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#from smoldering to sweet to silly and right back again
jarofstyles · 9 months
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Flame- Smolder
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Hey… it been a bit. Don’t yell at me 🫶😁😁😁 sorry it took me a bit to update it on here! I hope you enjoy… 👀👀
Check out our Patreon for early access and 100+ exclusive writings!
Warnings- angsty 😬
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Y/N had fucked it up.
She couldn’t focus at all during the study group, checking her phone for texts from Harry but finding it very unusually empty. Her throat felt tight as she remembered how something she said had changed his tone, his slightly hurt face taking her back.
He wasn’t usually a very serious person. Harry was goofy and silly and so funny it often made her swoon, even when he was being sweet he had that puppy eye and dopey smile on his face. He was never one to just leave and she knew she had fucked it up- but she wasn’t sure if what she thought was the reason, was.
They weren’t dating. As much as Y/N wished they were, as much as it felt like it, Harry hadn’t mentioned anything about it and she had tried to set a mental separation so it wouldn’t hurt as badly when it ended. She was in love with him, utterly fucking smitten, and she had gone into this stupidly thinking that she could avoid that. Even with the tiny crush she had on him, she thought perhaps having sex would let it out of her system.
It did the opposite.
Y/N was spending nights with him, cuddling and kissing. Getting far closer and emotional than any friends with benefits should. She blames it partially on the fact that they had been such good friends for a while before they even started fucking around, that it had blurred a line since they’d already been close. It felt like a relationship, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t official. And Harry wasn’t really a relationship type- he hadn’t been in one in 2 years. He had hooked up with quite a few people, as did she, but this just felt significant.
Long fucking story short? She was terrified.
If he didn’t feel the same way, if he felt like this was just sex? It would crush her. It already felt like she was crushed just by how he had left their studying early and rejected hanging out. Her body felt small and cold and she tossed and turned in her bed, trying to sleep but the way he had abruptly left made her stomach ache all over again. It had been after she reminded him they weren’t dating.
But that wasn’t it. Was it? Was it jealousy? Annoyance he couldn’t come and she was ditching him again for the study group, anger at her talking to the guy? He had never said anything about them dating.
She just felt like an idiot.
Now she couldn’t sleep. She had a final in the morning and it was fucking important, and she couldn’t sleep. The one day she needed to. The bed felt even more empty and uncomfortable. Even the days they’d been spending apart with the studying had been way harder than she had let on. She had made it out to herself that it was good to have space, trying to hide that she was missing him so terribly it ached in her chest. She felt almost in denial, thinking that if she gave herself some space that her feelings would subside a bit.
That wasn’t how it worked, unfortunately. And she feared that Harry was feeling her pushing them away as pushing him away- which wasn’t the case. It was a sticky, irritating mess that was now impacting her sleep schedule.
It was 2 am and her brain wouldn’t shut off. Her bed was so cold and empty and her room was too quiet. There were no soft snores, no groans and no arms reaching to pull her closer to his body. No legs fighting their way to tangle with hers. No one to complain to that he was hogging the blankets or his legs were fuzzy against her own. Y/N had worked so hard to try to push the feelings of loving him away that now that the walls she had built up came crashing down, it was almost suffocating her. Like she was drowning in this weird guilted love that she had perhaps fucked up by getting defensive with him instead of just coming clean. Right now it felt like it wouldn’t be okay. He hadn’t texted her a real goodnight, hadn’t sent a cheesy pick up line, hadn’t done anything she had gotten so used to it had become second nature the past month.
The thing was Harry was probably the most perfect man she had met. Absolute boyfriend material. Sure, he had a slut phase, sure, he poked her buttons and prodded at her to make her eyes roll, but his pro’s far outweighed his cons. There was never a single time she had felt uncomfortable around him. Not in friendship, not in… whatever this sort of stage their relationship was. Y/N had a bit of a fear of men and Harry had never applied. He had always been different from the rest, proving himself to be the first truly respectable male influence in her life. That was partially why she had been so utterly terrified to like him as anything more than a friend. Of course she understood that it was laying the ground tiles of a good relationship, but relationships could fail. If it failed she would lose him completely.
Still… the idea of Harry with anyone else made her stomach turn violently. She sat in bed as she imagined being in his wedding party, watching his face as someone else walked down the aisle towards him. Adoration for someone who wasn’t her, loving and longing. Inside jokes she would never share, no more kisses, no making love, no soft murmurs and lips brushing the top of her head. No fingers tangled with her own as they walked to bed, no hands slipping under her shirt. No sweaters to borrow, no more scent of him on her pillow. No bad pickup lines, no dirty coffee mugs, no old band tee shirts in her laundry pile. Y/N gave him all sorts of shit because he had been obnoxious on purpose but she loved his antics. She bullied him playfully and he took it on the nose, knowing the intricacies of her triggers and how far was too far so he didn't press further past it. Even being a little shit he had managed to still be the person who respected her boundaries the most.
The loss that hadn’t even fully happened yet made her choke on a set of tears, turning as she stared at her phone.
She had to fix this. She couldn’t lose him. She couldn’t allow anyone else to take him and she had to stop avoiding how she felt.
-
Harry, a mile away, laid in bed almost mirrored perfectly. Staring blankly at his phone, rereading her messages as his thumb nervously stroked the side of his phone case. His nail caught on the silicone housing the volume buttons, a shaky exhale leaving his lips as he scrolled up to before their shift. The girl never failed to put a smile on his face, always making him laugh straight from his belly. Their little emoji guessing game made him smile to himself, her attitude visible through the tone of the text as he failed to get what she thought was so easy. Scrolling down a bit more, he saw their texts from when she had come over last night. Her playful mood sort of dismissing his true talk.
Perhaps it was slightly his fault for always taking the piss. He was sarcastic and full of jokes so he understood when it could be hard to understand if he was being serious or not, but he thought she would get it. He had missed her a lot the last few days. Not just the physical absence but her pulling away a bit to study. Now, though, he was beginning to let the little self loathing devil on his shoulder tell him things. Maybe she had been well aware of what he was saying and didn’t want to let him down so she played dumb instead. He had read something wrong along the way. That much was clear.
How had he gotten it so wrong? His eyes hurt from crying and his head throbbed, nose still stuffy. The shower hadn't done much to fix it, exhaustion tugging at his body but his mind still going a mile a minute with his overthinking. His bones felt tired and weak, feeling his bed equally as cold without her body curling up into his, her hair in his mouth and her fingers tugging his hand into her chest.
His mind was on how she had seemed to spill that sentence that had knocked him off filter. Still, it was echoing in his brain like his head was hollow and that was the one thing knocking around the walls of his skull. How easily she reminded him they were not actually dating. It had stung deep, especially with how he had been planning on asking her what the next steps were after their tests were done. He had been so sure she felt the same way. Friends with benefits didn’t do the shit they did. They didn't get little ‘thinking of you’ gifts, they didn’t embrace the way they did after sex. Didn’t pet the other hair and tell the other how much they adored each other. In Harry’s mind, friends with benefits did the do, were normal friends and that was that. The things they had been doing were couple level. Relationship territory.
Maybe he should have asked her what the arrangement would mean to her. Sure, they’d always been affectionate and obviously there was attraction there considering they’d always make out when they were drunk… but this was a different sort of thing. Harry couldn’t sleep well without her now. He had fucked himself.
There was nowhere in his or her apartment that he could look at without a memory of a moment of passion popping up. His bathroom sink, his shower. His hallway where they’d knocked the photo frame off the wall. His living room couch, his windows, his kitchen counter. For fucks sake, even his foyer. They were littered with traces of her memory and the physical reminders. They’d helped the other move into their apartments after 2 years of suffering through dorms. He wouldn't be able to forget and he really didn’t want to.
He loved her, even if this shit physically hurt.
His phone in his hand burned to text her but she was probably asleep. She needed sleep, working herself to the bone for good grades. He didn’t want to put that in jeopardy for this. As upset as he was, it wasn’t at her. Not really. It wasn't her fault he had read shit differently, that he had fallen so deeply in love he felt like he was drowning in his own feelings.
It was such an odd feeling. Overwhelming and compressing but thinking of her hurt and felt good at the same time. The fear had always been there but he found a bit of comfort in the unknown, at least back then. Now he was dreading the conversation because he knew in order to salvage their friendship he was going to have to be honest. Tell her he was getting too deep into it and they needed to stop the physical end of it. He would never want to stop seeing her but in order to keep himself from getting further down the rabbit hole of his feelings, he needed to stop.
That would be a huge challenge. Touching Y/N had become second nature, even more than it had been beforehand. Harry had always been touchy with her and she had let him. He was ready to hug and touch and snuggle at any moment, usually being the one to initiate. As time had progressed, Y/N had been more and more clingy with him and started initiating it. That had sent him to live on cloud nine. Having her hands in his hair or her lips pressing against his first, her body moving to lay on top of his? He had been overjoyed at finally having the energy matched. His body slumped further as he realized that would be the stop of it. It had to be, though. Each little touch, each little brush of fingertips and graze of lips had him digging himself deeper into his love for her.
The sex had been mind blowing. It was something he knew deep down he would never experience with anyone else. THere was no way in hell any other person could elicit the things Y/N did from his body. Fucking with feelings? He understood the hype now. They were not only sexually compatible, but their natural chemistry and care for one another had made their sex more open. Communication was easier, things were tried because they trusted one another. No one else could feel as good wrapped around him, no one else’s hands running down his back or legs wrapped around his waist would feel as right. Being with her felt like being home. He didn’t feel like moving house.
But he would have to salvage the ruins he had made of their home.
He flopped back on his bed after getting a glass of water, his body melting into the bed as he tried to figure out how the hell he was going to word this conversation tomorrow.
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undead-merman · 1 year
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I just saw that you did vore and I was wondering of you could maybe do fearplay vore with Lucifer?
Lucifer vore with fear play GN-Reader NSFW
A mishap
He was called into your potions class by the teacher, and that in itself made him pace faster through the hallways. What could you have possibly gotten yourself into now? Already having a horrible day dealing with every. Single. One. Of his brothers 
When he threw open the door the teacher stood up from the desk, but his eyes narrowed in on you. Shrunk down to the size of a thumb and terrified eyes darting around the room until you saw him, and then avoided his gaze. You could feel the anger ebbing off him that even the teacher’s lips were trembling as he explained your mishap. Lucifer’s glare never left you. 
After it was over he picked you up by the scruff of your collar and took you out. Normally he would nag you, scold you and make sure you felt bad for what you did but he is stone-faced and silent. 
The potion would wear off within a week. You just had to make it potent, didn’t you? So now you were stuck with Lucifer watching over you. And while most of the brothers would have tried to jump in and rescue you, lucifer ended up scaring them off. 
But when you got back to his office, the cold facade melted and he asks if you were okay. His thumb brushing your scalp tenderly. You told him you were fine and he smiled before that all melted away. 
He had been letting you get away with far too much recently. He’s going to have to set you straight and finally punish you. And the way he says it with venom sends a shiver of terror down your spine.        
Teasing
You had to sit with him during the week. And he was not happy. That whole week is filled with busy work and the brothers. You can see the vein on his forehead getting bigger each and every day. 
You can't help but gulp as he's snapped 3 pens since you ended up as a desk pet for Lucifer. And how you're sure that pen is much more durable than you. The sight of a pen could make your knees quake. 
You're forced into Lucifer’s schedule. And you knew before it was grueling, but living it is a whole different story. Woken up, cold shower, paperwork, then breakfast though you were only allowed to eat in the office since the brothers could not be trusted around you, then more paperwork, and more and more work till bed. And maybe you could have dinner if you didn’t distract lucifer 
But now that you are so small you seem to attract his eye a lot. They slowly drift from his work to you in your new little birdcage for so much as shifting. But once again he wouldn’t say a word. He’d just stare at you with predatory eyes. 
But trying to lighten the mood you made a joke, a silly joke that made you suck your lips back into your mouth as soon as you said it. It was cheesy and something about him looking hungry and him being big enough to eat you. “Is that what you’re thinking about?” and those predatory eyes narrow at you. Right then and there you know you’ve gotten yourself into trouble. 
He’ll gently lick his lips when you make too much of a sound. He starts refusing meals and instead just lets you eat. But he stares, those smoldering smoky crimson eyes and teeth that you only now realize they look so big and sharp. 
One time as he’s pulling you out of the cage he bites your collar with his canine and pulls your clothes straining them before pulling back and grinning. 
Eating
What cements your fear is when Mammon sneaks in to try and bust you out. It's a sweet gesture and while he’s opening the cage as Lucifer is taking a call, he suddenly slammed on the ground. Lucifer’s heel dug into his spine as Mammon yelped and screams. With no mercy, he tossed him out and turned to you as if this was all your fault.
“I can’t even leave you alone in my own office? That’s fine I can deal with this another way.”
He picks you up and nips your body with his fangs, it stings but it doesn’t hurt as much as your thought it would, the bites you know would leave sore bruises for sure, but you are more concerned about his tongue pressing against your body, slowly dragging up like a Devildom animal tasting it’s prey. 
It’s then his minty breath is all over you as he pushes you into his mouth. He lets your head out as he sucks on your body. Even if you struggle you can feel his teeth warn you to stop. 
And before you know it you gulped down, squeezed down his throat. You might not know but he’s taken steps to ensure that you’ll be perfectly fine. You’ll be much safe inside him and it’ll scare you into acting right. 
It is nice to feel you squirming around. Just the weight of you in his stomach and the soft motions of you going into a panic.
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link-sans-specs · 3 years
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Is there something wrong with my eyes? They think they're shut.
