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cdyssey · 3 years

Text

Need

Summary: After Nick arrives at the beach house, Frankie escapes to her studio to process her emotions. Post 7x04.

A/N: I've had such Grace and Frankie brain rot these past few days that I figured I should put it to good use and write another fic. It was really fascinating to try Frankie's POV. Lily Tomlin imbues her with a lot of subtle pathos that I totally wish the show would explicitly explore more.

AO3 Link

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Frankie excuses herself to the studio for dinner, so she can process her very big, astonishingly inappropriate, and entirely overwhelming emotions without resorting to calling Nick a “wavy-haired, Pierce Brosnan wannabe douche canoe.”

As delightful (and totally true) of a turn a phrase that it is, even she knows that saying it aloud would be trespassing a boundary that she’s sworn herself never to cross: Grace is married.

Unhappily married, maybe.

Complicatedly married at the very least.

But until the day that they mutually say “I do” to divorce papers, there isn’t enough room for three people in the Skolka marriage, however much that Grace—bless her increasingly unthawing heart—tries to ensure otherwise.

So Frankie lets the newly reunited couple have their dinner alone under the guise of a generosity that she doesn’t exactly feel, and she takes leftover pasta into her studio to moodily pick around the bowl until her fettuccine looks less like fettuccine and more like unevenly perforated confetti.

(Woo fucking hoo.)

After a few minutes of this aggressively unconstructive practice, she places her nearly full bowl on a nearby work table and stretches out across her paint-stained couch, staring at the ceiling and resisting the reactionary urge to light a joint. Mary J might help her feel better for the present moment, but tomorrow morning, she’d still wake up and feel invaded in her own home.

Paradoxically, she’d also feel alone, goddammit.

She pulls her shawl more tightly around her shoulders against an invisible and piercing chill.

Frankie hates feeling lonely.

She spiraled when Grace lived in the penthouse. She nearly self-destructed to fill the gaping void that her roommate, her friend, her practical and beloved soulmate left behind. There was a period where she didn’t wash her clothes and ate a lot of admittedly non-vegan takeout. There were nights when she’d lay awake in her awfully huge bed, staring at the empty space where Sol used to sleep, and have the familiar waking nightmare of spending her final years in forced solitude. She was happy with Jack, and then Jacob—sweet Jacob—came around too, and she did something she still feels fucking ashamed about: she hurt both of them, and she lied when she said that she had just wanted to have some fun.

She knows herself.

Intimately.

She‘d been scared of being alone again, so she tried to hold on to two people who were helping her to stave the awful feeling away. Those men wanted her, and Frankie used them. They wanted her, and she pathologically loves to feel wanted because she sometimes and irrationally fears that she might not be needed.

To be fair to her irrational fears, all the people she’s ever needed and felt needed by have hurt her before.

Sol cheated on her for twenty years.

Her own sons stuck her in a nursing home.

Grace just fucking left her.

She eloped in Vegas like a blushing twenty-one year old bride and just disappeared.

She says it was a mistake; she sat across Frankie in a sunlit restaurant and candidly told her that she didn’t like the person she had become when she married Nick.

And to be completely fair to her, Grace has been adamant about not wanting to leave again—so perhaps she never will—but if her husband is here to stay, it's also a distinct possibility that she’ll never have to make the choice to physically leave to… well… leave.

She can perpetually honeymoon with Nick and still call Frankie home.

It could be a happy ending for Grace… and a fresh new hell for Frankie, who'd just started to feel secure again.

God knows she wants her best friend to be happy, but the big man in the sky must also surely understand that she had hoped that she alone could be enough for Grace, that this unconventional life spent together in the beach house—so crazy, so weird, and so inextricably entangled—would be their shared happily ever after.

But even as she thinks it, the vestiges of her clearly misplaced optimism begin to evade her, dregs now at the bottom of an already drained cup.

She and Grace aren't married.

It’s always been an objective fact.

Tonight, it feels more like an unpleasant reality.

When the door leading into her studio suddenly flies open, Frankie barely has enough time to swipe the back of her hand across her eyes before she sits up to find none other than the lady of the hour.

Her collared shirt popped up stiffly around her neck, a martini glass surgically glued to her right hand, Grace looks quintessentially herself as she walks in, even down to the minutiae of her trademark I'm-angry-at-the-world-and-everyone-in-it expression—brow furrowed and eyes Medusa cold. After all but slamming the door, she stalks over within a few clicks of her practical but unmistakably high heels.

“Well, hello to you, too, Sunshine,” Frankie greets wryly, hoping to hell and back that her face isn’t as red as it feels.

It’s a tall order, though.

Alas, she was gifted (or equally cursed) with an exceptionally expressive face.

“Frankie, this is nonsense,” Grace says bluntly, using her martini glass like a pointer and leveling it straight at her head. “Come back to the house—your house—and have dinner with us.”

It’s the authoritarian nature of the demand that rifles Frankie.

Frankly, it pisses her off.

She’s always been a rebel contrarian.

“And by us, you mean you and your house arrested husband, right?” She returns evenly. She betrays herself by raising a single and devastatingly skeptical brow. “The man with whom you should be having a very emotionally honest conversation with right now about the parameters of your jacked up relationship?”

Grace shifts her weight from heel to heel and glances away a little too quickly for the gesture to be entirely natural. Frankie had blatantly stricken a pulsing nerve, and the guilt of doing so immediately swallows her.

She shouldn’t be so hard on her friend.

(She doesn’t know why it’s permissible to be equally hard on herself.)

“Well, I tried to have that conversation, thank you very much, but then I ended up wanting to claw Nick’s eyes out.” The obvious follow up question must shine in Frankie’s face because sighing infinitesimally through her nostrils, Grace adds, “His attorney argued that my advanced age and apparent capability to croak at any moment were reasons enough to grant Nick leniency. They let him out so he could take care of me—whatever the hell that means.”

Her no-nonsense voice never falters as she delivers the brutal words, but her eyes undermine her, seething with emotion, simply roiling. They tell a story of horror and disgust and searing, absolute betrayal; they’re heavy all over with sadness and the indelicate trappings of all her raw and mercilessly exposed fears.

Frankie understands immediately.

Nick used one of Grace’s deepest insecurities as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Being eighty-two years old.

But perhaps more accurately, feeling like it.

“Oh, honey,” Frankie melts. She can do nothing else but melt, to be suddenly overcome with fierce, protective, and terrifying love for the woman in front of her. “That fucking bastard.”

Grace immediately laughs, the sound hoarse and watery and a little unhinged all at the exact same time.

“Tell me about it,” she half-smiles and takes the swearing as a rightful invitation to join Frankie on the couch. With a gentle clink, she sets her half-emptied martini glass on the table next to Frankie’s completely full pasta bowl. “I said the exact same thing.”

When she chooses to sit close enough that their shoulders are brushing, Frankie intuitively knows that this is petty defiance against Nick for daring to intrude upon them and the world they've so carefully created together.

She temples Grace’s nearest hand with her own in an attempt to silently communicate that this right here—whatever this is between them—is love.

“So, please”—Grace squeezes her hand back—“please don’t be angry with me… I… I didn’t want this. You know I didn’t want this. I don’t want him to even be here.”

Frankie stares openly at her best friend.

Wide-eyed and hopeful against her self-loathing, self-centered will, she searches her broken face like it's revelatory.

It's stunningly rare that Grace Hanson ever articulates her wants so clearly. Forty years of an emotionally repressive marriage did their number and toll on her. She pedestalized rigid decorum over every conscious desire.

She played by the rules even if they hurt her.

And drank herself to oblivion on many a night to forget the very fact that she was hurt.

To deny herself the honesty she’d somehow convinced herself that she didn’t deserve.

“… you know this is your husband we’re talking about here, right?” It’s a rhetorical question. Frankie's pretty sure that they both fucking know that it’s insane that this conversation—that this entire situation as a whole—is happening.

“I know,” Grace replies firmly. “Believe me, I'm well aware. But you’re… you’re my partner, Frankie, and if I can’t be upfront with you, then I don’t know who else I can turn to.”

The very word partner sends shivers down her spine, and the shivers collect like butterflies in her already churning belly.

It’s just a word, she tells herself.

She scolds.

Grace doesn’t mean anything by it.

It's a label, and Grace doesn't do labels anymore.

“I... I wasn’t mad at you, Grace,” she finally admits. It's easier to do than questioning the extent to which her roommate would give up the world for her, but all the same, her voice is frighteningly weak, a pale imitation of everything Frankie usually projects herself to be: confident, cheerful, unshakeable, unshaken. Suddenly, it hits her that it’s been a very long time since she’s been so openly vulnerable, too. “I'm not even really all that mad at your jailbird husband either. I was just scared, and when I get scared, I skitter like a nervous little bug."

She shuts down.

She spirals.

She tries to put a smile on her face for the people who love her all the same.

And then she lies awake at night, drowning in the sheets of an empty bed.

Thinking about how she should probably tell someone that everything hurts.

But she’s Frankie, and she doesn’t do that.

Grace perpetually convinces herself that she doesn’t deserve honesty; Frankie has come to fear that no one wants her own.

“Were you scared of me?” Grace asks quietly, her grip so tight now that it almost stings.

“Frankie…” She presses when a few heartbeats of silence stagger by, limping painfully on all fours, pronouncing so many unspoken and profound hurts.

“Of losing you, Grace,” she confesses, the words defeated and scraped raw. She forcefully tugs her hand away from Grace's just to temple her own hands together on her lap, to lick her sundry and shining wounds in a private corner. “I was scared of losing you, of being alone again in this big, empty house… and I don’t like being alone.”

She can’t bear to look at Grace as she says it, staring at the paint-flecked floor without ever really seeing it, her eyes burning.

She wishes they’d stop burning but feels the precise moment when they begin to leak anyway.

It’s all so embarrassing.

And childish.

Frankie is an eighty-year old woman, and she shouldn’t be upset over her best friend having a goddamn life.

She should be happy for her, fucking ecstatic.

And yet, she's—

But before she can complete the miserable thought, her body becomes aware of another sensation entirely—warm arms enveloping her from the side and inexorably pulling her in, turning the space that once existed between two bodies—between them—intangible, negligible.

Grace.

Shock turns into realization, and realization transforms into aching, sweeping relief.

It can only be Grace.

Grace’s soft lips pressed to her cheek.

Grace’s fingertips curling into the fabric of her dress.

Grace’s nose against her neck as she slides her sharp chin across her shoulder.

“I’m not leaving you, Frances Bergstein,” she declares. “Whatever happens between me and Nick, in the end, it’s going to be just you and me in this house that is our damn home. I swear that to you. I’d tell you every day just to prove it to you.”

Oh, these words.

These beautiful, tender, and long-needed-to-hear words.

They’re just words, she could tell herself again.

She could lie.

She could convince herself if she had to.

She could conveniently forget that Grace Hanson uses language carefully, that she employs every sentence with scalpel-like precision.

Or... more complicatedly still... Frankie could believe her.

Frankie could blindly accept these words for what they are, as manifest confirmation that she is loved by another—prioritized and cared for and needed.

She could be Grace’s partner and let that incredible word be electrically charged with so many complex and ridiculous and extraordinary ideas, none of which are traditional, and all of which feel true.

She could believe in her even if belief is not simple, even if belief is a product, first and foremost, of trust.

And Grace has certainly lost her trust before, but goddammit, she's earned it so many times, too.

“Oh, God,” Frankie laughs in such a way that it’s stupidly clear that she’s crying as Grace rubs slow circles into her back with her thumb. “This is all messed up. You’re the one with a house arrested, tax evading husband. I should be the one comforting you.”

“The house arrested, tax evading husband doesn’t particularly faze me,” Grace chuckles, her voice low. “Seeing you hurting and upset does. My priorities are remarkably straight.”

“I’m not sure you know the meaning of that word,” she smiles weakly as they slowly and clumsily begin to extricate themselves from their tangled embrace.

It’s hard to find themselves again.

To be apart.

“But I do,” Grace protests, emphatic and indignant and maybe even a few shades righteously pissed. “You’re the person I wanna share this crazy life with at the end of the day and every day. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because every day is an incredibly long time to be with me,” Frankie offers meekly, giving her one more perfect and easily acceptable copout, a neatly packaged excuse.

She can be too much.

She knows this.

“It’s just the right amount of time to be with you,” Grace murmurs, reaching up to brush an errant tear away from Frankie’s cheek, her thumb lingering, her quivering palm. “You’re kind enough to love me, and I’m lucky enough to be loved by you... so let me return the favor, Frankie. Let me be here for you."

And to Grace’s credit in this fleeting moment, she continues to hold Frankie.

It's a promise to never let her go.

#grace and frankie #grace hanson #frankie bergstein #grace x frankie #grace and frankie spoilers #reginianwrites #s: grace and frankie

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onehunnitlines · 3 years

Text

a little bit more

Pairing: Jookyun

Rating: NC17

Summary: Changkyun gets jealous.

“Don’t be jealous” Jooheon whispered, soft kisses trailing along the delicate line of Changkyun’s throat .

“You know when we get home it’s this, it’s always gonna be this” he continued, voice dropping to sultry as he sucked the soft lobe of the others ear into his mouth.

“I’m not” tone a little bit terse even though it was breathy, and they were shuffling back through the hallway- into Changkyun’s room.

“You are” Jooheon countered, laving his tongue down the side of his throat and kissing down to the collar of his shirt.

Changkyun didn’t want to argue, not now- not when Jooheon was finally here and not in the studio.

“I just don’t like it when people think....” and as he says it- he already knows it’s too much. His grip on dark locks falls away when Jooheon takes a tiny step to look into his eyes.

“Think what?” He asks, lips red and swollen from kisses and his hair mussed from Changkyun’s fingers.

He feels stupid even saying it.

“Tell me” a soft insistence and he bites his lip- looks down.

“I don’t like when people think you have feelings for each other” he gets it out, soft and almost not at all.

Jooheon leans down to catch his eyes, hands grabbing his.

“I’m nobodies but yours” he says, like Changkyun doesn’t know.

“And even if they think it- it’s not true. You’re the only one who gets this” he says- pressing Changkyun’s hand to his chest, just over his heart.

“And this too” this touch makes his cheeks heat- and his palm cups Jooheon’s length hard in his sweats.

“This is all you” he whispers, crowds Changkyun in against the wall.

They kiss, slow- warm hands cupping Changkyun’s cold cheeks and hips grind against his- pulling that pleasure right back into his belly.

“And if you need to me to prove it to you, I will” an almost challenge- dark eyes still smudged with makeup staring down at him.

“Show me” Changkyun returns the sultry, and at the words he’s being hauled up- walked over to the bed and deposited soft onto the blankets.

His socks go first, then belt and pants. Jooheon’s intense gaze doesn’t leave his, hands expertly divesting him of all of his clothes until his legs can spread open- give the other man unobstructed access to his most intimate places.

“I’m going to show you until you’re exhausted” he promises, two fingers slipping into his mouth- coming out wet.

It’s not enough, they both know- but the slicked press against his opening has him immediately moaning- pushing back.

He craved this touch so much he could almost cry for it- months and weeks being too busy and it had grown to a monstrous desire that made him wild for Jooheon.

He presses and strokes gently, playing against the sensitive nerves with the pad of his thumb until Chankgyun is panting and reaching for him.

He doesn’t have to ask, Jooheon drops down over him with graceful ease- lips meeting and plundering his mouth immediately.

Changkyun lifts his hips, grinds up into the soft cotton of his sweats and moans. The other is rubbing up over his thighs, stopping to hold his hips and rub thumbs over the sensitive hollows of his hips.

“I missed this” Jooheon admits, eyes sincere and Changkyun knows his cheeks are red, his face heated with the confession.

“Me too” he whispers- and then Jooheon is sinking down again- his hands pushing his own underwear and sweats off so it’s skin on skin.

This makes Changkyun really moan, leaking precum over the two of them, slipping up along the thickness he’s been fantasizing for.

“You’re sure you want it tonight- with the performance tomorrow?” Jooheon asks, always ten steps ahead- but Changkyun doesn’t care.

“Yes” immediate and no second thought, he couldn’t wait- he wouldn’t. Not after this long.

The lube is a quick find- always in his side drawer and Jooheon warms it a little before slipping two fingers inside. Changkyun would die with the secret- but he had cum on three fingers crying out for Jooheon earlier, so the stretch was warm and familiar.

“You’re so beautiful” Jooheon’s deep rasp, and Changkyun looks to see him up on his arm, staring and cataloging him.

“Don’t—“ he starts, but Jooheon is shushing him, leaning down to kiss him and at the same time adding a third finger. A little more burn, the real stretch of fingers that can reach deeper than his and he arches his back into it.

“It’s good” Changkyun whispers- but Jooheon shakes his head, smiling soft.

“Not yet” he denies, spreading his fingers out more before letting a forth slide in and Changkyun almost sees stars with this burn.

He leans- grips devastatingly sculpted biceps and rocks down to meet the feeling.

“Jooheon” breathy, all want and no real worlds- but the other gets it. Leans down to kiss him soft as he keeps stretching, swallowing up the desperate and guttural sounds falling from Changkyun’s lips.

He’s stretched until he feels delirious, until he’s sure he could probably take more- and he wants to, and then finally Jooheon pulls his fingers free- replaces them with something even hotter, thicker.

“God—“ Changkyun whines- hikes his thighs higher around Jooheon’s waist and arches as he finally starts to push in.

The stretch will always undo him, body throbbing and almost wanting to panic push back- and yet Jooheon is gentle and relentless. Pushing up slow and steady until Changkyun feels like his insides move, make room for Jooheon and he fits so tight it makes his eyes roll back in his skull.

Soft kisses press to his jawline- hands helping to hold his thighs up and open and he starts to roll his hips.

“I love you” and this does make his eyes water, makes his arms come up and desperately wrap around broad shoulders.

“God yes” he hisses, not saying it back because he can’t- he would fucking fall apart right now.

Jooheon’s hands on him are gentle, like he knows- hips rocking to perfectly tap at his prostate and keep him so hard he’s ready to let go.

“Changkyun” soft, his own voice clearly laboured with his movements- getting closer.

Changkyun looks up- swallows hard at the feelings in his stomach and his chest.

“I’m only yours” like some sacred oath, whispered with the heavy weight of his heart and somehow that’s it- he’s letting go, back arching and thighs shaking as he comes untouched on the others cock.

His eyes water, muscles locking up as he clutches desperately to the others arms, clenching over and over until his orgasm too crests.

Hot and scorching his already sore insides- but he loves it, wants it to be like this every single night.

When they come down they’re kissing softly- nuzzling and just touching one another’s skin- soaking in the feeling of being together.

“I love you too” he finally says, and Jooheon gives him a kiss so soft it makes his heart ache.

“You can be jealous, I’ll prove it to you every time”

Changkyun doesn’t say anything to that- just closes his eyes and hugs Jooheon tighter.

#jookyunsmut #jookyun fanfic #jookyun #monsta x fanfic #monstaxfic #lee Jooheon x im changkyun

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johns-prince · 3 years

Note

John also had a lovely mix of masculine and feminine physical traits, though this wouldn't become obvious until 1968. When he was on the skinny side (which I loved, sue me) you could tell how beautifully delicate and dainty his bone structure was, way more than Paul's imo. He had those gorgeous long legs and graceful narrow hips that you most commonly find in fashion models. And I love that until at least 1975, he showcased his body beautifully, especially those legs.

Ironically I feel as if people didn't embrace John's femme beauty as well as they did with Paul. I don't know why. Most people seem to prefer him with the more masculine look of 1966. Which was great as well, he was gorgeous but I am a big fan of the 1968 to 1974 run. Btw, note to fanfic writers: please, show John's body some love, I know Paul is stunning but it's kind of exhausting reading 10 pages about how pretty he is and when it comes to my boy John he barely gets a paragraph 😂

Alright, I feel like I’m probably gonna rub a lot of people in this fandom the wrong way with what I’m going to say but this is my blog and you did send this to my inbox so here we go; At the end of the days these are my thoughts and feelings and I might not articulate them very well or I often ramble till I do!

I have my issues, and a complicated relationship with 1968-70s John Lennon. I love John, and thought him healthy and just right in his body type, basically up until 1968, and it’s spotty onward throughout the 70s. To me, John was naturally masculine looking, there’s not exactly an era or year that I could give you like you gave me [Specifically 1966? What about his teddy boy days? All of the early 60s? Hell even throughout the 70s, to me John still was masculine looking to me] He was a bit awkward in his teenhood, but all the boys were, and gradually grew into his adult body. Boy was built and sturdy, naturally thick and strong.

So we’re probably split on this, because while you see the positives in 1968-1974/70s John, I only really see the negatives. You say skinny, I say malnourished and/or sickly. Depressed druggie who was pushing everyone and everything he loved away, and becoming pathetically dependent on an individual like Yoko [and the other vultures during that time who were terrible influences]

George was skinny, John was not well and either starving himself or simply using drugs and alcohol as the basis for his diet. And diets.. don’t even get me started on that, the diets he was on, the unhealthy lifestyle that his wife only seemed to enable and help him get on.

When I look at George, sometimes I get the need to feed him, like an old Mexican mother. When I look at John, who’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight for what it looked like for his body type, I don’t see delicate and dainty bone structure. I see a man who just, he’s not well, something’s wrong.

I’ll give it to you that 1974 New York photoshoot looked very nice, he had muscle again in his arms, though he was still relatively skinny, he didn’t look sickly, or depressed. So I can give you that period during the 70s, I will give you that [hey he was away from Yoko during this no fucking wonder he looked pretty good here] and that shoot was definitely a model moment, wasn’t it? [Not like he didn’t have many of those moments throughout his life]

So there moments in the seventies where I think John doesn’t look half bad? Even relatively fine? Certainly, I’m devastatingly attracted to this man, dear God almighty have mercy on my soul yes I am. So I’ll agree that yeah, there were periods during the 70s in which John seemed to hold himself fairly well, I’d still climb it.

But I’m at least willing to admit that when John started his spiraling, in 1968, that he was Not Okay. And I personally believe he wasn’t all that okay throughout most of the 70s too... Maybe my issue isn’t with him being ‘skinny’ as it is I don’t like the underweight/severely underweight look on John, I just don’t. The incredibly unhealthy way he went about losing weight... Physically frail doesn’t fit him, and it only upsets me whenever I see photos of him that show how thin his legs became or how you can see his ribs, just how wasted away he’d look at times throughout the 70s, up until the last days of his life.

You want a “skinny” or ''skinnier'' John Lennon? A healthy, ‘’skinny/skinnier’’ John Lennon for his body type, is ‘66 and ‘67 in my eyes, and even then it wasn’t a radical change in weight loss; John still looked like John.

