes, but it’s still pretty fantastic and she doesn’t want to name the sound that works its way out of her.

Part giggle, a hint of overjoyed, and some sort of lingering fear because this isn’t quite real, but feels like the exact opposite, and they find old drop sheets in one of their half a dozen closets. Right next to the shirts she’d been wondering about before, and that’s probably not serendipity or fate or anything except Killian’s own sentimental tendencies, but she’s got to change her clothes anyway, and she doesn’t drown in the fabric like she worried she would.

Likely not a metaphor, either.

“Cheating,” Killian accuses, reaching for Emma anyway and moving the furniture isn’t the easiest thing in the world. Until Emma also remembers she’s got magic, and the ability to be very attracted to the guy who can’t seem to keep his hand off her, and she only has to blink once.

For the furniture to move into the basement, at least for the time being.

“Impressive, right?”

“Look who’s fishing for compliments now.” “C’mon, that was a shit ton of—” She doesn’t get the rest out, far too busy gasping and blinking and he’s swiped paint on her nose. “Are you kidding me?” Shrugging, he dances out of her reach before Emma can totally react and the paint’s already starting to dry. And crack. The signs are just getting obnoxious now. Makes much more sense to keep ignoring them.

“No, no,” she argues, not bothering with the brush stuffed into the top of her leggings. Twisting her wrist, paint soars towards Emma’s fingertips, curling around her wrist and practically vibrating with the energy she’s flush with.

Killian takes a step back. One more, another. A quick shake of his head makes the strands falling across his forehead shift again, and she’s not counting how often that happens, but she’s also paying fairly close attention to it and—“Revenge is never wise, love,” he advises, not able to keep the laugh out of his voice.

“Pots and kettles, and all that, right?” “I’m completely reformed now. Ask anyone.” Humming, Emma advances on him. Magic ripples up her arms, power she’s never quite experienced before and it’s oddly intoxicating. Not in an overwhelming, potentially villainous sort of way. It’s far too warm for that.

Villainy has to be cold, Emma’s sure.

As it is, she’s not quite sweating, but she’s decidedly comfortable and all of her internal organs are functioning with an ease that belies their situation, or the problems it presents, and none of the paint ever touches her skin. Hovers in the air around it, wholly controlled and that’s not something Emma’s particularly familiar with.

It’s nice. It’s—much more than nice, but she fell once while trying to do the long jump in that one Minnesota high school she spent a few months in when she was fifteen, and the prospect of something similar makes her wary of leaving the ground again. The line’s still there. Drawn with precision, and possibly permanent marker, and they can’t paint over that.

Not yet, at least. Not entirely.

“It does kind of match your eyes,” Emma says, hoping Killian doesn’t notice the shake in her voice. No such luck, she knows. Can see the flicker of concern in his gaze, but he’s able to push away. Not from the wall, and there’s something cyclical and symmetrical about this too, emotion almost visibly hanging between them. Another thing they haven’t talked about, and likely won’t have time for.

Totally fine. Absolutely great.

Falling for—

No, no falling. Standing and walking and Emma lifts her chin. Lets her magic twist its way up her spine, and flicker towards her bare feet, and Killian’s mouth twitches again.

“Care more about the dress, really.” “What’d it look like? And where was Elsa’s—you said it was a wedding, right?”

“Her wife was here, you saw Mulan yesterday.” “No shit!” “Always with the perfect response,” Killian grins, “but yes. Met while Mulan was doing ambassador work for Aurora and Phillip, and love conquers all or so I’ve been told.” “Say it again without making it a joke.” Not shuddering under the force of his ensuing gaze is another victory Emma’s going to relish, even when she’s wherever she’s actually supposed to be, and she hopes she remembers this. In picture-perfect detail. “Conquers all,” Killian repeats, “as far I know.”

“Personally?” “Deeply so.”

Emma licks her lips. Killian stares. Tries not to, but she really is getting better at reading him and he doesn’t put up as much of a fight about information anymore. Seriously, everything’s so fine, the word barely holds any meaning now. But, like, in a positive way. “So, we went to Elsa’s wedding because—” “—You and she are rather good friends. Hope’s godmother, in fact.” “Oh. That’s—wow, that’s kind of nice.” “It is,” Killian agrees, not adding to it. He doesn’t have to. They both hear what they haven’t said — how few and far between friends are for Emma, and she briefly wonders if he knows about Lily or the kids who showed up, only to disappear just as quickly, and it would be second-nature to tell him. Part of her wants to now.

Rehashing seems silly, though.

“Anyway,” he adds, “Elsa and Mulan got married, and there was a dress that I will admit to thinking quite a lot about still, and it was blue. With these…” His eyes flutter closed. Magic roars in the very center of Emma. “Little bits of twisted fabric on top, looked like starbursts.” “Like the candy?” Gods, she an idiot. An entertaining one, if Killian’s smirk proves anything, though. So that’s something, at least. “Did we dance?” Nodding, his eyes keep darting back towards Emma’s hand and the paint that’s become some part of a questionably romantic thing, but she’s also starting to get the suspicion he’s using the wall to stay upright. Something thumps into it.

Light bursts from the end of Emma’s hair.

“Oh,” Killian groans through clenched teeth, and a jaw that can’t possibly be comfortable, “that’s hardly playing fair, sweetheart.”

Huh.

The light grows. Flares, even — until it’s casting streaks across the floor and hovering just under Emma’s skin, because apparently she can glow now, and she almost feels like she’s floating. On endearments and sentiment and the air blowing through windows opened solely so they didn’t suffocate on paint fumes suddenly smells a little sweeter.

“You’ve got your hook embedded in the wall,” Emma points out, none of those words all that even either. She doesn’t sound like herself, but she also didn’t know she was a person who reacted quite like that to one ten-letter word, yet here they. So, whatever really.

Wider eyes and slightly parted lips meet her somehow still-lifted chin, and Killian’s nod barely warrants the description. Leaves his chest shifting, but Emma’s also admittedly staring at his chest because for as big as the shirt she’s wearing is, his is just as tight and touting a college she figures Henry thought about going to at some point, and she seizes her opportunity.

Paint flies — literally. Soars across the barley-there space between Emma’s toes and Killian’s socks, and she genuinely cannot cope with how he only ever takes his socks off to sleep. He gasps when color splashes his cheeks and his shoulders, hangs from the ends of his hair, and threatens to find the edges of his lips. “Gotta close your mouth,” Emma advises lightly, getting the exact spark in his eyes that she was hoping for and she yelps all the same. When he ducks his head, nosing at her neck and the line of her collar. Which is technically his color, but she’s been using all those collective pronouns, that it can’t possibly matter at this point and she definitely giggles. While his fingers trace patterns across her stomach and the side of her waist, dragging lines of blue paint over skin and fabric and she’s not sure when they fall over, just that they’re a tangle of limbs and slightly ripped sheets and— “Do you think I could magic the paint on the walls?” Emma asks, flipping her paint-covered head to her side. Without opening his eyes, Killian mumbles an agreement, his fingers fluttering against hers until they lace between them and she’s only like seventy-four percent positive he does it on purpose.