GMMore1990
Can We Guess Which Chocolate Snacks Were Combined? (Game)
BONUS: Free the floof!!🚫✂️😁
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Hi and congratulations for the milestone!! 🎉🎉
I did promise I’d take the wheel for a spin and it must be fate because this came up:
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It seems fitting, that man is known for his talents with his mouth, tongue and fingers 🥴🥴
I’ll leave you with a question to go with the result (feel free to ignore if it doesn’t tickle your fancy); how long does he last until Frankie has to have a taste?
Congrats 🎉❤️
Ohhhhh frick, how could I POSSIBLY ignore that question?? Because now my head is simply reeling with HOT THOTS about Frankie Morales, finally eating you out, after you tease him endlessly.
And, of course because this is Frankie, I have to tip my hat to the seminal masterwork of “All Hail the King” by Kat @pilothusband, without which we would not have the headcanon of Frankie Morales as the pussy-eating king, which we all now know as gospel...
Thank you for helping me celebrate! There’s some real hot stuff under the cut, people!
The Game
Word count: 4500
Outline: Frankie Morales x “You” (cis/het female reader; “blank canvas”/no physical description/no name/no use of “Y/N”)
Warnings: Mature/Explicit, 18+ only; mature and vulgar language; mentions of making out; teasing Frankie; one mention of oral sex/M receiving; oral sex/F receiving; vaginal fingering; Frankie has a FILTHY praise-kink mouth; Frankie going primal caveman on your pussy when he finally gets there
You’ve been on two previous dates with Frankie, and each one has ended in some truly smashing makeout sessions. The man is an excellent kisser, and it’s been so long since you had that, you’ve gone a little crazy with just kissing on your first two dates.
On your first date he took you out for a drive to the scenic overlook, and after an hour of good conversation, the sun had set low behind the ocean and you made out like teenagers in the cab of his truck for another hour.
Date two was an action movie, and since the theater was practically deserted when you sat down, you got a wicked idea. You tickled your fingers into the curls at the back of his neck and invited him to join you in the back row, and you made out again for all 105 minutes of explosions and punching. Neither one of you remembers the plot.
Tonight is date three, and after an early dinner out, you’ve decided that it’s time to invite Frankie back to your place to see what else he can do with that talented tongue.
You pour him a cold drink and he sits on your couch, but neither one of you really wants to talk. There’s too much electricity in the air. Your head is fuzzy with want. You’ve been able to kiss him plenty, but you haven’t had the chance to do more. And then you get another idea, a leftover ‘game’ from your teenage years, something that was hot back then when you played it with your boyfriends… maybe it still works?
“Do you want to play a game?” You slip your feet out of your sandals and tuck one leg under you to swivel toward him on the couch. You smile at this handsome, sweet man with your most secret smile and bite your lip as he frowns and looks at your bookshelf full of board games.
“You mean like Scrabble?” His confusion is adorable, and you giggle as you move closer to him on the couch, your voice low… “Not like Scrabble.” You flutter your eyelashes up at him and now his frown is gone, replaced by a look of interest.
“What kind of game did you have in mind, pretty girl?” And now he looks very interested, his broad hand coming up to your shoulder to stroke your arm, pulling you closer for a kiss. But you don’t let him pull you in all the way, you stop a few inches from his face and whisper… “A naughty game.”
And now you can see the sheer hunger in his eyes. The way his pupils flare and his deep coffee eyes fix onto your lips. He tries to go in for a kiss and you pull away, just out of reach. You hold up one finger and place it to his lips, stopping him in his tracks.
You smile up at him from under your lashes. “That’s the game.”
“I have to chase you?” He flicks his eyebrows up, not looking impressed.
“No. We try to get as close as we can, but we can’t touch. We tease each other, just to see how long we can hold out.”
He chuckles. “That’s a terrible game.”
“You don’t think anticipation is hot? How about this… what do you want to do to me the most? If you play my game you might get to do it.”
He looks less skeptical now. He glances at your lips, then back to your eyes, before his gaze trails down, down, down your body. You shiver, and from his look alone, you feel hot and cold all at once.
You’re starting to think this might be… well, not “dangerous,” just more of an experience than the last time you played, which was at an age where the absolute wildest possibility was that you would get to feel a boy’s hand on the outside of your bra.
You bite your lip and blink with nervous anticipation, waiting for him to take the bait. He could decide right now not to play and you would still let him ravish you, let him put his mouth and hands and dick wherever he wants. You would welcome it.
He meets your eyes again, and you hold your breath, feeling a heat creep up to your cheeks and down to your cunt at the same time. His whole body is still, except for the rise and fall of his chest, moving breaths slowly in and out, and his big brown eyes that blink occasionally as he considers you with a thoughtful expression.
This is torture, waiting for his answer. You’re about to break first, tell Frankie he doesn’t have to play your silly game, when he moves just his mouth. His bottom lip opens a crack, and his tongue slides out of the corner and sweeps across that plush, velvety top lip, half-hidden under his scruffy mustache.
He moves the tip of his tongue slowly, deliberately, keeping his eyes fixed on your face... watching you watch his mouth. You suddenly realize that this is his opening move, he’s playing your game already, and he’s playing you as well. You set the rules, and he’s already winning.
You release a shaky breath and scoot an inch closer on the couch. You flick the tip of your tongue out, letting it wet your bottom lip. You bring your lower lip in between your teeth and bite down hard, watching Frankie’s eyes drift to your mouth. You release your lip from between your teeth and then exhale a sigh and a breathy moan of, “Hmm…”
You reach your hand up to open the top button of your thin cardigan, the one you like to wear because it’s your color and it’s soft and it fits you like a dream. But it’s also the one that you wear on third dates on purpose, with no blouse underneath it - just a lacy bra and a heart full of hope pounding in your chest.
He watches your fingers with that hungry look resurfacing, the one that made your stomach flip a moment ago. He scoots closer to you, closing the gap until his denim-clad leg is a centimeter from your knee, one arm draped over the back of the couch, thick fingers resting just an inch from your shoulder.
No touching, you had said. Frankie is making it clear to you that he knows the rules and will play them to their limits. He reaches up to the neck of his denim shirt, the top two snaps already open, and then he unsnaps two more. The neck of his shirt falls open, and the amber light from the lamp scatters across the planes of his neck and clavicles. You can’t tear your eyes away from his golden skin, and you feel the emptiness of your pussy as it starts to leak into your panties.
Frankie holds himself still, waiting for your next move. You aren’t sure what to do next, and truthfully your brain went completely blank the moment you caught sight of Frankie’s chest. You decide to raise the stakes. You get up from the couch, moving to stand in front of Frankie where he sits. His deep brown eyes are watching you intently, smoldering as he takes in your form just an arm’s length away. His gaze skates from your face to your breasts to your hips and back up, and you wait until his eyes come to a stop before you make your move.
You reach up to the second button of your cardigan and open it, then the next one. You see Frankie’s eyes go wide, pupils flaring black as he realizes what you’re doing. You fight the giddiness that surges up inside you, forcing your face to remain as neutral as possible. You see Frankie’s cock twitch once in his jeans, and you are delirious with the sudden realization that you’re holding quite a lot of power over this gorgeous man.
Your fingers continue their dance down your buttons until all of them are free, and then you grab the lapels of your cardigan. Frankie’s eyes flick to your hands where they hover at your breasts, and you pause, drawing the moment out for as long as you deem just short of cruel. You open the cardigan and shed it from your shoulders, tossing it on the couch seat you just vacated.
Frankie takes a sharp breath in, and his eyes flutter closed for just a moment. When he opens them again his brown irises are nearly blown black with arousal, and you almost feel bad for escalating the game this far. You take three steps backward toward the hallway, curling your finger to draw Frankie up off the couch. You break the silence with one word, “Bedroom.”
He surges up off the couch so quickly that you think he’s decided to break, to just grab you and pounce on you and end the game. But instead he halts a foot away, and looks deep into your eyes with a smirk. Something like a warning in the back of your brain tickles, uh-oh.
Frankie starts to undress, and as you see more of his golden skin in the low lamplight, you start to think that you might concede first. He sheds his baseball cap, then his shirt, tugging the remaining snaps open with a single pull. You drink in the sight of his naked torso, the soft patches of hair that mimic his delectable facial scruff, the breadth of his wide shoulders, and the curve of his abdomen where it meets his waistband. There’s a faint trail of hair that leads down, and now you’re dying to follow it where it leads.
He toes his work boots off, then opens the fly of his jeans. He pulls them down and off with his socks, and now he’s standing in your living room, clad only in a pair of black boxer-briefs, the soft cotton fabric doing a valiant job of containing his massive erection. You fight the urge to sink down to your knees and rip his underwear off, shove your mouth down onto his cock, see how deep you can take him. You hear yourself shudder as you inhale, nearly a sob, and it echoes in the silence and stillness of the room. Frankie looks pleased with himself, coiled and waiting for your next move. He must know how close you are to breaking.
You take another few steps backwards, keeping your eyes on Frankie as he follows you down the short hallway to your bedroom. You open your jeans as you cross the threshold, pushing them down along with your underwear and kicking them off into a corner. You reach behind you to unclasp your bra, and Frankie pauses to watch you, hands braced on either side of the doorway where he stands, his corded neck and shoulders tensed. You reach up to one shoulder and slowly pull the strap down. Then you do the same to the other strap, moving deliberately, watching Frankie’s ears go slightly pink as he clenches his jaw. You stand with your back to the wall, and you rest your back and shoulders against it, no longer trusting your watery knees to hold you upright. Then you tip your jaw up at Frankie. Your move.
Frankie crosses the room swiftly, long legs eating up the distance between you. He braces each large hand on the wall on either side of your head, then leans in closer, caging you in. His dark eyes fix on yours, and for just a moment you forget how to breathe. His gorgeous hooked nose is just an inch from yours, and if you tilted your head up you could bump noses, engage him in a kiss. But you’re not ready to give in just yet.
You gaze into the liquid cocoa pools, and inhale as silently as you can through your nose, smelling the clean cotton scent of Frankie’s detergent as it mixes with the masculine musk of his deodorant, the expanse of his tawny skin giving off its own salty hints. You feel a sharp twinge between your legs, another clench of your pussy, and now that’s all you can think about. You’re throbbing and wet, hot and getting hotter.
You press your thighs together in a futile attempt to relieve the ache, but it only makes it worse. You exhale and it comes out on the back of a whine, a faint noise that you know Frankie hears, because his expression changes to hunger again, mixed with a secret and knowing smile that tells you that you’re in deep trouble with this man. You have underestimated him, and you’re going to learn that lesson in a very memorable way.
Frankie is sweet and kind, soft-spoken and gentlemanly. You try to think back to what you assumed would happen when you proposed this little game, that maybe he would get a little bit horny, play along with you for a few minutes, and then pretend to give in just to get his arms around you. Instead, you seem to have awakened a strategist, someone who is used to making important calculations toward an end goal. You mistook Frankie’s softness for something it definitely is not, and now you’re regretting having challenged him. He’s not going to go easy on you.
Your stomach does that sick roller-coaster thing that it does sometimes, and you feel your heartbeat kick up a notch as Frankie uses those sharp eyes of his to inspect you. His penetrating stare moves from your eyes to your lips, which part involuntarily, an invitation to kiss you if he dares to give in first. He breathes slowly through his nose as his eyes trail down to your breasts and back up, taking in every inch of your bare skin. You feel like you’re being strangled by his gaze, but it is delicious.
Frankie takes his hands off the wall and then drops slowly to his knees. You look down at him in surprise. He opens his mouth and his voice is low and commanding. “Hands above your head for me, sweetheart.”
You lift your chin level with the floor and lace your fingers over your head, leaning harder into the wall with your shoulders. Your heart thrums in your chest, a steady tattoo that reminds you that you’re alive, but that also makes you feel very close to passing out. You try to remind yourself to breathe, breathe, breathe. You widen your legs just a bit for stability, and you hear Frankie chuckle low in his throat.
He starts talking, and were it not for the wall holding you up, you swear that you would buckle to the ground as he bathes you with his delicious, filthy monologue.
“Did you know,” Frankie intones, his voice raspy with desire, “... that you have the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen?”
You rush an exhale out through your mouth, and suck a great heaving breath back in. He’s only just started, and you’re not at all sure that you’re going to survive this. You dare to tilt your head to look down at Frankie, but his eyes are not on yours, they’re staring intently at your pubic mound. He’s transfixed, the secret smile gone as he stares between your legs.
“In fact, I think that this might be... the most tempting pussy that I’ve ever had the pleasure of looking at. I could just bury my face in her right now.”
You feel like you can’t breathe, and you lace your fingers tighter behind your head as you stare down at Frankie’s soft curls, his nose just inches from your sex, his tongue dripping honey as you feel yourself getting wetter. Frankie continues his dirty talk, spilling the gorgeous, filthy words right into the center of your being.
“I would definitely like to taste her, see how she drips for me when she really gets going. Do you drip or do you squirt, honey?”
You clench your butt muscles and lean your shoulders even harder against the wall, a desperate attempt to stay upright as your knees threaten to give out. An involuntary whine slips out from your lips, and Frankie tilts his head to look up at you, that mischievous smile curving back across his lush lips.
“Would you like that, darlin’? Would you like me to eat you out?”
You bite your lips hard and struggle to stay standing. All you want to do is give in, collapse down onto Frankie and let him have his way with you. You feel another new rush of slickness hit your center and you almost break. Not yet, your brain whispers. Just wait...