And speaking of 1968-1969, or the White Album era; don’t think it isn’t lost on me when I see people making light of John’s unhygienic appearance during the making of the White Album. Boy was depressed and hurting for whatever reason, again, spiraling, and getting lost in Yoko and heroin as a means of escapism and someone to tell him ‘it’s alright it isn’t your fault it’s everyone else’s fault’. Of course he didn’t care much for his personal appearance or hygiene... I will say I appreciate your appreciation for him during that period, instead of getting the whole ‘stinky/smelly rat man.’ Maybe I’m too much of a ‘’stan’’ but I don’t find it very amusing or endearing.

Don’t find me mocking or ‘’teasing’’ Paul’s depressed ass and his appearance during the breakup period/white album era-- but I suppose it’s because Paul actually tried and wasn’t on hard drugs, and had a good wife, so he was able to wear his depression and struggle with alcoholism a bit better, hmm? I don’t like Paul’s beard simply because I know it was the result of his lack of energy, depression, and falling into the drink-- he simply didn’t feel the need nor had the energy to care for himself, so that’s why he let it grow out. I don’t like it because of that, but that’s as much as you’ll get from me.

Anyway... Maybe I just don’t see John as characteristically feminine/effeminate as Paul, although he has his moments of acting and wearing clothes that are campy and elegant or give off a softer appearance, specifically around 1968 and throughout the 70s. But otherwise, I can’t agree, John didn’t have the same mixture, or balance of masculine and feminine traits as Paul-- and if it’s only made obvious during the downfall turning point of The Beatles and John (1968), then I don’t think that really counts as a ‘’lovely’’ mix of masculine and feminine traits for the reasons I mentioned. So I’ve got to disagree. John's always come off as much more masculine, or naturally masculine, both physically and characteristically, to me.

You know maybe it’s just the blogs I interact with, but I feel like it’s the other way around. I know I can sometimes come off as aggressive but at the end of the day I don’t necessarily care what one person thinks or believes, since it’s all relatively subjective to our own ideas of things and biases, etc... I have my thoughts and beliefs and theories and whether people agree or disagree with them on tumblr dot com... Well, what’re you gonna do? Nothing, it’s not my problem.

What I 100% agree on you with is about showing Johnny’s body a bit more love and attention to detail when it comes to writing about him in fanfiction!

There’s his auburn red hair, a darker ginger, which was thick and fun to watch as it lit up like fire when sunlight hit him, and could easily go wavy and curl when left unkempt and natural. The splattered and scattered galaxies of light freckles up and down his arms, his shoulders, his back, even a couple on his face. His aquiline nose, a relatively square jawline and facial structure, thick, heavy eyebrows which really intensify expressions of rage and hurt, almond shaped eyes which are the color of honey-amber when the light hits them just right and outlined with thick, long lashes, blind as a bat without his glasses but can give a mean squint which either helps scare off trouble, or brings it right to him, especially when he’s got thin bitten lips that could pull off a devilishly cheeky smirk or a no-good, charming grin to showcase teeth with the upper front turned slightly in towards each other, gives that imperfection which truly just perfects it-- a face like that of a tragic hero in a Greek Romance, distinctive and handsome. How he just oozed filthy sex and genuine trouble, sweaty leather and smoky dancehalls and rock & roll that crawls up your spine like an orgasm. Hips that could roll like Elvis and strong legs, thick thighs which would make a lovely place to sit. Broad shoulders, strong arms that could easily manage to lift you up and manhandle you in any way he’d like. Big hands, almost like shovels-- beautiful hands, with fingernails usually bitten short and occasionally had black ink or charcoal under them from when he’d be working on art, and rough, callused fingertips from playing guitar till they split and bleed, add a lovely roughness to any gentle touching he might do. A naturally thick midsection, a normal, healthy layer of fat which covers the sinewy just beneath. Any hair is light, light and lightly colored, on his arms and legs and chest. Cute tush, nice butt, a nice boy butt, slightly muscular bubble butt.

Fun facts; he had the largest feet out of all four Beatles. John isn’t circumcised. John and George share the same height. John has a surprisingly long tongue. John’s skin tone may be light, but for comparison, he’s much tanner compared to Paul-- he’s a bit more olive or wheat to his skin tone, and tanned very, very well. John’s cheeks could become easily red though. John liked the scent of citrus to wear-- he was also self conscious about the fact he could easily sweat and so usually wore such colognes or scents, didn’t want to smell bad. He started smelling of witch hazel when with Yoko. Despite his issue with sweating, he didn’t smell bad naturally. John was a true romantic, being an artist outside of being a musician/rock and roller-- he just didn’t like to show it, and growing up in his time, you couldn’t. John’s a swimmer, he loved to swim and loved the ocean.

#questionsquestionsquestions #beatles discussion/discourse #these are my feelings and thoughts and i can't feel bad for them

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cockasinthebird · 3 years

Text

Laced up and ready to get dirty

Fingers tighten around the leather of the steering wheel, tensing till his knuckles go white then relaxing again. Deep breath in, then a long exhale. In… and out...

Steve is excited and thrilled and eager but also completely, devastatingly… nervous.

He angles the rearview mirror to look at himself and fidgets with his hair- not that it needs to be retouched for the fifteenth time today already, but it buys him time. Precious time to waste away on hesitation, and the longer he gets to hesitate, the less likely he is to actually.... He glances down the tan, buttoned up trench coat and triple checks that it’s closed all the way up and pulls on the belt to tighten it around his waist till he loses breath, JUST to be safe and secure.

It was a stupid spur-of-the-moment idea he got last week when he was visiting Hawkins to clear out whatever was left of his childhood home; his parents selling it now that Steve doesn’t live there anymore, all with such a lack of grace that shows they never really cared for that house, as if it was nothing more than a lavish cage for their only child. In a bag of clothes marked for donation - his father’s idea of philanthropy - Steve found an old Burberry trench coat, truly as fashionable and fitting now as it was back then, only difference being that as an adult who pays for everything himself, this coat would now be the most expensive thing in his and Billy’s entire apartment. Maybe he should have been more grateful for all that he had back then, or so his father would say whenever he found time to reprimand his son, but that wasn’t what he needed.

“Arrh, fuck!” Steve groans and rubs his face in hopes of recentering himself on the task at hand. He could mope around and be sad about his terrible father later, right now there’s more important things to do.

Such as opening the door to the same old BMW, the car soon on its last legs, having only survived this many years thanks for Billy’s expertise truly. It’s a bit colder out on the street than Steve expected, or maybe just a bit too windy, but he isn’t exactly wearing it to stay warm as much as he is to stay covered.

The hem of it grazes against the top of his suede boots as he takes decisive but careful steps around his car, now facing the open carport that exposes the inner works of the small service shop. It’s been almost a year since Billy got hired here as a mechanic, and it is possibly the happiest Steve’s ever seen him. Neither of them ever dreamed of big and important lives, no wanting to be a doctor or president or astronaut. All they wanted to be was happy, and they’ve found it in the simplest way possible.

He spots Billy immediately, past all the sweaty men, scattered car parts, and open hoods, he sees his boyfriend rise up from having just been shoulders deep in the guts of a shiny pontiac, coveralls tied around his waist, his white tank soaked with sweat, arms stained black with oil and grease.

The sight of it all sends delightful shivers down Steve’s entire body, ears to toes, and as he watches Billy wipe away sweat from his brow, well suddenly Steve’s far more confident in what he came here to do.

It shows in the way he marches towards Billy, who turns with a cocked brow at the assertive footsteps approaching him, where once he sees that it’s Steve demanding his attention, the most effortlessly smooth and charming smile spreads across his face, lids heavy to match the way Steve stares - something so salacious in the way his eyes glide up and down Billy’s dirty body, shiny with sweat.

“What are you doing here, princess?” Billy asks in a low and gravelly tone, quickly glancing around to see if anyone heard.

“Hmmm well…” Steve coos and plays lightly with the belt of his coat, the way his fingers flirt with the fabric hopefully clear with his intent, then speaks bluntly, “I woke up kinda horny today, y’know? Thought I’d save it for later- for when you come home, and tried distracting myself with doing the dishes or vacuum or anything really, but my hand just kept going down to jerk myself off-”

“Jesus Christ Stevie,” Billy breathes harshly.

“-and so eventually I wound up back in bed, on my knees, three fingers deep in me-” Steve wiggles said fingers for certain emphasis. “-but it just wasn’t enough. I need something thicker and veinier.”

With every word his stomach ties knots around itself, yet his dick is filled with life at how risky this is, with how much he needs to feel Billy pounding him sore and weak.

“And what do you want me to do about that?” Billy licks his lips, a hand reaching down to inconspicuously cup at his growing erection.

“I was hoping you could help me with my little problem? Ensuring that my engine is properly lubricated,” Steve’s naughty little smile fails at his own words, growing wider and betraying the sexy facade.

But it doesn’t seem that Billy minds as he laughs a bit too loud, biting his lower lip as if that would help keep his own smile more casual than one filled with exuberant joy. “You’re a menace- that was absolutely horrible,” he chuckles and brings both hands to his hips.

“Don’t be mean, I worked on it all the way here!” Steve’s own amusement bubbling over and into his voice.

Billy dares take a step closer, eyes slipping from Steve’s lips down his neck, pausing where he should be able to see the collar of a shirt. “You don’t have to try so hard for me, baby. Just tell me what you need, and maybe I can be of assistance.”

Steve’s expression dips back into something most indecent, his gaze burning with desire, pink lips parted as he slowly enunciates, “I need you to fuck me, hard and rough. I want your hands all over me, want your cock in me so fucking bad I think I might go insane without it. Please Billy, I-I can’t wait till you get home,” desperation seeps in as his tone goes almost whiny.

And Billy gapes like a fish, lips hesitating around emptiness as he tries to formulate thoughts. He glances around the shop, up at a clock hanging above the “Employees Only” sign, brow furrowed as he contemplates his options, all the while Steve waits as patiently as he can, pulling the belt tighter around his waist as if it would magically open up if he didn’t.

“Why don’t we… step into my office, and I’ll see what I can do?”

Unfortunately by “office” Billy meant the blindingly bright, claustrophobically small employee bathroom. It’s maybe 6 by 6 feet large and not at all what Steve had in mind, but he’s not going to complain about the abnormally large mirror above the sink. And at least it looks clean… enough.

Steve’s quick to turn to Billy as soon as the lock clicks, grabbing on to the white tank and using it to guide him to sit down on the toilet.

Billy, however, disagrees with that immediately and moves to touch Steve, who just as swiftly grabs his wrist, restricting his reach.

"Billy-" he starts off a bit agitated, but smoothes into something more agreeable, "Baby, if you get my coat dirty, you'll be eating cornflakes till you can afford to send it to the dry cleaner."

The way Billy laughs at that is mocking in a sense, but his shitty grin simply reminds Steve of the thrill he felt back in high school, after they started fucking around but before they became serious about one another.

"Forgot what a priss you can be sometimes, princess," he drawls and leans back, licking his lips as he settles with something vaguely familiar to patience.

“Hmmm…” Steve hums, slowly untying the belt of his coat. “You like that I’m high maintenance sometimes.”

He smoothly slips out of the heavy boots.

“Makes you feel real good about yourself though, getting to fuck someone with above average standards.”

In a show of how agile and limber he is, Steve stretches out his leg where the coat parts in front, and hooks his heel over Billy’s shoulder. Who in turn stares with a bit wider eyes at the silky soft, pastel pink nylon stockings clinging to Steve’s shin. Billy’s grip on his own thighs tighten with self restraint, the urge to touch the smoothness of Steve nearly unbearable.

“Did you shave your legs?”

“I did, for you.” Steve generally doesn’t care about leg hair, but found it a bit awkward looking when his thick, dark hairs stuck out of the bright nylon. “Wanna see what else I’ve shaved?”

Leisurely but with gentle pressure, Steve lets his foot glide down Billy’s chest, over his abs and all the sweat stains of his tank, past where the sleeves of his coveralls have been tied together, till he finds Billy’s hard cock tenting already, eliciting a lurid little hiss as he rubs it with the sole of his foot.

“God, you’re so easy, baby,” Steve speaks low with intent, drawing circles, revelling in the choked groans. “Getting you hard like this is effortless.”

At an all too agonizing pace, deliberate and mean, Steve unbuttons his coat from the bottom and up, exposing more and more of his thighs, the build up thrilling him as he watches how Billy sweats and struggles to remain dormant. Oh how he cannot wait to get the coat off and let his boyfriend ravage him completely, even the mere thought of it makes his own prick throb and beg for attention.

Billy stares with the most attention he’s probably ever shown any one person, eyes following the movement of Steve’s fingers, up and up and up, until a hint of lace gets revealed at the end of the stocking, cute and floral and feminine, a dozen small roses hugging the pale flesh, shiny straps leading further up to hide beneath the tan of the trench coat.

Steve caresses his thigh, hooking a finger beneath the strap and pulls it up only to let it snap back against his skin loudly, the sound reverberating, all the while never looking away from how Billy watches with intense hunger.

The burning gaze affixed to fingers follow right along, as Steve makes a bit of a jump and starts unbuttoning from the top now. One by one, till he runs his index along the hem, up to where it grazes against his neck, to pull slowly so that one shoulder can slip out, uncovering the strap of what can only be a bra, reaching down to hold on to delicate lace.

Harsh sighs escapes Billy as he attempts to control his breathing and himself, tongue darting out to wet his lips - Steve can feel the way Billy’s fat cock pumps full of blood beneath his foot.

There’s only two buttons left, and as one of them falls free, the coat drops down to bunch around Steve’s waist and the sink he’s leaning against, putting the pink, lacy bralette on full display; roses and leafs arranged into small triangles that sits tight against Steve’s pecks, his nipples just barely visible beneath the gorgeous and elegant fabric.

“Stevie, babe, please, I’m going to explode here,” Billy complains in an almost hilariously irritated manner, raising his hand up towards Steve’s thigh-

“No touching yet, I’m not done.” Steve swiftly kicks away that dirty hand.

“Thought you needed me to fuck you so bad,” the mocking response comes as Billy’s hand retreats to dig into his pocket.

And Steve pauses with his fingers around the final button that will unravel everything. “Well yes, but the thrill of anticipation gets me so hard.”

He pushes it out, wraps his hands around the coat and slowly pulls it apart, like a curtain revealing a true masterpiece of craftsmanship. And if Billy’s eyes were wide before, they’re now threatening to pop out at the sight of the garter belt attached to the stockings hugging Steve’s waist perfectly, and a thong matching the bralette in shape and lace, that might once have had a chance of containing all that Steve is, but now his long, full dick reaches up towards the belt with hard pride.

“Holy fucking shit,” Billy gapes, “I didn’t forget our anniversary or something, did I?”

Steve chuckles and blushes slightly at the attention and knowledge of just how stunning he looks. “Can’t I just surprise my boyfriend for no reason other than fun?”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m also sure you have some ulterior motive… not that I’m complaining.”

The sly smirk across Steve’s face suits him well as he slips out of the coat entirely, and reaches out to hang it on the hook attached to the bathroom door. Now fully exposed before Billy, Steve spreads his legs a bit further, runs his fingers lightly over the lace of his bra, and bats his eyes slowly.

Who stands up just as slowly, hesitantly, as if he’s still awaiting orders, as if Steve will tell him to stop and sit down any second now. When he reaches out Steve grabs his wrist, firm and assertive, but doesn’t linger in that moment; brings Billy’s hand up and up to touch his cheek, brushing fingers against pale skin and defiling it with dark smudges of oil. Still Steve doesn’t relent as he guides the hand down again till the rough palm presses against his throat, and Billy takes the opportunity immediately to squeeze.

A gasp hurries out at the sudden tightness around his airway and Steve’s eyes rolls back with the pleasure that jolts through his system, making his already painfully hard prick pulsate worse.

“Fuck, Billy…”

The other hand lands on his thigh, besmirching the pretty pink there, pushing into the soft flesh. As Steve closes his eyes to enjoy the euphoric, brutish hold he’s under, Billy dives in all tongue and teeth, biting at his lower lip and licking in to taste how sweet his spit is. Steve lifts up his free leg to hook it around Billy’s hips, drawing him in, finally allowing them both some heady friction, encouraged by strangled moans.

“Mmh- arrh, shit, pretty boy, this really couldn’t wait till I got home?” Billy growls against Steve’s lips, tickling as they brush together.

“I- mmh-ah, I wanted you dirty and risky like this,” Steve coos as low as he can and chases a kiss, but Billy leans away with such a shit eating grin. “Billy-” Another chase. “-Billy, please.”

“Don’t gotta beg, princess,” Billy’s laugh rumbles like thunder on a summer night; warm and deep and comforting

He takes a step back, Steve’s body instinctively trying to follow at the abrupt lack of touch, and with quick hands Billy undoes the way the sleeves are tied around his waist, unzips the rest of his coveralls that fall without effort to the floor, and pulls down his dark trunks enough for his steely cock to practically spring free.

The way Steve audibly inhales at the sight of it is almost humoristic, his body now acutely aware of everything that’s about to happen.

“How do you want it?” Billy drawls.

And it brings Steve back from the more indecent places his mind went at the sight of what he’s been hungering for all day. Half of him wants to drop to his knees and suck Billy dry till he’s delirious, the winning half however… He looks away for only as long as it takes him to retrieve the small and discreet bottle of lube from his coat pocket and pops it open before Billy can even speak again. He pours it into his own palm and closes his hand around Billy’s thick dick, stroking him quickly with impatience, slicking up every inch of hard flesh.

“I want you to fuck me from behind, bend me over the sink and pound my hole till I’m on the verge of tears,” Steve’s voice a lewd little thing, a salacious whisper only Billy would ever be found worthy of hearing, ghosting across his lips.

To which the only appropriate response Billy deem fit is to grab on to his boyfriend’s naked hips and spin him around, leaving clear, gross handprints that get smudged when those same hands smooth their way down to fill out with Steve’s ass.

Steve’s all too eager to bend down over the short sink, bracing himself on the porcelain edges as he watches how Billy admires the view through the mirror. The way those clear blue eyes stare down at his exposed self, tongue out to lick his lips like a wolf would before pouncing on an innocent lamb; it makes his heart beat faster, drowning his senses in quick waves of heavy lust.

“So pretty for me, baby, all laced up and fingered, wish you could see this.”

Billy gazes up through his lashes to meet Steve in their reflection. He grins with his tongue caught between teeth as he raises his hand just enough for Steve to have a moment of realisation before there’s a loud smack and stinging sensation.

“Mmh- ah! Fuck…” Steve barely manages to catch the moan with a bite of lips, his cock dripping with pre cum into the sink, whining with elation as the firm palm on his ass massages the red print.

A finger hooks itself on the slight string of the thong that runs between spread cheeks, pulls it aside, allowing Billy a good eyeful of Steve’s rim still wet with lube.

“You really just stood out in the shop in nothing but this, all slippery and ready for me to fuck your tight little hole with my fat cock?” He pulls on the fabric till it can’t stretch any further, wrapping it around a finger to allow himself freedom to grab on to Steve’s ass again. “Came all this way because you needed me to fill you up with my cum so bad.”

The blunt head of his cock lines up perfectly with Steve’s greedy entrance, and the poor, needy brunette can’t help but push against it, eyes fluttering closed as he slowly slides further and further along Billy’s dick, who hums with appreciation at the way the other is so willing to do all the work, velvety muscles clenching around him when he bottoms out.

“That good for you?” he asks kindly and squeezes Steve’s fleshy, pale cheeks.

Steve draws shallow circles with his ass pressed firmly against Billy’s hips, breathing in a manner that would be moans at home in bed, panting and sighing now; low drawn out hums. He sounds relieved, like Billy’s girthy cock was exactly what he needed, swallowing thickly as he nods, incapable of words lest they come out too loud.

Billy leans in to kiss up Steve’s shoulder, giving every mole on his way the attention they deserve, moves up his neck to the shell of his ear, snaking an arm around to hold Steve by the throat softly and tenderly.

“You’re so fucking tight, princess,” he purrs and nibbles at Steve’s ear as he leisurely starts moving his hips back and forth, adoring how breathless Steve looks in their reflection, mouth hanging open.

With his other hand he leaves a trail of oil stains up Steve’s stomach, leading to where Billy smoothes his fingers across shaved pecs, caressing the skin as he teases the frilly edges of the pink bralette, his every touch like fire igniting inside of Steve, his body tensing delightfully.

Billy squeezes tighter around Steve’s throat, a gesture that can be felt vividly in the way his wet dick pulsates and drips - pre cum running down his aching flesh to wet the thong even worse. The thrusts grow longer and deeper, Billy pulling out till just the head is inside, then tentatively pushes back in till he’s balls deep, and every time he runs over that certain spot inside of Steve a sensuous little gasp escapes those perfect lips.

“Look at what a mess you are, baby.” He brings them as close as possible - Steve’s back against his chest, rim choking around the base of his cock.

And Steve opens his eyes just enough to get a good view of how oil and grease has stained his pale skin and somewhat expensive lingerie, pastel roses and delicate embroidery defiled and tarnished beyond repair no doubt. His painfully hard dick that with a stroke or two would have him come undone. Billy’s crystal clear eyes that stare back intently; hungry- no, starved for this.

“A beautiful…” Billy kisses Steve’s neck with undeniable love and infatuation. “Needy…” Lips at the crook of his neck. “Desperate…” His shoulder. “Mess.”

Billy pulls out and slams back in so suddenly it barely leaves Steve time to catch his lucid gasp before it would have been heard from outside the door. Billy’s hips snap against Steve’s ass again and again at an indelicate pace, his teeth sunk into a shoulder as he bites back his moans, eyes trained on the way Steve’s brows knit together, eyes squeezed shut tight as he struggles with his own wanting to give sound to the burning desire lighting him up.

Skin slapping together, the obscenely wet sounds of Billy pounding Steve’s hole, ramming against that glorious sweet spot over and over, it’s intoxicating, fueling the white hot fire that coils at the bottom of Steve’s gut. Both of Billy’s hardened hands grab at Steve’s pecs, the skin of his fingers toughened up from fiddling with engines all day, rough against Steve’s sensitive nipples as Billy pulls down the bra to pinch and squeeze.

“Mmh ah- fuck-” Steve’s eyes roll back at the flourishing bliss that forms in his chest. “Billy…”

“Yeah, you like that?” A rhetorical question that barely receives an answer before Billy presses his dirty thumbs harder against the strutting buds.

Steve’s thighs tremble from it all, teeth biting at his lower lip as he fights every instinct to let it all out. And from the way Billy leers and grins mischievously at the sight in the mirror, there can be no doubt he knows.