Concentrating on the twenty-six percent that absolutely knows it’s that same instinct and inherent habit from before, Emma twists her lower lip between her teeth. Feels the first brush of magic, and the small inferno that erupts between her ribs doesn’t actually set her on fire. So, more victories.

And it only takes about twelve seconds.

Give or take.

Blue walls appear around them as if by—well, magic. Not a streak out of place, or mark on the baseboards and Emma’s only a little annoyed that they bothered to move any of the furniture. “Single most impressive thing I’ve ever seen,” Killian mutters. “Your eyes are still closed.” “Aye, but I know it’s happening.” Not letting go of her lip or his hand, Emma’s heart thunders in her chest as soon as she notices the question sitting on her tongue. “When did that start? Because—well, as far as I know you can’t tell in Neverland.” He doesn’t respond. Not immediately, anyway. And that’s only momentarily terrifying, before a slightly different and passably darker shade of blue meets her. “That’s not entirely true. It gets a little confusing, though.” “Don’t offend me like that.”

“I’m not saying you won’t understand,” Killian laughs, “just—the other time travel adventure? Well, that happens rather early in my timeline. And, uh...well, by that point you’re feeling some things and—” “—Kissing as a distraction,” Emma breathes, realization shaking her and this version of the puzzle is equally surprising and wonderful.

“You’re an eavesdrop.” “Piracy excuse.”

He laughs again, kisses her cheek and pulls her closer to his side until nearly all of him is touching all of her and that’s another word much bigger than nice. “As far as I’ve been able to reason it, that sets off a chain of sorts. Magic exists in you, can be felt by me, I don’t entirely remember it—” “—You don’t entirely remember it?” “Making it difficult to tell the story.” Emma rolls her eyes. “Anyway, it’s always been this sort of—presence, I suppose. In the back of my mind, a reminder of something. Good and possible, and it makes it rather easy to tell when you’re agitated, actually.” “Seems like cheating.” “Piracy excuse,” he repeats, and Emma’s mind trips over itself. Falling across line and thoughts and leaving here might be one of the hardest things she’s ever done. Part of her wonders if she knows how, though.

“You know about Neal. Everything that—” Her breath catches, out-of-place tears already threatening to fall, and that’s kind of lame. Killian’s cheek brushes Emma’s. While he nods. “For what it’s worth, your parents do feel bad about the naming legacy one they realize.” “He’s not here.” “No, that would be rather difficult for him. He’s—” “—Dead?” “Honorably,” Killian says, even through the hint of acid and Emma drapes her arm across his stomach. “And he does care about Henry, quite ardently. But...well, I don’t imagine I’ll ever entirely forgive him for everything he did, and it was difficult to rationalize the Bae I knew with he Neal who acted like that.” “Probably weird to be attracted to that, huh?” Chuckling, his lips press against her hair. “Whatever way you’re willing to be attracted to me, is something I wholeheartedly approve of.”

“I’ve got another question.” “Waiting with baited breath.” “You’ve got a ship still, right?”

Tensing the way he does isn’t really the reaction Emma anticipates, although she should probably be ready for anything now, and Killian mumbles, “aye, I do.”

“Could we—I mean, I’m capable of teleporting, right?” “I’ve got no doubt. But it might be cold.” “Good thing you just radiate heat, huh?” His tongue pokes between his lips. Emma’s staring again. Has a hard time stopping, really. Which makes the magic return all the stronger and all the more suddenly, and Killian’s soft hitch of breath is oddly pleasing, even as the smell of salt replaces half-dried paint.

Strictly speaking, Emma hadn’t spent much time exploring the Jolly Roger before they got to Neverland. Portal-based travel, and those mermaids and massive rain storms, all made it difficult to notice much else, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s blinked them into the captain’s cabin.

“Efficient,” Killian observes, already perched on the edge of the room’s lone cot and the bedding looks crisp. Military-grade folds, and pillows that aren’t quite as fluffy as the ones in the house, but Emma’s already glancing at the shelves to her right. Books line them, in what is obviously alphabetical order, while the desk nearby is covered in instruments for navigation, and maps of several different realms, and she knows Killian’s watching her.

Feels the force of his stare as it tries very hard to read her mind again, baited breath that’s not quite as much of a joke anymore. He's hoping. For the response, and the reaction, and she belatedly realizes what a big deal this is.

Falling into the deep end of it all is really the only reasonable thing to do now. And appropriately water-based pun.

“Give me another random fact,” Emma says, failing to keep the demand out of her voice. “Royal decrees are coming much easier for you now, Your Highness.” “Something good.” “I’d hardly give you a bad fact.” “Weird, I’m still waiting for one.”

Stabbing a finger into the space next to him, Emma’s leg bumps Killian’s when she sits down and she’d been right about the body heat. All of the blankets stay exactly where they are. “We go to Boston one weekend, relatively soon after we get married. To—” He clicks his tongue, as if he’s deciding what details to include. “Get some stuff out of your apartment. That’s not the important part. But we bring Henry with us, and drive out there. Spend a few days, and go to all of the tourist spots you say we should avoid, but Hope learned that eye trick from Henry, and it works all the time. So we go to Quincy Market, and that one brewery. Tour guide makes some history jokes, which in turn make you roll your eyes, but we get free samples, and Henry tries very hard to steal one of his own.” “Doesn’t work?” Killian shakes his head. “Not as such, no. I’m rather good at observing, you see.” “All those nights as lookout?” “Something like that,” he agrees, “It’s the first time in a very long time that we don’t have any looming threats. Nothing to worry about, no villains to contend with. We sit and walk and eat, and then eat some more, and it’s not the first time I let myself believe this is real, but it might bet the first time that reality seems to linger.” She’s holding her breath. Lungs burn in Emma’s chest, letting go of a shuddering exhale that also comes with tear-filled eyes, and Killian’s fingers hover near her neck. With the chain around it, and Emma knows it’s important — that ring that hangs just behind her stolen shirt, but she doesn’t ask and she wants to live it, anyway.

Wants those moments to come of their own accord, at their own pace, until they linger as well. Settle into her and take root, building a foundation for everything else.