Frankie turns his face back to your pelvis and then braces his hands on the wall, so close to your hips that you can feel the warmth emanating off his skin. But again, not touching you, he’s staying within the rules that you set for him. He’s too good at this, and now you know that you’re definitely going to lose.
Frankie slowly leans forward, bending his elbows to move his face closer and closer to your crotch. His nose comes an inch away, then half an inch. For a moment you hope that he will slip and make contact and lose, but he doesn’t. He has excellent muscle control and his arms don't even quiver as he finally stops, hovering just a centimeter in front of your cunt. You are wetter than you ever have been, and you swear that you can feel it leaking down the inside of your leg, trailing down your thigh as Frankie tortures you.
His voice is a whisper now, velvety and soft, and you strain to hear him above the rushing of your own heartbeat in your ears.
“You smell amazing, honey.” He closes his eyes and inhales, taking your scent into himself like you’re the sweetest flower at the farmer’s market.
It hits you suddenly that this is the most debauched, most intimate thing you’ve ever done with a lover. No man has ever dared to just smell you like this, and you feel something twist inside the bowl of your pelvis, like a spring being wound tighter. You realize that you’re not breathing, and you open your mouth into a little o-shape to take a slow, cooling breath into your lungs. You regain your steadiness and settle deeper into yourself to try to hold out, to hang in there just a little longer.
“I bet that you taste like heaven, pretty girl. I can’t wait to fuck you on my tongue, lick you inside and out.”
Frankie leans back and looks up at you with a wink. “After you touch me first and lose, I’m going to lick this pussy so hard that you come six times while you scream my name.”
You gurgle out a surprised, “Oh!”
Frankie sits back on his heels and stands back up, a little triumphant, like he knows how close he pushed you to the edge.
You release your hands and place your palms flat on the wall by your hips, not trusting them to hang loose at your sides, lest they decide to reach out and skim over his broad shoulders of their own accord. You look up at Frankie where he hovers over you, and you lick your lips and whisper to him.
“Frankie, I want you. Please touch me.”
He arches one eyebrow at you. “Does that mean you want the game to end? Are you giving up?”
You close your eyes and shake your head no, and for a moment you’re not sure if you’re even capable of playing the game any longer. Your head is fuzzy and your skin is screaming to be touched. You take a deep breath in and then out, and when you open your eyes Frankie is looking at you with concern.
“Do you give up, sweetheart? Or do you want to keep playing?”
You choke out a strangled whisper, the barest hint of speech. “I want… I want…”
Frankie comes closer, bracing himself on the wall again, big arms boxing you in as he moves into your space. He tilts his head down and murmurs, “Tell me.”
You look up into his eyes and the whole room tilts to the left. All you can see is Frankie, and he’s all that matters while the rest of the world spins dizzy around you. You feel sick with anticipation, and you know that this is your fault, that you were the one who proposed this stupid torturous game in the first place.
You just want it to end, you need it to end now.
“Frankie, I… I want…”
“You want me to eat you out? Stick my tongue inside that gorgeous pussy and fuck you with it until you come? Is that it?”
He leans closer and still doesn’t touch you, just keeps stringing you along with his depraved poetry as he tilts his head to hover an inch from your ear.
“Or maybe you want me to finger-fuck you, too? Stretch you open and see how good it feels? I bet we can make your pussy squirt, make you gush around my hand when I reach deep inside and hit your g-spot. I bet you’ll soak the bed, you sweet thing. Maybe squirt clear across the room.”
“Oh god.” You whine and duck your chin, trying to resist the urge to turn your head toward him and make contact, kiss him and then let him go wild, do all the things he’s been threatening to do.
“Frankie, I…”
“You what, sweetheart?” His tone is just this side of mocking, and it makes your cunt clench.
“I need…”
Frankie pulls his head away from your ear and looks you directly in the eyes.
“Use your words pretty girl.” His voice has an edge now, firm, sounding like a direct order. “Tell me what you need.”
“I- I want, I need… I need you inside of me. I want you everywhere, Frankie.”
“Yeah? You need me, sweet girl? You need Frankie to take care of you?”
Your face crumples, a whine of pure desire making your throat ache. Your pussy drools another bit of slick down your inner thigh. You want to cry, and Frankie frowns at you with genuine concern.
“I can take care of you, sweetheart. Anything you want, you just say the word. But first…” He leans his head down lower, lower, lower and stops, his warm breath fanning over your lips as he whispers.
“... first you have to touch me.”
You moan at that, the unfair knowledge that all you have to do to get everything you want is to give in. And he’s so close, his nose just a centimeter from yours. All you would have to do is lean up, kiss him, and-
Frankie abruptly pushes off the wall and takes two steps back from you. The sudden absence of him makes something in you snap. You rush at him and practically knock him over, kissing him with a snarl and wrapping your arms and legs around him as he laughs in surprise. He braces both big hands under your bottom and half-carries you to your bed.
He plops you down on the bedspread and then leans down over you as you kiss and kiss and kiss him. Now that the dam has broken, you’re not sure you’re ever going to stop, and you don’t give a flying fuck that you just lost at your own game. As far as you’re concerned you won, because you’re naked on your bed with Frankie laying over you, his hard cock pressing against your wet seam through his boxers.
You open your legs wide and wrap them around Frankie’s waist, and he kisses you before pulling back with a gentle shush against your lips.
“Wait wait, pretty girl. We’re not gonna fuck yet. I gotta eat you out first.”
“No Frankie, please. Please just fuck me.” You clutch and grasp at him, trying to pull him into you. He braces himself on his arms and hovers maddeningly over your face as he smiles.
“No, baby. You said if I played your game you would let me do what I wanted. You lost. I win.”
Frankie moves his mouth to your ear and whispers. “I get to eat your pussy until you’re screaming my name.”
You moan, a high-pitched cry of defeat. You want him inside of you now, not a moment longer. You’ve been tortured and taunted long enough, and you haven’t even gotten a glimpse of his cock, other than to see the impressive way that his erection fills out the contours of his boxer-briefs.
Frankie kisses you and tells you to release your legs, and then he stands up and wraps his big hands around your ankles and pulls you to the edge of the bed. He kneels on the floor and looks up to your face with a wicked smile, the look of a man who is about to enjoy his victory over you.
You try to remind yourself that you lost, fair and square, and now your punishment is that you will have to wait to feel Frankie’s huge cock stretching you open. You’re going to have to take your punishment like a good girl.
Frankie pushes your legs up and back toward your chest, and you hook your hands behind your knees to hold them open. He takes the first tentative lick of your clit, and you cry a soft “Oh!” and toss your head back.
Frankie’s fingers stroke your outer labia, top to bottom, and he spreads you open with his fingertips. You feel the cool air hit your slick, and then the hot swipe of his tongue through your folds. This is torture, you think, but only as much as I deserve.
Frankie licks your clit gently before suddenly surging into you tongue-first, going as deep as he can, licking into you deeply. He curls his tongue up as he withdraws, and he hits the bundle of nerves on the underside of your clit. He does it again and again and again, and before you can warn him that you’re about to come, you’re shuddering and breaking apart in his mouth.
Frankie eases two big fingers into you and you’re grateful for the thickness of them, giving your muscles something to clench and squeeze around while Frankie softly licks your clit, working you through your climax. When you finally relax your legs, he sucks your clit into his mouth and then releases you with a smack of his lips.
“That’s one, pretty girl, but I didn’t hear you scream my name. We’ll see if you can do that with any of the other five.”
Frankie dives back into you face-first, and fulfills all of his threats from the game.
---
“Everything bagel” tag list: @quica-quica-quica @anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul @kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001 @deadhumourist @mandoalorian @javierpinme @eri16 @mandocrasis @pilothusband @bastillealmighty @eri16 @jitterbugs927 @babiiface95 @toomanystoriessolittletime @yespolkadotkitty @fisforfulcrum @prettylilhalforc @mswarriorbabe80 @littlemisspascal @wildemaven @coreychick @castleamc @coreychick
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heli0s-writes · 3 years
Text
pagan poetry*
A/N: Hey-o! After nearly 3 months of being a complete disaster, I ... did a thing. Very much my usual brand of filth. Thanks for sticking around as I continue to navigate this impending sense of oblivion!! 1.6k words of bangin’ Bucky Barnes. Yeeeeeeahhh.
Title is from this song, by Bjork. 🖤
Warnings: Smutty smut and heathen shit, what else is new with Helios?
brooklyn after dark masterlist
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Steve asked if you were religious once.
It was an off the cuff kind of question, prompted by something you can’t remember now—silly banter over drinks and a background party, perhaps. Both grown weary of entertaining a crowd of strangers, etiquette spent nearing the night’s end. You’d shrugged lazily and prefaced that it’s hard to shake an entire childhood of indoctrination but now, by resolute choice, you aren’t.
You lied. You’ve never been more devout.
It was easier than getting into all the semantics, anyway. Where would you start explaining that you now spend more time than ever at worship? Not in the middle of Tony’s so-called “small” get-together of “only” seventy-five people. Certainly not a place to admit to Steve that your knees supplicate more earnestly than the most pious of priests, your throat constantly pouring the sweetest profession of faith—the name of the most divine.
Even if the two of you were somewhere more private, and he was at least half as drunk as you were, it’s a bit blasphemous, Steve, that you fuck Bucky six ways to Sunday and call it religion.
It’s a hard desire to curb when he looks like that. Bucky’s built like a god— his arm the kind of weapon you’d happily split your tongue polishing. Strong, powerful legs. Broad shoulders like lovingly carved marble, worked between the hands of a Renaissance master, tapered sharply down to his wasp’s waist.
His hips. Lord, you could dedicate eternity naming every last inch of his hips.
Such a pretty boy. How he makes you hungry to sin.
“Bucky,” you whisper, enthralled again when he steps out from a quick shower. Smoldering and glorious, and you’re Joan of Arc constantly being descended upon by a burning archangel. Some random night, like any other night, and you’re overtaken again. Hazy with orange glow, the billowing mist makes a halo to crown him and for a second you feel blind.
Then, you feel… hm.
Wet.
He cautions the way you chew on your lip, eyes twinkling brightly because what else is new. You? Turned on? Bucky could be brushing his teeth and you’d start climbing him like your personal jungle gym.
“Sweetheart,” he begins warily, adjusting the towel on his hips—those beautiful, beautiful hips. “One more dinner with us swinging in late and they’re gonna stop inviting us.”
You nod along dumbly, deaf now and set on a singular mission. Crawling on your knees, you reach Bucky halfway as he tries to put an end to your pilgrimage. Tries because your palms are fast over the damp fabric, fingers threading through warm fibers before landing flat against his abs, feeling up to his chest, murmuring stupidly, always so shocked at his everything. You graze up his wrists, his forearms, making paths of taut muscle.
“How bout after dinner?” His thumbs gently brush the swell of your breasts before he holds you back, straightening your spine when you arch into him. “Promise I’ll give it to you good later.”
“Give it to me now?”
He laughs. “You really gotta work on your negotiation skills…”
“Huh… Lemme try again: give it to me… right now?”
Bucky groans in equal measures of exasperation and exhilaration when you fall back on your knees. A few more half-hearted baby, quit it, ‘m serious, and then he gives up completely.
“Steve’s gonna get himself in a mood.”
“Steve’s always in a mood.”
Wilted protests quickly disappear into the hollow of your cheeks, licked away by your clever tongue. He grips the back of your neck firmly, tilting your head the way he likes best, eyes flicking down to meet yours before they close. He keeps you there a little longer, his toes curling into the carpet with each bob of your head.
“Yeah, you’re—always in a mood, too—uhhm—“
And you hum in agreeance, but the sound only vibrates into his skin, making him groan louder.
Bucky’s voice is slurred, as if half drunk. “Can’t hear— mm— you, sweetheart…”
So you make something up to give him what he wants, that buzzing of your throat on his cock, and his thighs tighten in response, the hand on the back of your neck reflexively scrabbling to your shoulder with a hard grip.
It’s a bit counterproductive of you to be so sloppy, considering that Bucky’s freshly showered and cleaned up— the scent of his brisk body wash strong and harsh in your nose— but fucking him like it’s your job allows some insight to what he likes, and it’s easily this:
Dirty, filthy, drooling wet blowjobs. The messier the better and the faster it gets him there. Your radiant Right Hand of God, but goddamn is he a little devil himself.
Bucky’s growling by the time he hauls you toward the bed, depositing your thrilled skin on the mattress firmly. Red lips meet yours with force, plush and full, nipping at the corners of your wet mouth like he’s kissing back every trace of him. He presses on across your jaw, up and down your neck. His voice is husky sweet and breathy in your ear.
“You bad, bad girl.” And you start curling yourself into him, nodding for more. One of his hands is working himself, the sound of your spit slippery in his fist. “You got me all messy again.”
Your skin feels blistering and freezing at the same time, chills racing to your fingertips tightly hooked around his biceps. The outfit you put on for a nice, quaint dinner at Steve and Sharon’s too heavy now, too constricting, but he doesn’t let you take it off.
“Every morning and night not enough dick for you, is it?” Bucky brushes your hands away, taking hold of your chin and peeling your head back until you’re looking at him. His pupils are blown wide, the only thing left of his irises are two thin rings of barely there blue as he scans your face. Your brain is short-circuiting, hanging onto every syllable, every purse of his cherry lips.
He switches on and off like a light. Beautiful, soft, thoughtful one minute, all force and darkness the next. You faithfully take it all, every facet of him. Your angel boy. Your wicked soldier.