Moves his hands to grab Steve’s hips with near bruising tension as he starts slamming into him, thrusting with intense fervor; the pace punishing and the sounds of how their bodies collide worse. Billy’s eyes are pinned to the spread of cheeks where his steely cock pounds into his boyfriend’s tight, slippery hole, his breathing ragged and tongue out wagging enthusiastically.

And Steve’s helplessly lost in his own euphoria of the moment; a hand flies up to clasp at his mouth, the other pressing against the mirror for the sake of balance so as to not get shoved against it whenever Billy rams inside, helping Steve inch closer and closer to climax, with breathless groans and grunts, sighs and whines, all too loud for such a public setting, yet not loud enough for such an intimate act.

Billy bends over to press his sweaty forehead against Steve’s shoulder, gaze still locked to where heat flares up at every plunge, at the way Steve’s body clings to his veiny dick.

“You’re so perfect like this, baby,” his voice rough like wet gravel, “So eager and greedy. Gonna cum in you, Stevie boy, fill you up till you’re ready to burst.”

“Please,” the self-restraint apparent in his tone. “I-I’m so close.”

Then there’s a hand in his hair, yanking and pulling his flushed face off of the mirror and back, his intense breathing fogging up the mirror as he struggles to keep hushed through his sudden orgasm that washes through him, the intensity blinding, his every nerve buzzing vividly at the unexpected release till there’s nothing left in him, but the sensation of Billy vigorously driving his girthy cock in and out, sending forth slight waves of static heat.

Till it comes to a stop with one forceful shove, the hand in his hair tightening, the fingers by his hip digging in, as Billy buries himself completely, pressing Steve against the sink till his thighs hurt from the porcelain edge jabbing him.

But it’s worth it to feel how every muscle flexes, Billy’s teeth closing around Steve’s shoulder to muffle his deep rooted moan that almost escapes in its entirety. Worth it when Billy comes down from his high and relaxes again, yet stays here like this, softening inside of Steve’s well used hole, arms wrapping around his chest to hold him close whilst they both catch their breaths.

Billy kisses gentle apologies across the imprints his teeth made on Steve’s skin, up his neck and as far across his cheek and jaw as he can reach from behind.

And Steve simply stands still, caught between his boyfriend’s broad figure and the white sink, convinced he would fall if Billy stepped back. He leans into the loving attention he’s receiving, every press of lips to his sweaty skin a blissful little source of tender satisfaction. When he finally opens his eyes again after having mindlessly drifted away in the afterglow, he just barely catches the way Billy glances down and grins in a rather humoured way.

“At least you got most of it in the sink,” he rumbles against Steve’s shoulder.

Looking down Steve sees his cum splattered into the sink, yet a few good drops made it up around the faucet and almost even to the wall. Yet his first thought is that he could have made it onto the mirror if he had jerked himself off to completion.

“Who’s going to clean it up?” Steve huffs a little laugh and meets Billy’s gaze in their reflection.

Who tries to hide his smile with kisses. “Hmmm I dunno, kinda wanna see what happens if we just leave it like this; who my boss is gonna blame for cumming in the employee’s bathroom.”

“Gross.”

“It’s yours, princess,” Billy chuckles out and rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“So you’re saying I should clean up after myself?”

“Mhm, yup,” the p pops.

When something changes in Steve’s expression, a clear difference from one second to another, lids heavy as he turns his head to look at Billy with lips inches apart.

“Then it’s only fair that you clean up after yourself, too, don’t you think?”

#Harringrove #My writing #lemon #4.4k words #Including some public fun #Mechanic!Billy #and Steve in lace lingerie #It's also on ao3 if that's easier to read

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oneweekoneband · 3 years

Text

meet me behind the mall!!!!!!!!!

youtube

I don’t know why Taylor Swift thinks that teenagers drink wine, and I don’t know why she chose to record and release a wistful high-school-other-woman song which left me feeling naked as a frog and therefore furious. Some questions we ask only so as to be soothed by the familiar sound of our own voice, still there after all. The answers are not coming.

The Taylor Swift Teen Love Triangle Triad of “cardigan”, “august”, and “betty” is the part of folklore that makes me most bullish about where Taylor is going as an artist. A turn away from writing songs which are intentionally meant to appear confessional and toward, instead, songs which reveal the personal as refracted through fictitious circumstances and made-up characters is a better use of her big, weird brain, and allows that brain to be unleashed on a broader plain of experience. It’s incredibly embarrassing to be an adult woman with my own problems to manage and to have living in my head Taylor Swift’s demented YA fiction, but it’s an embarrassment that feels appropriate, like I could never really have escaped this fate. On “betty” she gets to play-act as a contrite teen boy who knows he’s done wrong, and while obviously the most charming thing about the song is Taylor saying “fuck” (and also her giving us a little of the ol’ razzle dazzle by way of some light twang), her experiment with imagining what it’s like to be a skateboarding kid who hates dances, trying on an imagined teen boy interiority as a costume, is effective too.

“cardigan” is more removed, less plaintive and shouty. This is a song from adult Betty’s perspective looking back on this period in her life and in her relationship with James, who the song seems to imply she is still with now. While—full offense—I believe marrying your high school girlfriend or boyfriend is a disorder which should have its own listing in the DSM, restoring order by putting the original couple back together so as to make the story one of true love triumphing over adversity, rather than a series of sketches of kids doing fuckup kid things just because it is not easy to be alive and to be alive alongside others and with gentleness, least of all when you are very new at it, is the only conclusion this saga could ever have reached with Ms. Swift at its helm, and I do appreciate the consistent, if baby-brained, internal logic. I’ve never known a teenage girl whose signature garment was a cardigan and, frankly, this Betty sounds like sort of a self-absorbed drip (I do love, love, how Taylor’s own voice comes through so clearly on the lightly threatening, smug lines, “I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired / And you’d be standing in my front porch light” !!) so I’m not totally surprised she got cheated on, but that’s very uncharitable of me and probably comes from the same meaty polyp in my brain that is responsible for my still loving all the hilariously mean-spirited, woman-hating songs on Speak Now.

“august” is about the other girl. The “her” in James’ rather pathetic defense, “slept next to her, but I dreamt of you all summer long”. “august” tells a story that brings to my mind another story. It is a story I won’t belabor because it is neither exciting nor unique. It will not illuminate an unexplored human experience, as it is, in fact, incredibly boring, regular, an incident which would be at home in any normal Tuesday, ordinary as meeting at the mall. This is a million years ago and there is a boy whose basement I go to sometimes after swim practice. We have matching team sweatpants with our names embroidered above the pocket at the right hip and I like to switch pairs. I’m you and you’re me and when we have pushed and bent the tiredness out of our muscles together, making experimental declarations in hushed voices down there while the furnace groans, well, then I’m you and me and you’re you and me and we are we are we are.

One February day at twilight I bound out of the school building with wet hair and a fleece jacket, but his car is already gone. No worries. Standing at my locker the next afternoon like in a movie he will say, easy as anything, that he has a girlfriend, a family friend, two towns over, she goes to private school. You’ve probably met her, he says. And right then I remember that I have. Last year I did her zipper in the bathroom at a dance. We were fighting but we never really broke up, he says. For months you’ve been fighting? is all I say back. Fighting since October? As if that matters. Like that’s the point. My voice is pinched and ugly and I know I’ll hear that sound forever. Well, anyway... I feel bad. He doesn’t clarify for whom he feels bad. He’s got one sneaker toe working against the other one atop the tile floor that’s the murky green of sea glass. He looks at my St Brigid’s cross necklace, at the blue Masterlock hanging open like a broken jaw, at someone in a hoodie who punches his shoulder as they walk by. Nothing personal, he says, and there is a tiny smudge of cafeteria pizza at the corner of his mouth that I hadn’t noticed until that second and a day ago would’ve reached up and wiped away with the pad of my thumb, laughing. I get it, right? Oh, sure.

The worst of it was not skipping pre-calc to cry in the bathroom, since, I mean, I couldn’t actually do pre-calc and would never learn how, but was inspecting my soul in the dark when I couldn’t sleep that night and finding part of me had known this all along, had chosen to pretend, wanted the wanting so badly I’d knocked from my brain the truth of how it was going to end. This would not be the last false love from which I’d find myself unceremoniously discarded, and in time I’d learn to be the liar myself, too. It’s unseemly to pathologize bad decisions, to take on poor impulse control or self-destructive patterns as an identity, but I do think that just as some people are born serial monogamists, part of a twosome forever with very little mess in-between, some of us were built from the very first cell to live like a pool ball struck and banging teeth first into the wrong mouths and hearts. I can examine my romantic history and tap my finger against the obvious errors, the times I chose what I knew would hurt me, when I ascribed hope to situations where it did not belong, when I, like the narrator of “august”, regarded someone as not mine to lose but still put myself in the position to be harmed by the losing, yet I can’t produce alternative choices that feel realistic. If you are in love and it doesn’t work out, there is mourning, there is pain, but there is all the while a record which shows something happened, it was real. “august” stands somewhat apart in the Taylor Swift catalog as a song neither about the glory of true love or the heartbreak when it’s over, but about the small, paper cut heartbreaks that are inescapable during each day of an untrue love. “It was never mine”. When it turns out you were wrong the whole time, fooling yourself, then even remembering that you’d been happy in the lie is like being trapped in a fun house, body bent and broken in the mirror, a thing not built right for this world.

“august” is about the girl who James was with over the summer, the girl he leaves to return to Betty. Taylor said it’s the first of the three that she wrote, and I fear this has warmed me to her in some new and unsettling way. I fear this means she’s matured as a person and writer, capable now of a more expansive view of situations, to be generous. It’s like how you shouldn’t feed gremlins after midnight; there is no telling what new and more dangerous creature this woman might turn into if she’s suddenly been taught empathy. When Taylor-as-James in “betty” sings, “Would you trust me if I told you it was just a summer thing?” in his effort to woo Betty back I hate him a little, that thoughtless child undeserving of the kind of adoration in lines like, “your back beneath the sun / wishing I could write my name on it.” I try to extend grace to this fictional boy, but I think of the “Do you remember? in “august” and I feel a little sick from being so certain that no... No, he doesn’t. Not really.

“Back when we were still changing for the better / wanting was enough / for me it was enough”. I’d like to think there is no last chance to change for the better. I’d like to think wanting is enough so long as you want the right thing. I’d like to think that God made sure Taylor Swift became a singer instead of a young adult novelist because the absolute last thing this world needed was this freak joining the circus that is YA Twitter. Most of all, I like thinking that Judy Blume knows that her beautiful, searing, devastatingly romantic and also textually gay 1998 novel Summer Sisters is the only important book that has ever been published, and, further, that the world will show me the respect of understanding and accepting that “august”, when removed from the context of the Swiftian child romance trilogy, sounds as if it were specifically written in homage. Taylor, I know I’ve accused you of at least fifty crimes this week alone, but if you want to talk about Summer Sisters, please get in touch.

#taylor swift #folklore

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centuryofdean · 4 years

Text

Of Food and Comfort - Part 8

Author Note:: Very smutty. Smut. Not well written, but smut. I have no idea where this came from O.O

Be warned. Only 18+ NSFW Readers.

Author Disclaimer:: Marvel and its characters are not mine. I take no credit. Instead I claim the maybe not so great plot, writing and characteristics of the reader insert character. I am not a die hard Marvel fan, I haven’t read all the comics, but have watched the movies. I may get some things wrong, so please don’t hate me. I also have been incorporating Old Norse as terms of endearment.

Summary:: You worked for Tony Stark as a…mechanic of sorts. Anything around the Avengers compound that needed a technicians touch, you handled. With working and living there, you had grown to be friendly with the super heroes. Of course you had grown to have feelings for one of them. The muscled Thunder God to be exact.

Rated:: M for Mature. Please do not read this story unless you are 18+. Smut. NSFW

Pairing:: Thor x Reader

Over the next five days there was little time you got to spend with Thor. Mostly he was off speaking with his father while you were left to either roam the palace or settle into the library to read. When he returned, he walked you around Asgard, introduced you to his friends and took you to eat at some of the restaurants. There was one time you took a lovely nap in the garden just before dinner while he was gone once. It was a little frustrating to not have been spending more time with Thor, but you tried not to let it both you. He was very important here, you knew this.

Towards the end of the fifth day, you were once again in the library, looking through books you could not read waiting for Thor to find you. When he strolled through, you were a little bleary eyed from squinting at the foreign letters in the dim lighting. Once more he was wearing the simplistic Asgardian clothing you had found entirely attractive on him. You smiled up at him, stretching as you rose up to stand. Thor glanced at the book you had set on the armchair of the seat and back at you.

Without another word, he stepped around you and easily slid into the large plush love seat you had occupied. His arm came around your middle and pulled you down onto his lap and then pulled the book out with the other. While you adjusted your dress to cover your curled legs properly, Thor’s deep voice started reading aloud.

It was a book about the realms that Asgard looked over. The way he spoke, read aloud and ran his hand up and down your arm was devastatingly smoothing. Almost enough to make you want to close your eyes and fall asleep. Instead you were gazing at him openly. How was it that you were lucky enough to have been graced with a man—a God—like Thor? Ultimately kind, a fierce warrior and a gentle partner. It was the little things like this that warmed your heart.

Not to mention how incredibly attractive he was. He had let his beard grow out a little more than the normal scruff he adorned. It only seemed to be all the more sexy with his deep voice. It grew perfectly around his lips, down his cheeks and along his jaw to trail his neck. It was slightly darker than his hair, which had also grown.

“Drotting,” he chuckled amused, “are you even paying attention to the story?”

“Sorry,” you murmured, “I got a little distracted.”

His hand closed the book and set it on the arm again, “Distracted? How so? What else could have captured your attention?”

Your fingers already rose, trailing through his beard and up over his jaw to his hair. “Just by you is all,” you smiled, eyes trailing over his cheeks and to his hair, finally landing on his eyes. “How lucky I am that you…that you—me, us.” Suddenly it was really had to phrase your words, to try to describe what you were feeling.

“T’is I who is the lucky one,” he rumbled deeply. A deep flush took over your face again as he leaned in. You would never tire of the feeling of his lips against yours. Granted it had only been a handful of days that you have been graced with them, but damn, they were devious.

With every press of your lips, you worked your way up so that you were straddling his thigh and kneeling slightly above him. Your fingers were finally combing through his hair, using it to pull him closer to your face. Thor’s large hands grasped your hips, gently guiding them down so you were sitting on his thigh. The kiss grew, to something a little frantic that left you entirely breathless. Breaking away for breath, you gasped when his beard scraped a path after his lips down your throat.

Instinctively, your hips rolled to ease the ache that had been steady building. Thor hummed in approval, one hand pushing and pulling your hips again across his thigh while the other gathered up your hair and fisted it behind your head.

Your eyes opened, immediately looking down to see your dress bunched up across the tops of your thighs, knees resting just on the edge of the couch. Another soft tug at your hair ripped another quiet moan from your throat. How was it having your hair yanked felt good? Thor’s knee bounced once, causing you to yelp in the sudden change in gravity and bring both hands down to rest on his thigh in front of you while your feet found purchase on the ground.

“Go ahead,” his voice was ragged.

Confusion filtered your head as you furrowed your brows. Thor’s hand came to your hip again, pressing you down and across his leg rhythmically. The friction against your thinly clothed center caused pleasure to erupt up and into your stomach.

“You want me to—to r-ride your thigh,” you asked as your eyes widened.

His blue irises finally looked up to meet your gaze at this. “Yes,” he groaned softly, “I want to watch you.”

A little shy, you gripped his thigh with your two hands while you worked your hips back and forth. Small jolts of ecstasy raced through you with each change of friction on your clit. A quick glance up to see his reaction was a little too much for you. Dark steel blue eyes were watching half lidded, zeroed in on your mostly covered center as it moved along the wide expanse of his leg. His hot hand had gripped your dress hem and bunched it up at your waist so he could see everything. It was only when his gaze moved up to look at your face, that you got more embarrassed.

The hand that was pulling your hair gently untangled from your locks. You assumed he was going to grab you by both hips to help, but instead it started at your shoulder and lowered down to cover your breast. Immediately goose bumps erupted over your chest and arms, a tingle starting in your breast that caused your nipple to harden in anticipation. He squeezed softly. The pleasure the came from the soft fondle was delicious. You cried out as your hips moved to seek more pleasure.

“Just like that,” he murmured, pressing his lips to your forehead. “You’re so beautiful schat.”

Distracted by your need, you leaned forward slightly, using one hand to guide one of his own through the top of the dress and onto your breast directly. The moment his warm flesh grazed even the top of your breast you whimpered and continued to grind yourself on him. Finally, his lips met your throat again, adding to all the wonderful sensations.

A cry of sorts left your clenched teeth as you lost inhibitions. It felt more amazing than anything you ever experienced—even better than getting licked between your legs. Maybe it was the combination of the semi-public location, it being Thor and the fact his voice was a turn on in itself—you weren’t sure. All you knew is that you needed to have the explosive pleasure, or you would cry real tears.

One of your hands cupped the back of his neck while the other helped you balance on his thigh. You were close, chasing your orgasm. Your back was starting to ache from all the bending and movement you were trying to do, but you needed it push it to the background for just a little bit longer. Your hips started to jerk a little more frantically when Thor’s lips receded from your neck and a sharp sting was met on the skin of your neck. It wasn’t painful by any means, but hurt just enough to throw you crashing headfirst into waves of pleasure. The nipping of his teeth only lasted long enough to help you reach your climax before retreating.

A small scream left your lips as you rode through it, eyes just barely open to see Thor watching intently. His top teeth were clenching his bottom lip as he flared his nose. The hand still on your breast moved slightly, a finger brushing against the nipple to heighten and lengthen the ecstasy for a few more seconds.

Soon the familiar small aftershocks jittered through your body and nerves. Panting for breath, you brought both arms up to throw around his neck so you could let him carry your whole weight. The pleasure outweighed the pain, but now that your release finished its course you were left with the ache in your back.

Thor’s hand slipped out of your dress, causing you to gasp softly at the lost of his heat. Both of his hands came to cup your back and rub up and down as you sighed in content. “That was the most glorious thing I have seen yet,” he murmured into your hair. Soon you were leaning up to press your lips against his in a quick kiss.

Still trying to even your breaths to control your heart, you slipped off his lap and onto the floor on your knees.

“Y/N—” his eyes widened when he said your name, but you only smiled and reached for the front of his pants.

“Let me,” you whispered, fingers sliding into the band of his pants and tugging softly. He grunted lowly while he helped you slip his pants down his thighs partially.

You could have never been prepared for what you saw.

Unlike the first night in Asgard when he stripped down to sleep in bed with you, Thor was not wearing any sort of boxers or briefs underneath his pants. This graced you with the sight of his complete nudity—below the waist at least.

Honestly throughout your whole sexually active life, you only had fooled around with or had sex with a handful of men. Handful, as in four or five men total. Seeing them naked for the first time was momentous, but with Thor it was almost legendary.

The moment he cleared his pants, his member bobbed up hard and slightly red, only to land lazily against the lower part of his abdomen. Dark blonde curls started scarcely somewhere under his shirt—you were guessing his belly button—and only thickened in size and mass as they descended down to the base of his length and onto his sac.

Unsurprisingly he was large, he was a God after all. Longer than average from your experience but you were concerned with the thickness alone. Yes, you knew it was totally possible for him to fit when it you were ready for sex, but it might be slightly painful in the process.

You were more than willing to endure that little pain when the time came.

Slowly, your fingers rose to trace just the top of his thigh, pressing his shirt up more so you could see his stomach. In a quick jerk of movement, his hand grasped the bottom of his shirt and pulled it up and to the side to reveal his toned abs. A soft squeak left you at the action, and you watched amazed as a small bead of precum trickled up onto the head of his cock.

With measured movements, you trailed your hand up to grasp his base softly while the other worked its thumb into his inner thigh. His hips twitched up. You moaned as you marveled at the softness of his sensitive skin.

A quick glance up at his face told you everything you needed to know. His brows were furrowed together, a sheen line of sweat coating his forehead. Teeth clenched tight and lips pulled back he grunted when you pulled up once. Taking your time, you started to trickle your lips from the top of his thigh, slowly to meet your hand that was working up and down. Your nose ran up the side of his member and let out a shaky breath as your tongue sneaked out to lap softly at the side.

Thor’s hips jerked quickly at the same time one of his hands snaked up into your hair.

After a deep breath, you licked the underside of him from base to tip and sampling his taste. It was salty and musky, though overall not terrible. There was a hint of a citrus to him, but you couldn’t pinpoint it. Swallowing with another deep breath, you finally brought him into your mouth. The deep whimpering moan that he let out the second he hit the back of your throat caused you to moan yourself. Not wanting to end up gagging and ruining the moment, you brought your hand up to stroke him the rest of the way.

You started slow, bobbing down and up while hollowing your cheeks for a better sensation. When you weren’t actively sucking, your tongue traced up, down and around to feel and taste everything you could. The more Thor moaned, twitched and pulled slightly on your hair; you grew more heated yourself. Soon, while you moved up and down his length with your lips, your own hips started to slowly thrust in tune with your mouth.

Resisting the urge to slip your free hand down your dress, you raised it to run your fingers over his heated stomach. Every time you came up and swirled your tongue around the head, Thor’s abdominal muscles constricted up and together, never truly relaxing.

Knowing your jaw was going to cramp soon due to the slight ache you felt, you increased your efforts. Both of your hands grasped him to move in tandem with your mouth that sucked harder and faster as you bobbed. This experience was slowly becoming one of your favorites. You never thought it would be this fun to go down on a man before, just because it seemed like a chore or a returned favor. though now, it was exhilarating to be the one to make him feel good, apparently really good if his moaning was anything to go by.

Thor was quite vocal, moaning and whispering—in Old Norse? Asgardian? Did Asgard have its own language?—his hips sputtering as you increased your efforts. Not once did his hand force your head or did he try to take control. At one point his gyrating hips became a little too ecstatic and hit the back of your throat, causing you to moan in surprise and gag as you continued to follow through with your bobbing.

The hand in your hair grew tight as it urged you up, suddenly in control, and then even higher and off of him. Immediately you gasped for breath, panting while you watched amazed as he gathered his shirt over his cock and gently rub into it. His eyes were closed, sweat had beaded up on his forehead while his teeth clenched, and nose flared with each soft grunt and motion of his hips.

You only got to watch this for a moment before his eyes flashed open, hand in your hair urging you up to meet him when he crashed your lips to his briefly. “That was marvelous schat,” his whispered deep and husky. “Thank you.”