“Can I do something?” she whispers, another imperceptible nod and he doesn’t object. When she unbuckles the leather at his brace, trying very hard to keep her pulse steady and her magic relatively quiet, but neither one of those things work very well and it doesn’t take very long.

Snaps and pieces of metal give way under Emma’s touch, eventually pulling away from his skin and the scars aren’t worse closer up. Just more obvious, maybe.

It’s another stupid sign.

Following the lines with her fingers, Killian’s not much more than a statue. With exceptionally wide eyes and slightly erratic breathing, watching her like he’s bracing himself for impact or the inevitably of her disappearing. Emma sits. Presses her feet into the floor, and there’s no dust on the floor. She has to swallow more than once while she accounts for every mark on him, though — emotion clogging up her throat and her thoughts in equal measure, and it’s not really instinct to bend her neck and kiss the first spot she can reach, but it’s absolutely want and she wants far more than she’s supposed to have.

Right now, at least.

“Emma,” Killian exhales, without the regret it should hold, and honestly the goddamn symmetry is as good as it is awful. She smiles. Against his skin.

“You said, ‘until I met you.’ Did you mean it?”

Glancing up without moving is another hint of cowardice, but Emma’s neck isn’t all that interested in participating in the conversation anymore and it’s easier to notice the state of Killian’s jaw like this. “More than I realized, actually.” “Yeah, me too probably. If I had said—well, I’m the worst liar in the world, y’know?” “At least several different realms.”

Scoffing, Emma’s teeth graze the blunt edge of his wrist and that only gets her a noise she’s never heard before and it’s better than all the other noises, and she loses her shirt eventually. Nothing else happens.

Still can’t, still won’t. They’re both all too aware of the inability of this to linger, but want’s a funny sort of thing and contentment’s just as strange as ever. Falling asleep with her cheek pressed to his bare chest makes sense, though, the steady rock of the ship lulling Emma until her eyes close and her thoughts silence.

“So, you’re not even trying anymore, huh?” Emma sighs. “Here I thought we’d get through the afternoon without any pointed opinions.” “Well, that was just foolish of you,” Regina shrugs, sitting on the front steps of the farm with her legs stretched out in front of her and that’s almost strange. She’s wearing jeans. No one else is surprised by that. And Mary Margaret is leaning against the door frame behind her.

One arm wrapped around her middle, she doesn’t cross her feet at the ankles like Killian would, and that’s probably for the best. Emma’s brain can only cope with so much at one time, and she might not be trying anymore.

Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.

“You think the wisdom is our problem?” Mary Margaret asks, barely blinking at the sound that erupts from Regina. Snarl and sneer, and Emma rocks back on her heels. Like that will put some distance between her and the queen, who doesn’t appear all that evil anymore, but could be even more determined than ever and they’re still waiting for that goddamn bird to come back.

No one’s mentioned the knights in the forest, either.

Emma’s not sure they’re still there.

“Can’t steal intelligence from the dead,” Regina reasons, and Emma’s shiver doesn’t have anything to do with the cold. It smells like cookies, even outside. “Should that make sense to me?” she asks. Mary Margaret shakes her head.

“Not at all. Just—when Zelena did this...she had a bunch of ingredients.” “She has no idea who Zelena is,” Regina mutters, shrugging at Emma’s slack jawed expression. “Don’t bother telling me you’re standing right there, you’re very predictable and I am painfully aware of your continued presence.”

“Was anyone actually going to tell me who Zelena is?” Emma snaps, a better reaction than the magic she’d like to use. On Regina, and her judgmental face. Tinker Bell went to help in Wonderland. Where magic is failing, more than it was a week earlier.

“The Wicked Witch of the West," Mary Margaret replies. “Was bad, had strong magic, gave up her magic, got it—no, she never got it back, did she?” Regina makes a contrary noise.

“How can you possibly keep track of all of this?”

Mary Margaret’s smile isn’t entirely effective, but there’s still a bit of the friend Emma occasionally worries she’s lost and of all the things breaking the curse did, that’s probably one of her bigger issues. There just hasn’t been time to deal with it. “Living it helps,” she laughs, “but she was holding Rumplestilskin hostage when she built the spell, and that’s—” “—Wait, wait, Gold is dead?” “That’s a little harder to explain, actually.”

“Huh.”

She should be upset. She should mourn...maybe not the jackass who consistently ruined everything, but at least the idea of the person he could have been, or the help he occasionally offered, but Emma’s feeling a little vengeful, and is even more annoyed. By like—the entire state of the world, right now.

She’s definitely not trying. Magic is emotion, and all of hers are far too scrambled to be effective as part of a time travel spell a witch who—“Was she actually green?” Emma asks, before she can stop herself and Mary Margaret’s smile works better that time.

“Occasionally,” Regina drawls. “But as your mother pointed out, she’s also lacking any magic now, and with Robyn in the Wish Realm—” “—That can’t possibly be a real place. And who is Robyn, exactly?”

“You met her. She brought you to—” “—That was a witch’s daughter? You realize that none of the ages for any of these kids makes sense? She was an actual adult.” “Don’t think about it too hard,” Mary Margaret advises, “will only make your head hurt.” “That ship sailed, like, two weeks ago,” Emma admits, refusing to look at whatever face Regina is making while also growling softly. Fire dances between her fingers. “Keep interrupting like this,” she warns, “and I will put you under a sleeping curse.” Jaw dropping and air rushing out of her in a wholly undignified huff, Emma’s reactions are so loud that she hardly notices Mary Margaret’s quiet “that might not be all that bad.” But then it clicks and there’s another puzzle, and more words she should not be thinking about right now, and Regina’s eyes thin enough that it’s difficult to notice any color in them.

“Huh,” she says, echoing Emma and that’s not very comforting, actually. “Well, that’s fascinating isn’t it? Plus, we don’t have any innocence.” Mary Margaret’s shoulders drop. “Oh, yeah that might be right.” Emma’s mouth is already hanging open, and her jaw physically cannot separate, so she can’t quite react like she wants to. Magic rattles around her all the same, Regina’s eyebrows doing a fairly good job of masquerading as someone else’s because— “Back to the drawing board, it seems,” she says, all but jumping back to her feet and glancing at Mary Margaret on her way back into the house.

Moving is something of an impossibility for Emma, torn between embarrassment and objections and the second one isn’t entirely possible either, but her mother only looks passably amused and that’s not the right emotion for this situation at all.

“Sleeping curse could force us into all kinds of realizations,” she reasons.

“That’s fucked up, Mom.”

More titles. More feelings. Not enough time to deal with any of them.

“Yeah,” Mary Margaret agrees, “it kind of is. How much batter do you think the rest of your family has stolen?” “At least an entire cookie sheet’s worth.” “Sounds about right, let’s see if we can cop any of our own.”