Joan of Arc was only hallucinating, but she wasn’t half as lucky as you to have conjured something half as astonishing as Bucky. Gorgeous strong jaw, bristles along his chin and cheek scrubbing noisily against your lips as he kisses you. His mouth— open and wet, sloppy against yours— hardly landing right and you’re toeing delirium by the time his fingers slide up your shirt.
Bucky pushes you down into the sheets, rucking up your skirt until it bunches around your waist. “We’re in a rush, remember?” He tucks two fingers into the elastic of your panties and yanks them to one side. Just enough. In a rush. Your thighs meet with a determined shimmy of his hips— those incredible hips— and then you’re full, so full of him.
The blood in your ears crashes against reality and bends it all sideways. Not religious like that, but since the first time you’d touched him, you’ve been cocksure if heaven were real, it’d be this. It’d be him.
“Everyone’s gonna know,” Bucky promises, “You stumbling in there.”
The image flashes through your addled brain, the tell-tale sign of him screwing you stupid— lips swollen, legs wobbly, outfit crumpled up, smelling like him and sex in front of all your friends.
“You want it, don’t you, want them to know you’re all mine?” He smears your wet around the sides of where he’s connected— spit, slick— up to your clit. And then he pushes you like a button, flicking the pad of his thumb upwards and grins at the way you jerk in time to it like a trained toy.
“Bucky,” you mewl, “Buck.” The syllable breaks, your panting comes out in choked babbling.
He takes the back of your neck again, lowering his body over yours, faster now. Deliberately reckless and the entire bed is rocking, springs squealing under his pace.
“Oh my god,” you smash your brow into the junction of his shoulder, hanging on by a thread as he drives into you, on a mission to break either the bed frame or your brain, both were fine. In a rush. Can’t quit now. A little bit more. Your entire body is folded against him, insides fluttering desperately, maddeningly.
“Come,” he commands, “Come for me right now and I’ll fuck you through it, how you like. Then I’ll make you come again and we can go.”
His grip is tourniquet tight, thumb moving to the middle of your throat, pressing ever so slightly until your breath feels trapped under the swirl of his fingerprint. The curtain of his hair hangs over your face, blocking out the room going blindingly white. Your eyes shut tightly, opening only for a second to catch him panting over you, burning hot, his features flickering from utter control to trembling pleasure to something akin to frenzy.
Your vision shuffles like a deck of cards. His hands are everywhere. Eyes devouring every inch of your skin. There’s a million of him taking a million of you to a million more pieces. You shatter then, clawing his back and arms, singing like a fucking choir the infinity of his name.
Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. He makes your days holy. The altar of his body. The sacrament of his sweat. He breaks you apart into something luminous.
Religion. Not religion. Your heathen soul—whatever tiny fracture you may have—all his, forever. Now, tomorrow, at the end of the world.
So, when the two of you stumble into a nearly finished dinner, as predicted, over an hour late and in terrible disarray, Steve crosses himself before promising, “I’m getting you two a goddamn chastity belt.”
On the couch, Sam clicks the remote to a new channel, snapping his fingers with an offhanded, “A-fucking-men.” 
All you can do is duck your head and grin.
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txemrn · 3 years
Text
Faded
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Book/Pairing: The Royal Romance; Leo x Madeleine
Warning: angst (some dark discussion that would give away the plot); smut 🍋 (awkward, NOT sexy); language
Word Count: 3008 (+/-)
Song Inspiration: Faded by Alan Walker ft. Iselin Solheim (lyrics quoted in the text)
A/N: This is a Royal Roulette, technically, but then again, RR was created specifically for Wacky Drabbles, and I just couldn't get the word count down! Oops! Anyway, this idea came to me when I heard this song, and this story needed to be told. Some of it is canon; some of it is creative canon; some of it, well, we'll call it creativity. lol Any and all of these ideas came from my head, but I acknowledge that others have probably written similar stories (purely coincidental).
Huge special thanks to some of my sweet writing friends: @ao719, @charlotteg234, and @kat-tia801. This took a group effort, and I love you ladies so very much for pre-reading and making this story better. And as always, these characters belong to our friends at Pixelberry!
***
He was a rushing wind; my billowing sails drift me into the unknown, but I don’t care. He’s an incinerating inferno: every tradition I was taught was set ablaze by his touch. My caged heart was unlocked by him; he set the monsters running wild inside of me. In my world of propriety and decorum, he taught me to live; more importantly, he dared me to love.
He broke free: from the customs, our culture, the captivity of our world. He broke free.
Without me. And the mess is all mine to clean up, left with only a picture of our passion--a photo of the love we once shared together. But even that is fading, and will be lost.
I’m alone with my thoughts this morning on my walk. The bite of salt in the coastal breeze tickles my nose, inviting my platinum strands into a carefree dance amongst the sunrise. Adjusting my oversized tortoise-shell sunglasses, my bare toes leave the comfort of the white sand beach only to discover the sting of the barnacle laden steps to the stone jetty. But, the shallow waters never met what I needed. My soul craves to commune with the waves from the deep.
I’m lost; there isn’t enough time in the world to think this through, and yet somehow a decision has to be made. God, where are you now? Was it all in my fantasy? Were you imaginary?
Many described our relationship as ‘destiny’--no, not exactly the romance you read about in foolish fairy tales or hear about in silly love songs. Our families ran in the same spheres of wealth and power. Politics. We are royalty. Since we were close in age, we would spend countless hours together throughout our childhood and teenage years. Being the oldest son to the king, he is--well, he was--the crowned prince of Cordonia; an agreement to our nuptials started well-before my formal training specifically for his social season.
But, something was different about Leo and me. We grew quite fond of each other, a friendship that developed into sharing secret kisses in darkened corners. Was this normal for friendships? Or did we have something deeper? Was this love?
As long as I can remember, I was taught my body was not my own; I was born with a greater purpose, and in that purpose, I would bring honor to my family and my name. I would earn my place in history: a woman who gave of herself everything she could for the sake of a country. Even love.
My reputation is to be held in the highest regard. My efforts in style and wardrobe would be subject to conversation and scrutiny. My eloquence and table etiquette could determine whether or not I’d be fit to be a queen. Every eye movement, every smile, every response could bring honor or dishonor to my family. No one cared about me as long as I presented a pristine package to court, a sacrificial lamb for king and country.
But, when the moment came for me to be chosen as his bride, I felt the swelling of joy inside my chest, bursting like strobes of light for everyone to witness. Suddenly the ideas of ‘the one’ and ‘happily ever after’ that I read about in the great classics teased my senses; I wanted to cry, to scream, to laugh. My body had a sudden thirst, a yearning for him that I didn’t understand.
In my innocence, this could only be one thing.
“Countess Madeleine,” he knowingly grins, “will you do me this honor?”
Swallowing thickly, her jade eyes flutter open at the sound of her name. In a handsomely fit tux, adorning his family colors in full regalia, her future husband, the future king of Cordonia, takes a knee to present the stunning canary solitaire. The dread melts away as the butterflies overcome her nerves.
Keeping with propriety, she nods her head while curtly dabbing away tears. But, something is distracting her: she is to be relishing in her accomplishment of winning the honor, for winning all of the glory, for winning the crown. She is to be the next queen of Cordonia.
But she is overwhelmed by all thoughts of him, her husband-to-be, the father to their future children. Suddenly the life she had been training for didn’t matter; she was betrothed and in love.
Smoothing out the tightness of my heathered linen pants, I take a moment to stare at my empty ring finger. I feel soreness from the collection of tears, but I refuse to allow anymore drop on his behalf. Today is hard enough.
I hug my body, remembering the warmth of his intimate touch. I had kept myself pure for him. Until that night.
Within an hour of making his intentions known to the court, Leo scurries away with his future bride, leaving only a trail of giggles and whispers along the way to his chambers.
Shrugging off his jacket, Leo presses her petite body against the locked door. His hand gently cradles her head, his thumb tracing the length of her jaw. His lips hungrily search hers, wolfishly devouring her mouth before she can react.
“Is this okay?” he whispers under his breath, his smoldering gaze entraps her innocent eyes. Breathlessly focused on his swelling lips, she nods her head dutifully.
He places his hands on her waist before sliding them intently back onto the curves of her ass, grabbing at her fullness under her whimper. A growl becomes his breathing, staring at his prey.
“Do you love me, my future queen?”
Love. Was that love?
The hypnotic rise and fall of the waves is starting to sour my stomach, but the ocean spray is so inviting and calming on my clammy skin. Finding a smooth stone, I seek refuge from the surge of the sea’s tantrum. Relaxing under the gentle rays of the morning sunshine, I close my eyes, only to see him.
He cheats her out of her next breath, his tongue overwhelming her mouth. His eager fingers find the zipper to her ballgown. He paws at her back, his fingers brushing against the secret skin of her body.
Her bra tosses to the wayside; admiring his new found treasure, Leo’s hands plunder her supple curves. His mouth plummets to her hardening nipples, his teeth teasing her nerves with fear. The sudden twinge of pleasure thrashes her head against the door.
“Shall I continue, beautiful?” he exhales, catching his breath; but, before an answer is uttered, he stumbles back into the temptation of her perfect body. His fingers tease across the waistband of her petal pink briefs; her eyes cinch closed, her mouth unable to hold back a moan.
“Someone is enjoying themselves,” he chuckles, standing to tower over her. He kisses her cheek, leaning his mouth close to her ear. “Is this what you want?” He tucks a strand behind her ear.
“Mhmm,” her lips curl slightly, leaning into his touch.
“Do you like what I am doing for you?”
“Yes,” she softly groans.
“Yeah?” He reaches into her panties, her knees buckling to the wandering of his fingers. “Mmmm,” he pulls his hand out, licking his fingertips, “that’s my good girl. You love my touch.” He stands back, shaking off her body. Locking his eyes with hers, he casually steps backwards until he reaches the bed. He slides off his belt, unfastening his slacks.
“Come here,” he motions for her to step closer. “Show me your love for me.”
Madeleine’s eyes focus on his growing girth, bulging from his unzipped pants; but, then her gaze darts around the room. Surely he knows that she isn’t well-versed in such endeavors.
“Maddie?” he combs his fingers through her blonde tresses. “I love you. You know that, right?”
She closes her eyes. The words send a jolt of happiness through her veins. She was experiencing love. She was prepared for everything else, but this?
"Then, let me show you,” he growls, pushing her back onto the bed. Hungrily ripping off her panties, he exposes her to his touch. Youthful and pure. "Are you ready?"
He spreads her legs apart, her thighs trembling. She grips the sheets with her tiny fists. Her doe-like eyes stare into his hunting blues as she feels him touch her again; but this time, it wasn't his fingers.
With an inexperienced push of his hips, red flashes before Madeleine's eyes as she squints her eyes in pain, hiding the gathering of tears. He thrusts again; her teeth gnash at the breaking of her body. Her head thrashes back and forth, groaning as she serves a penance under his rhythmic plunges into her warm, narrow core again and again. Harder and harder. Faster. Deeper.
Without warning, the beating of her body stops, leaving her stretched, completely filled with him. Moaning her name in the company of obscenities, his breathing becomes quick and shallow despite his efforts to slow down. Sweat gathers across his brow as he savors the delicate tightness of her depths. Stumbling into his ecstasy, he loses control, pouring himself into her. The sudden rush of fullness makes her whimper, the sting begins to dull as a smile crawls across her face. His lips meet her soft, glowing skin. Finally, it’s over.
That night: it was so long ago. But, I can still feel it; I can still feel him. The smell and taste of him lingers on my tongue. I miss him.
And with that, my breathing labors as I choke out a sob. I press the back of my hand to my lips as tears cloud my vision from the Mediterranean horizon. A sour pang creeps up my throat as I cradle my tender belly with my other hand. Clenching my eyes closed, I hope to hold back the downpour of tears from my soul. God, please not again.
Madeleine's head rests on Leo's shoulder, his strong arm securely around her exposed body. Her marigold diamond catches the pale moonlight perfectly, it's brilliance mesmerizing the bride-to-be as she subtly teeters her hand on his well-structured chest. He suddenly engulfs her hand with his. Turning towards him, her lips meet his perfectly like the final piece of the puzzle, locking seamlessly in place.
"Runaway with me, Madeleine."
The flecks of evergreen in her eyes sparkle with curiosity. "What--?"
"This life, Maddie," he gently rubs her back, "is this really the life that you want-- that you'd want for us?"
She sits up, taken aback from the peculiar question. "You mean the life we're living right now? Us? Being engaged?”
“Yes--I mean, no. I--” Leo stumbles over his words, dragging his hand across his face. “I love you, and I want to be with you--” he pushes a platinum strand behind her ear, “--but do you ever wonder what it’s like out there? Out in the real world? Away from all of this pressure? Away from all of these rules?”
“Away from the public eye? Living life--” she titters into a big smile, “--like everyday people?"
"Yes." He sighs, pressing her hand against his heart. "Before long, we will be in charge. In charge, Maddie. Of an entire country." There is a quake in his voice, a quiver that even makes her feel chilled. "I don’t think I’m cut out for this,” a breath hitches in his chest. “Will I even be a good king?"
“Of course," she whispers, offering a doting smile, “Of course, Leo," her voice becomes stronger, authoritative. “You can do this. You were made for this. And while, yes, you are the king, you’re not alone.” She laces her fingers with his. “You’ll always have me. You have my support--” she kisses the back of his hand, “and most of all, you have my love.” She leans down to kiss his hand again, but rather he captures her in his arm, bringing her to his lips, making her squeal.
“I love you, Madeleine.”
She moans into his pout as he kisses her once more. “I love you, too, Leo.”