Both of you sat, cuddled together on the smaller couch while your breaths calmed, kissing softly. Thor didn’t move to pull up his pants, but only to usher you into his lap more while he started to run his fingers through your hair. “I apologize if I was too rough with you,” he murmured pressing his lips to the side of your neck. With a hum of refusal, you leaned into his embrace more.

“No you weren’t, just surprised at…at the end,” you responded.

“I understand that not all women enjoy giving such pleasures, much less enjoy receiving the end-result of them.”

“Next time just let me—”

His arms tightened around you, nuzzling himself into the crook of your neck where he bit softly here and there. “Next time,” he chuckled inquiringly. “I am a lucky man indeed if you grace me with more.”

Soon he patted your thigh gently, urging you to rise. “We should refresh ourselves and change,” he said softly. “We are to eat with Father tonight.”

Suddenly a little nervous, you started to try and tame your hair while he guided you out of the library. You only have been around Odin for the little of ten minutes the first morning you were here. He wanted you gone the moment he found out you had arrived to Asgard, but after knowing you were able to wield Thor’s hammer, he was more accepting of your presence.

That didn’t mean he actually liked you being there. For some reason you felt as if he looked down on humans, as if they were lesser than him. Technically he wouldn’t be wrong. Asgardians were superior beings to humans from what you saw. They looked the same, but were faster, stronger and well outlived the human race.

It was one dinner so far though. Maybe he would hold his tongue and be polite. Perhaps you could use this dinner as an opportunity to have him warm up to you. Thor was old enough to not need his father’s blessing on who he wanted to date, so you weren’t looking for that.

No, you just wanted the rest of your time in Asgard to be enjoyable. You would like to be able to come back again later on so that you could see Thor more often instead of going months in-between seeing him while waiting on Earth.

Even though you didn’t want to admit it to yourself already, you loved this incredibly sweet and strong man—this God. You only hoped he would feel the same down the road.

Previous Chapter << Part 7: Sweet Berries

Next Chapter >> Part 9: Popcorn

@jumpingmanatee @thorfanficwriter @lancsnerd @captianamericasbeard

@jennie22feona

#thor x reader #thor x you #thor fanfic #thor fanfiction #marvel #marvel fanfiction #marvel fanfic #reader insert #thor odinson

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weirdochick56 · 4 years

Text

Gentle Notes- Dean Winchester One Shot

Dean Winchester x reader

Warnings: None. Explicit language maybe? FLUFFFFFFFFFFFFFF.

Disclaimers: I don’t own any SPN characters/plots mentioned.

Word count: 1, 796

Summary: In which the reader hides the fact that she can sing from Dean and is one day caught doing exactly that by the eldest Winchester.

Listen to Kina Graniss’s version of “Can’t Help Falling In Love” Here!!

***

You look around your dull room in the mostly-vacant bunker with disdain. The boredom was overwhelming you so much, you had begun spacing out. And the book wasn’t even boring!

The Winchester brothers were probably on an adventure hunting down some monster, meanwhile here you were, practically chained to your bed reading a book.

And not even a lore book, mind you, but a romance novel. And it wasn’t the book itself that had you so jittery, it was the fact that you were reading a book for the first time in well, decades, for the purpose of entertainment and not research.

You sigh, the small book feeling completely unsuitable in your lap in sharp contrast to the normally-heavy old, dusty books you were forced to go through.

Closing your book shut and looking down at your cast-clad leg with hatred seemed fitting at the moment, though. Stupid leg, you grumble mentally.

Getting it broken and being unable to complete the normal kick-ass, monster-hunting activities you were used to was one thing, but having Dean Winchester practically order you to stay home like a good girl and do mundane things while he and his brother got to go out and fuck up some demon was entirely different.

Painfully different.

Aggravatingly different.

I’m-gonna-kick-your-ass-if-you-speak-like-that-to-me-again-Winchester different.

So here you were, attempting with all your might (which wasn’t very much at the moment) not to scream in utter frustration. Hunting was your life. Hunting was the only thing you knew how to do. Well, as far as everyone knew.

And sure, you’d gotten a few scrapes here and there, but nothing so serious you couldn’t hunt. Until now, that is. And until now, you hadn’t felt so...incapacitated.

Shit, you frown. I need to do something. Researching was out of the question as Sam had somehow managed to scrape up all the necessary information up on his own. Cleaning? No, you’d already picked up after the messy brothers the night before. There was nothing to pick up. Sleeping? Nope, not tired. Eating? Not hungry.

So?

And then suddenly, it hits you. How about covering?

You grin broadly, leaning over the side of your bed with a tiny groan when you accidentally twist your leg the wrong way and promptly tugging your old guitar from beneath your bed.

Not the best option to keep your most prized possession, but enough to hide it from prying eyes.

It’d been a while since you’d been able to string the guitar. To sing your heart out. Being with the brothers on the road constantly left you no time to listen to your own music, much less play it yourself. Not to mention you flat-out refused to let anyone hear you sing. Not because you were bad, because you knew you could sing, but because it just wasn’t something you were ready to share. Singing and playing the acoustic guitar was your thing. You weren’t sure if you were ready to let anyone know about it.

So confident that the brothers wouldn’t be back for another day, you decide to tune your guitar first and warm up your vocals. Then you press your back to the headboard, sitting up and letting your arm muscles relax onto the large instrument.

It had most certainly been a while since you’ve felt the familiar weight of your guitar and even longer since you’d open your mouth to so much as hum along to a song in fear of getting caught.

You tested out the six strings on your guitar before settling for “Can’t Help Falling In Love” by Elvis Presley. It was your favorite to play on guitar and you’d sung it before.

You cleared your throat, letting your fingers ghost over the strings before you let your let your eyes flutter shut and play the first chords. Then you opened your mouth.

Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you Shall I stay? Would it be a sin If I can't help falling in love with you?

The lyrics that come out of your mouth are breathy and slow at first. Raspy and barely audible, but sweet and smooth as honey. Full.

Like a river flows surely to the sea Darling so it goes Some things are meant to be Take my hand, take my whole life too For I can't help falling in love with you

You keep the strumming of your fingers over the guitar consistent and accurate, the familiar warmth of singing and playing the guitar flooding the pit of your stomach, wrapping around your whole body and shining through on your voice.

You sounded magnificent. Full of emotion but still keeping your voice controlled. The pitch was strikingly on point and your mouth moved softly, encasing each soft murmur from your lips with full intent. You felt so happy.

Like a river flows surely to the sea Darling so it goes Some things are meant to be Take my hand, take my whole life too-

CRASH.

You immediately stop strumming, your voice getting caught in your throat and your eyes flying open. As soon as you do, you see Dean standing near your doorway, a wince clearly inscribed on his beautiful face and your alarm clock lying in pieces on the floor.

Dean looks up at you with wide eyes and a sheepish smile. “Uh...sorry?”

Your breath gets caught in your throat as you stare at him. Oh no. Oh no. The cat was out of the bag!

Then you groan, your cheeks flushed. “Oh God. I’m- when did you get here Dean?”

He smirks, regaining his composure almost immediately and approaches you with a smug jerk of his broad shoulders in his step and you figured a shitload of teasing was going to be coming your way which induced a grimace on your face almost immediately.

“I don’t think that matters much now, does it miss I-have- a-secret-singing-talent?” He raises his brows and you flush shamefully. By then he grins so wide you have a hard time figuring out how his face wasn’t split in half. “I mean, Goddamn, you have a set of pipes in you sweetheart!”

You groan again, covering your flushed face with your hands.

“Oh god. No one was supposed to know!”

You can hear him let out a surprised sound and cautiously take your hands off your face. He was looking at you like you’d grown two heads. “What?”

Dean sits next to you, a soft smile gracing his perfectly-sculpted lips instead of the condescending one from before. “Nothing. I just can’t seem to figure out, for the life of me, why someone with such a beautiful voice would ever want to hide it away from anyone. From me.” He looks at you pointedly.

Your blush intensifies and you can’t help but smile at him shyly. “I just- I don’t want people to look at me negatively, ya’ know? For having my own thing, I mean.” Your voice is far too low.

Dean sighs with exasperation and takes your face in his hands softly, forcing you to look into his absurdly bright green eyes.

“Sweetheart, no one’s gonna look down on you for singing like a fucking angel.” He pauses to chuckle a little and you’re left a little breathless at the sound. “And not the asshole ones either, the naked babies with halos and shit.” He beams. “I mean, hell, you have the goddamn most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard!” he bites his lip in order to contain his excitement but fails miserably.

You forget how to breathe for a second. He’s being so supportive and his face is so close to yours and suddenly you have this overwhelming impulse to kiss him senseless.

You gulp, chuckling softly. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Dean.”

His face turns serious and he looks scrutinizingly into your eyes. “Y/n, I’m fucking serious. You might be a great hunter, but with talent like that, you could become a star or something.”

You laugh a little at his words and blush once more. “That’s not really my thing, D. Hunting is my life. And singing is only a passion. I can’t have both.”

His lips twitch at the corners a little and his eyes are sad when he leans in and kisses your forehead. You suck in a sharp breath and your chest feels warm with adoration.

Then he looks at you, eyes soft. “Y/n, I’ve never seen you so engrossed in something. You looked so...so beautiful. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You scoff, hiding a blush, and shake off his hands gently. “You’re just saying that,” you mumble.

He cups your face again, forcing you to look at him once more. Your breath hitches at the look he’s giving you. His sparkling green eyes glimmer with pure, sheer -almost overwhelming- adoration. He looks at you as if no one else mattered in the entire universe. Your noses brush and his gaze flickers to your lips, bright green irises darkening to dark shimmering emerald.

“I’m not, sweetheart. Trust me when I tell you that you’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

You blink a few times, your cheeks blushing and your head unable to wrap around the thought of someone as devastatingly handsome as Dean thinking you were attractive. Gorgeous.

“Dean-“ you go to protest but Dean effectively shuts you up by placing a finger over your lips.

As he shushes you, his eyes never part from your lips as he licks his own subconsciously.

“Y/n. I’m going to kiss you now. I think you should know this because I’m giving you the chance to back out.”

Your breath hitches and your heart races but you don’t move an inch. Dean seems to understand your approval as he slowly leans in, eyes fluttering shut. Your eyes fall shut too and you can feel his warm breath fanning your face as your stomach knots in anticipation.

He hovers over your lips for only a few seconds before leaning in and pressing them firmly to yours.

Your breath catches and you lightly part your lips, enveloping his passionately and cradling his face caringly in between your hands. His stubble tickles your fingertips and you shiver lightly at the sensation.

The kiss is gentle, sweet, bit filled with obvious craving and your head spins at how good he smells and feels like this.

It’s over sooner than you expected and your eyes flutter open.

“Dean-” you breathe.

He smirks softly, caressing your face lovingly. “You didn’t back out.”

You blush, leaning into his touch. “Why would I?”

***

Here’s an olddddddd one shot I wrote and had in my drafts hope you enjoyed.

A Special thanks to my forevers:

@jessikared97

@lilypalmer1987

@ladyofletters67

@sammykb1994

@mogaruke

#dean x reder #dean winchester x reader

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hollandtomholland · 5 years

Text

The Last Piece: T.H

---> Tom Holland x Reader

A/N: This has taken me four months to write; that’s no promise of quality, but I’m so happy to finally have this done and out there for you to read. Thanks to the anon who asked about this, if it wasn’t for you this would probably still be sitting in my drafts. Much love as always xo (MASTERLIST)

Summary: Almost a year and a half has passed since Tom Holland broke your heart, and you like to think the past is behind you now - but you’re deeply, devastatingly unprepared for the moment you run into him at a mutual friend’s wedding. The two of you have unfinished business, but it seems that finishing things is the last thing on Tom’s mind.

Words: 5.3k

--->

He’s staring at you.

You can feel his gaze burning into your skin from the other side of the room, and not for the first time tonight. It’s almost funny, the whole situation. Almost, you think, taking a long sip from your glass of champagne. Almost, but not quite. As if weddings don’t suck enough as a single girl without an ex boyfriend turning up. And this is not just any ex.

Tom Holland is The ex – the one who broke your heart.

Just half an hour ago you’d been in the centre of the dancefloor, enjoying the lavish reception without a care in the world. When Celia had asked you to be her bridesmaid all those months ago you’d been overjoyed, and after a beautiful ceremony it was finally time to relax and enjoy the party.

You’d taken a brief respite from dancing to grab a glass of champagne, laughing at Celia precariously balancing up against a buffet table as she removed her silver bridal heels. She’d tucked the shoes under the table, giving them a kick to nudge them out of view. “Done. Right, let’s get back to - Oh!” she’d said suddenly, eyes wide as she’d noticed something behind you. “Look who finally turned up!”

She’d waved to the new arrival, and as you’d turned to look at the cause of her excitement the air had been knocked out of your lungs.

No.

“Oh my god! It’s so good to see you” Celia called, as the man in question strode confidently through the crowd towards you.

Not tonight.

You’d wanted to run, to hide, to be anywhere else but there – yet your feet had stayed firmly locked into place. You were frozen in position as he’d closed the gap between you, the last person you ever wanted to see.

Thomas fucking Holland.

For a time after he’d ended things, there’d been a part of you had that always wanted to see him. At every event you would scan the faces of every person in the room, in the hopes that his might be amongst them. No matter where you were, there would always be that lingering, bittersweet hope that you’d see those familiar eyes staring back at you out of the crowd, that you’d finally get the closure you’d always longed for.

And yet, when his eyes had met yours across the crowded room, you’d found yourself deeply, devastatingly unprepared. Because after all this time, after all the tears and all the resentment, Tom Holland still makes your heart stop like the first time you ever saw him.

He’s so painfully beautiful, instantly the most striking man in the room. He carries himself with a quiet confidence, his suit cut perfectly so the fabric flatters his athletic physique. His hair is longer than the last time you saw him, just at the length where the curls are starting to frame his face. It’s unfair, you think. So unfair. How can someone who hurt you so much appear so heart-rendingly angelic?

The moment he’d stepped in the room it was like all those bad memories were fresh wounds, and it had taken all you had to remain calm. His eyes had flickered from you to Celia as he’d approached, emanating an effortless calm that showed not even the slightest hint of apprehension whenever they met yours.

Not surprise either, you noted. He wasn’t surprised to see you at all, and you realise that you shouldn’t have been surprised to see him either. After all, it was thanks to Celia that the two of you had met; they go back a long way, so of course he’d be at her wedding. You wonder why you never thought to ask her if she was inviting him – maybe, subconsciously, you just didn’t want to know.

“Congratulations, Celia” he’d said warmly, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t make the ceremony, but I imagine it was wonderful”

“I’m just glad you made it at all! When did you fly in?” she’d asked, grasping his forearm. She was clearly so happy to see him, and you’re reminded again why you’ve never told her what truly happened between you and Tom. It would hurt her too much, and you could never put her in the unenviable position of choosing between two friends. She’s much better off not knowing, you tell yourself. Everyone is better off.

“This morning. We wrapped early least night and I caught the first flight out from Moscow” he’d replied, his gaze darting back to you for a split second.

It hurt, when he looked at you then. His eyes were even more intense than you’d remembered, the briefest of glances sending a bolt of molten fire up your spine. It had been all you could do to repress every painful memory that threatened to come flooding back, blocking out the blurry images as you’d finally recovered the ability to move.

You’d reached out and lightly touched Celia on the shoulder, trying not to look at Tom as you spoke. “I’m just gonna nip to the bathroom, okay? See you in a bit.”

Your voice was hushed and, hopefully, casual, not that she really seemed to be paying attention. Thankfully she’d been so wrapped up in her excitement that she didn’t mind your sudden exit, flashing you a quick smile before returning to her conversation.

Tom, however, did mind; the brief glance you’d risked as you stepped away saw him furrow his brow almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. It was something so tiny that only someone who knew him incredibly well would notice it, and you know that beautiful, maddening face better than anyone.

The fact that your behaviour had bothered him had given you a sliver of satisfaction at the time, though you realise now that he was probably just not used to somebody walking away from him. Girls gravitated towards him even before he was famous, and he had likely been shocked to not receive the adoring attention he’s grown accustomed to.

You’d spent a good ten minutes in the bathroom after his arrival, gripping the edge of the sink and staring at your own reflection. Thoughts of leaving had entered your mind, of jumping in your car and driving as far away from him as possible. But no; you could never do that to Celia. The evening was about her, not you, and certainly not him. Leaving was out of the question.

After a while it had occurred to you that the longer you spent in hiding the more evident his effect on you would be, and there was no way you were showing your hand that easily. So, you’d gathered together the last remaining shreds of your dignity, touched up your makeup, and headed back out into the reception hall. A quick survey of the room told you he was over by the top table, so you’d picked a spot as far away as possible and turned your chair to face away.

You’re still sitting there half an hour later, making sporadic chit chat with guests whilst pretending you’re not at all preoccupied by a certain movie star everyone else can’t stop talking about. His is the name on everyone’s lips, and you’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve had to act nonplussed about his presence. Smile, nod, and change the subject. Talk about the ceremony, the flower arrangements, the weather – anything but him. You’re currently sat next to Celia’s sister Georgia, who’s kept mercifully quiet on the subject - until now. She nudges her head in Tom’s direction, and you steel yourself for another round.

“I remember when he’d come over for dinner and tell us about his latest audition, hoping for his big break. Now look at him, Mr Celebrity” she comments proudly, before furrowing her brow at you. “Hey, didn’t you guys date for a while? What happened there?”

What happened there? You wish you knew.

“Ah, you know. Life and stuff” you reply, shrugging your shoulders. “He was busy, I was busy, etc etc”

It’s the same vague response you’ve always given, one that sounds plausible enough whilst only telling half of the truth. It seems to satisfy Georgia, who nods sagely as she stands up to leave. “I guess that’s inevitable, with someone so famous” she says, before wandering off to rejoin the busy dancefloor.

The exchange stings a little, though she’d meant no harm in it. Because the thing is, you’ve heard the same line a million times, from people who thought they were just trying to help. Inevitable. As if everything you’d put into the relationship had been for nothing, because it was always doomed to fail. Like you were never going to be good enough.

Woah there.

Now is not the time to be heading into a dark place. You’re at a wedding, for goodness sake. Tonight is about celebrating love and happiness, not dwelling on the past - even if the physical embodiment of it is mere metres away from you. You steer your mind away from the introspection and back into the present, your eyes focusing on the nearby bar. Yeah, this situation definitely calls for a drink. Or two. Or three, or –

“Dance with me?”

Oh.

You don’t even need to look up to know who spoke, but you do anyway. You let your gaze travel to his outstretched hand – you know every line on his palm – and along his arm, across his shoulder and up to that cut-glass jawline – where your lips have brushed so many times – before finally, painfully, coming to meet those devastating eyes.

Breathe.

Why does he have to be so beautiful?

Tom stares back at you, the gentle smile that graces his lips in contrast to the deep intensity of his gaze. “Hello, Y/N. Dance with me?” he repeats, and you’re struck by the ease of his tone. There’s a casualness to the way he addresses you, so straightforward and uninhibited. Anyone witnessing this exchange would have no idea of the history between you, of the time that has passed. “Sure”, they’d expect you to say, “I’d love to”. Because what else would a girl say if the Tom Holland asked her to dance?

Absolutely fucking not.

That’s what you want to say.

But you don’t. Even with the way things ended, you still can’t bring yourself to be anything less than civil with him. You’re not a mean person, and you’re certainly not about to cause a scene. Instead, you stare impassively up at him, ignoring both the hand he still offers to you and the knots twisting in your stomach.

Stay composed.

“Tom, what are you doing?”

You keep your tone even, the words clipped and lacking the emotion you’re struggling to hold back. Still, you hold his gaze, hoping that your eyes also give away nothing. His, however, betray a flicker of emotion, as his hand drops back to his side.

“Asking you to dance”.

His brow furrows, but the smile remains. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to make this difficult, but surely he can’t be so oblivious as to think that he could just waltz over here and act like everything is okay.

You keep your voice hushed, dropping your gaze from his. “I don’t think that’s a good idea”.

“It’s just one dance, okay? It’ll be fun” Tom insists, and before you know what’s happening he reaches out to take your hand. His fingertips brush your skin and it’s like an electric shock, the sensation travelling up your arm and sending a barrage of pinpricks to your spine. It feels surreal to have him holding your hand again, his touch as addictive as it was in the most dizzying moments of your relationship. That connection you always felt threatens to take over your senses, and a voice in the back of your head urges you to just give in and let him lead you away.

Remember what he did.

It’s just another Friday night. He’s been out all day for script read-throughs and costume fittings, promising to be back in time for dinner. The dinner in question – his favourite, lovingly prepared as a surprise – is getting cold, the clock ticking past the time you expect him at the apartment you both call home.

At first, this doesn’t concern you at all. Work often overruns for him, so you just send him a text and stick something mind numbing on the TV to await his return. An hour turns to two, so you send another more pointed text. Then three hours, and at this point you try to call him – but still, you’re certain it’s all okay. When he doesn’t pick up, you end up trying again twenty minutes later, and that call goes straight to voicemail. So does the next.

Now you’re starting to get worried. It’s not like him to leave things so late, not without a quick text or call to ease your mind. It’s never been so hard to get hold of him before. You leave him a voicemail after the next missed call, trying to sound casual whilst still communicating your concern. “Love you muchly as always, see you soon!” you sign off, hoping it’ll get through.

Just as you end the call, you see the notifications on your screen: One missed call from Tom, and one new voicemail. He’s clearly tried to call you whilst you’ve been calling him, so at least you know nothing’s happened to him. As you dial up your answerphone, you have no way of predicting the bombshell that is seconds away from dropping.

“Uh, hi. It’s Tom. I mean, you know it is, I didn’t need… ah, fuck”

The line goes silent for a moment. Oh, he’s probably drunk, you think. He always leaves strange and amusing messages when he’s had a few too many, so it’s safe to assume he’s gone out to the bar with some friends and simply forgot to let you know. You’ll give him a ribbing for it when he gets back, but no harm done.

When he speaks again, however, the tone is decidedly sober.

“Look, this isn’t gonna be easy but I’m gonna come straight out and say it cause I think that’s the fairest way of doing this”

Of doing what? Something is definitely off, and you sit forwards in your seat as you listen.

“This, us… it was never gonna work, Y/N. I’ve known it for a while, that this – that you aren’t right for me. I don’t have the energy to pretend anymore, you just don’t fit into my life. So I’m ending it”

Dumbstruck.