“Where is everyone going to sleep?” Emma asks, sitting at a dining room table that’s nearly buckling under the weight of food covering it. “And where did they even get all this stuff from?” Fingers drift over her bent knee under the table, Emma’s hands preoccupied with doling out food and Hope’s a very big fan of mashed potatoes. As she should be, really. Less so by the small feast of vegetables her mother has provided, but certainly not cooked because Emma’s spent most of the afternoon with her mother and Regina, trying to figure out if they could replicate Zelena’s time travel spell, and it didn’t work. Like, at all.

Lack of innocence likely isn’t their biggest problem. “Not everyone stays here,” Killian explains, “although I doubt your mother would mind all that much if they did.”

“Doesn’t explain where they’re going to sleep.” “Are you concerned about privacy, love?” “Pirate,” she accuses, but it lacks any actual vitriol and someone whistles when Killian’s lips brush hers. “I just don’t want to sleep in the hallway, if there’s no more room at the inn.” “Very confident in your own brand of religion-based humor aren’t you?” “Oh, color me impressed with your knowledge.” “Not many of your jokes evolve much over time, that’s why. And I think you’ve proven your ability to relocate us fairly well, don’t you?” Twisting her lips only gets her a flash of amusement and eyebrows that move so quick, there should also be smoke involved. “As far as I know, Her Royal Highness Snow White has concocted a rather extensive and possibly color-coordinated sleeping arrangement, that ensures no one will be forced to sleep in the hallway, while also allowing for maximum comfort and the ability to ransack parents as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

Something drops into the bottom of her stomach. It’s dread. And fear, and what Emma knows is that growing selfish streak and if her hand finds Hope’s back, then that’s neither here nor there.

Plus, Killian can totally tell.

The overall volume of her magic helps too.

“Mary Margaret’s pretty in her element, huh?” Nodding, he ignores the brussels sprouts in favor of the broccoli casserole, and she’s resolutely not attracted to that. No sane person could be attracted to side dish choices. On Christmas Eve.

It’s Christmas Eve.

“She is, indeed,” Killian agrees, “which is why outsourcing made quite a bit of sense.” Emma’s eyes dart towards Granny, and no one’s introduced her to Ruby’s girlfriend yet, but Ruby also hasn’t announced that she quite obviously knows something about this family gathering is off, and that’s nice enough that pushing the issue seems like another asshole move.

No one can be an asshole on Christmas Eve.

Emma assumes, at least. Hopes a bit too, just for good measure. “Granny made all of this?”

“Eh, certainly tried. Coerced Ruby and Dorothy—” “—No,” she hisses, drawing a few curious glances and half of Hope’s plate is covered in mashed potatoes. Killian’s fingers tighten.

“Someone told you about Zelena, didn’t they?” “I met her daughter without realizing, I guess.” Making a sound of understanding, Emma doesn’t miss the length of Killian’s drink. From the wine glass next to his own mostly-filled plate. “Is that another reason they went to that Wish Realm? So she didn’t have to talk to Dorothy Gale?” “I’m sure it was a consideration.” “Keeping track of all these things is a full-time job. Ok, so—Henry’s staying here though, isn’t he?” More noise, another sip of alcohol that Emma’s strangely jealous of. Nearly knocking her own glass over, her drink is closer to a gulp her dad absolutely notices, and whatever this is, it’s not any wine she’s familiar with.

“Camelot vineyards are enchanted,” David says, answering another question Emma hasn’t actually asked. Ruby’s eyes noticeably flicker towards Henry.

Who is not very subtle.

“Something about the soil, right?” Regina asks, although it certainly sounds like she’s perfectly aware of the reason, and Emma’s less sure as to why her mouth immediately dries. Possibly because Killian’s fingers have gone vice-like.

Glancing at him isn’t very subtle either, but she couldn’t care less and curiosity’s always been a bit of a thing for her. He probably knows that, anyway. “Camelot wasn’t my favorite place,” he explains, like that’s a reasonable string of words, but this isn’t the time for that and the knights are gone. Disappeared entirely, it seems.

“No Arthur, huh?” Silence descends on the table, silverware clanking on plates and chairs scuffing when they’re pushed away from the table. Emma widens her eyes.

Challenging that no asshole on Christmas Eve policy.

“He was kind of a shitty king,” Henry shrugs, Regina glaring in that same maternal sort of way that immediately makes him look far more like a teenager than a grown man with a kid. Emma can’t figure out the timeline of Lucy at all, either.

“Redeemed himself a bit in the end,” Killian adds. “Had no trouble from that particular area.” There should be more to that sentence. Emma knows, can hear it in the clipped way his voice cuts off and his tongue swipes the front of his teeth, and—“Whatever happened to that girl Henry knew in court?” Ruby asks, and they all lack subtlety it seems.

Emma tilts her head. “Henry knew a girl in the court of Camelot?” “Very complex story,” he mumbles, dots of pink on his cheek and Ella laughing at his side.

“Should I be upset I didn’t know about this?” “He used music to woo her,” Mary Margaret adds, some of the tension hovering over them evaporating. Killian’s fingers don’t move. “Although I never entirely understood how the iPod managed to stay charged.” “Magic,” Henry reasons. “And Violet went back to Connecticut, with her dad.”

Groaning, Emma’s reaction to this wine is even stronger than anything she drank in the diner or the buttered rum, and Henry’s face might stay red for the rest of the night. Festive, at least. “A guy from Connecticut?” she asks. “In Camelot?” “Didn’t click for me at first, if that makes you feel better.” “He was too busy flirting, that’s why,” Killian adds.

Henry scowls. “Reminiscing about any of this is not nearly as fun as you guys think it is. Plus,” he slings an arm around Ella’s shoulders, kissing her temple for good measure, “it all worked out in the end, so—” “—So,” Ruby echoes, “did we decide on snowmen rules, or…”

Voices all but explode around them — shouting over one another, in what is another questionably competitive Christmas tradition, and there are apparently judges involved and boxes of decorations that Mary Margaret keeps stored in the basement. Which Emma assumes is a much better use for the space than hoarding weapons, but any thought about her house quickly gets lost in how delicious this food is and how Henry’s arm rarely leaves Ella, and at some point Hope clamors onto Killian’s lap before Lucy starts demanding snowmen and they’ve all turn into giant pushovers, it seems.

“The theme,” Granny announces from her spot on the porch, because she’s head judge, and that holds more weight than anyone else, “is whimsy. Delight me, or you’ll lose points.” “What does that even mean?” Ruby challenges. She’s already rolling snow together, Dorothy’s head barely visible while she digs through one of Mary Margaret’s boxes and produces a pair of plastic fairy wings.