The creaminess to his baritone voice dissipates from my memory, fading away much like our love. How could I have been so foolish? I gave him everything--I promised him everything. My life, my whole existence was for him, and I naively thought that love would somehow stitch us together, that somehow we would be the monarchs that did have it all. Wealth. Power. Love. A happily-ever-after that could join the rankings of the greatest love stories ever told.
But, it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.
The sudden rapping on the door abruptly wakes Madeleine from a deep sleep. The sunlight pours mercilessly through the windows as she grabs the sheets to cover herself.
The door suddenly tramples open, Constantine bounding first into the room, followed by his head guard Bastien. “Where is he? Where’s Leo?” The king sneers as the blonde trips out of bed, reaching for clothing. “For God’s sakes, couldn’t you two show some fucking self-control?”
Madeleine cinches the high-thread-count sheet around her body, leaving her slender shoulders and décolleté exposed. As a blush crawls across her face, the question begins to haunt her: where is Leo? He wasn’t in bed this morning. In fact, his clothes are missing from their disheveled heap that was next to her discarded dress. His watch and cell phone were missing from the bedside table. But, otherwise everything seemed to be in place.
Madeleine rushes to the ensuite bathroom, hoping to find a logical clue to Leo’s whereabouts there.
"Call him. Now," the king growls at the anxious countess.
"He's not answering us, Countess Madeleine. We assume given your current relationship with his majesty--" Madeleine nods in understanding.
"I'm sorry, but the phone number you're trying to reach has been disconnected or is no longer in service."
Her eyebrows furrow as she ends the call. "I--I--I don't understand," she stammers, rubbing her forehead with her fingers. "His phone has been disconnected--"
"Fucking ungrateful--” growls Constantine, ripping the phone from Madeleine's tiny hand, “--selfish son of a bitch!" He throws the phone against the wall, shattering it into pieces. He gruffly turns towards his future daughter-in-law. “Are you certain you dialed the right number?" He spits. Madeleine braces herself against a wall, turning her face away from him. She carefully nods, refusing to make eye contact. “Unbelievable!” Constantine knocks over some antique silver candelabras before exiting the room, leaving Bastien behind.
“Sir?’ Madeleine quietly calls to the guard, drawing closer to him, ensuring her body is covered. “What is all the commotion about? Where is Leo?”
“Leo failed to report to his morning engagements about last night festivities. According to our cameras, he left this morning through the northwest gate in an unmarked black Sudan around o’four hundred hours.”
Madeleine cups her mouth as she stumbles to sit down on the bed. She nervously combs her fingers through her tangled tresses. “What does this mean?” She spouts nervously, her body shaking with tears gathering in her eyes.
“Please try not to worry, ma’am,” Bastien carefully places a comforting hand on her bare shoulder, quickly withdrawing it when their eyes awkwardly meet at the gesture. “Um--” he clears his throat, “--I don’t know what he’s doing, but we will find him.” He turns on his heel to leave Madeleine alone when suddenly a thought hits him. “By any chance, did he mention anything to you?”
‘Runaway with me, Madeleine.’ One simple request. He asked me to just simply follow him. I thought he was joking or simply making a hypothetical request due to his uneasy nerves; but, my love for him aside, this was my calling: to serve him. If I had chosen to honor him rather than challenge him… if I had chosen to remind him of responsibility and duty rather than trying to win him over with ludicrous ideas of love in marriage…
Leo abdicated the throne.
No one speaks about royalty relinquishing their responsibilities. We’re born into this; we were made to do this. We spend our entire lives preparing, being told that it is an honor to bear such greatness, it is an honor to host such power. No one speaks of the alternative. Truth be told: if we knew there was a way to escape, to renounce such a life as this, how many of us would take that chance?
It’s been seven weeks since that awful morning. Seven weeks of silence and darkness. Seven weeks of broken dreams and false hope. Seven weeks of only one absolution: Leo had found his freedom. He wasn't coming back.
I pull out the photograph of our love just one more time as the tears gather once more in my eyes. Leo’s last words to me were ‘I love you;’ but somehow as I trace my fingers amongst the black and white print, I have to say, ‘goodbye’ for both of us this morning.
“Ms. Amaranth?”
“Yes, ma’am?” Madeleine wakes from her daydream, her voice trembling. She chews incessantly on her nails as her crossed legs bounce nervously. The sterile white walls around her seem to be closing in around her; the air grows thick, stifling. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
The dark brunette stands to come closer to the blonde. She straightens out her white coat while fixing an endearing smile on her face. She sits down next to Madeleine, taking her hand. “I asked if you are sure about this decision?”
If Madeleine had learned anything in the past two months, it's that she could only be sure about nothing. She stares at her bobbing toe, hypnotically entranced with the clicking of the clock in the exam room.
“There are other options," the doctor continues. "Adoption. Keeping the baby.”
I tear up the ultrasound picture in my hands, letting the wind chase it to the sea. The tattered pieces drift for a place to rest, sinking to the depths my soul will forever crave, a secret place far too precious for this world. For my world.
Goodbye, love.
***
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let-the-dream-begin · 3 years
Text
In My Daughter’s Eyes Chapter 29: Butterly
Chapter 28
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The rest of August flew by. The power was restored a little over a week after the storm had initially hit, and getting Faith back into her normal routine (sleeping in her own bed, brushing teeth in the bathroom) was a bit of a struggle. Dismantling the fort had been a feat as well; Faith was not at all happy about it. Claire would absolutely not sleep on the floor, but she couldn’t bring herself to force Faith to sleep alone with no nightlight or option to turn the lights on, so she’d been allowed to sleep with Mummy until the power was restored.
September was upon them, and with it, the terror of a day that Claire had been anticipating with dread and excitement for months.
On September ninth, Faith was going to school.
In the middle of August, Claire had rearranged her work schedule to be able to take her to the orientation, tethered to Angus. They’d been picked up by the bus together so that Faith could practice with a school bus. The orientation leader had been extremely kind and helpful, showing them the whole school before they got to the special education room. It was a different district than the one they lived in, but Mrs. Lickett (and Claire’s research) had told her that this was the best program for Faith’s specific needs. The classroom was smaller than the others, but her class was only eight children altogether. Claire had heard horror stories of special needs children in a classroom that was essentially a glorified closet, no windows, no color in the room. So when the room they entered was nothing short of the most adorable, sunshine-y kindergarten classroom she’d ever seen, Claire could have cried with relief.
Each child’s individual aid was waiting in the classroom, including Carole, Faith’s aid. She’d been told about Angus and what he was specifically meant to help with in terms of Faith’s behavior and education. He’d responded well to a few experimental commands from Carole, and Faith seemed to like her well enough. Miss O’Reilly was the teacher’s name, and she gave a small sample lesson to demonstrate for the parents, and for the children to practice. Claire hung in the back of the room with the other parents, who all looked equally as terrified as she was.
Watching Faith at her little desk, her aid pointing to her pencil and paper, whispering in her ear to encourage her participation, was overwhelming. She was squirming a bit, turning around occasionally to reach for Claire. Angus was dutiful, however, nudging her, applying pressure in her lap with his head to bring her back, to calm her down.
She can do it. They can do it. Together.
Claire took the day off for Faith’s first day; she knew she wouldn’t be able to focus on a damn thing at work, and she didn’t feel like being responsible for people’s lives while her mind was otherwise occupied. Jamie insisted on taking the day off as well, on being there to see her off on the bus, and then staying with Claire like her own emotional support animal. She’d insisted he didn’t need to, though it was a rather weak insistence, because she knew deep down she needed him.
He had arrived promptly at seven o’clock, being that Faith’s bus was to arrive at eight-fifteen. He seemed surprised to find her fully dressed already, full-well knowing by now that his girlfriend was not a morning person. He’d apparently expected her to be in her pajamas.
“I hardly slept last night,” she admitted, standing aside to let him in. “I finally gave up around five, got dressed around six.”
He smiled with sympathy and gently pulled her in for a brief kiss. “I didna sleep much at all either.” He pulled her in for a comforting embrace, and his heartbeat in her ear did wonders for her nerves, if only temporarily. She felt his breath on the top of her head, and he pressed another kiss there.
“She nervous at all?” he asked.
“I don’t know, it’s hard to tell. I’m not sure she realizes that I won’t be going with her this time.” The thought sent her stomach turning again, filled with dread over Faith’s heart-crushing realization that Mummy was sending her away.
“Aye, suppose we’ll find out.” He pulled away to offer her another smile, and she craned her neck to kiss him again. “Here.” He produced a paper bag from behind his back, and Claire started, not even having realized he’d been holding something the whole time. “Picked ye up a wee treat fer breakfast. Ye deserve something better today than those crumbly chunks of oat ye call a meal.”
Her eyes smoldering with affection, she took the bag and peeked inside. “Granola bars are quite good for you. Fiber and protein are important.”
“Perhaps. But so are taste buds.”
She rolled her eyes as she shuffled away, depositing the bag on the kitchen counter. “I’ll eat it later. Could you get her cereal ready while I wake her up?”
“Aye, certainly.”
They brushed past each other in the doorway of the kitchen, and Claire entered Faith’s bedroom, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Angus, come,” she said lightly, and the previously sleeping dog sprang up from his spot beside Faith, trotting next to Claire. She sat down on the edge of Faith’s bed and began stroking her head. “Faith, darling. Time to wake up.”
Her eyes fluttered open, and Claire was greeted with a sweet, absent smile.
“There she is! Good morning, lovie.” Faith sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Do you know what today is? It’s the first day of school! Yay!” She signed applause, and Faith copied lazily, her hands apparently not totally awake yet. “It’s time to get up and get dressed. Do you want to look pretty for school, Faithie?”
Faith nodded excitedly, giving a little hum.
“That’s right. Up we get now, come on.” Claire stood up and went to the dresser, picking up the  blue dress she already had lain out. “Look at your pretty dress, baby. You’re going to look so pretty. Yes?”
She gave an excited little hop, and she raised her arms up, indicating she was ready for Claire to pull her pajama shirt off. Claire chuckled and obliged her, talking to her gently as she got her dressed. Claire insisted she give her a twirl when the dress was on, and Faith was more than happy to do so. Dressed and twirled, Claire loosely pulled half of her wild curls up, then clipped the tartan hair bow at the base of the ponytail.
“There. Pretty dress, and Merida bow. You’re all ready.”
Faith hummed loudly, jiggling her hands, and she followed Claire into the living room, trailed closely by Angus.
“Look who’s here, Faith! Special for you on your first day of school!” They entered the kitchen, and Faith practically launched herself at Jamie, throwing her arms around his legs right where he stood at the counter.
“Ah, there she is! Good morning, my braw wee lass!” He cupped the top of her head, and looked up at Claire as his fingers brushed the hair bow. “Ye’re a proper wee Scot today, aye? Wearing the hair bow I gave ye?” He pointed at the bow, and Faith giggled.
“It’s her favorite. Of course she had to wear it for such a big day.”
Brimming with affection, Jamie crossed the room, swinging Faith as she clung to his leg, and pressed a sweet kiss on Claire’s lips. Claire giggled into the kiss, the silly image of him wearing her daughter on his leg impossible to ignore.
“Alright, little monkey. Let Jamie go, please. Time for breakfast. Angus first.”
Faith obeyed, marching over to Angus’s bag of food and dumping the scoopful into his bowl, and Jamie handed her the pre-measured cup of water for her to pour into his water bowl.
“Good girl,” Claire said warmly as Angus already began digging in. “Your turn.”
A bowl of Cheerios was already waiting on the table, and Jamie hurried to pour the milk in. “Didna want it to get soggy while it waited fer her.”
Claire’s heart felt fit to burst for the fifth time that morning. Before Faith had interrupted, Jamie had been cutting up an apple at the counter, and he finished up before putting the plate next to Faith’s cheerios.
Having finished his breakfast in a matter of seconds, as usual, Angus was free for Jamie to pet and coddle while Claire carefully arranged Faith’s lunch and snack in her Frozen lunchbox.
“See, Faith?” Claire said. “Lunch is all ready to go.”
Faith looked up from her cereal to give a thumbs up.
On the way home from orientation, as a reward for being a good girl, Claire had stopped at Target and let Faith choose any lunchbox and backpack she wanted, along with a few folders and fun pencils. They were all Disney, of course, mostly Frozen dominated.
“These are for school, lovie. All of your favorites are going to help you be a big girl in school, yes?” Claire had said while Faith filled the shopping cart. Faith had simply hummed contentedly, smiling dreamily.
Claire checked said backpack about eight times before Faith finished her breakfast, and she heard Jamie coaxing her to drink the milk leftover in her cereal bowl.
“To make yer wee bones grow big and strong, a leannan.”
She re-entered the kitchen to see him popping an apple slice in his mouth, making an absurd face, and Faith squealed, shaking her head.
“If ye dinna want me to steal every slice, ye’d better hurry.” He picked up another slice, and Faith tried to grab it, but he stealthily dodged her and popped it in his mouth. She squealed with laughter again, and then countered by popping a slice in her own mouth.
“Och, I wanted that one.” Jamie leaned back with contrived exasperation, crossing his arms. Faith giggled incessantly, and Claire had to bite her lip.
“Ridiculous human being,” she said, shaking her head.
“Can Mummy have any apples d’ye think?”
Faith squealed and adamantly shook her head, curls flying wildly.
“Oh, I can’t?” Claire challenged, crossing the room to join them at the table. She swiped a slice off the plate and popped it in her mouth, and Faith shrieked. “You heard him. You’d better hurry before we finish them.”
Faith ate another slice, looking back and forth between the adults like a little conspirator. They carried on like this, Jamie and Claire bringing slices to their open mouths, but then depositing them into Faith’s instead.