That’s the only word to describe how you’re feeling. That is Tom’s voice, his words… but you can barely believe what you’re hearing. Surely this is a joke, some awful drunken prank. You wait for him to crack, to break into laughter and tell you he’ll be home soon. But that doesn’t happen. All you can do is listen, helplessly, as your world continues to crumble around you.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I just can’t do this anymore. And uh, I’m not coming home tonight. I think it’s a good idea that we don’t see each other for a while, so I’m gonna stay away and I’ll come pick my stuff up when you’re at work sometime. It’s just better for both of us that way. You might not think so right now, but it is. It’s done, we’re done.”

No.

“I don’t love you anymore”.

Please, no.

“There’s nothing left to say, I guess. It’s just…” his voice falters, and there’s a moment’s pause before he sighs deeply. “You’ll understand one day. Y/N, I just… Fuck”.

End of message. Press 1 to save, 2 to keep, three to delete –

Delete, delete, delete.

But you couldn’t delete it from where it was now ingrained into your mind.

You stay in the same spot for what feels like hours, refusing to believe what you’ve just heard. His words play over and over in your head, every syllable laced with a poison that burns from the inside out. In a panic you try to call him, but every attempt goes straight to voicemail and when you try to speak, the words get lost in sobs you can’t hold back.

And just like that, he simply disappears from your life without another word, No explanation, no apology.

Brutal, heartless, cowardly.

The sound of laughter from a table nearby snaps you back to reality, and your resolve rebuilds itself twice as strong as before. You snatch your hand away from his grasp, drawing it into the folds of your dress as you shrink back into your chair.

The look on his face tells you he wasn’t expecting that reaction, his lips parted and his eyes wide with astonishment. He withdraws his hand, clenching and unclenching it as he steps back a little. You’re acutely aware that you’re being watched by those around you, their eyes naturally drawn to the celebrity in the room, so you try to relax a little and put on what you hope is a convincing smile.

“It’s a kind offer, but I’m all tired out. I’m sure one of the other girls would love to though” you tell him, trying to sound as casual as possible. Dismissive, but not overtly rude.

“Maybe I could get you a drink then” he persists, a hint of uneasiness in his voice.

No way.

You need to end this conversation, stat. You stand up and brush off your dress, taking a few steps away from him. “You really don’t need to do need that”.

He swallows hard, his lips pressed together as he nods in acceptance. The look in his eyes tells you that he wants to say more, but knows he shouldn’t.

“Have a nice night, Tom” you add, giving him a polite nod before heading over to the top table. Thankfully, he chooses not to follow you, and a brief glance over your shoulder sees him simply staring at the empty chair where you were sat just seconds ago.

How does he still have such a strong effect on you, even after all this time? You scold yourself for being so vulnerable to his presence, wishing that you felt as calm and collected on the inside as you were projecting on the outside.

The fact that you almost, almost gave in to him disturbs you. You’d always liked to think that you were over Tom, way beyond feeling any sort of softness towards the man who hurt you so badly that you haven’t even entertained the thought of a relationship since.

But that was stupid, you realise. Vain, naïve, wishful thinking.

How could you ever be over Tom Holland?

A part of you will always be in love with him. It’s a fact, one which you’ve tried to deny every day for the two years you’ve been apart. When he left it was like your had heart shattered into pieces, and you’d managed to collect up all of them except one. The last piece of your heart is walking around with the face of an angel, so close yet so far away. It’s twisted, isn’t it? Loving someone who treated you the way that he did. But you do. You can’t help it.

Even though it fucking hurts.

Again, the thought of leaving crosses your mind – this time, though, you know it’s the right thing to do. As much as you’d love to stay and celebrate with Celia, every second you spend here is marred by thoughts of him. It’s too much. If only Tom hadn’t turned up, you think, it could’ve been such a great night.

After grabbing your back from under the table, you head for the nearest exit. You’ll shoot Celia a text later claiming stomach issues, or a headache, it really doesn’t matter – you wish you could tell her the truth, but why ruin her night too?

It’s getting dark now, but the path is lit by footlights and you’re sure you can remember the way back to the car park. The noise of the party starts to fade into the background, and every step you take feels lighter and lighter. Oh, it’s so good to finally be out of there.

“Hey, Y/N. Hey! Where are you going?”

No.

Go away, Tom, please.

You can hear the crunch of his footsteps on the gravel, a few metres behind you but still too close for your liking.

“I’m off home, actually. Don’t let me keep you” you manage to say, hoping in vain that he’ll simply give up and that will be the end of it.

“Wait up, please” he says, undeterred.

Damnit.

You power on ahead, picking up the pace a little as you weave past a set of ornate flower beds. Come on, not far to go now until you’re free. Much to your distress Tom speeds up also, his footsteps seeming closer and closer no matter how fast you walk.

What is he doing?

“But can’t we just talk for a second?” he says, and you wonder how far he’s willing to follow you. The idea of him running alongside your car amuses you for a moment, but it passes quickly.

“I really don’t think so” you reply indignantly, trying to ignore the angry tears suddenly pricking at the corners of your eyes. You can’t believe the audacity of him, first asking you to dance and now refusing to leave you alone when all you want to do is -

It suddenly dawns on you that you’re not quite sure where you are. Granted, the path out to the car park is a little long and winding, but it isn’t that long and it certainly doesn’t pass by an enormous fountain… like the one you’re currently standing by.

Shit.

In your haste to get away from Tom you must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, and now you’re lost in the vast gardens with the last person you ever want to be lost with. You falter, looking around you for a hint of the way back. No, this isn’t happening. You have to get out.

Tom takes advantage of your sudden hesitation to fall into step with you, unaware of your sudden panic. “A few minutes of your time is all I ask” he continues. “I just want to talk”.

You whirl around to face him, hands balled into fists. “Oh you want to talk, do you? Why don’t you just leave me a voicemail, it seemed to work fantastically the last time you had something to say!”

The words come out a little more forcefully than you intended them to, breaking through the cool exterior you’d managed to maintain all evening.

Tom flinches, swallowing hard as he stares at you with wide eyes. A moment passes before he nods, his gaze dropping to fix on the ground beneath his feet. “I deserve that” he says softly, kicking at the gravel.

“Yeah” you say, with a little less force than before. “Yeah, you do. You really hurt me, you know that?”.

“I do” he says, his eyes burning as they fix onto yours. “And I’m sorry, Y/N, I’m so, so sorry”.

Tom is quiet for a moment, drawing his lip between his teeth as he gazes intently at you. There’s a sudden vulnerability to him, a neediness that throws the usual power dynamic out of balance. You’re not used to seeing him like this, and it unsettles you. It softens you, also. For the first time, you realise that he’s hurting too, the pain written all over that devastatingly beautiful face.

He swallows hard, eyes downcast. “I know I’m the last person you wanted to see tonight, but the second I got the invite the only thing I could think of was that you would be here. I needed to see you, you’re always on my mind, always”. His voice is strained, heavy with raw emotion. “I can’t get over you, no matter how hard I try, and I hate that I’m the reason I can’t have you”

“You didn’t want me!”

The words slip out in a sob, surprising you just as much as him. “You told me you didn’t want me”.

“No, no -”. He shakes his head profusely, taking a step towards you. “I did, I did, I…” his voice falters as he runs a hand through his hair, unsure of the right words to say. “I just didn’t deserve you”.

The situation feels impossible to process, your anger subsiding just a little to give way for the confusion his words have stirred up. Your mind is too busy processing all of this to come up with a response, and Tom takes the silence as his cue to continue. He can barely look at you, his shoulders slumped as he takes a seat on the edge of the fountain.

“Saying those things… it was the only way I could see you giving up on me. I needed to hurt you so bad that there was no coming back from it. I convinced myself I was doing the right thing, that you deserved better than me. Every time I had to go away for work and left you behind, or cancelled plans last minute cause something came up, I felt like the world’s worst boyfriend. And you were always so patient, telling me it was all okay when I knew it wasn’t”.

He risks a glance at you, little more than a split second. “I just wanted you to be happy, Y/N. That’s why I did it. And in the process, I ended up hurting you more than I ever thought was possible”.

That’s maybe the only thing he’s got right so far, that he hurt you. The rest of it, the claims that you deserved better? Nothing could be further from the truth. The times when he was away meant nothing when compared to the moments spent with him, the countless reasons why you loved him outweighing all the negatives. You want to tell him that, to shut him down and make him believe it – but he’s not finished yet.

“I hurt myself too. I cut off the one person I love more than anything in the world and it was completely my fault”.

Love.

Present tense; it doesn’t escape your notice.

“You told me you didn’t love me” you say, your voice barely more than a whisper. Your heart is beating so hard that you’re sure he can hear it, leaping in your chest when he looks up at you with a renewed intensity.

He stands up suddenly, riding a burst of energy as he takes a step towards you. “I never stopped loving you. Not even for a second. I’ve loved you every single day of the two years we’ve been apart, and I love you now. I can’t change that”.

He loves you.

He’s always loved you.

All this time, you’ve thought he couldn’t care less about you, that you were nothing to him after everything he said.

But here he is.

And he loves you.

The look in his eyes cuts you to the core; so vulnerable, and yet so full of passion and conviction. He loves you. The words spin round and round inside your mind, sweeping up all the buried anger and resentment that you’ve let fester for two long years. It lifts away like a veil, and for the first time you can clearly see the man in front of you. So much pain, so much guilt, so much regret – and so much love.

“I won’t apologise for loving you, even if you hate me” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I just needed you to hear it. And I’ll go now, so you can go back to the reception without me ruining your night. It’s the least I can do”.

He turns away, giving you one last pensive look over his shoulder. “Goodnight, Y/N”.

“You can’t leave”.

The words slip of your mouth before you’ve had a chance to think properly, but you can’t just let him leave. He stops in his tracks, turning back to face you. The look on his face sets your heart racing even more: It’s pure hope, eyes wide and cheeks flushed as he waits for you to continue.

“You can’t leave,” you repeat, “I owe you a dance”.

He’s confused for a second, taken aback by the request. “A dance?”

“The one you offered me earlier, I’d like to take you up on it - If that’s okay with you, of course”.

Tom’s face displays a sequence of emotions, from uncertainty to disbelief to delight. “Yes,” he says, “Absolutely yes”, unable to mask his sheer relief and joy at your unexpected request. He knows he’s not quite out of the woods yet, but this looks good – very good.

“Come on, then” you call over your shoulder as you take off down the path, smiling to yourself as you hear his footsteps hurrying along behind you. It’s an exhilarating moment, being able to take control of a situation you never though would happen. As the two of you enter the reception hall, everything feels very real all of a sudden.

Tom follows close behind, still a little unsure, taking his cues from you. The dancefloor is a considerably less crowded at this late hour, and as you head for the centre you’re surrounded by couples with the same idea as you. The music is perfect for a slow dance, everything falling into place as if fate itself has designed this moment.

You turn to face Tom, who’s looking at you with a mixture of wonder and adoration.

Oh, you’ve missed that look.

His eyes shine in the light of the chandeliers, glittering as he offers you his hand. “May I have this dance?” he asks, his voice soft and low.

“Of course” you reply, taking his hand and letting him draw you into him. His body is flush against yours, a position so familiar it almost feels like nothing has changed at all. You move together so naturally, so gracefully, his hands resting on your waist and your arms around his neck. He’s so close you can feel his heart beating, it’s rhythm outpacing that of the music.

You let yourself get lost in the moment, basking in the security of being wrapped in his arms once again. “I’m so sorry I hurt you” he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “And if you’ll let me, I want to spend every day making it up to you”

“I’d like that very much”.

You can feel him smile at your reply, drawing away slightly to get a better look at you. Those gorgeous eyes gaze into your own, and for the first time tonight there’s no pain behind them; they’re soft, melting, and full of the love that he can’t put into words – you don’t need words, anymore. That connection you’ve always felt is renewed, stronger even, and you don’t need to ask to know that he’s feeling the same.

He tilts his head towards you just a little, waiting for you to make the next move. You close the gap between the two of you and his lips meet yours, gentle and oh so familiar. His arms pull you closer to him, the atmosphere electric as he kisses you with all the passion he’s held back for two long years.

Yes.

This is right.

This is how things should be.

He draws back for just a second, before pressing another kiss to your lips. “I love you,” he breathes, and it’s like the world exists just for the two of you.

He’s all yours.

“I love you”

#tom holland x reader #tom holland #tom holland oneshot #tom holland imagine #tom holland fic #tom holland fluff #rpf #tom holland blurb #boyfriend!tom holland #file under my stuff

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sweetness47 · 4 years

Text

The Newcomer

Pairing Cas x Dean x Sam

@castielspnbingo – pirate AU

@spndeanbingo – Castiel

@samwinchesterbingo – dry humping

@deanandsambingo – bed sharing

WARNINGS: MATURE 18+ READERS ONLY!!!!! Smut, threesome, wincest, three men, sub! Cas, amnesia, near death experience

“This is gonna be one hell of a shitstorm Sammy!” Dean’s words carry through the walls of the cave. The waterfall gem was one of the best finds the brothers had discovered since landing on the island. It had proven a life saver many times, shielding the boys from the occasional tropical hurricane that passed through.

They had formed a routine for storms, the first was making sure the shelter was secure. Food was piled for the long haul, as the storms could last anywhere from a couple of days to a week. The boys made sure there was enough dry wood to last, then they spent their days and evenings huddled for warmth, fucking, making love.

Sam loved being the big spoon. He was taller than Dean, which made him a better cuddle buddy. He usually woke first, and he was always rock hard. Sam would grind his erection into Dean’s ass, the two pairs of thin boxers providing little shielding. He would start humping his older brother, holding his hips as he assaulted him. Dean loved how it felt, it was his favorite way to wake up, moaning as each push got more intense. When he couldn’t take it any longer, Dean would pull from Sam’s hold so he could turn and face his lover, their lips colliding in a heated exchange that left both needing. Sometimes Dean would go first, sometimes Sam, but neither one left unsatisfied. Their life was perfect.

“Captain! Hurricane!!!” Gabriel shouted. Cas looked to the skies, his eyes taking in the dark threat, mentally preparing for the worst.

“Secure those barrels! Get the sails rolled up! Move! Anything not tied down needs to get below deck! It’s coming in fast!”

Michael and Luci grabbed the sails, while Gadreel and Gabe began moving lose items below. The brothers were the most feared pirates to ever grace the seven seas. Modern day thieves, the family of brothers turned to piracy as a way to survive after they were orphaned. Cas wasn’t the oldest, in fact, he was the youngest of the five. He was ten when their father had passed. As he grew, none could deny his natural ability to lead, to be calm and level-headed, even when things went south. Actually, his leadership and quick thinking had kept them from getting caught numerous times.

They had enough to retire 10 times over, but the urge to venture out, to feel the thrill of the adrenaline rush as they lifted precious cargo from various places without being caught, was too great to resist. The sheer power they felt after each successful heist was beyond addictive. They had encountered storms before, even hurricanes, but this one was darker, more menacing than any previous ones. Indeed, this one was far more dangerous, and Cas was pretty sure it was a category five.

FUCK!

High velocity winds and lightning set up them much quicker than they had predicted. Visibility dropped to near zero as the heavens opened, unleashing a torrential rainfall. Cas yelled for everyone to get below, to forget the kegs that remained loose. The lives of his brothers were worth far more than some cargo.

He watched the last brother reach the safety of the cabins just before waves crashed into the sides of the boat, catching Cas off guard. The last thing he remembered before his head slammed into the rails, was the lightning bolt hitting the deck, cracking the vessel wide open and flames erupting to engulf the entire ship.

The brothers peeked out after the three-day event, eyes taking in the damage from the storm. Leaves and branches littered the swim hole, but thankfully the shelter remained mostly intact. That was the one thing they were grateful for, the shelter that the cliff provided them. Dean volunteered to check the main beach, mostly because Sam had done it last time. They usually came back empty handed, but occasionally were graced with various gifts, including clothing, well-packaged food, blankets, and even toiletries.

Today was different.

At first, Dean saw only the wreckage: broken wood, tattered sails. He began to pick through the rubble, finding a few surprises, including rare gold coins and jewels, hell, he even found a few kegs of beer and wine. Then he noticed the movement under a distant pile of rubble, followed by low moaning.

Fuck! There was a person under there!

Dean ran over, grabbing the wooden planks and tossing them aside. He uncovered the man’s dark hair first, then worked on the rest. Finely tuned muscle and well defined hips had Dean licking his lips. Jeez Dean, focus!

He found some rope and a made a makeshift sleigh to bring him back to camp.

“Sammy!” he yelled.

The younger Winchester came running. “Dean? What the…” he paused when he saw the unconscious man on the stretcher.

“Found him under a pile of rubble. I didn’t get a chance to go through the rest of the stuff. Thought this should be our first priority.”

Sam nodded and knelt down beside the stretcher. He checked his pulse and checked for any major signs of injury. Finding none, he checked for ID next. The family crest was the only thing Sam did find on his neck chain, but there was no name with it.

“Well, whoever he is, he’s going to have one nasty headache. He’s lucky he survived.” Sam noted. “I’ll go check through the rest of the stuff. You stay here. And, Dean?”

His brother looked up, meeting Sam’s lips in a gentle kiss. “Yeah?”

Sam smiled. “Be careful.”

“Don’t worry Sammy, I ain’t planning on dying today.” With that, he playfully swatted Sam’s ass while sending him to check the shore line.

Moaning from the makeshift bed had Dean focussing once again on the newcomer. His eyes fluttered open, trying to adjust to the sunlight. His eyes took in his surroundings, then they landed on Dean. The man tried to scramble away and gain a defensive stance. Dean put his hands up slowly, palms facing out to show peace.

“Whoa, easy. I’m not going to hurt you. I found you buried under some wreckage and brought you to our camp. You’re safe here.”

The man relaxed, then gingerly brought his hand up to the back of his head, wincing at the pain. “Thank you for helping me. Where are we?”

Dean shrugged. “No clue. My brother and I have been here a long time, over a year.” He held his hand out in greeting. “Name’s Dean.”

The man paused for a moment, then took the hand offered. “Cas.”

Both Cas and Dean stared a few moments longer, as sparks passed between them. It was almost magnetic. Both men pulled away quickly, embarrassed. Sam returned later to find Dean and the stranger talking while consuming some fruit. Behind Sam, a sled filled with men’s clothing, bottles of wine, a few kegs of beer, and a slew of well sealed rations, including granola bars, toiletries, dried fruit, jerky, and first-aid supplies.

Dean lets out a low whistle, then turns to Cas. “Sam here is my younger brother.” Then he turned to Sam. “This is Cas.” The two exchange handshakes, and again both feel a spark, a magnetic attraction that neither would admit to. However, this doesn’t go unnoticed by Dean. But instead of jealousy, he feels lust, noting the three-way connection possibilities. Dean feels himself getting hard at the idea, wondering if Cas would be interested in joining him and Sam.

The evening is filled with talk and laughter and food. Cas notes that the brothers are very easy going, and has also noticed that they haven’t pressed him for any information about himself, not that he can remember. He can’t even remember his own name. The only reason he was able to give a name at all was he had seen it tattooed on his forearm.

Among the notable details is the closeness the two brothers share, and the spark he’d experienced with both men. They were both devastatingly handsome, an instant attraction no one could deny.

Eventually, arrangements were made for sleeping. The brothers offered their guest the choice of cave or the lean-to cabin they’d built. Both had decent sleep areas and a fire could easily be built in the cave if need be. Cas chose the lean-to, giving the brothers the larger quarters. They bid each other good night and Cas watched as Sam and Dean wrapped their arms around each other and walked toward the waterfall.

Cas couldn’t fall asleep. He tossed and turned, feeling like something was missing. The boys had made quite the home here, the bed was more than comfortable, so whatever was bugging him, it wasn’t the comfort level.

Then he knew. It was the sleeping arrangements. Cas couldn’t explain it, but the desire to sleep with Sam and Dean was overwhelming his mindset. He wasn’t sure if he swung that way, but his mind didn’t care, and neither did his cock, now rigid with the idea of the brothers taking him. If this was going to be his first time, he wanted it to be with Sam and Dean.

Before Cas had even blinked, he found himself heading toward the cave. The closer he got, the more excited he became, as heavy breathing and lustful noises greeted him. He glanced inside to find the brothers entwined in each other’s arms, dry humping, grinding as they kissed. Cas began rubbing his own hard cock, moaning softly as he watched.

Dean looked over to the entrance, seeing Cas standing there. He whispers something to Sam, who nods eagerly.

“Cas, both Sam and I would love for you to join us.”

Cas had never moved so fast as he did then, driven by lust and desire, his need to fuck and be fucked by these two sex gods dissolved any rational thought. Clothes flew in all directions as he strode toward his goal, till only his boxers remained. Dean grabbed him first, devouring Cas’s mouth with his own. Sam reached inside both men’s shorts, stroking the hard shafts that meet his hands.

They moan as the kiss heats up. Sam moves to stand behind Cas, nibbling along his neck and shoulders. He bites and sucks, leaving a few marks along the way. Dean breaks the lip lock long enough to suck on the other side, also marking Cas.

The brothers look at each other, then at their new toy. “Ours.” They said in unison.

With in seconds, all three are void of their shorts, eager for what’s to follow. Dean and Sam make a plan, then tell Cas.

“Cas, Dean wants to take you first. Then you’re going to take me, and then you watch Dean suck me off. Got it?”

Cas nods. Sam gets down on hands and knees, moving so his ass is in the air. Cas spits on his hand, then rubs it on his tip, mixing it with the precum that is already leaking out. He spreads the cheeks of the younger Winchester and pushes in slowly, groaning as he bottoms out. The shear pleasure it brings is more than Cas ever imagined.

Sam grinds against Cas, and Cas begins to move, pulling out then slamming back in, thrusting hard and without mercy, causing Sam to curse as he’s hit with mounds of pleasure. Dean’s eyes are full blown with lust as he watches.

“Hold still Cas. Present that firm ass for me.”

The command makes Cas even harder. The dominance radiating from both men has him whimpering with even greater need. He discovered at that moment how much he enjoys being a sub, being ordered around by the brothers. Cas bends down, covering Sam’s lean body with his own, shivering with anticipation.

Dean lines up with Cas’s tight hole, and first inserts a large finger, then a second. Cas moans as the large digits stretch and fill him. Dean pulls out and Cas almost complains, until he feels something bigger pressing in. Burning sensations jolt through him, then he sighs when Dean begins placing soft kisses along his neck and whispers in his ear. “Relax, take a deep breath. The more relaxed you are, the easier this is.”

Cas closes his eyes, willing his muscles to release the tension. He wants this more than he’ll admit, so he succeeds and the tension leaves. Dean feels the instant shift, and pushes his way in slowly. He stops to let Cas adjust, then pushes a little more. Each time he kisses along Cas’s back and neck, knowing he needs the tenderness for relaxing.