“Why do you own these?” she demands.

It’s difficult to tell if the color on Mary Margaret’s cheeks is a blush, or simply a product of how cold it already is, but none of that matters as much as the inches Henry has on her and how easy it is for his arm to find her shoulders as well. “Like to be prepared for any potential theme, isn’t that right, Gram?” “Not too old for any of the parental figures around here to ground you, you know,” Mary Margaret threatens. As much as she’s able.

David throws a snowball at both of them. “Build your snowman, kid. You’re going to lose, and it will be something else we can reminisce about for holidays to come.”

“C’mon, love,” Killian says, directing Emma to their own patch of snow and overflowing box and Hope’s already discovered the plastic tub of glitter that’s inexplicably in there. “We’ve got a reputation to uphold.” “Do we win this a lot?” “Don't insult me like that.”

He kisses her to ensure she doesn’t. Emma doesn’t argue that.

And as promised, Regina magics everyone’s snow creations to ensure they won’t melt for “at least a month, maybe longer” and the dread in Emma’s stomach threatens to rise up her throat. Until there’s a hand tugging at the side of her jacket, and—

“Can you get him to smile, Mama?” Hope asks, what looks like a slightly lopsided snowman’s bottom behind her and Emma might be the biggest pushover of them all.

Waving her hand is easy, though. And magic’s getting closer to second nature than she’d like to admit, positioning shiny rocks that Mary Margaret inexplicably had into what actually looks like a smile onto another freshly-made mound of snow.

Hope is overjoyed.

Emma tries very hard not to cry.

And fails spectacularly.

Monopoly is an adults-only game. This takes Emma at least forty-two seconds to come to terms with, but then there’s more wine and it’s a miracle they don’t wake up any of the kids, and Killian really does cheat.

She just can’t figure out how.

Bills appear in front of him like he’s the one with magic in this relationship, and Emma’s definitely drunk enough not to care about her word choice. She’s admittedly far more concerned with the houses that keep cropping up on Killian’s properties and how close some of those properties are to forming multiple Monopolys and he grins at her. From across the board.

David made it very clear that couples weren’t allowed to sit next to each other.

For fear of collusion, or something — although Emma can’t imagine there are actually many alliances formed in this game, particularly after the snowmen and the judging and it took Lucy nearly an hour to come down from the understandable high of her win. Hope was more interested in getting glitter everywhere than properly constructing a snowman.

“What was that about revenge?” Emma asks archly, more than a few other alcohol-saturated adults groaning at what is blatantly even more obvious flirting. And he hadn’t been lying about the state of her parent’s tree.

More candles line the branches, not a fire hazard when the flames have been enchanted and that’s for the best because there’s just—a copious amount of tinsel on those same branches, and a few ornaments that are obviously hand-made by kids and grandkids and it’s nice to know that even descendants of fairy tale characters use popsicle sticks in their arts and crafts.

Mary Margaret probably has a box of those too.

“This has nothing to do with the snowmen,” Killian promises, quirking his lips when Ruby lands on Marvin Gardens. He owns Marvin Gardens. “Look at that.” “Are you playing with weighted dice, pirate?” Ruby cries. “Because that is—” “—Cheating,” David finishes.

Killian shrugs. His eyes don’t leave Emma. “I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. You owe me twenty-four dollars, Lady Lucas.”

She throws the bills at him.

“How would I even use the weighted dice I don’t own anymore—” “—Anymore,” Henry repeats, and he’s only got a few bills left in front of him. Killian ignores him. Emma is far too charmed by this.

She got a Monopoly on the green properties, though. And she didn’t cheat to get them, so she’s also in possession of the moral high ground. Gives her free room to be entirely charmed by her husband. Kind of. “To calculate what you’ll land on,” Killian finishes. “That doesn’t even make sense.

Shaking her head, Ruby’s hair nearly flies into her face, threatening the state of the board and several other player’s pieces. All of whom are very loudly offended by that. “I hate you,” she sneers, and she doesn’t get back to Go before she goes bankrupt.

In the end, the moral high ground doesn’t help Emma’s ability to turn profits when Killian gets the Monopoly on that yellow corner and immediately starts building hotels and she nearly snarls when she lands on Atlantic Avenue.

“I think I might have won, Swan.” “Shut up.” “You don’t have to actually give me all your money, I’m more than pleased to simply hear the words from you.” “Shut up,” Emma says, and her mom fell asleep at least an hour earlier. David rolls his eyes. When she leans across the board, knocking over pieces and hotels, and Killian built so many goddamn hotels. He’s smiling when she kisses him.

Nothing overly magical happens, but Emma swears one of the candles flickers in the corner of her eye.

They do get a room. Directly next to the one Hope and Lucy are sharing, but Emma’s finding it harder than she expected to walk away from the tree and she never had a Christmas tree when she was a kid. Lights start to blur the longer she stares at it, floorboards creaking in an unnecessary announcement of the hand that finds her and— “I put an ornament on, you know,” Killian says, staring ahead when Emma turns towards him. “Was worried you’d notice, but I’m actually rather good at—” “—Sneaking?” “Covert movements.”

Scoffing out a laugh, her head falls to his shoulder. With the magnets and the feelings, magic fighting against dread and a slew of other feelings that are now as twisted as any family tree they could create. “Is it wrong to ask you what you wished for? Or should we talk about why you hate Camelot?” “They go together, actually.” “Do they just?” He kisses her hair. More than once, like he’s grounding himself or reminding himself of something that may not happen if they don’t somehow fix all of this, and Emma’s tongue is doing that thing again. Taking up way too much space in her mouth.

She’s not sure what she’d say, anyway.

“Dying makes it rather easy to shuffle a man’s priorities, and—” “—You die?” Emma shouts, but Killian’s shoulder only bumps her cheek and half the candles flicker. “How is that—God, that’s…” More kisses. A few hand squeezes. Her knees shake all the same.

“Doesn’t stick any of the times.” “It happens more than once.”

His cheek shifts her hair when he nods, a picture of only passably believable calm, and that wasn’t a question. “Something of a stubborn lass, though. So you don’t accept it very often, and occasionally that doesn’t work very well, but—” Tears fall down Emma’s cheeks, hot in the way a brand is, or she figures it would be, and she swallows as his thumb brushes over her skin. “You save me. Several times over.”