Eight o’clock came much too soon, and Claire cleaned up in the kitchen while Jamie led Faith into the living room. When Claire joined them, Jamie was giving her a quiet pep-talk while tying her shoes, her pink princess sneakers that didn’t at all match what she was wearing, but that she insisted on wearing no matter what.
Claire picked up her backpack when Jamie finished, not wanting to interrupt. “Alright, lovie. Ready?”
Faith nodded, extending her arms and allowing Claire to put the straps over her shoulders.
“There you go. All ready for school.”
“No’ quite,” Jamie said, reaching behind him into his back pocket. “I’ve got something special, Faith. Since ye’re such a big girl now, going to school and all.” He produced a tiny plush brown horse, attached to a little hook. “It’s a keychain, fer yer princess backpack.” Faith smiled, reaching out to hold it. “It’s a wee Pippi. See? She’s even got the white spot.” Struck by the familiarity, Faith stroked the white snout gently.
“Aye, very good, lass.” Jamie smiled widely. “Since ye canna take yer noble steed to school, or Horsie, I figure this’ll have to do.” He gently pried it from her hands to clip it to a loop on the backpack strap where she could reach it. “I’m very, very proud of you, Faith. When ye miss yer mam, I want ye to give wee Pippi a squeeze. Alright?”
They exchanged a thumbs up, and Claire almost burst into tears.
“I’m very proud of you too, baby.” Claire joined them, kneeling beside Jamie in front of her. “You’re such a big girl now.” She pushed her hair behind her ear. “Are you a big girl? Big girl, Faith?” Claire signed big girl, and Faith bounced with excitement, signing big.
“Yes, good girl.”
They spent the last few minutes before the bus arrived trying to coax her to uncover her face long enough to get a picture of her first day of school outfit. Claire and Jamie took turns being in the pictures, and Jamie even insisted on getting a selfie so they could all (Angus included) get into one picture.
There was suddenly a honk from outside, and Claire’s stomach lurched. She looked up at Jamie with terror, and he gave her hand a squeeze.
“Angus, come,” Jamie called, and he made quick work of getting him vested, leashed, and tethered to Faith.
Claire stood up and opened the front door, waving to the bus driver. She turned back to see dog and child ready to go, Jamie holding her hand.
He looked just as terrified as she felt.
Together, the four of them made their way down the steps to meet the bus, and they stopped a few feet away from the curb.
“Okay, baby. There’s the bus.” Claire said, kneeling in front of her on the concrete. “Are you ready?”
Are you ready, Beauchamp?
“It’s only for a few hours,” Claire said, perhaps more for herself than for Faith. “And then you’ll be home again with Mummy. Yes?”
“Ye’re gonnae have lots of fun, Faith. Show Angus to all yer new friends, learn sae much,” Jamie chimed in.
She was not humming, but her hand was jiggling at her side, and Jamie grasped it.
“It’s alright, mo chridhe.” He pressed a kiss to her little knuckles. “It’s alright.”
Claire bit down fiercely on her lip. No tears until she’s gone.
“I love you, baby.” Claire held up the sign, forcing a tiny smile. “I love you.”
Faith returned the sign, touching her thumb, finger, and pinky to Claire’s as their foreheads rested together. They held the sign and their embrace for several lingering seconds, until the constant chugging of the bus’s engine reminded Claire that time was still passing.
“Alright. Hugs.” Claire pulled her in for a quick hug, fervently kissing the top of her head.
“A hug fer me too, lass?” Jamie said tentatively, and Faith did not hesitate. He pulled her in and kissed her head as Claire had, offering her a wide grin when they pulled apart. 
“Alright. It’s time now, baby.” Claire and Jamie stood up, each taking one of her hands and leading her to the bus. Carole was waiting at the top of the steps, smiling kindly.
“Hi, Faith,” she greeted warmly.
“Hold onto the railing, now,” Jamie said quickly, releasing the hand he was holding so Faith could grasp the metal railing.
Claire had to force herself to let go of Faith’s other hand, her heart stinging as Carole took it instead. She hesitated at the top of the stairs, stopping Carole from pulling her into a seat. Faith turned around, and Claire thought she was going to faint. Jamie seemed to read her mind, and he desperately grasped her hand, squeezing like his life depended on it.
Faith looked like she may cry, and her hand was jiggling in a way that both of them knew was not happy.
Angus pressed the top of his head into Faith’s side, and she laced her fingers in his fur, ceasing her jiggling.
“It’s okay, baby,” Claire choked out. “It’s okay.”
Angus stayed rooted in place, waiting patiently for the panic to pass, and Carole looked back and forth between girl and dog, and the anxious couple.
“Ready, Faith?” Carole gave her a thumbs up, and Faith turned away from Jamie and Claire to look up at her. “Ready?”
Faith returned the thumbs up, removing her hand from Angus.
“Okay. Let’s go sit.”
The doors to the bus closed, and Jamie and Claire staggered back, clinging desperately to one another. The bus lingered for several more seconds, and Faith soon appeared in one of the windows, or rather, her eyes and forehead did. Carole was talking to her, waving through the window, and Faith started waving, too. Claire and Jamie waved wildly with their free hands, and then the bus was pulling away, and Claire felt a piece of her heart leaving with it.
As soon as the bus was out of sight, Jamie crushed her to him, and she finally released the sob she’d been holding back.
“It’s alright, mo nighean donn,” he crooned into the top of her head, rocking her gently. “That was the worst part. Dinna fash, now. She did it.”
Claire wept quietly into his shirt, not caring if any one of her neighbors decided to peek out their window and see them on the curb. She felt his tears in her hair despite his calming words, and she held him tighter.
He was right; the worst part was over. She’d imagined so many different scenarios that ended either with Faith bolting off the bus, or with Claire dragging her down herself. She’d imagined Faith screaming her head off, red in the face with tears, inconsolable even by Angus.
But that hadn’t been the case.
“What if…what if she’s crying now? Just after we couldn’t see her anymore…?”
“She has Angus. He’s quite good at his job, ye ken.”
“I know, but she…” Claire couldn’t put words to her exact fear. “What if she’s not ready? What if I’ve just thrown her to the wolves…?”
“Ye’ve done all ye can to prepare her. Ye got her excited wi’ her supplies, ye trained her dog fer this moment fer months. If she canna handle it after all that, it’s no’ yer fault.” He kissed her head, and she felt its warmth reach her outermost extremities. “If it doesna work out this year, she’ll be all the more prepared next year. Mrs. Lickett said it’s alright if she’s no’ ready ’til next year.”
Claire nodded against his chest, sniffling loudly.
“Carole said she’d call if there was a problem on the bus. So there’s no need to worry, aye?” He pushed her away just enough to look into her eyes, and she nodded. He kissed her gently, brushing away her tears as he did. “Let’s go inside. Ye’ve got quite a tasty muffin waiting fer ye in the kitchen, if ye recall.”
She forced a tiny smile, hiccuping a bit. “I hope I don’t vomit it up.”
“If ye do, I’ll hold yer hair and rub yer back.” He put his arm around her shoulders and led her up the stairs. “Then I’ll get ye some saltines and ginger ale and take care of ye.”
She sighed and leaned into him. “I don’t deserve you.”
He scoffed. “Ye deserve to be taken care of, ye stubborn fool.”
She couldn’t help but smile as they entered the apartment, Jamie shutting the door behind them. “Thank you. For being here today. I think it helped ease her mind. And I…” She swallowed, catching her breath. “I really needed you.”
“Aye. I ken ye did.” He kissed her soundly again. “Come on, now. No more weeping. Breakfast time.”
——
Jamie did his best to distract Claire; it really was a valiant effort. They tried sex, but when he could see that her mind was elsewhere, he stopped, not wanting to force it when she wasn’t fully with him. Admittedly, even Jamie was struggling with that particular activity today. And he’d never had that problem before.
They settled on watching mindless television, but it didn’t do much for either of their nerves. He could feel Claire’s pulse going far too fast against his body, and Jamie’s fingers continued tapping anxiously on his thigh, his leg jiggling.
They were on perhaps their tenth episode of The Office, the sandwiches Jamie had made and tried to force Claire — and himself — to eat sitting untouched when Claire’s phone rang.
He swore Claire might have been having a stroke given the way she completely stiffened in her seat. She scrambled for the phone, resting idly on the coffee table.
“It’s the school,” she stammered, simultaneous with accepting the call. “Hello?”
Jamie’s stomach lurched, and he was grateful Claire put the phone on speaker.
“Hi, is this Miss Beauchamp?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, this is Miss O’Reilly, Faith’s teacher.”
“Yes, hello,” Claire said impatiently. “Is she alright? What’s happened?”
“Everything is okay, don’t worry. I’ve got Faith here with me. She keeps signing ‘mom,’ and she got more and more distressed every time, so we thought we should call you so she could hear your voice.”
Claire flashed a heartbreaking, guilt-ridden look up at Jamie. “Yes, give her the phone. Thank you.”
In a few seconds, the sound of sniffling came through the receiver, and Jamie instinctively grabbed Claire’s hand, squeezing for dear life.
“Faith? Hi, baby, it’s Mummy.”
Claire’s voice was wavering.
“It’s okay, lovie. I’m here. Jamie is here, too.”
“Hello, Faith,” Jamie chimed in. “It’s great to talk to ye.”
“I know you miss us, we miss you too,” Claire said carefully. “Don’t cry anymore, baby. It’s okay. You’re going to be home so, so soon. And then you get Oreos, remember? And a sticker.”
Mrs. Lickett and Claire had worked to put together a system where every day she went to and from school without a problem, she got a sticker on the sticker chart. She would earn little prizes for every filled row, and then, once the whole chart was full, she earned a big prize.
“I know you can do it,” Claire continued. “You’re such a big girl.”
“Aye, Faith, we’re verra proud of you.”
“That’s right,” Claire said. “I love you so much, baby. I’m doing the sign. Can you do it?” She paused for a bit. “I love you. Can you please give the phone to Miss O’Reilly?”
“Okay, thank you Faith.”
“How is she? Did that help?”
“I think it did. Now, just so you know, she did wet herself at her desk. And I know you said that she hasn’t really had bathroom issues in a while, so I assume it was just the stress.”
Claire’s grip tightened painfully on Jamie’s hand.
“Yes, I’m so sorry, I didn’t think she’d…”
“It’s okay. It happens to someone on the first day every year. It usually doesn’t happen more than one more time. She’s wearing the clean clothes you packed with her.”
“Ehm, okay,” Claire stammered. “Thank you so much.”
“Okay, I’ll call you again later to let you know how she did with the rest of the day.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“Bye-bye now.”
“Bye.”
The line went dead, and the phone collapsed in Claire’s lap as she buried her face in her hands. Jamie hung up the call to stop the ringing, and he pressed her against his chest.
“It’s alright, mo ghraidh.”
“No, it’s not…” she muttered tearfully against his chest. “I can’t do this, Jamie, I can’t. I’m going to go pick her up.”
“Hey.” Jamie tightened his grip on her, physically restraining her from getting up. “Ye’re no’ gonnae do that.”
“She hasn’t wet herself in nearly a year! Something is wrong! You could hear her crying. I have to go.”
She was nearing hysterics. Jamie pushed her away just enough to look in her eyes.
“Claire.” His voice was firm, tightly holding her shoulders. “Miss O’Reilly said she calmed down. What reason would she have to lie to ye?”
“She could’ve started right back in again once we hung up.”
“If you go get her now, she’ll never learn. She’ll think that if she pitches a fit that Mummy will come get her, and she can get out of school, or anything else. She needs to learn.”
He could tell how badly Claire wanted to look away, but she held his gaze. She welled up with fresh tears, and Jamie watched them trickle down her cheeks. Her chin trembled, and he, like the hypocrite he was, very nearly gave into her just to stop her from crying.
“You’re right,” Claire rasped, swallowing thickly. “I hate it…but you’re right.”
Jamie loosened his grip and moved his hands up to cup her cheeks. “It might be a long learning curve, but she will learn. She’s ready for school, I ken she is. She just doesna ken it herself yet. And ye canna give in before she has the chance to figure that out. She needs ye to give her this chance, Sassenach.”
Claire nodded, inhaling with a shuddering gasp. “I know.”
He tenderly kissed her forehead, letting it linger. “She’s a strong wee thing. And she gets it from her mother,” he said with pointed emphasis. “If she can do it, so can you.”
Claire nodded, swallowing again. “I love you.”
“I love you too, Sassenach.”
——
A bit after 3:30, the bus pulled up in front of the driveway, and both Jamie and Claire raced down the stairs. The doors to the bus opened, and Faith and Angus descended the stairs, Faith letting go of Carole’s hand to launch herself into Claire’s arms.
“Oh! Hello, darling!”
Jamie untethered her from Angus and commanded him to go upstairs and inside. Faith properly wrapped her legs around Claire’s waist, and she hoisted the girl up higher. Carole smiled sweetly down from the top of the stairs.
“How was she on the bus?” Claire called up.
“Fine, much more excited on the way back.”
The three adults shared a laugh.
“Oh, I bet,” Claire said, more to Faith then Carole. She fervently kissed her temple. “Thank you so much. I’ll be here tomorrow in the morning with her caretaker, and she’ll be getting her off without me.”
“Gotcha,” Carole said. The bus driver nodded as well.
“Okay, thank you, have a good day,” Claire said, waving. “Say bye-bye,” she crooned to Faith.
“Bye, thanks,” Jamie said, waving as well. Claire held Faith’s hand and waved with her, and the bus rolled away.