He finally bottoms out, and silence fills the cave for a minute. Then the three men begin, first Cas pulls out, then Dean, only to have Dean slam into Cas, which causes Cas to slam into Sam. The rhythm is almost too much, jolts of electricity envelope the three lovers, and they shiver with delight. They thrust again and again, picking up speed as they go. The cave echoes with the sound of skin slapping against skin, grunting, moans of ecstasy. Cas is the first to find release, his cock spilling inside Sam, then Dean follows, crying out Cas’s name as he cums inside the dark haired man.

But Dean isn’t done, as there is still one man that needs to be satisfied. Cas watches as Dean kneels in front of Sam, licking his lips as he eyes Sam’s erect cock, already dripping with precum. Dean runs his tongue over the hard phallus, teasing the tip, then taking his brother’s cock into his mouth. Sam grabs Dean’s hair and thrusts his cock forth, fucking his older brother’s mouth with gusto. Dean grabs Sam’s hips for support as the assault continues, and Cas practically drools at the entire whole scenario. Fuck! These brothers were hot and damn sexy! Sam doesn’t take long, a guttural cry escaping as he deposits his load, and watching Dean as his brother swallows every single drop. Dean stands, and taking Cas’s hand, the three men head to the pool to wash up before going to sleep, together.

@legion1993

#spndeanbingo #castielspnbingo #samwinchesterbingo #deanandsambingo

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icanthelpbut-love-you · 5 years

Text

together dancing cheek to cheek

read on ao3

“May I have this dance?”

It’s with unsteady legs that Magnus steps forward to take Alec’s proffered hand, moving as though in a trance to rest his other hand on Alec’s shoulder, Brother Zachariah’s words pronouncing them one still echoing in his ears.

“Of course,” he murmurs belatedly, aware that the permission is more than obvious in his near-desperate hold. But he’s unable to summon anything witty, or even just less redundant, to say in the face of the all-consuming love he sees in Alec’s expression. It takes root, steady and warm in his own chest, stoking the feeling of overwhelming adoration already burning there and making moisture prick behind his eyes.

They’re surrounded by all the people they care about, looking on with assorted expressions of pride and, in many cases, more than a few tears. But they might as well have completely disappeared for all Magnus notices then. His vision has narrowed, entire being focused on the man standing before him.

He’s hyperaware of the ring on his left hand, hasn’t been able to stop reverently running his thumb over it since Alec guided it onto his finger only minutes ago. And now, with their hands clasped firmly together the feeling is only amplified, the smooth band pressing comfortingly against his skin. He can feel Alec’s ring too, he realises with a pleasant jolt, the cool metal digging into the sliver of exposed skin at that Alec unerringly zeroes in on as his hand sliding under Magnus’ jacket to grip his waist.

A small part of his brain has alarm bells ringing, conjuring memories of Havana. Admittedly, salsa dancing had possibly been a little ambitious for a beginner such as Alexander. But in all fairness, Alec is far more coordinated than he gives himself credit for – it would be impossible for him to be completely out of touch with his body given his warrior training – and when he did manage to relax his sense of rhythm wasn’t half bad, especially once he worked out what to do with his hands.

As always though, Alec had been his own worst enemy. Magnus would have been content to stumble through it together, intermittent wincing and all, if not for his boyfriend’s mounting distress. Every misstep had sent Alec stuttering with frantic apologies, frustrated tension building and only making his movements less fluid.

It had been so, so worth it though. If for nothing else, then just for the way Alec’s hands had pressed roughly into his hips as Magnus had moved to the music against him and for the vibrant flush that had crept up his neck as Magnus had wrapped a leg around his hip to press them close.

Shaken back into the present by Alec’s thumb caressing gentle circles against his own, Magnus silences the part of himself concerned with self-preservation which whispers that, especially with the added pressure of everyone they care about looking on, this is a hilariously bad idea.

His toes will survive. And honestly, a little bit of bruising is a small price to pay for the pleasure of dancing with his husband.

Then Alec pulls Magnus suddenly flush against him and oh. His husband is a menace.

He’s clearly been practicing, though Magnus can’t think when in the world he would have found the time, stifling actual giggles at the hilarious mental image of Alec spinning across the training room with a reluctant and very uncomfortable Jace.

Magnus can’t believe it, that Alec’s kept this from him and let him believe he was in for a repeat of Havana. Even just a heads-up would have been nice, a quick “hey babe, just warning you that I’m about to shatter your entire world.”

Because that’s what he’s done. Magnus was in no way prepared for the sight of Alec, a confident expression on his devastatingly handsome face, holding him in position with perfect technique (though a little closer than is usually conventional). And based on Alec’s poorly hidden smirk, that was exactly the idea. Not that Magnus can talk though; it’s more than likely that Alec’s taking his cues from Magnus’ tendency to downplay his own proficiency in various areas – from pool to hand-to-hand combat – for a competitive edge.

Then Alec starts to move and Magnus is gone, unable to do anything but cling to his husband as he guides them across the floor in smooth circles

Alec’s eyes find Magnus’ as he relaxes into it, focusing less and less on executing the steps and just moving naturally. The look Magnus sees in them makes his heart clench. It’s complete and utter joy, glowing inside him and lighting him up as though he’s been carved from pure adamas.

Powerless to do anything but grin in response, Magnus wonders how on earth Alec ended up such a hopeless romantic. It’s so out of place with what he has seen of shadowhunter culture, and how the Clave’s rigidity and violent repression hasn’t beaten it out of him long ago is beyond Magnus. Although to be fair, between crashing his boyfriend’s political marriage and watching said boyfriend be used as a power play for control of the institute by his ex-Circle parents, what he has seen is probably not an accurate representation of your average shadowhunter family dynamic. And credit to Maryse, she (if no one else) making a definite effort to be better. Although that only really started once she was no longer technically a shadowhunter, so he’s still undecided on whether it counts.

But Alec... Alec is soft in a way Magnus could never have prepared for. In a way that could never be expected given his harsh upbringing. Which isn’t to say that he’s not a formidable warrior; you don’t get to be Head of the Institute by being anything short of fearsome in battle. But here? When he’s staring into Magnus’ eyes, a small smile gentle on his lips, visibly savouring his first dance as a married man?

Here, Alec lets his guard down completely. It still feels like a privilege to be the one lucky enough to see him like this.

Caught up as he is in his introspection, Magnus doesn’t notice the sudden mischief flashing in Alec’s eyes until it’s too late and Alec’s already dipping him, strong hands firms against Magnus’ back.

By all rights this should feel deeply unsafe, he muses, his entire weight resting on Alec’s hands as he relies on his husband to keep him from crashing to the floor. But it doesn’t. There’s not an ounce of tension or worry in his body as he falls backwards, that ridiculous, borderline irrational trust in Alec that has been present from the very beginning – and only grown since – whispering that Alec won’t let him fall. So he lets Alec dip him low, and the provocative grin Alec sends his way ignites sparks that burrow under Magnus’ skin.

Trust Alec to be competitive even in this, of all things. Trust Magnus to find it way more attractive than he should.

Alec holds him there, smirking as he draws out the moment just long enough that Magnus can feel himself starting to get breathless. The entire situation is distantly familiar, like a memory from another life or the impression of a dream, of the golden morning sun and light-hearted teasing and calloused hands clutching his. The thought quickly slips away as Alec’s lips brush softly against his. Magnus can’t help but arch up slightly, chasing the feeling, and then Alec’s pulling away and pulling Magnus back up against him.

And Alexander calls him a tease.

Not to be outdone, Magnus seizes control of the dance before Alec can react, spinning him out and raising his arm to coax him into a twirl. He half expects it to throw Alec off completely but he takes it in stride, turning neatly with an amused huff, graceful in a way that’s surprising given how tall he is and how awkward it should look as a result. Alec’s hands wrap around his neck as Magnus draws him close again until they’re moving only a few steps each way, rotating slowly in the centre of the floor. He caresses Alec’s hip, inadvertently releasing a spark of magic from his fingertips where they grip tightly, relishing the way his husband shudders against him, a slight hitch in his breath where it puffs against Magnus’ jaw.

It occurs to Magnus, not for the first time, how wonderfully and uncannily in sync Alec is with him. How he can read Magnus’ cues like it’s his native language, where others haven’t even bothered to learn them at all. In fact, Magnus can’t recall it ever being this easy with someone before. Take away the complications of their jobs and the world that’s thrown everything it can in their path, strip it back to just them, and being together is the easiest thing Magnus knows.

God, he can still barely believe that after decades upon decades of searching and even more wandering aimlessly trying to convince himself it doesn’t matter, that he’s given up, he’s managed to stumble upon this. And it’s borderline inconceivable that he gets to have this for the foreseeable future. That he apparently has a hold on Alec that he didn’t have over others (others who couldn’t or wouldn’t stay), a hold that actually matches the strength of the one Alec has on him.

After so many years of heartbreak he’s standing here swaying in the arms of a man who matches him stride for stride, a man who married him.

A man who, in that moment, manages to stumble and step on his foot rather spectacularly.

Wincing, Magnus experiences a moment of confusion. They’re not exactly doing anything ambitious – just swaying gently, foreheads pressed gently together and breath intermingling. And then it hits him, given away by the subtle feeling of vulnerability he’s aware of if he focuses on it and the awestruck look Alec is giving him as he struggles to regain his balance.

He’s dropped his glamour. And it was enough to make Alec practically trip over his own feet.

Caught completely off-guard, giddy with the revelation, Magnus can’t help the delighted laugh that bubbles out of him. Alec’s playfully glaring at him and Magnus tries to compose his expression into a look of innocence. It’s a battle he loses spectacularly, shoulders shaking slightly with mirth.

“Not a word,” Alec mumbles, expression an endearing mixture of embarrassment and reluctant amusement.

If Magnus’ hands weren’t already occupied, clutching his husband with no intention of letting go, he’d be sorely tempted to exaggeratedly mime zipping his lips, if only for the impressive eye-roll it would no doubt prompt. He settles for one last snort of laughter before schooling his expression into one of appropriate solemnity, for once passing up the opportunity to poke fun. Partially because he’s pretty sure if Alec gets anymore flustered he’ll just pass out from the sheer volume of blood rushing to his face. Or worse, start overthinking and pull away altogether. Either way, Magnus is not about to let this moment end just yet.

And partially, because how could he tease Alec about this? Sure, the sudden lack of coordination is objectively hilarious, but Magnus can’t remember anyone in his long history who’d been so delighted by the sight of his real eyes that they’d have this kind of reaction. He’s grown to expect careful neutrality at best (and he’d rather not dwell on the worst). Alec’s utter, unguarded adoration for them is not something he’ll ever get used to.

There’s also the fact that he hadn’t felt the glamour slip away, wouldn’t have noticed if not for Alec’s response. Normally he feels practically naked without it, stripped of all defences in a way that echoes how he’d felt when he lost his magic. He knows he trusts Alec, but this is beyond conscious decision, a centuries-old defence mechanism that apparently now just falls away in his husband’s presence. And that speaks to a level of trust beyond sense or reason, something that he can feel at the very core of his being.

With all those thoughts swirling through his head, Magnus doesn’t think he could speak even if he wanted to, rendered speechless by the impossible depth of feeling Alec never fails to evoke from him. So he doesn’t try. Just draws his husband closer, let’s him hide his still-pink cheeks in Magnus’ shoulder as they sway together, ushering in the beginning of the rest of their life together.

#malec #shadowhunters #malec fic #alec lightwood #magnus bane #malec wedding #shtv #jace herondale #jace lightwood #once again only mentioned but i thought i should tag him anyway #brother zachariah #my fic

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flowerflamestars · 6 years

Text

Ivy Moon: Part 1

Nesta Archeron had grave dirt under her nails.

This was a usual occurrence. As a death blessed witch in a family of talents, being called upon to speak to the newly dead was her most regular and least favorite job. But as any good witch would tell you, no dead needed to rise to speak.

And dead werewolves certainly didn’t reappear out of the sky and happy to be found.

Or naked as a full moon night.

Nesta winced at the thought and resolutely kept her eyes up, locked on a tawny shoulder she had to tilt her head to reach. The werewolf was thanking her again, unabashed at his nudity and smiling brightly.

“-I don’t even know where I was, so”-

“You were dead,” Nesta interrupted flatly, and this time he seemed to hear her. Beautiful green eyes with wolf amber bubbling up inside them met hers in confusion, somehow even prettier than the rest of him. Gods, this whole damned night was giving her a headache. “Or at least, your brothers thought you were.”

She was going to have words with Rhys when this was done. What the hell had he dragged her into this time?

The wolf in front of her was still staring, chest heaving for all that he had run out of words. It was a physical effort not to stare back, chiseled golden muscle moving tangibly close to her face. Stupid werewolf strength.

Nesta threw out a hand, pointing behind her impossible companion.

“That,” she said sharply, frustration bleeding into her tone, “is your grave. We never found your body, but Rhys filled a casket in case it allowed me to call your spirit.” A grave of oak and amber and jade, for a full-blooded wolf with a talent for magic. If he focused hard enough, Nesta wouldn’t have been surprised if he could still smell the sorrow of his brothers here.

Wide eyed, Cassian pivoted to see the headstone.

Nesta actually bit her lip at the muscled back and long, bare, sculpted stretch that put right in her sight. Fucking werewolves.

Quickly, hoping he was too distressed to scent her, Nesta stepped forward to stand beside him. The witching hour had come and gone, the forest that hid this burial ground still and quiet. Even the wind rustled oaks were silent, leaving her with nothing but the growing moon and a man who most definitely was not dead.

She could feel the warmth of his eyes on her again. “You were trying to call my spirit?” Cassian asked at a low rumble, not giving her space to reply. “You’re Feyre’s sister, aren’t you?”

Nesta nodded, before tilting her head back to gaze dimly at the trees. Cassian swore.

“Fuck,” He repeated, dark hair falling into his face as he reached for her crossed arms. Out of the corner of her eye, it was impossible not to note the moonlight gleaming over Cassian’s bare skin. “Nesta Archeron, please tell me I did not crawl out of that grave in front of you.”

To her horror, Nesta snorted a laugh before she could stop herself.

“You were never in the grave,” She said, “You’re not even dirty. I don’t know what the hell curse you’re under, but I guarantee it isn’t effecting your memory.”

She saw the interest flicker across his face, mouth twisting into a grin much more flirtatious than rueful. “You could look closer,” Cassian offered, “Who knows where grave dirt could hide. A witches touch reveals all truth, doesn’t it?”

No- no, that was it.

Nesta turned on her heel and began walking away without a word, the crisp crunch of leaves under her boots endlessly satisfying. She was cold and tired, and had nearly been struck by lightening. Lightening out of which had appeared the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, naked and perfect and grinning at her like sin itself.

A gorgeous man who was, of course, the supposedly dead brother of the underworld mob boss her baby sister was shacking up with.

She was done. Done with the night and this freezing forest. She wanted a cup of coffee and some gods damned answers, both of which could be found at home.

Cassian caught up to her ground eating stride easily, moving with perfect grace in the dark. He seemed as unaffected by the low light as he was by his total nudity and the biting cold, content to silently lope by her side as Nesta stomped through the trees to her car.

It was only after the third time he reached out to catch her, righting Nesta’s stumble over something she couldn’t see that he broke the silence.

“Rhys and Az really think I’m dead?” Cassian asked, voice low as he gently tugged her upright.

Nesta didn’t particularly want to think about what kind of mess they were all in until she had more information. A curse that powerful, that undetectable? Something old and bloody made that magic.

But she couldn’t deny the brother’s sorrow had been real, a devastation that reverberated through the Archeron’s deep and true. She’d come to the funeral, stood beside a white knuckled Azriel, ready to fight to world to bring his brother home.

She’d never met Cassian, but she was intimately acquainted with the hole his absence had left in his pack and her family.

“You went missing a month ago,” Nesta murmured, matching his tone. “I tried to track your magic, Elain scryed for you, but there was nothing. And then Rhys told us you were dead.”

They’re reached the edge of the forest, moonlight bright enough for Nesta to track the shaking hand Cassian raked through his hair. Dark curls sprang back with a levity that made her hands itch. So she found herself saying, voice stupidly soft, “I’m taking you to them, everyone’s out at our house.”

Cassian stopped walking.

Nesta was tugged to a stop too, the hand he’d used to steady her still wrapped securely around her wrist. When she opened her mouth and looked up to protest however, she found Cassian looking down at her, a softer twin of his initial smile on his lips.

“Sorry about earlier,” Cassian said. “I say really stupid things when I’m nervous, Az calls it fuckboy mode.”

It took physical effort not to smile back at that devastatingly handsome face. Nesta tilted her head instead. “Fuckboy sounds about right. Aren’t you a couple centuries too old to lack brain to mouth filter?”

He huffed a laugh. “Beautiful women bringing me back to life is a singular weakness.”

Nesta’s eyebrows went higher, unable to resist a smirk. “You were never dead.”

“I don’t know,” Cassian murmured, grin grown wide and crooked, “Pretty sure my heart stopped when I saw you, sweetheart.”

His grip was still a lovely, gentle pressure on her wrist. Nesta jerked it out of his grasp, she didn’t need him knowing how fast her heart was going. And if he didn’t know, she could perfectly well pretend it wasn't happening. Nesta wouldn’t be admitting to the burst of laughter his words dragged from her either.

Gravel crunched as she rocked back, away from the tangible heat of his body and toward the hedgerows that hid her car. Warm eyes followed her, gone wolf bright amber and gold between one blink and the next.

He followed her, eyebrows crinkling as she wrestled with the tie of her coat while she walked. Finally, centuries since she’d seen it last, Nesta came to a stop in front of her car to shrug off her long green jacket. Keys fished out, she balled the garment and tossed it at Cassian.

He caught it easily, arm staying raised in confusion.

Nesta crossed her cold arms with huff. Gods, she couldn’t wait for coffee. “You’re not getting in my car like that.”

“What?” Cassian started, and stopped, her coat held out in front of him. “Oh god, I didn’t even think- we’re in the woods, and its close enough I can feel the moon.” He fumbled the fabric around his hips in haste, pointedly looking away from her. “I am so, so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

He sounded so horrified Nesta snapped back, “I am not uncomfortable.”

The flare of light as Nesta unlocked the car was enough for her to actually see the moment he breathed in her scent. Cassians head tilted in question, mortification slammed its way through her chest as his nostrils flared, catching the interest and attraction, the hint of arousal in the air with those wolves senses.

Fucking werewolves.

And then Cassian blushed.

Nesta wrenched her eyes away, and threw the car into reverse the second he’d settled inside. The road was dark and empty, she’d focus on that. She would not think about the color blooming on his olive cheeks, the half seconds gaze that left her sure that when Cassian flushed the color went down and down and down.

The radio crackled to life in static, the charmed car responding to her tension. Cassian reached to silence it before she could, wincing.

“Sorry,” He apologized again, as her fingers brushed over his arm in slower reflex. “Werewolf hearing.”

Nesta put her hand back on the steering wheel and resolutely did not think about acres of bare tawny skin. She had other problems to deal with, like what could be possibly be powerful enough to fool Rhys’ senses.

She hadn’t been happy to find out her sister was engaged to the man who watched over the east coasts supernatural underworld with an iron fist. In fact, she’d set a small forest fire before her temper was in check. It wasn’t just his work - of protection and acquisition, which he was damn good at- but her baby sister just had to go and fall in love with the only dhampir alive.

Amren had spent half an hour putting out the fire, because she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to focus.

Centuries old, with blood that was poison to vampires, magic that repulsed the fae, and bone that would once have been a witch relic, Rhysand was deadly. Born of a soul bond between a werewolf and a vampire, he had the instincts of a hunter- and he’d use every single one to destroy those who stood against his family.

Nesta was lucky enough to be counted among that small number.

It also helped her estimation of him that he loved Feyre like the world was ending.

Old, powerful, and ruthless as he was, he’d been sure his brother was dead and gone. What enemy was there that could actually fool him? And whose magic had she inadvertently broken through?

Like he couldn’t stand the swell of silence, like he knew what she was thinking, Cassian began to speak. “You said curse, earlier. Why do you think that’s what happened?”

Nesta shrugged. “You disappeared,” She ticked off the points on her finger, a list fully formed in her head. “Untraceable by magic, or scent. You have no memories of what happened, which is classic cursework. And you came back completely intact when whatever it was broke.”

Cassian tapped lightly at the foggy window, eyes flitting over her face. “I don’t know anything about death magic, so humor me. How do you know that you didn’t accidentally bring me back from the dead?”

Nesta sighed.

“Okay, first of all? I’m not a necromancer.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him nodding. “There hasn’t been one in at least a thousand years, and by all accounts they were never human to start with. Someone coming back,” She waved a frustrated hand in his direction, “In their original body, power and mind intact? It doesn’t happen.”

It couldn’t happen, and Nesta had been trying to explain this nuance since she was a teenager first sought out for her prodigious gifts.

“But you can speak to the dead?” Cassian asked. “Feyre explained it to us like Elain was good at life magic and you with the dead, with her skills somewhere in between. But I know it has to be more than that, because I tried to get sense of your power earlier- and honestly, I couldn’t tell where it started or ended.”

“Rude,” Nesta teased, before she could stop herself. That crooked smile was on Cassian’s face again, streetlights as they cut through town on the way to her families sprawling home painting him in hazy gold. Wolf eyes still gazed back at her.

“I’m death blessed,” She said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel before she carefully continued. “I keep the dead and the dead keep me.”

A crack of laughter escaped Cassian, making her jump. The rich sound didn’t last long, but it was enough to raise the temperature in the car by several degrees. “Do you know wolves say that too?” Amusement tangled in his words, “You keep the pack and the pack keeps you.”

Oddly enough, that made her feel braver. “I’ve got one foot in life and one in the beyond. I can talk to the dead, but that also means I can kill almost anything. Makes cursework come easy, any kind of banishment or destruction really. I’m very, very good with fire.”

In the brief, surreal moment of stopping at a red light in the predawn hours, Cassian caught her gaze. “Of course you’re good with fire.” It was a low murmur she barely heard, but felt.

The car lurched forward, racing away from civilization and down onto the long road her grandmother had commissioned. Nesta kept speaking, unwilling to break the moment, but just as eager to hide away from it. “Elain has earth and wind, and Feyre water.”

“You’re a triumvirate,” Cassian breathed.

Something coiled against Nesta’s senses, warm as magic. Not fear, but awe. “That’s what our mother called us.” Death, Life, Creation. Their grandmother had older words for it- Crone, Maiden, Mother. Born not in the straightforward order of natural law, but in reverse, witches to practice magic not under the sun, but in the hidden and bright spaces of the night sky.