“Does calling me lass ever end well for you?” “Not as such, no.” Sticking her lower lip out is definitely a misplaced attempt to regain control of the situation because Emma’s all too aware of just how quickly Killian’s gaze will drop, and she’s not disappointed. A little nervous, but she figures that’s to be expected and her voice only kind of shakes when she whispers, “That’s not just a you thing, you know that, right?” “A me thing, what?” “The saving. Being stubborn too, I guess, or holding onto this with both hands, and this is an us thing. I’m...well, maybe I’m not totally there yet, but—” Her lips are chapped. Cracking with more emotion than she’s entirely sure she’s capable of, and Emma swallows once. Her tongue doesn’t do anything else. “Is that what you wished for? The saving?” “Awfully selfish, I know, but I—I think I need that.” “No, it’s not,” she objects. “Might be sweepingly romantic, even.” Eyes trace over her face, like he’s memorizing all of it, all over again, and innocence was a long gone ideal when they made out in the jungle, but this feels entirely different and somehow more important and Emma has to push up on her toes. To press her lips to his, and make sure his arm pulls her flush against his chest, and there’s no music or rainbow, but that might have something to do with her greed and her want and neither one of them pull away.

While a clock chimes down the hall.

“Merry Christmas, love.” She closes her eyes. “Merry Christmas, Killian.”

Something taps at their window. Incessantly, until it’s obvious Emma’s not dreaming the sound, and it takes her a few blinks and one grumbling, half-asleep pirate to realize it’s a bird. Without a sense of direction, it seems.

“Oh shit,” Emma breathes, pulling the blankets over her shoulders like that will keep them here and the bird outside and that’s an exercise in futility that lasts less than a full minute. Once the bird realizes he’s at the wrong room.

She counts. Seconds and breaths, trying not to give into the whimper that’s pressed behind her lips, and Killian’s fingers find hers. The floor creaks. Doors swing open, and David’s voice calls for them and Regina, and there are more squeaking hinges and calls to action because—

Mary Margaret knocks before she comes inside, already dressed with a full quiver of arrows strapped to her back. “Camelot’s gone,” she says, which may actually be the last thing Emma expects to hear at whatever time it is. Late, if the lack of sun is any sign. “Disappeared in a wave of...nothing.” “How can a wave be nothing?” Emma asks. “That—” “—It’s the opposite of magic,” Regina finishes, curled around the door with her hair twisted and there’s no fire in her palm. It’s in her eyes, instead. The end of reality turns Emma into something of a poet, apparently. “Get ready, we’ve got to head this off before it gets to the town and,” her gaze drifts towards Killian and his hand and his hook his on the bedside table, “might want to get your sword out of storage, Captain.”

Nodding silently, Killian doesn’t show any other signs of acknowledging his marching orders, but then he’s looking at Emma, a mix of expectant disappointment and unhinged longing and she blinks. Twice. They’re dressed.

And his sword hangs from his hip.

“You alright?” he rasps, which seems like more cheating and entirely unfair and Emma nods too.

“Let’s fix this.”

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #but once a year #festive fic a thon 2k20 #things are happening!#they are decidedly emotional!

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anika-ann · 3 years

Text

WINSoD - Pt.4

What You Need (Is What I’m About)

Type: series, soulmate AU series (part 1, part 2, part 3)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader, one more ;) Word count: 3400

Summary: In which fate has a strange sense of humour, the Maximoffs appear and... well.

Warnings: brief violence, mention of death, messing around in one’s brain, language, cutesy and fluff (yep, it’s all there)

Part 3

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You watched the kettle quiver as the temperature of the water climbed towards the boiling point. You’d like to say your blood was reaching it too, but despite the warm hoodie (Steve’s, naturally), you were feeling coldness seeping into your very core.

You hated waiting for him. You had never been a fan of it, sitting on your ass and stressing until he returned from a mission, bruised and usually bloody, but this time it was something else. This time, you had more than just a vague idea of what he was fighting; you had witnessed it first-hand. An army of fucking robots.

The team had left 43 hours ago, but who the hell was counting, right? Certainly not you. And you had certainly not been feeling the urge to ask Jarvis (R.I.P., my beloved A.I.) like every half an hour for any updates. You weren’t that desperate. You weren’t that scared-

Yeah, not even you were having your bullshit anymore.

You were shivering in cold from losing sleep, terrified and over all out of your mind. Nothing helped to ease your worries. Definitely not the fact they hadn’t made any contact ever since they had left.

They consisted of the usual Avengers team; Nat, Clint, Tony, Bruce and Thor, plus Bucky. All of them under Steve’s attentive command.

Surprisingly, Matt Murdock – also known as a freaking vigilante (a blind lawyer!!) – did not join the quest. He had said that robots were way outside his territory. You would beg to differ, because he punched the robot like a champ, yet you didn’t quite blame him for refusing. Bottomline, you still thought he was pretty swell (not to mention easy on the eyes, but that was beside the point). He had saved your life though, so you might be a bit biased. A lot biased.

Sam Wilson might have fought once too, but he would sit this one out as well. It was not helping your anxiety.

The soft click of the kettle brought you back to reality and you grabbed the handle to pour water into your mug, only to see you failed to actually put a teabag in it.

To be fair, you would have sworn you had done it, but that was just another prove of you losing your mind. At this rate you were about to burn the kitchen down – not that you felt like cooking… or eating for that matter. Steve was out there, in his own sci-fi movie that had somehow become reality and-

You sighed and set the kettle down, reaching for the box with chamomile tea. Taking one bag, you felt a strange gust of wind and curled into the hoodie as a shiver ran down your spine. Was the air-conditioning misbehaving…? Perhaps it was an aftermath of what they called the Ultron mess-

You shook your head, scolding yourself for getting paranoid and went to finally finish the simplest task of making yourself tea.

Only for your blood turning to ice when you noticed the teabag was missing. You had just put it there half a minute ago, you were sure of it. Your heart started hammering in your chest as you spun on your heels, your eyes scanning the room.

The cupboard behind your head clacked and your head swiftly snapped back to it. Feeling your own pulse pounding in your temples, you forced your brain to come up with a rational explanation.

You were losing your mind, you were imagining things, you hadn’t slept in almost two days, your mind was playing tricks on you-

Another gust of wind and the kettle disappeared from your hands, a shriek escaping your lips. On instinct, you opened the drawer and pulled out a knife. You were probably useless with it, basically offering it the potential attacker as a weapon, because they would be able to disarm you and use it to their advantage, but you didn’t give a shit. You felt better being armed.

What the fuck was happening?!

A man suddenly appeared by your left hip, like a hurricane inside of the room, and your body acted on its own, driving the knife in his side.

Or you attempted to; the knife met something solid that could not have been a body and the blond – he was a blond man, younger, hell, looking younger than you, dressed in a jumpsuit – stared at you with his mouth hanging open.