“Okay, time for Oreos!” Claire said.
“Aye, Oreos fer our big girl.” Jamie took Faith, knowing that Claire would have a hard time walking up the stairs with her. She was getting bigger every day.
They all sat at the kitchen table, Faith with her Oreos on her napkin, scraping the icing off with her teeth, Jamie and Claire watching her like she hung the stars, hands laced together. 
Jamie gave her hand a squeeze, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “She did it.”
Claire nodded, resting her head on his shoulder. “We did it,” she corrected.
Jamie’s answer was a fervent kiss to the crown of her head.
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deathvalleyusa · 3 years
Text
day’s eye
Summary: In the eyes of a child named Daisy, Alfie Solomons is a thing of adventure books and mythical tales. As she grows he seems to morph to even more mythical proportions. That is, until Margate shows Daisy just how mortal and human Alfie is. ONE SHOT.
Characters: Alfie Solomons, Child OFC, OFC
Word Count: 3.3k
Warnings: Language, S5 spoilers
A/N: Wrote this a while ago but only recently picked it up again. I had plans to write a fic about Nora (Daisy’s mom) and Alfie but this ended up happening instead lol. x-posted from AO3.
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When one grows up without a father, people assume a terrible fate befell him. The War. An accident. Perhaps he had found himself in trouble with one of the many gangs that ran the streets of every city on British soil. His absence could be explained away.
When one grows up without a mother, death is often called upon as the excuse as well. Childbirth. Influenza. Beatings no one saved her from.
But in certain cases, the father is simply gone and the mother still lives and breathes. Daisy was one such case.
Her mother, a lovely woman named Nora, had dreams. Visions of a house, a garden, and a job to keep her steady. Daisy was a part of the vision, but not a part of the journey thus far. So at her grandparents cottage she stayed. Six years old, knowing her mum was somewhere else, trying her hardest.
The day Nora came for Daisy was one of excitement. Tears. Good-byes from her Papa and Gran, hugs that melted into her skin. A buzzing ecstatic feeling as they boarded the train, heading to a place called London.
"It's all new there for us, Daisy," Nora had said. Pretty in her makeup and burgundy cloche hat. "A life for us, eh? Me and my girl?"
Daisy was not expecting to meet a man that week.
At six, she'd met her fair share of men from her grandparents' village. Her mum had never brought around anyone other than her uncle Harry. So this man was something new entirely.
Daisy had thought he maybe had been a bear before he was a man. Towering and scruffily bearded, he was an odd one.
"This is little Daisy, then?" He had asked. Voice low, accent unlike the Liverpool one she had lived with all her life. He spoke with a curiosity and a kindness, deep blue eyes twinkling.
"That's her," Nora answered, beaming. "Daisy, this is my lovely friend Alfie."
He offered a hand. Daisy stared, then gave a glance to her mum. A supportive nod, and her tiny hand met his.
It was not unlike her grandfather's, or Uncle Harry's. Worn and slightly rough on the pads, work showed it's time through calluses and small light scars. It was warm though, gentle as he shook hers before enveloping it in another large hand. Daisy couldn't help but admire his rings and the small crown tattooed into his skin.
Like a man from the pictures, she thought to herself, giving a pleased smile. Like a pirate. Or a king.
One thing Daisy learned, as she spent more time with her mother and Alfie, was how much he spoke and how rapt her mother's attention was to his words. He spun stories, rambled about the folk about town. Posed hypotheticals at Nora who would answer after a long pause. Alfie would always include Daisy, posing the same questions or asking about life in a quiet village.
Years passed. Daisy, in her infinite child wisdom, came to understand some of the nature of Alfie besides his sweetness. That he was just as she had suspected, a pirate and a king. He terrified others, kept the men in the bakery in reverence of him.
She came to understand her mother as well. A woman with muted glamor, someone with quiet dreams that slowly seemed to materialize. She was not the princesses or damsels in the films or books Daisy consumed. No, she was something of a beautiful warrior.
Daisy thought of herself as an adventurer. No one feared a child of her age, and she had no one who needed her protection quite yet. Instead, she was a wily spirit, content with exploration during the day and a cozy home with her mother, and quite often Alfie, at night.
It came as no surprise at the age of nine when Alfie sat her down and explained he had asked her mother to marry him. Truly, it felt like a long put off event, and Daisy had just wanted it over and done with.
Alfie's laugh filled the sitting room when she told him.
"It's not always that simple, Daisy Bell," he said. "But I'm pleased, your mum expected you to take the news hard. Not sure why, but you are full of surprises, yeah?"
And so, on one afternoon that had gifted pockets of sun, Daisy watched as Alfie made her mother his pirate queen. Daisy, in turn, became a pirate as well. And with her new place as the daughter of a pirate and a king came new lodgings.
Not a ship, but a house with many rooms. A place for her toys and baubles, and a new wardrobe to hang the pretty things her mother liked to dress her in. Daisy quite liked to sneak into Alfie's study, staring at the little collections that lined shelves. On the occasions she snuck in while he sat at his desk, he'd call her over with a wave of his big hand. A sweet would appear, followed by a kiss to the head.
"Don't tell your mum," he'd whisper in gruff tones, "or she'll 'ave both of our heads for spoiling your dinner."
It was those moments she liked best, when the two of them would hold a small secret. Daisy knew Alfie and her mother had their own secrets, whispered under their breaths as if Daisy would pay it no mind. Talk of bread, of a man named Shelby. Nothing that ever reached her in her fortress.
And in that fortress protected by men led by Alfie, who as Daisy neared eleven, seemed more pirate than king, she thrived. Played with the other children, took pockets of Yiddish they taught her home to practice with her mother. Spent hours feeding treats to Cyril behind her parents’ backs. Tormented Alfie's men with silly games and questions they usually had no answer to. Ollie was her favorite. He had taught her to play cribbage in the moments where his time wasn't completely occupied with Alfie's commands.
There were long stretches where Alfie did not return home, only giving a phone call to calm Nora's nerves. Her mother would get whispered conversations; Daisy was given sweet words and a gentle good night or morning. Daisy contented herself with this, until one day Alfie did not return.
************
"He's gone to Margate," Nora explained, rubbing at her tired eyes. They seemed to grow more tired with each passing year. "I haven't heard from him yet, Daisy. Perhaps tomorrow we'll get a ring."
The call did not come. Daisy thought of terrible fates that befell kings and pirates. How easily it could happen to a man whose business kept him in hushed conversations. How her pa, dear Alfie, could be struck down in crossfire with the polished guns he kept locked in his study.
When a letter came, and with it a terrible wail from the beautiful mouth of her mother, Daisy knew she was right. Wished it not to be so; that there had been a terrible mistake and the news written was wrong. But sneaking a look at the letter when her mother had finally let it out of her grasp, Daisy found her worst thoughts had not been bad enough.
Alfie's wonderful handwriting lay before her. Asking forgiveness of Nora, then of her. A betrayal to the Shelby man detailed Alfie's demise. A desire to end a painful, cancerous existence that he had never spoke of to Daisy.
Another letter detailed his condition. Alive, but for how long would be up to him. Where he could be found in the winding streets of Margate.
With no noise, she returned the letter to it's envelope. Daisy took care to walk quietly, letting herself hang at the entry of her mother's room. For the first time in many years, she crawled beside her in the vast bed, letting a desperate hug melt into her skin.
On the eve of her twelfth birthday, the house with many rooms lay barren. Everything had been packed and sent to Margate, which Nora explained would become their new home. Daisy had seen her mother hold back tears as they locked the doors for a final time. Her house and her garden that had materialized out of her dreams since Daisy was very small was no more.
Camden Town had too much risk lying to the north to bring Alfie back even in secret. He was no longer a king, but a ghost of one. They were to follow the ghost, live in a haunted home by the sea.
In that haunted home, Daisy helped place Alfie's collections and her baubles on shelves. She ignored the moans from the guest room, which had become a makeshift hospital ward. Instead she practiced her piano and read on the balcony to avoid the noise. Wished that Cyril, wherever he had gone off to, was by her side to help her ward off the ghost that lived here.
Alfie haunted her, night and day. He haunted her mother more, once he became more coherent and spoke his rambling nonsense to her. More than once she had heard Nora's voice raised behind the oak door, and no reply from Alfie. Her mother was not an angry woman, but Margate in those early months had sparked like a flint and filled Nora’s glamorous face with a rage-fueled fire.
As time passed, Daisy returned to her schooling. New friends were found, and so was a sense of normal. Her mother’s anger had become smoldering coals, and she started to leave the house. Sometimes for pleasure, other times for business still left from Camden Town. Daisy wondered often if Alfie, who remained behind the closed door, envied their comings and goings. She wondered more if he missed her, months separating the moment she had seen him in a gauze mask till now.
***********
On an unremarkable Sunday afternoon, her mother had gone out for some air. Daisy had been left to her own devices, plunking out a song on the piano in the sitting room. A voice, one she hadn't heard in more than a gruff whisper in weeks, sang out:
"Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do!”  
He was awake. Calling to her, it seemed, with a silly song he'd sing to tease since she was small.
"I'm 'alf crazy, all the love for you!”
Daisy rose from the piano bench, wood upon wood scraping quietly before feet plodded to the guest room she avoided. Now, though, the call from within was irresistible.
The door groaned silent as she peeked in, black curls slipping around her shoulders. There in bed lay the man she called father. A man in a pitiful state, but lucid.
"Daisy Bell, sweetie." he managed to crack a smile. "I'll cover up this nasty face of mine if you like, yeah, I just need to see that cherub one of yours."
She stepped in, trod closer.
"It's all right," Daisy remitted. "Will it always look like that?"
Alfie took consideration. "It won't always be as red, yeah, but it'll still look like a gnarled fucking tree. Maybe it'll smooth one day, but it's stuck, love."
"Then don't cover it," she said quietly. "If it's forever, I need to get used to it."
"Wise words from the mouth of babes."
"I'm nearly thirteen." A slight bristle shook through her voice, reminding herself of her mother. "I'm no baby."
"Is that right?" Alfie shut his eyes, heaving a grumbly sigh. A few beats passed, and he opened his good eye. Deep blue, like the ocean at night. Daisy sometimes sat on the balcony of their townhome and watched the waves roll in and out. Alfie's eye held no waves, just stillness.
"Well, if you're such a grown woman now, with wisdom and maturity beyond all our years, right, you'll fetch your dad a thimble of whatever Mum's got in that fancy bar cart she had to have, yeah? A secret between us grown ones, so I can partake of the earthly pleasures again."
Daisy's face hardened. "Mum says you can't."
"A biscuit then. With a strong cuppa." Noting her doubtful looks, he gestured to his face. "The tea to soften the biscuit so this old man can chew softly."
Daisy gave him a doubtful look, but obliged. Wondered how many times he'd asked for small tokens from the nurse or her mother and was promptly shut down. She returned, biscuits and tea in hand.
"You have my undying gratitude, Daisy Bell," he said.
He seemed quite happy, but Daisy couldn't tell if the biscuits or her presence was more the cause. As he dipped a corner of the biscuit into his tea, she thought how silly it was for a ghost to enjoy afternoon tea. She couldn't help an amused smile.
"What's that you're giggling about?" Alfie asked. His own mouth drew into a devilish grin. "You do something funny to these biscuits, ey?"
"No," Daisy replied, smiling wider. "It's a silly thought is all."
"I haven't heard silly thoughts in some time, just a nurse droning on and on about health and tablets. Indulge me."
For the first time in many months, Daisy felt heard again. Hands grabbed the wooden chair next to the wardrobe, scooting close to Alfie. She even let her forearms rest on the side of his bed, close enough to feel warmth not usually becoming of a ghost.
"Well you see," she started, "when we met when I was very little, I saw your rings and tattoo and thought of the men in the books my Gran would read to me. All while we lived in London, I thought of you as a pirate king."
"Is that so?" he chuckled, taking a sip. "Reckon you were a pirate princess then, weren't you?"
"Something like that." Daisy grinned before looking away at the wall. "After Mum got the letter and we couldn't bring you home… Well, I felt like you were a ghost. Like I've been living with a ghost this whole time in Margate."
Alfie didn't respond. Daisy had known he wouldn't; the wound on the soul was still as raw as the scar on his eye.
"But just now, seeing you eat,” she continued, “I found it quite funny to see a ghost eat a biscuit and enjoy a cuppa. All ghosts should be that funny, I think."
"Do you?" Alfie heaved a great sigh, then chuckled. "Better to be a ghost with a sense of humor and an appetite for sweets than a man who's lost both, yeah?”
Daisy nodded. The more she let what he had said rattle about in her mind, the more she came to understand the thankful truth of it. Though she mourned her pirate king, Cyril, and the house with many rooms, Margate and its ghost with his biscuit and tea had their own comfort.
She once again was a child who had a father with a terrible fate that had befallen him. A dozen excuses could be made for his absence but Daisy knew this time, at least, that in secret he still existed. The little secrets they shared had grown to one of great magnitude, like ones of novels and myths.
“I’ve missed you.”
Alfie, who had finished one of his biscuits, eyed her up with that twinkle she loved so dearly in the still dark blue iris. The cup clinked against the saucer as he set it on his lap covered by a blanket. Daisy felt the familiar roughness of his hand as it grasped hers.
“So have I, Daisy.” He gave her hand a squeeze, the feeling less ghostly than she had imagined. “Someday, I promise you, I’ll be out of this terrible fuckin’ bed and you and I can do whatever pleases your sweet heart.”
“That could be a very long time,” Daisy answered. “Is it okay for me to come back in? Will Mum be upset?”
Alfie took a pause.