Thick trees and foggy hills rapidly gave way as Nesta drove recklessly fast toward the ordered wildness of Elains flower farm, wards a comforting hum as Nesta came to a stop beside a field of roses. Cassian followed her out of the car, stopping only when she reached for his hand.

“Sweetheart,” He drawled, and the dark, honeyed sound of his voice had her reaching for the magic faster, a quick flash of power slashing at both their palms. Nesta laced their fingers together so that blood raced with blood, and pulled Cassian forward. He let her, bleeding and curious, lead him into a veil of magic.

If Nesta didn’t know any better, she’d swear that blush was back on his cheeks.

You make him nervous, her brain murmured to her. The attraction was so absolute it felt like an enchantment itself, heady and out of control in her exhausted state.

Cassian let out a low whistle, looking around as though he could see the magic hanging thick in the air. “That’s some boundary spell.”

“It’s a ward,” Nesta corrected, “The first time one of us has to let you in personally, and then walk you all the way in of our own power.”

Cassian shook his head in something like respect and turned her hand in his, not relinquishing his hold when Nesta pulled back. Under the blood starting to dry tacky and dark, his palm was already healed. Amber eyes flitting to hers, Cassian pushed out a gentle thread of power, healing her in the space between heartbeats.

It would have been smart to step back.

This night was already too fraught and complicated to muddle further, but for a moment- for long minutes under the light of the waxing moon, Nesta let herself close her eyes and chase the feel of that power.

It came by increments, the sleek slide of sunny warmth against her senses. Cassian’s magic felt like the wildness of every full moon night, overlaid with the comforting safety of the sun on bare skin. Instinct and longing and power run free, tempered by a home that could never be lost.

She felt as he let her in further, wolves senses overtaking her own. How Cassian could smell the heady scent of Elain’s enchanted roses like a fog, how close his wolf was to surface, ready to lean against her side. Nesta felt how keenly Cassian sensed the touch her hand cupped in his, how some wild untamed part of him wanted to lick the blood from her palm to find her skin perfect and beautiful beneath it.

Nesta’s eyes snapped open with shiver.

This was not the time, and not the place- and- and this was Rhysand’s brother, for gods sake. This was a bad idea. But Nesta knew, shoving away the overwhelming feel of his magic, that she’d want to see more. Stupid, gorgeous werewolf.

Eyes with nothing human left in them were locked on her face.

Nesta straightened her spine. She was not doing this right now. “Ready for a family reunion?”

—

The second lightening struck and Cassian appeared, Nesta had decided not to warn anyone she was bringing him home.

To ensure they believed her and stop anyone from panicking, of course- not because she wanted a small, happy revenge for almost being killed by his magical reappearance, of course.

But Nesta had underestimated the sheer length of the walk across the estate to her families house. And how long she could stand the tangible temptation of a naked werewolf who kept blushing at her, somehow abashed and cocky all at once.

A werewolf who was looking at her from under a furrowed brow, eager to get back to his family and confused as to why they had stopped in a birch grove to make a phone call.

Amren answered on the second ring, voice just irritated enough to let Nesta know her friend was worried about her. “Please tell me baby werewolf had a very specific revenge plan to tell you, and that’s why you’ve been gone all night.”

“Not as such,” Nesta drawled, watching Cassian mouth baby werewolf indignantly. “Can you go steal a pair of pants from Rhys’ drawer in Feyre’s bedroom and meet me in the spell garden?’

Cassian waved hand in front of her before speaking, as though he didn’t want to be rude. “I’m taller than Rhys,” he said, “If Az is around, stealing the change of clothes he keeps in the trunk of his car would work better.”

“Is that?”- The strange wind noise that Nesta knew enough to assume was the sound of Amren moving at supernatural speed cut into her best friends words. “Nesta, what the burning hell? Am I hearing Rhysand Jr Jr?”

“My name is Cassian,” He growled back, Nesta an unnecessary intermediary between two shape shifters with super hearing. She jabbed him in the ribs before stepping away, not that it would help. He’d hear every word they both said.

“We’re by the birches,” Nesta muttered, drawing the the heel of her boot through the thick grass.

“Fuck,” Replied Amren, eloquently. “I’m on my way.”

Sliding her phone back into her pocket, Nesta turned to find Cassian leaning against a thin tree truck, hands brushing over the carved marks on a branch above his head. Luminously golden eyes flitted up to follow her movement, every line in of his body held a little too casual to be real.

“These aren’t magic,” He noted, the question plain.

Nesta crossed her arms with a huff. For so clearly wanting to get to his brothers, maybe he didn’t want to think about the circumstance either. “They’re practice, from when I was small,” She admitted. “I had to learn to burn the sigils without lighting the trees on fire.”

It was one of her clearest memories of grandmother, before Genevieve had passed, leaving the estate and it’s safe haven to her eldest granddaughter. A place where no one could touch Nesta if she didn’t want them, where plants bloomed at her passage instead of crumbling in death.

A place where the dead couldn’t speak to her and the living couldn’t harm her.

Cassian’s ever present smile was dancing over his features. “I heard you started a Siberian forest fire.”

It was like a challenge, her magic wanted to reach out at the sound of his voice. “You would too,” Nesta quipped, giving into the fire in her blood, “If your baby sister agreed to marry a dhampir she’d known for two weeks.”

If Cassian was surprised at fire bursting to life in the air, a hundred molten balls of light, he didn’t show it. He tilted his head back to see them waft through the air, grinning like the wolf he was. Sharp jawed and no less rugged for delight, he reached a hand out toward one, fingers skating close to flame before Nesta willed it away.

“You’ll get burnt,” She said, smirking.

The crushing beauty of his wolf bright gaze settled on her once again, taking in her face like she were magic too. A heat that had nothing to do with fire or power filled the air between them.

“I’d like,” Cassian said carefully, stepped away from the tree, “To see how close I can get.”

Nesta wondered if were he listening to her heartbeat. She could feel the pulse in her throat, the blush starting over her collar bones. As Cassian walked toward her, all unashamed hunters grace, Nesta wanted nothing more than to stride forward and meet him half way.

Until her best friends voice cut through the dark.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Amren swore, appearing from thin air. “How are you alive, wolf man?”

Cassian actually jumped, teeth bared, as a petite dark hair woman emerged to his left. He reined in the reaction fast enough to impress Nesta, face rueful as he caught the clothes Amren threw at him. “I know even less than you do, actually.”

“That, you’ll find, is always true.” Amren tsked, walking to Nesta’s side. “No go put on pants.”

Which a final look at Nesta, Cassian did as he was told and walked further into the grove. It took all of a breath for Amren to easily pull Nesta in the opposite direction, sniffing at the air for signs of injury.

“Are you okay?” She demanded, coming to a stop beside an ivy covered trellis. “What the hell happened out there?”

Nesta started pulling pins from her hair, exhaustion making her sag as she finally relaxed for the first time since she’d walked into that forest. “Have you ever heard of anyone appearing out of a lightening strike?”

Amren worried at a ring on her left hand, a confection of ruby and diamond someone with less keen eyes might assume was costume jewelry. Nesta had been present when Amren picked it up in payment from a Russian prince, part of the royal dowries worth of jewelry they’d been paid to break the curses on an old palace.

“Someone without a drop of fae blood?” She raised her eyebrows, disbelief such a perfect mirror of what Nesta had been feeling that she wanted to laugh. She’d been awake long enough now that she was starting to feel punchy with it.

“A curse,” Nesta said, what they were both thinking.

Amren hummed in agreement. “That explains why you both reek of hellebore.” She pointed an accusing finger, this one crowned with three overlapping golden rings, “It doesn’t explain why you smell like blood and lust and wolf. He’s a damn sight better than Rhysand, but I had no idea werewolves were your type after all.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, and waved her still bloody hand. “I had to key him into the wards,” she said, ignoring everything else.

“Mhmm,” Amren replied, her disbelief cut off by Cassian striding out of the trees to them, saving Nesta from her fate.

He walked around Amren to Nesta’s side like he belonged there, bare feet silent. Amren didn’t try to hide her snigger.

“Alright,” Nesta sighed, “Cassian the not dead brother, meet Amren, the other member of our family.”

Amren waited until Cassian had grasped her hand in greeting before flashing fully silver eyes, sharp smile going fanged. If she’d expected intimidation, what she got instead was the bright laugh Nesta was beginning to realize was very, very Cassian.

“You’re the dream dragon!” He burst out, unaffected by Amrens snarl at his words. Nesta tried and failed to hide a laugh behind her hand.

Her best friend huffed and began walking without them, grumbling. “You let one human see you in the eighties, and its all jokes.” Even in heels and with a much shorter stride, Nesta had to scramble to catch up.

“You should have eaten him,” Nesta told her, knowing Amren wasn’t truly offended as she linked an arm threw hers.

“I should have,” She agreed, and then turned her head to call back to the wolf following at Nesta’s heels. “You ever call me that again, baby wolf, and I’ll eat you too. Even canines taste good fire roasted.”

Nesta swore she heard Cassian laugh again.

Reckless, but some buried deep part of her quite liked the fearlessness. Cassian was no more afraid of Amren than he was of Nesta.

Together the three of them rejoined the long, winding gravel road that led to the heart of the estate. Neither shifter commented as they slowed their pace to match Nesta’s determined, but tired steps. Here, in her home, she could let herself be exhausted.

Past gardens that had provided generations with magical plants, beyond the glass greenhouses where Elain grew flowers from other worlds, through guardian oaks that lit with their passage from pools of alchemic moonlight Feyre had devised; Nesta led them home, her every step guarded by a wolf at her back.

—-

Azriel took one look at his younger brother- alive, breathing, wearing his stolen sweater and lupine grin- and silently collapsed like every string that held him together was cut. The breath that rattled from Cassian was audible even to Nesta before he sprang up the steps of the Archerons' porch, tackling his brother the rest of the way down to the wood floor.

The weathered boards groaned in protest, hiding from Nesta whatever Cassian was saying in a low voice.

Inaudible to her, but not to their older brother inside.

Rhysand slammed through the doorway like they were under attack, purple eyes wide. He froze at the sight before him for several heartbeats, a long, long time for someone with vampire reflexes.

And then, just like that, Rhys had thrown himself down to the floor too. All three brothers laughing and crying, a tangle of muscled limbs as they wrestled with one another. Scenting their pack- their small wolf family- alive and unharmed.

If Nesta allowed herself a sharp, happy smile before she turned to go around the house to the back door, Amren didn’t mention it.

—

Nesta Archeron was the most beautiful person Cassian had ever seen.

Feyre had crashed into his life like the little sister he’d never asked for, a vampire on her tail and a determination to do absolutely nothing about it, because the gallery show she was getting ready for was that much more important.

He’d seen her run out of gas and charm her car with an illegal, completely dark energy spell to get it going again.

He was protective of her and loved her, but looking at Nesta’s eyes, the exact same shade and shape, was something else entirely.

Cassian had been joking when he’d told Nesta his heart stopped when he saw her. But in reality, it seemed like a distinct possibility. If he were dead, or if this were a dream it would have made more sense- how absolutely fascinating the witch who’d found him in woods was.

Not just beautiful- though she was sharply gorgeous and so utterly perfect that he ached to touch her- but smart and strong, with clever eyes and magic that lit up his senses like a supernova. His wolf hadn’t ceased clawing to surface yet, so eager to cherish and protect.

This was not normal.

Cassian knew damn well what was happening, but he couldn’t let himself think the words. Not here in her kitchen, listening to her and her dragon friend debate what could have happened to him.

Not here with both his brothers, who could probably smell the emotion welling inside him. Azriel was already smirking, tracking the ever shrinking space between where Nesta sat, perched on a counter, and Cassian.

He was so, so fucked.

And lucky, he knew. Lucky beyond measure to have found a mate, the person his every cell was made for- to love, to protect, to care for. To a wolf like Cassian, it was the greatest stroke of fate imaginable.

But it was also a fucking disaster, because Nesta was a witch.

Cassian couldn’t imagine there was a good way to convey to anyone not a werewolf that he’d known all of ten hours and met standing naked on his own grave, that he’d love her until the day he died.

With a sigh that had Azriel grinning at him, light in his dark eyes that made Cassian want to get into the sort of brawl they hadn’t indulged in since they were teenagers, Cassian let himself casually drift until he was leaning no more than a foot from Nesta.

“What I don’t understand,” Nesta was saying, eyes narrow on Rhys, “Is why you were completely positive he was dead in the first place.”

That had the other Archeron sister Cassian had finally been able to meet looking up as well. “Yes,” Elain murmured airily, blonde brows high as she poured hot chocolate with the same intensity as Cassian might use in knife fight. “What exactly did you not tell us before you insisted my sister, summon a dead wolf under a nearly full moon, a week before Samhain?”

If Rhys were capable of coloring, he would have under the perfect censure of that tone.

Instead, he shot a weary glance at Azriel, who only dimpled back at him, the plea for help ignored. “The pack bond went dead. Cassian was gone.”

Purple eyes flitted over Cassian, love and concern in each warm breath he took. He couldn’t imagine what that would feel like- the bond of family and pack inside him as vital as his lungs or ribs.

Amren made a snickering, scathing noise into her glass of whiskey.

Gaping in her frustration, Nesta only shook her head, empty coffee cup clinking down next to her as she crossed her arms. “Are you kidding me?”

Slowly, hoping not to be noticed, Cassian plucked up her cup.

Nesta had been drinking cup after cup since they’d come into the house, seemingly untouched by the caffeine. It tangled in her scent- coffee and chocolate, blood on her skin- like something bittersweet he hadn’t known well enough to crave.

Silently, Cassian stepped away to refill it for her again. This kitchen, this whole place, was like a fairytale of witchcraft. Pale stone floors and aged beautiful wood, there was nowhere that didn’t reek of magic. It was all around them- blood wards on the building and land, plants blooming in the sisters wake, elemental charms and light spells and the sisters themselves; so powerful together in this place that made them that Cassian’s wolf was finally pushed down.

Halfway through stirring in the two sugars that Nesta preferred and Cassian had scented carefully to guess, Elain shoved a second cup into his free hand.

“Chocolate for life,” She said, cheerful and sharp all at once. “Welcome back to the land of the living, and to the family, Cassian.”

He stared first at the perfect swirl of whipped cream and then at her face, watching him carefully. Welcome to the family? Cassian knew one of Feyre’s sisters had a touch of foresight, but gods help him, he didn’t remember which one. “Thank you,” He settled on saying, taking a sip.

Dark, rich chocolate melted on his tongue as Elain’s face softened. She patted him on the shoulder. “We really are glad you’re not dead, you know.” Abruptly, she clapped her hands together, the sound lost in the rising tone of Rhys and Nesta’s argument. “Now, give me Nesta’s cup. If you really want to get on her good side, you need whipped cream.”

Blinking, he handed it over.

In Feyre’s stories, Elain was gentleness made manifest: baking cakes, making world renowned perfume, bringing Feyre back magic materials from her business trips to France. Cassian was learning fast that might be true for the much younger sister of the family, but to the rest of the world, Elain was just as terrifying as Nesta.

“Rhysand,” Nesta was snarling, as much a dragon as Cassian would have expected of Amren, “Just because you’re more than a wolf doesn’t change how curses fundamentally work.”

Elain handed Cassian back the mug with a sly smile before joining Azriel at the table.

“You’re giving us a list,” Nesta went on, jabbing a fire makers hand toward his brother. “Of every single person you’ve pissed off in at least the last century who might have a connection to Seelie magic.”

Cassian returned the cup to precisely where Nesta had set it down, unprepared for her to startle and meet his gaze. Wordlessly, he pressed it into her hand. Pale eyes still blazing, something softened around her mouth.

“Thank you,” Nesta said lightly. And then she smiled.

And Cassian was lost.

It was only a small smile, a quirk of full pink lips, but he’d caused it. Amren caught the look on his face, safe from Nesta’s gaze as she was busy glaring at Rhys over the rim of her coffee, and snorted so hard smoke and sparks came out into the air.

—

Some exhausting hours later, Azriel found Cassian watching the sunrise from the Archerons front porch.

“Amren owes me a hundred dollars,” His brother said in greeting, crossing his arms to lean beside Cassian. Before them, mist was rising through trees and grass, the dawn light silvered and pink.

Cassian raised his eyebrows in question. Azriels easy, knowing smile sliced across his face.

“She bet me if you two met, Nesta would sooner rip off your balls than ever bare her throat,” He said, bumping his shoulder into Cassian. “I guess neither of them know you’re not quite that sort of wolf. Yet.”

Cassian wasn’t proud of it, but he groaned.

“She made a joke, last night, about Rhys and Feyre getting engaged after two weeks. And they’re not even mates.” He shook his head, unruly curls falling in his face. Cassian raked them back with a growl.

“Oh, she’s going to eat you alive,” Azriel agreed, cheerfully.

“Fuck, I hope so,” Cassian said. “I had god damn wolf eyes the entire time I was alone with her, probably could have transformed right there without the moon at all.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair again, words a tide overflowing. “She smells like open skies and bloody, deadly magic and the best sex ever. I honestly want to listen to her talk about curses and magic and work for the next century, just so I can learn how her brain works.”

Azriel guffawed, the traitor, watching the moment Cassian’s thoughts caught up with his mouth and he gaped in horror.

“Elain got you good,” His older brother said, still laughing as he clapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Truth potion in the chocolate. Welcome to being vetted by the Archeron sisters, baby brother.”

Cassian threw off his hand with a huff.

“But really,” Az went on, visibly fighting his mirth, “Did you not notice you’d somehow managed to scent her on the way here?”

He opened his mouth to deny it, because he wasn’t that much a prick- he’d just met Nesta, it didn’t matter that she was it for him, he didn’t have any claim on her. But- in the woods, steadying her as she walked, catching her when she fell.

Her wrists, her elbow, even her neck as he’d pulled a leaf from her hair. Bright moon take him, Cassian had gone for her pulse points without even realizing it. It even made sense if he was thinking about it rationally.

From the moment he appeared, his wolf had been right on the surface. Cassian hadn’t been focused on anything but Nesta and safety, the moon intoxicating above them. Awareness of himself, of the rest of the world, hadn’t trickled back to him until they’re emerged from the trees.

Of course he’d made an utter ass of himself.

Light streaked across fields and hills, birds beginning to break up the silence. He could smell the disarming sweetness of enchanted flowers in the distance, blood and salt for the power on the land. But also something that he wanted to just call wildness- elemental magic, harnessed by witches with old blood who belonged to a wolf pack, guarded by a dragon.

This whole place was a dream made real, and Cassian wanted terribly to belong to it.

Cassian’s face must have been pitiable. “I bet Amren,” Azriel told him, smug even in his reassurance, “That the two of you would get along like a house on fire.”

@bon-bon-salvatore @strangeenemy @sannelovesreading @maddieimhot @ladyvanserra @rhysand-darling @empress-ofbloodshed @highfaenesta @marianaftm @illyrianinterrasen @tntwme @the-smoldering-illyrian-beauty @jahelyden @sjmasstrash @rairrai @rhysanoodle @a-trifling-matter @eastside-divebar @happy-smiling-things @missanniewhimsy @abillionlittlepieces @poisonous00 @macomafastraash @sunsummoner @vampwitchel @symwinter @acotarfanfic @rapunzel1523 @the-regal-warrior @wolffrising @tswaney17 @they-call-me-cuatro @queenofillea1 @neverlandoftimespacefuckery

#this got so long in edits I you're getting it in two parts!#part two on original release date #can you tell its the most self indulgent thing I've ever written? YES #Cassian to Cassian all of part one:#Fuck she's perfect #I'll just learn everything I can about her #and try not to flirt like an ass #and be there for her completely #and hope ONE DAY she looks at me the way I look at her #meanwhile #Nesta to Nesta #Oh no #GUESS I JUST HAVE TO SLEEP WITH HIM #nessian #feysand #witch nesta #werewolf cassian

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deathbyvalentine · 5 years

Text

DuD Prompts

Astrid + Shirts

He woke up slowly. One arm slung over her hips, one still holding his dataslate. They had fallen asleep watching some naff training videos, the type you take seriously as cadets and laugh at as officers. Astrid was still asleep in his shirt, eyeliner smudged, small frown still painted on her face. He shifted, brushing some of the blonde hair out of her eyes. There had been less of these nights as of late. She had had more with Esme, he suspected, when not working a ridiculous number of hours. Carefully, he swallowed that bit of anger at the rules back, It wouldn’t help.

Anything that effected her tended to make his not-so-good tendencies worse. Anything that hurt her, he wanted to hurt a hundred times worse. Anything that made her angry, stirred his rage. Anything that thought they owned her, he wanted to correct. Sometimes he wondered if he was actually capable of loving anything properly. All signs very much pointed to no. The closest he came to it was with her and his fighter. They both were his. Isn’t that what love was? Something having you completely and you having them right back?

Idly, he wondered whether she loved Esme. Surely she wouldn’t be quite that stupid. Love between anyone else was for fools. It made you do stupid things, it left you riddled with weaknesses, it was agonisingly human. They were better than that, the same way they were better than everyone really. They didn’t do shit like that.

Lance thought of every person he had ever fucked, ever dated, ever said I love you to. He had felt nothing towards them generally but lust or novelty, and when that wore off, it was on to the next thing. The constants had been Astrid, flight and Anoretta. And he wasn’t even sure he knew Anoretta anymore, if she stirred the same feelings she once did and if he even wanted to find out what he was to her now. He had honestly assumed Astrid had been the same with her dalliances.

Maybe he was wrong.

Swagger

He looked at the demon. The demon looked at him. The slight shimmering of the Warp lay between them, looking for all the world like oil lying on top of water. He kept his fingers by his side, not giving into the urge to trace his fingers through it. Around him, people were murmuring or whispering in fright. Everyone was wearing serious expressions, everyone was at a loss. Bridge looked as serious as he had ever seen him. He knew logically he too should be afraid. But he wasn’t.

It wasn’t that he felt nothing. For once that was not the problem. Instead he was feeling a rush of absolute contempt, a desire to show this fucker exactly who he was dealing with. The Gardener was nothing. Something that could be crushed under his heel, outwitted easily, made to disappear. Easily.

He took a breath, eyes flickering to the small figure curled up at his feet. That was a shock that was sorely needed, dampening down the arrogance that tilted his head up and painted a smirk on his face. He didn’t want to leave them there. Nobody deserved that, or so he was told. He hadn’t yet been in the warp after all. His fingers twitched. He took a breath. Resisting temptation once more.

_______________________________________________________

Father

There was a grief too big to name, sitting in his chest. It sat there for several minutes, dominating every thought, every feeling until there was nothing but the sensation of drowning. So he did what he could. What made sense. He turned it off. He didn’t turn it back on. Not on the Chaser, not when writing the letters he needed to write, not when alone in his room.