It was only then when you registered a strange red matter--- no, something unsubstantial, like an energy, swirling and changing, hovering around the blade that had stopped an inch from the man’s torso.

“Taka se ubivate, kolibri,” a female voice sounded from the other side of the room, nearly sending you into a cardiac arrest.

Yet, you couldn’t tear you gaze away from the strange man, whose face was now twisted in annoyed grimace as the woman seemed to be scolding him.

What kind of a language was that anyway?

Really not relevant.

There were two strangers in the Tower, in the very same room as you, they could be talking about how to kill you the most painful way and you wouldn’t even know, and for fuck’s sake, why couldn’t you catch a break-

“Ne ti e zabavno, foĭerverk,” he hummed back, his lips spreading in a smile, baffling you to no end. “Zdraveĭ, krasavitse.”

Your hand still on the handle of the knife that was no longer under your control, of which you refused to let go though because you were not a complete idiot, you had no idea what to do.

The man sounded almost friendly, but then again, villains often did. Sleazy. You would know.

A tremble ran through your body and out of nowhere, you made a lightning-fast decision of kicking the man in the crotch.

Your knee only brushed his manhood when your leg was no longer yours. With horror filling every cell in your body, you realized it was caught in the freaky red spiderweb of energy and you couldn’t move it no matter how much you tried.

Tears filled your eyes and suddenly you were free, the man several feet from you. A gorgeous young woman, dressed even more strangely than him – crimson leather jacket, black and half-torn leather leggings with high boots with way too many straps, her outfit completed by sleeves peeking from under her jacket –, stood next to him, cuffing him in the back of his head.

“Idiot!” she hissed and in the back of your mind, the one tiny corner that was not occupied with the fact you might die in the next second, you thanked god for some words being international.

Then, the girl with long wild red hair smiled at you apologetically, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

“Hello. Sorry for startling you,” she spoke with thick accent which you identified as Eastern-European and shot her companion a murderous look. “My brother is an ass and doesn’t know the difference between being funny and scaring people.”

She didn’t sound menacing at all; in fact, you saw every responsible older sibling annoyed at their younger family member in her. You blinked away the sting in your eyes and attempted to focus despite the ringing in your ears.

“Huh?” slipped from your lips intelligently, utter confusion gradually replacing your despair.

The blond rolled his eyes, which only earned him another clip round his ear.

“See what you’ve done? This is all your fault!”

“I was just messing around!”

“Do you have any idea what she’s been through? You scared her to death!” the woman hissed, effectively sending you back to the spiral of dismay, your slowly calming heartbeat skyrocketing again.

What did she know about what you had been through?!

With your knees wobbly and not to be trusted to keep you upright on their own anymore, you gripped the counter behind you with such force your muscles cramped.

“Who- who are you?” you breathed out shakily, catching the attention of the supposed sibling duo once more.

The woman smiled warmly, patronizingly almost.

“My name is Wanda and this is my brother, Pietro. We are of Sokovia. Your Captain and the other Avengers found us, showing us that we were fighting on the wrong side of things. Would you like to see?”

Her words echoed in your suddenly dull skull, the meaning escaping you.

And because her last sentence was what made sense the most and yet the least, you nodded.

Later, you would realize just how stupid and trusting you had been when agreeing, mostly because Steve gave you his look of disappointment and horror, but at the moment, it seemed right.

Somehow, on a level you couldn’t quite comprehend, you already understood they weren’t a threat to you.

“See how?”

Wanda smiled.

*Like this,* a ghost of her voice sounded somewhere deep in your mind, making you dizzy. What the hell-? *Please, don’t judge me. I thought I was doing the right thing.*

Before you could question such statement or the fact her lips were not moving while you heard her voice crystal clear, you were thrown into a vortex.

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Ultron had been sure they were coming; he left a bait for them, an easy track to follow. The track they could follow towards their end.

Wanda wasn’t one to enjoy killing or hurting people in general, no. She hadn’t even considered herself a strong person once, but that had all changed with their parent’s deaths. She had had to rely on herself – on herself and on her brother. Where an opportunity had risen, to step up their game and possibly to get revenge on the name still haunting them in their worst nightmares, they hadn’t even hesitated.

Wanda had once been a weakling. It had been the tempering in fire, in a burning pain of experimentation with the sceptre that had made her the woman who she was now.

And she had a mission; she and Pietro had a mission, their chance at revenge finally gaining a shape.

She had already played with Stark’s mind, with the scum only interested in money and destruction; now she could do the same to all of them.

Bursting in with a crash, they clearly hadn’t expected such livid counterattack. A response so… nightmare-like.

Just a flick of wrist and a little concentration on Wanda’s part and they were dropping like dead, trapped in their own minds.

Black Widow, locked in a scary base, ballet dancers, martial art training and merciless killing, her fresh fears creating a horror picture of aiming her gun at her current lover’s head, at her soulmate.

“I should have known you’d never change. You’re nothing but human reduced to a murder machine…”

Thor, oh so mighty God, travelling back to his home planet to a feast, legends messing with his headspace, confusion and helplessness, thunder and lightning all around and out of his control.

“You’ll kill us all! See, son of Odin, close your eyes and see!”

The righteous captain, trapped in his own mind, folded like a house of cards under his soulmate’s dead eyes, anger and accusation blossoming into hate and finally indifference.

“You cared about your 40’s sweetheart more, anyway, didn’t you? If it was her in my place, you would have chosen her before the thousands. You wouldn’t let her blow up… but if I’m nothing to you, then you are nothing to me…”

Satisfied with her work, with only a nudge to their consciousness and their own brains doing the work for her, Wanda smirked as she noticed the busy archer. Now what tricks his could mind come up with? What hardship would he get caught in?

As she slowly sneaked behind his back, a voice snarled behind her, causing her heart to stop from more than a simple fright.

“Kak mozhe neshto tolkova malko da prichini tolkova nepriyatnosti?”

Her first reaction to her blood crystallizing in her veins with horror and rage towards the whole fucking universe, was a snarky reply.

How dared he to call her small? Implying she was weak? Underestimating her and saying that she couldn’t cause any real trouble? Oh, she would show him… that arrogant bastard! She would show him trouble-

“Laĭna…ti mi narichash nepriyatnosti?” she hissed back, carelessly losing the sight of the archer, not interested in him in the slightest all of sudden. “Vie ste strana s greshni khora!”

This stranger, this—this man-machine radiating pain as her powers barely brushed the surface of his mind on instinct… he was the real trouble as she didn’t hesitate to tell him. He was on the wrong side of things! Fraternizing with a mass murderer, with her parent’s killer-

“Pone te sa kho—” he wanted to argue, but they his mind stopped before it started screaming, punching her telepathic powers she seemed suddenly unable to turn off.