It muted everything. He worked steadily and perfectly, didn’t lose his temper, eat and slept and drank. He fucked around the expected amount, frustrated that it didn’t help. Neither did drinking or smoking. Neither did socialising or isolating. The only thing that broke through the ice that had crept over him was the Lightning and the Spiderwidow, who both clung to him tighter than before, as if sensing the fracture lines within him.

The next time he had leave, he would not go home to his father. He wouldn’t embrace him. He wouldn’t make him proud or disappointed or make him feel anything at all. He wouldn’t take his advice or his teasing or see his gentle smile. That possibility felt like an open wound.

He didn’t even have the refuge of memories. Because when he allowed his mind to wander, he couldn’t uncomplicatedly remember the man who raised him. Instead he saw the shadows, the moments where the dark crept in. The constant lies. The manipulation. The bits where his father’s memory seemed to fail that now were obvious symptoms of a mindwipe.

Nothing stayed good in this sector. Nothing. Not even the past.

_________________________________________

A Dance With The Ex

This was simple and uncomplicated. Not for Gabriel obviously, but frankly he could go fuck himself. It was simple for Lance. He was being held by a gorgeous man who definitely wanted him but ran no risk of catching feelings. There was music playing and amasec in his system, he didn’t have to care about anything. The only way it would be any better was if Purge would actually fuck him. Unfortunately he seemed to have developed something like a moral compass in their time apart. Like every other fucker he had met recently.

Idly he wondered if Charity was in his league. She seemed to have changed not at all. She still had claws, still liked playing games. She wouldn’t make him think about his immortal soul. It would be a welcome break. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to have to try to be good. He wanted to be selfish and unkind and hedonistic.

He rested his head on Purge’s shoulder, feeling the muscle there, the warmth. He wondered if it would help, actually having a partner. It seemed to be helping Astrid in some ways, but not others. Someone to fawn over you, unconditionally. To love you in all your stupidity. Was he supposed to want that?

He didn’t know what he was supposed to want.

________________________________________________

An Old School Friend

She loved watching her in battle. She had a ballet dancer’s grace, making the act of killing into an art. She staked across the battlefield, armour glistening with blood, hair stained with it and never looking better. Anna was not usually the type to admire violence. It didn’t disgust her either - she was a Sister after all and a hospitalier at that. But she never had thought it something that could be beautiful until she saw Serene in the midst of it.

They had known each other for what felt like forever but was closer to a decade. They had met in the schola, fierce rivals and best friends. Their dorm room kisses didn’t fade away, meant more than just exploring and fun. It carried on, a thread of consistency as they moved planet to planet, training then fighting then fighting then fighting.

Anna knew Serena’s body as well as her own, through a mixture of sex and medicine, though rarely at the same time. She had sewn her up, held her feverish hand, nursed her, shouted at her, loved her. And Serena defended her, spoiled her, rolled her eyes at her and trusted her. They were not just a team. They were a whole. The only thing they loved more than each other was the God they both served. And that was one priority Anna was okay with being behind.

______________________________________________________

“How about something like watching the sun set across the waters /an 'observer watches the world and reflects' piece.”

Cal trailed their fingers in the golden river, though that was a loose term. Because in this space it wasn’t precisely like they had a body and river was simply the nearest approximation their mind could find to the existence they were experiencing. Whatever their fingers touched, they felt. Slices of people’s souls, contextless and isolated. Flashes of feeling, good and bad. Love. Hate. Temptation. Prayers. Cal knew what these emotions were, faintly, as though from a great distance. They were small feelings, unoccupied by the balance of chaos, the love of the Emperor, the fabric of the sector. They were beautiful feelings. Small was not the same as unimportant. Cal could see now what their lover cherished so much about humanity. They admired the species so much it almost broke their heart.

Occasionally there was a tug in the back of their mind, like they were supposed to be somewhere. Like someone was calling their name. It was devastatingly easy to forget all about it, to just enjoy the feeling of being home.

__________________________________________________

Negotiation Buddies

They made a worryingly good team Lance realised. She stood at the front, resplendent in her gorgeous machinery. She cast an intimidating shadow, the walls of the cave dancing in the light of just a few lanterns. Lance was pretty sure he could never get tired of admiring the gleaming metal and dangerous blades. He kept remembering having the honour to work on it, lowering the internal temperature. Ave Omnissiah.

He was playing blithe. These were heretics, but human ones. Human wasn’t always Mitra’s strong point. So he asked stupid obvious questions, voice friendly and kind, making her the absolute authority, never making her lose face by having to lower herself to the obvious. He approached them unarmed, a move that seemed to never fail to wrong foot people during negotiations. It immediately gave him a safety that even a written document wouldn’t have effected.

He moved back after each statement, listening from the back and whispering orders to the others on the mission. He heard Mitra finishing up and gave his goodbyes to the hereteks. And as him and Mitra walked away, steps completely in step. “So we’ll kill them all later right?” “Of course Lance Durovera.” “Knew we were on the same page.”

______________________________________________________

Leadership

Maybe it was the recent shifts in command structure. Maybe it was the fact he could feel his insides rotting, Maybe it was the fact he was trying to run a field hospital when he learnt first aid approximately two weeks ago. But he felt utterly out of his fucking depth. Sister Anya would be better at this than him. She was better at this than him.

A small bubble of self-loathing appeared in his chest. If he couldn’t perform his job competently, he really did have no redeeming qualities. The one thing he could always take pride in was how fucking good he was at his work. But he couldn’t cure these people, got a backseat exorcism from Bridge, had his wounds crippling him, and his triage was...fine. Fine. Not brilliant. Not great. Adequate.

There was no glowing praise like there was on the sinking ship, no people thanking him. If he had not been here, the result would have been the same. He had saved nobody, achieved nothing. On the plus, he hadn’t died, nor had anyone on the team.

It didn’t make him feel less fucking awful. The bare minimum never helped. _________________________________________________

#death unto darkness #larp #prose #prompts

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bosspigeon · 6 years

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fire emblem: bi awakening ft virion & libra!

I HAVE BEEN HOLDING THIS DOWN FOR A WHILE, BUT I’VE FINALLY FINISHED IT. whoever you are, anon, you know what lies in my heart of hearts 💖💖💖

When Libra returns to his tent in the evening, aching from neck to ankles from a hard day’s work, he hardly opens his eyes as he removes his robes and sinks onto his narrow cot.

As he lays his head on the lumpy pillow, his tired eyes fly open as he is assaulted by several unfamiliar stimuli all at once. Touch and smell, most notably– the feel of something silky and soft tickling his cheeks, and the sweet perfumes of–

Flowers.

A bundle of flowers, lying sadly crushed upon his pillow, a few petals come loose to scatter across the floor and tangle in his hair when he sits up quickly. There are several varieties, but they all seem to be of similar colors– mostly blue and white with a few little bursts of yellow– carefully bundled into a neat little bouquet and tied with a blue silk ribbon.

Libra sighs gustily as he picks bruised petals from his hair rolls his eyes. “Virion…” he murmurs, torn between irritation and fondness.

The flap of his tent rustles, then flies open. Unfortunately, tent flaps aren’t exactly manufactured with dramatic entrances in mind, so it flops back down in the face of his guest. Said guest fumbles it aside with a soft curse, before slipping inside much more sedately than he seems to have planned, looking suitably cowed by the embarrassing display.

Libra watches it all with his arms folded and one leg crossed primly over the other. “Hello, Virion,” he says, and he can’t quite mask the slight quirk of his mouth.

Virion brightens almost instantaneously upon being addressed, and hurries to bend a knee before the bedraggled cleric, holding out one hand expectantly.

Libra stares at it, one eyebrow raised, and watches with mild satisfaction as the self-appointed casanova flusters a bit trying to grasp at the last shreds of his usual script of flirtation.

“You called?” he offers with a lopsided, and altogether too charming, smile.

Libra gestures to the mess on his pillow, “I take it this is your doing?”

Virion makes a soft, sad sound upon seeing his gift squashed and scattered, and while he plays the flirtatious, but suave, simpleton quite well, he is much more clever and calculating than anyone else gives him credit for. His expression smooths as he figures out what must have happened, and smiles sheepishly at his own foolishness. “I see,” he murmurs. “I should have guessed that you’d be weary at the end of the day. You do work so hard, after all.” He swallows, throat visibly bobbing, and his eyes flick from Libra’s face to his arms– bare in his sweat-damp shift. His cheeks flare bright pink and his eyes return resolutely to Libra’s impassive face.

He stares silently at the priest for a long stretch, eyes tracing the straight line of Libra’s nose, the curve of his mouth, the severe arch of his brow. It takes Libra clearing his throat to break him from his reverie, and his cheeks go even more ruddy at being caught.

“Did you come here for a reason, Virion?” Libra sighs, raising a hand to his brow to push aside a hank of hair, lank and greasy after a long day of hard labor. It’s a wonder Virion could still be so entranced by him, grimy and sweaty as he is. He only wishes he’d had the energy to bathe before coming to bed, because now he knows he’ll have to wash his bedding come morning.

Virion visibly flusters at the question, and Libra supposes he should find it funny that the usually unflappable skirt-chaser can’t seem to find his bearings around a humble priest. Well, he does find it a bit funny. But mostly he finds it exhausting. “I simply came to… to assist you in any way you need, good sir! To take upon myself some of your burdens, perhaps, to ease your pains of a day spent toiling away–”

Libra holds up a hand and Virion goes blessedly silent, biting his lip and averting his gaze to the canvas ceiling so he won’t get lost drooling over the priest’s biceps again.

“Virion,” Libra begins slowly. And perhaps he is being a bit cruel, but he has experienced similar infatuations from men who could not reconcile their attraction to another man before. The cruelest thing he’s done thus far is let this go on as long as it has. “Virion,” he says again, slowly, and Virion’s dark eyes meet his. “Truly, truly I am flattered. But this can’t continue.” He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “No amount of your swooning and fawning and likening me to any number of flowers is going to make me anything other than what I am. I am a man, Virion.”

He tries to keep his tone even and firm, but gentle. Virion talks a big game, but he is a poetic creature, soft at heart. Libra does not want to hurt him with his words, only–

The cot creaks and lists slightly as Virion takes a seat beside the priest. He looks straight ahead, his hands clasped neatly on his lap. He keeps his eyes downcast, his face unreadable for a long moment. When he finally speaks, he’s dropped his usual theatric bluster. When he speaks, his voice is soft and thoughtful. “I know this,” he says. “It may have taken some time, at first, to come to terms with it, but I do know this. And I have found, through much… self-reflection and study, that perhaps… Perhaps it isn’t something so terrible?”

Libra arches his brow sternly, though he knows Virion can’t see it, staring so intently at the dirt as he is, but he lets the tense silence speak for him.

“Ah! That isn’t– that is not what I mean!” Virion looks to him, eyes wide and frantic, and he reaches for Libra’s hands and clutches them desperately. “I only mean that I think, perhaps, that this is not something for me to… Oh, gods above,” he keens pitifully, “why must words fail me now of all times?” He takes a deep, steadying breath, and Libra allows him the time to gather himself, as well as the steadying grasp of his hands. “I have come to realize my thought process up to a point has been both stupid and… harmful. Both to myself and to you. I have been looking at this… at you, as… as something to get past, perhaps. As something of a… a flaw, to look beyond, rather than a facet of myself to come to terms with.”

Silence reigns again, for a while, and Virion turns to him fully, still clasping his hands. He pulls them to his chest, thumbs stroking along the calluses that mark years of wielding a hefty axe with ease born of familiarity. Libra feels his own cheeks flush a bit at the intimacy of the gesture, in spite of everything he’s told himself for the weeks leading up to this moment. He thanks Naga his skin is too dark to show it.

“I am attracted to men,” Virion says, and Libra isn’t sure he’s saying it more to him, or to himself. “It is something I have… perhaps not always known, but ignored nonetheless. Perhaps due to expectations from my family, or due to my own stubbornness. It just took… one particular man for me to see it.” He smiles, without guile or bravado. He looks rather scared, actually. A tad sweaty. Libra tilts his head.

“Are you attracted to men,” he presses, because if this is going the direction he thinks it is, he can’t help his traitorous heart wants to be sure. “Or are you attracted to me because I don’t look like a man?”

“You look like a man because you are a man,” Virion says firmly, squeezing Libra’s hands. “A very, very, very,” he swallows hard, “truly devastatingly attractive man.” His gaze lingers on Libra’s mouth for a moment, before snapping back up to his eyes. “I would like to court you properly,” he announces boldly, though his voice trembles a bit. “As one man does another!”

Libra can’t help but laugh at that, somewhere between amused and simply giddy. “You don’t have to do anything particularly different one way or the other. Just treat me the way you would anyone else, and I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

Virion’s entire face lights up, and he clutches Libra’s hands to his chest and leans in close to his face. “I would very much like to kiss you,” he says.

“A good start,” Libra says sagely, nodding. And then, because Virion seems to be struggling a bit with initiative, leans forward and brushes their lips together.

Virion nearly keels over, and when Libra wraps both arms firmly around his waist to keep him from toppling off the cot, he looks ready to swoon even more. His hands flail a bit, all affectations of poise and grace forgotten, and his hands go to Libra’s biceps to steady himself.

And then they squeeze. And squeeze again. And a flush crawls its way up his pale neck. “Perhaps,” he says thickly, like his tongue is suddenly to big for his mouth, “perhaps I just like… muscles.”

Libra cocks a brow and pulls Virion closer, and lets him indulge in petting and stroking his arms with a single-minded focus. “It would personally explain why you pursued Sully for so long, in spite of the risk.”

Virion laughs, startled and high-pitched, and Libra finds he quite likes Virion like this, off-balance and stripped of his dramatic posturing. Instead of answering, he leans in and kisses Libra again, still clutching his arms for dear life. Libra shifts his hands, holding him gently around the waist, and guides him through, careful not to overwhelm. Even so, it is hardly more than a minute before Virion is making soft, needy little noises into Libra’s mouth. Rather than pursue things further, he pulls away.

Virion whimpers at the loss.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Libra murmurs, pushing back a loose strand of Virion’s usually immaculate hair. He looks so ruffled, lips slick and flushed, eyes foggy and dazed, his striking cheekbones dusted pink. “I think it’s time both of us got some rest. Besides, I probably don’t smell very good.”

“I don’t mind,” Virion says, a little too quickly, and Libra pecks him on the lips.

“Still, we’ll have plenty of time tomorrow. Chrom’s given me the day off.” He grimaces. “Ordered me to take the day off, really.” He squeezes Virion’s waist. “Regardless, we can… continue where we left off once I’ve had some rest and a very, very long bath.” He smiles beatifically. “If you’d like.”

An out, if Virion wants it. But he just squeezes Libra’s shoulders and lets his palms run down the length of his arms. “I do like, very much.” He leans in, but instead of kissing, he just rests their foreheads together for a moment. “I will see you on the morrow, then. Rest well.”

He leaves, slowly and reluctantly, but not before he’s given Libra one last long, heartfelt kiss.

When Libra falls asleep, it is with a body that still aches from the day’s labors, but a lightness in his heart.

#pidge replies #pidge writes #fire emblem #fe: awakening #fire emblem libra #fire emblem virion #happy pride y'all #there is no heterosexual explanation for virion #fjkdshf sorry im super fuckin rusty but uh #here we are!!#im hoping to start doing prompts pretty regularly again #its hard to do while wearing an eyepatch #but i got this one out!#anonymous

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whatjeon · 7 years

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He’s a Fuckboy (University Student!Jin)

Summary: Kim Seokjin is a fuckboy. He’s the worst of the worst. He’s the drop-dead gorgeous, devastatingly charming, highly-intelligent fuckboy girls could only ever meet in their dreams. And you have the (dis)pleasure of having him in your Econ class. (1.3k)

Type: Fluff + low-key smut ?????

Pairing: Jin x reader

The first thing Kim Seokjin ever said to you was “My name’s Seokjin, but you can call me anytime.”

The first thing you ever said to Kim Seokjin was “No thanks.”

And that's how you found yourself waking up in the 22-year-old’s bed on a Saturday morning.

(“I do quite fancy girls who don't quite fancy me,” he replied.)

You looked over at the brunet’s sleeping form, taking notice of the defined muscles on his broad back. With just the slightest bit of hesitation, you turned away and got off his springy mattress, collecting your strewn clothes off of his bedroom floor.

Your sudden movement must have woken the Business major, for he suddenly let out a loud yawn and stretched out his arms. His head turned over to your scantily clad body- thank God for undergarments- and he smiled.

“Where are you going?” he asked, puzzled. “It's a Saturday.”

FUCK.

“Home,” you replied, slipping on the slinky party dress you wore last night.

“Aww,” he whined, throwing his duvet to the side and getting out of his bed. “Leaving so soon?”

(“Poor you,” you retorted, stirring your margarita with a straw. “You must be the only college virgin I've ever met.” How ironic, you thought. You nearly laughed at your own ingenuity.)

Before you could respond, Seokjin leaned against his doorframe and rubbed the back of his neck in false-sheepishness. “‘Cause I’d love for you to stay.” He gazed at you with a stare that would’ve made any girl melt.

It depends… how good was he? You blinked, trying to remember last night’s events. Plump lips on hot skin. Rough fingers gripping inner thighs. Chocolate brown eyes staring into your own as he kissed down your stomach. Something stirred within you.

“No thanks,” you said flippantly, ignoring the voice in your head. You made an effort to move, but his teasing voice stopped you from taking another step.

“That's what you said last night as well,” he sang. A smirk grew on his face. “I think we both know that's not what you mean.”

But of course, despite his undeniable charm and well-sculpted body, you declined his offer with a sweet “I don't do fuckboys more than once” and promptly hailed a taxi back to your apartment that you shared with some friends.

(“I’ve slept with more girls than the current word count on your essay,” he said smoothly. You looked at him quizzically. “We have Econ together. I heard you wrote three pages too many on the last one. That's fine- I can show you something else that trickles down.”)

You weren't so drunk that night that you would've forgotten everything that had happened, but seeing Kim Seokjin’s aristocratic face in your 9 AM Economics class on a Monday morning still left you speechless. He was leaning on the back of the chair with his hands in his trouser pockets, maroon sweater and white button-up rolled up to the middle of his forearms, and loafer-clad feet tapping a rhythm underneath his desk. As he saw you walk in the classroom, he sat up straight.

“Y/N! I saved you a seat,” he called out. A playful look appeared in his eyes. When he saw that he had your attention, he gestured at his lap. “C’mon, hurry while it's still warm!” A group of girls who sat behind him giggled at his comment, and the flock of boys sitting beside him exchanged high-fives with him.

Undoubtedly, Kim Seokjin was one of the most popular boys on campus. His father was the CEO of a huge corporation and his mother was a retired model working as a host for some talent show. His pretty face got him further than most of his peers and where his good looks couldn’t take him, his name did. Shame that his face and name mostly took him to other girls’ bedrooms.

(“I don’t date fuckboys,” you stated, taking a sip of your drink. “And from what I’ve heard, you’re a Grade A fuckboy.”)

You didn’t really care for what the genetically-blessed male did during his free time, nor did you care about how he often he glanced over at you during Econ. You especially didn’t care about his cheesy pick-up lines or his boyish grin or the way he laughed at particularly bad dad jokes.

“No thanks,” you said again, cringing inwardly at your overuse of the phrase. You could already hear his response, a smug “that’s what you said the other night, but we still fucked.”

Yet none came. All he did was raise a playful eyebrow as if he was asking “are you sure?” and when you looked at him with curiosity, he simply shrugged and smiled, then turned to face the blackboard. You shook your head and sat down at a spot a few rows behind Seokjin.

The teacher came hurrying in with her briefcase and coffee, slammed the door shut, and started writing the topic on the board. You neglected writing down the title and instead, stared at the back of Seokjin’s head, hoping he’d turn around. He didn’t once during the entirety of the class.

As soon as the class had ended, you chased down Seokjin by the kiosk in the Business building.

“Bet you’re wondering why I didn’t say anything about that night,” he said, focusing his gaze on the menu above your heads. “But I’ll have you know, Y/N, I prefer not to kiss and tell. It’s the most gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Oh please,” you retorted. “Park Chaewon? Choi Gyuri? Kim Mija?”

(“Who said anything about dating?” he whispered into your ear. “Maybe all I want is a good time.”)

Seokjin tore his eyes away from the menu and glared at you. “Have you ever heard me talk about who I’ve fucked before?” he asked sharply.

You couldn’t say that you have, one, because for the entire semester that you’ve taken Econ, you’ve never heard him talk about anything related to his conquests, and two, the ice in his voice took you by surprise.

(“And I know,” he breathed out, “you’d like one too.”)

The brunet took your silence as a “no” and turned back to the menu. “If they want to brag about spending the night with me, then let them. All that matters is that I know what did and didn’t happen,” he said with a nonchalant tone. “I’m disappointed, Y/N. I thought you would’ve been smart enough to know how the truth works.” He clicked his tongue, then ordered a large latte from the barista.

“And for the lady?” the barista asked, thinking the two of you had some sort of relationship over than being each other’s one-night stand.

You were about to explain how you weren’t actually in line when you felt a gentle tap on the back of your hand.

“What would you like?” Seokjin asked you, leaning against the counter. A soft smile graced his lips.

Your mind blanked. You’d never been to the kiosk in the Business building before, and you certainly didn’t know what was good here.

“She’ll have what I’m having,” he suddenly said, as if he knew the predicament he’d thrown you in.

Seokjin led you to a table near a large window and told you to wait as he brought back the two large lattes. As he set down your mug, you opened your mouth to speak.

“And now you’re going to apologise profusely for assuming that I was a manwhore, thank me for the latte, and also agree to go on a date with me this weekend,” he interrupted you with a mischievous look in his eyes.

You gaped at him whilst a rosy pink blush grew on your cheeks.

“Seok-”

“Just call me Jin.”

“Jin, how-”

“I minor in psychology.”

“But-”

“Wear something you’d feel comfortable sweating in. We’re going trampolining.”

“Jin-”

“Actually no, don’t call me Jin... since you can call me anytime.”

A/N: I know this isn’t Jin’s real personality (and some parts were quite unbelievable) but DAMN I’m so proud of myself for actually writing something for the first time in like 5 months!!

#jin scenarios #jin x reader #jin imagines #jin x you #jin fluff #jin smut #LIKE LOWKEY OK LET ME LIVE #jin #seokjin #kim seokjin #bts #bts scenarios #bts x reader #bts imagines #bts x you #bts fluff

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