Memories, a dozen of his own memories, the way he looked at his soulmark in a mirror, the pain, the sorrow, the torture… his encounter with the Avengers, living with them; with the band of heroes she just put down, one by one, teasing and laughter, compassion and acceptance, even from the man who was supposed to be nothing but a cocky heartless bastard-

“What the hell did you just say?” Bucky rasped, astonished and horrified.

He realized it too then. Everyone always did, didn’t they? Because every person with a soulmark awaited a moment like this; the moment someone would finally say the words matching the ones on their skin, met their expectations or not…

But Bucky Burnes was the farthest from Wanda’s dream when it came to a life-long partner.

Strength is tempered in fire, she remembered reading once. She had once found a special irony in the fact that the treatment by the sceptre felt exactly like that. Wanda’s soul turned to steel with the games the fate had played with her.

So why did her hands fell from their defensive position to her side, limp and drained of all strength and determination they had known, tears stinging her eyes.

Her life was shit and she thought she had made her peace with that. But judging by the deep ache in her chest, she had been holding out for her soulmate more than she had thought. Because why else would it hurt so bad when she found out he was an enemy?

“And I thought Romeo and Juliet was just a lot of crap,” she chuckled bitterly, switching to English when he did.

His thoughts scream at her, disbelief, caution, pain, confusion, regret and hope— ambivalence. He had no idea what to do and he hated her for what she had done to his friends, but the knowledge of her being his, supposedly, it torn him in half, reaching out with willingness to forgive her if she fixed it, because if anyone understood fighting at the wrong side it was him--

Unable to resist, she dug deeper into his mind, baring his very soul, fascinated.

Pietro was still fighting with the archer and Stark, dodging the lame attempts at attack of the Avengers lost in their minds, but for two people, the time stopped.

They stood against each other, staring and motionless, and Wanda was confident she saw more than him. His mind was a tangled mess of emotions and desperate desire to get a hold of them and think rationally, bundle of memories and hopes colliding with reality and rock-solid facts and Wanda felt a pang at her heart, a crushing sensation in her chest when she finally embraced everything his headspace had to offer, getting lost in it.

Lost in him.

James Buchannan Barnes had a beautiful soul. Torn and glued together with little kind gestures from his friends, sweet memories of his sister and everlasting friendship with Steve, his no-longer-little-but-equally-stubborn Steve, Steve’s soulmate, his teammates that accepted Bucky with surprising ease and less judgement anyone would deserve… and the careful way he was giving away the pieces of the very same heart that was barely together, in gentle smiles and good-natured teasing, silent self-declaration of giving his whole life for every single one member of his new-found family.

And Wanda understood. In a fraction of second she looked under the illusions she had helped to build in the Avengers’ minds and saw the truth.

*Pietro, spri!* she cried out straight into his mind, begging him to stop fighting. With another flick of her wrist, her enemies were free of her handiwork, shell-shocked from the experience, too lost to find their footing. “Brat, spri! Pietro… greshim. They are right.”

The battle froze as if the time did and for a second, Wanda felt like she was in her brother’s skin, moving so fast that the world around her stopped turning. The stunned silence was only broken by a soft gush of wind when Pietro appeared by her side.

The Avengers seemed so baffled at her admission they didn’t try to attack them.

She exchanged a look with her twin, hoping her face spoke volumes as tears gathered in her eyes. She was far from convinced that Anthony Stark was a good man; but she knew he was better than the creature they had sworn to assist. And her mother always used to say that a man should be judged by the company he kept. From what she had seen in Bucky Barnes’ head, Stark had one bunch of fine people around; and their imperfections seemed to be balanced by the good they all wished to do.

Pietro understood. Of course he would. More than he could read her expression, he must have felt the change in Wanda’s aura, the transformation touching their bond as well.

He graced her with a reluctant nod of agreement. Via their mental connection, he whispered he trusted her. Her lips curled up in a tender smile.

“Are we just gonna stand here? Are we fighting together or against each other or what?!”

No, Tony Stark was by no means a man she would call good. In fact, she already found out he was an ass. But now, he had become her ally.

From all the eyes on their duo, she chose to meet her soulmate’s.

“Together, Anthony. Because there’s bigger malice in this world than you are.”

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Wanda nearly cut you off right then. The rest of what she showed was a blur of images, fear, pain and determination, destruction and cooperation, all of that leading to this very moment. It all resembled waking up from a very intense confusing dream, being pulled away into consciousness by the first sunrays of the dawn.

You blinked heavily as the world swayed off its place, the counter seemingly in a peculiar angle from your point of view.

Why was the lamp not up, but on the side? Why was it spinning?

“Oops. Sorry. Never made the connection for such a long period of time-“ a voice reached you, breaking through the hush of blood and your own heartbeat in your ears.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to get a fucking grip on both your body and thoughts.

Bucky had a soulmate?

No, not relevant, the images were too unclear for you to be sure everyone made it out alright, you needed to see Steve first, you had to-

By the time Steve’s figure appeared in your field of vision, you were certain you were steady on your feet and finally managed to control your mouth.

“Steve!” you cried out excitedly as you sprang his direction, relief mixing with delight, because he was alive, he was not bleeding visibly, he-

-was suddenly graced with an identical twin, two loving tired smiles blending into one and splitting into two the next moment, swimming in your vision and you felt something solid grabbing your body and positioning it right into his strong arms.

You gazed at him in haze, melting into his warm and firm embrace, spotting a swirl of red energy flow around you.

Oh. Wanda’s work, no doubt. Sweet.

“Are you okay, doll? Are you sick? What happened?”

Wanda’s guilt was nearly solid in your reach, but you only let your head lull onto Steve’s shoulder, plunging into the fluff of love that his presence provided.

“Nah. I’m fine… just drunk on you…” you mumbled.

The girl’s bubbly relieved laughter rang in the room, bringing a satisfied smile on your face.

Steve’s kiss landed on your forehead, corners of his own lips upright despite the concern in his voice.

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s just get you to bed…”

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Part 5

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Thank you for reading!

I chose Bulgarian, just to avoid traditional Russian this once. Bucky is a Winter Soldier after all and he should know how to speak 30 languages or so :D just thought this would work. Google translator used; apologize for any mistakes.

I hope you had an okay start to 2021 :-*

#fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogres x you #soulmate au #steve rogers soulmate #steve rogers imagine #captain america #captain america soulmate #captain america x you #captain america imagine #steve rogers #bucky barnes #wanda maximoff #pietro maximoff #mcu #marvel #winsod #anika ann

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