“I don’t think so,” he decided. “And if she does get upset, it won’t last. The rotation of faces will do me good, yeah? That nurse sometimes makes me feel more ill by her presence alone, she’s got a particularly sour smell to match her face. The sooner I’m out of this room, the better I’ll be, I think. The sea air’ll do me some good, don’t you think?”
Daisy nodded again, vigorously. If Alfie thought the sea and the wisping salt against his face would help him be less a ghost and more a man, she would believe it too.
“We can go walking together,” Daisy suggested. “In the afternoons when I come home from school. And all day on weekends. Mum said she’d buy me a swimming costume for the summer, maybe we could swim—”
Alfie interrupted with his distinctive laugh, a near giggle unexpected from such a large man. The first time Daisy had heard it she had been taken aback, only to laugh along. Hearing it now was like a balm slathered on a skinned knee.
“We’ll start with a short walk, sweetie, then think about swimming in the next distant summer when these limbs can carry this old man easier. If I try to swim now, right, I might be swept away into the sea and some fantastical creature may happen upon me and drag me to its home in the depths. You believe in mermaids, love?”
“No.” Daisy sat back in the chair. “Not anymore.”
“Pity,” Alfie answered. “I saw one once at a carnival; pretty thing with a tail blowing bubbles under the water. If anything were to drag me out to sea, I’d choose her.”
“Stay on land, then!”
Alfie looked at her, quieted by her outburst. Daisy hadn’t meant for the words to leave her mouth so loudly. But all the talk of leaving once more sent her deep into a place of fear.
“I don’t want you to leave again,” Daisy tried once more in a softer voice. “I don’t want you to even try.”
“Then I won’t,” Alfie replied simply. “I’ll ignore all those siren calls I hear from the beach and stay right here, on your orders. You’re the boss, then.”
“Mum said she’s the boss now.” She shifted in her seat, wondered how cold the tea sitting on Alfie’s lap had gone. “Her and Ollie, she says.”
“Right then, you’ll just have to be my boss, won’t you?” Alfie shut his eyes. Daisy inspected his face, riddled with red scars and the patches of scaly rashes around his scalp he had explained as an affliction called psoriasis when she questioned it. He opened his good eye, giving her a quick smile. “Keep me in line and give me my orders to follow. First order is no following mermaids, got that love, what else should I heed from you?”
Daisy had never had that kind of power before, giving orders to an adult. The men at the bakery heeded her silly requests before, yes, but Alfie had always been the one to bark orders. As a child on the cusp of thirteen, it was an immense responsibility. She racked her brain, lips pursed as she ignored Alfie’s amused face, before settling on one.
“Get well fast,” Daisy finally said. “And don’t make Mum cross again, I’ll know if you do.”
“A tall order, that last one, but I’ll do my best,” Alfie grunted, tapping her hand before saluting her. “Yes ma’am.”
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aethersea · 3 years
Note
May I request 41 - First Kiss and 94 - Hair Brushing/Braiding for the Leverage OT3, please? (Also extra bonus points if you give Eliot beads in his hair like in The Ice Man Job, because we didn't get NEARLY enough of that in the show) Thank you!
I cannot believe I wrote this whole thing out and then never published it. I’m so sorry, it’s been at least twenty-four years since you sent in this ask, please accept my humble apologies and also this ficlet.
However, this prompt is just pure fluff, and I hate to tell you this but I am not a fluff writer. I just can’t pull off that unadulterated sweetness. I am in this fandom for the shenanigans, first, last and foremost! So this fic is now a 5+1 of Eliot and Parker trying to seduce Hardison.
1. Parker thinks they need to give him gifts, so she goes through her stash and picks out the largest, fanciest jewel she’s ever stolen. Then she realizes: Hardison likes stories. He spends hours giving their aliases histories and pets and allergies and favorite foods, he can get a whole sordid history of jealousy and betrayal from a single corporate email chain, and Parker knows for a cold fact that he writes little stories with his online friends about being wizards together.
She goes through her stash again and picks out the most cursed thing she’s ever stolen.
It’s a jeweled statuette, almost as tall as her forearm, made of gold and studded with precious and semi-precious stones. Mysterious deaths have befallen five separate owners of this thing. Its base is dented from the time it was used to bludgeon Owner Number Three to death. The tiny rubies it has for eyes follow you across the room.
Parker puts a bow on it and leaves it in Hardison’s room while he’s sleeping. He wakes up to this horrible little statue watching him from his bedside table.
He texts the group chat, Hey did anyone put an evil little gold guy in my bedroom last night? But Parker chickens out and says nothing (drunkenly betting Eliot that she can seduce Hardison is one thing, but admitting that she likes him is something else altogether). Everyone else texts back variations on “nope.” (Except Sophie, who just sends back a string of heart eyes emojis and a wikipedia link. She loves cursed artifacts.) So Hardison puts the statue away in a closet somewhere and figures he’ll deal with it later.
Parker is mildly offended that he put her gift in a closet. She goes into his room the next night and puts it back on the bedside table, where it clearly belongs.
This goes on for a week. Hardison puts the statue in a desk drawer, then in one of the cabinets in the office downstairs, then in the dumpster down the street. Every day he wakes up to those glittering red eyes watching him sleep. He’s asked his internet buddies if anyone knows a good exorcist. Hardison doesn’t really believe in curses, but also? What the fuck. What the fuck.
~
2. Eliot assumes the drunken bet will be forgotten by morning. What kind of world would it be if people always followed through on promises they made while they could barely stay vertical? So he spends the morning nursing his hangover and cleaning his knives. Cleaning guns is no good while hungover—all the snaps and clicks of popping things in and out of place sound like actual gunfire when you’re hungover, it’s a nightmare—but knives are quiet and have no moving parts. Buffing and polishing them is soothingly repetitive work, and every once in a while he can throw one at one of the dartboards on the walls and reassure himself that his reflexes are still sound even after that much tequila.
It’s only when he gets Hardison’s text about the golden statuette that magically appeared in his room overnight that Eliot realizes Parker’s actually going for it. After some internal debate about whether he’s going to stoop to this or not, Eliot decides what the hell and starts making plans.
Eliot agrees that gifts are the way to go, but not stolen gifts. Not things. Anyone can give a thing. Proper wooing is about giving experiences.
Eliot plans for three days. On the fourth day, he and Hardison have their irregularly scheduled monthly coffee date, and Eliot texts him beforehand to say he wants to do it at the brewpub this time. Hardison arrives to find a deceptively simple meal: basic country fare perfected through years of experimentation, made with the best ingredients Eliot can get his hands on. And Eliot, after all, is still a retrieval specialist. There’s very little in the world he can’t get his hands on.
And yet the night ends and somehow he has not gotten his hands on Hardison.
This is just not right. Eliot knows how to deploy a smolder, okay, Tangled reference aside he is damn good at flirting and he knows the looks he’s giving Hardison are clear as day. It’d be one thing if Hardison had turned him down, or if he’d been uneasily unwilling, or even if his eyes had widened slightly in suppressed panic and he’d abruptly found a reason to leave. Eliot can take rejection, bet or no, and he’d have bowed out graciously without a fuss. But this was much, much worse.
Hardison didn’t even notice he was flirting.
He’s going to have to up his game.
~
3. “How do you seduce people?” Parker asks bluntly, turning up at Sophie’s door just past midnight.
Sophie, despite the hour, is utterly delighted by the question.
This goes as well as you would expect.
~
4. Eliot’s taken a lot of dates to sports games. Hardison may prefer sparkly elves with purple lightning magic to a decent MMA fight, but baseball is the American pastime. Eliot gets them perfect seats, hot dogs from the best vendor in the stadium, even chilled beer that he smuggles in without letting it get warm. It’s going to be a perfect game.
And it is. At first. Hardison, it turns out, has a lot of opinions about baseball. What he does not have is an understanding of the rules. They’re not even into the second inning by the time Eliot finally snaps and starts arguing with him about it.
They make it all the way to the fifth inning before Eliot realizes that Hardison’s basing his complaints off the rules of a game from a Star Wars novel.
They’re at the bottom of the eighth before Eliot will speak to him again.
~
5. Eliot and Parker are drunk again. This is not intentional. They didn’t even mean to come to this bar, but the smoothie place with the fried oreos that Eliot had brought Parker here to try was playing such incredibly bad music that they’d ordered the oreos to go and fled. The bar was just the coziest looking place on the block, and of course they’d ordered drinks to avoid being rude––Eliot had entertained himself for a few minutes scouring the menu for something that would pair well with fried oreos and popcorn chicken.
And now they’re drunk. The conversation has, perhaps inevitably, turned to the ongoing bet.
“I tried everything!” Parker wails. “I laughed at every joke, I touched my hair constantly, I got him talking about things he likes.” She thunks her forehead on the bar. “All that happened is now I know the complete history of orcs in western literature.”
“Hardison wouldn’t know flirting if it pinched him on the ass,” Eliot grumbles.
Parker slaps his arm. “No pinching Hardison!”
“I’m not going to—I don’t pinch people!”
Parker’s ignoring him. Eliot pouts and takes another sip of his drink. He’s not entirely sure what this one is––it’s blue and kind of fizzy, that’s all he can say for sure. Parker took over the drinks menu several glasses ago, and she’s been picking them based on what has the most fun name to say. Eliot’s pretty sure the alcohol content’s been doubling with each order.
“Eliot,” Parker slurs, “we need to work together.”
“What?”
Parker lifts her head from the bar and frowns at him, the way she does when she’s figured out the obvious solution and is just waiting for everyone else to get on the same page. It’s adorable. It’s always adorable, but right now her eyes are wide and slightly unfocused from the alcohol and she’s listing sideways a little, almost as if she’s unbalanced, and it is the most adorable thing Eliot has ever seen. Parker’s never unbalanced, but some part of Eliot’s fuzzy brain thinks she’s about to fall on top of him and cannot wait to catch her.
“You can’t seduce Hardison,” Parker points out. Eliot is drunk enough to get offended by this, but too drunk to get out a complaint before she continues, “I can’t seduce Hardison. But if we work together, the two of us can definitely seduce Hardison. Together.”
Eliot stares at her. Then he takes another sip of his fizzy blue drink. Later, when questioned, he will blame his next words on that drink.
“Worth a shot.”
They take Hardison to a movie. They research for three weeks beforehand. They find the best movie theater in town, with the nicest seats, the biggest screens, and concession snacks that Hardison likes, and they buy tickets for the midnight premiere of the superhero movie that Hardison hasn’t shut up about for the past month. Parker even hacks into the theater’s computers in a last-minute fit of nerves and cross-references the credit cards with drivers’ licenses to make sure the people sitting in front of them won’t be too tall.
Parker witnesses a kidnapping in the parking lot while the boys are getting popcorn. They don’t even stay long enough to catch the commercials.
~
+ 1. “Hey Eliot,” Hardison says during movie night, a little over a week later. “Remember the Ice Man Job?”
Eliot groans. “I try not to.”
Hardison throws a piece of popcorn at his face. “Shut up. Remember how you did your hair for that one? With the little—those little beads on, like, a braid?”
Eliot shoots Hardison a suspicious glance. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Teach me how to do that.”
Eliot shoots Hardison another, more deliberate look, this one pointedly directed at Hardison’s complete lack of braidable locks.
Hardison rolls his eyes as if that’s a silly detail to get hung up on and leans forward to dig around in one of the boxes he has under his coffee table. He emerges with a ziplock bag of plastic beads in no time flat and hands it triumphantly to Eliot. Then he yanks a few cushions out from behind Parker, who’s sitting on his other side, and puts them on the floor in front of him. “Sit here?” he asks Parker, patting the cushion pile.
Parker takes a moment to consider being offended at having her cushions stolen, but curiosity gets the better of her and she just plops down between Hardison’s legs, grabbing the bowl of popcorn as she goes, and waits.
Hardison lifts her hair with sudden gentleness, drawing it over her shoulders and letting it fall down her back in a golden wave. His fingers brush against her neck. Parker shivers. Eliot is distantly aware that he’s gone perfectly still, focused with a hunter’s intensity on Hardison’s dark, graceful fingers carding through Parker’s hair.
Hardison leans back, hands on his knees, and Eliot breathes again. “Well?” Hardison looks over at Eliot, a tiny smirk of challenge on his lips. “Show me how it’s done.”
Eliot is suddenly, brutally aware of how close they are. Hardison’s couch is obscenely comfortable, which is half the reason movie nights are at Hardison’s in the first place, but it is not large. Their thighs are touching. Hardison leans away, to give Eliot access to Parker’s hair, and he’s still so close that Eliot would barely have to reach out a hand to—
Eliot ruthlessly shoves that thought down into the dark where it belongs. He dealt with this, he dealt with this years ago, and accepting Parker’s stupid bet doesn’t mean he’s forgotten the way Hardison and Parker look at each other. It just means he doesn’t mind losing for a good cause.
So he keeps his tone steady and his fingers brisk as he shows Hardison how to braid the clunky plastic beads into Parker’s hair, and if he flushes with heat when their hands brush each other, well, nobody has to know. He’s been trained to withstand eight different schools of torture. It won’t show on his face. His voice never once falters.
Parker has had no such training. Her lips have parted, and her breathing is shallow. She’s staring glassy-eyed at the TV. Hardison can’t see her face, sitting behind her, but Eliot watches her carefully, worried that they need to call this off. Parker’s not used to intimacy, to closeness that means something, and for all the three of them have spent half their movie nights literally on top of each other, this is something else. This has weight.
Eliot puts a hand on her shoulder, pressing down just enough that Parker startles and cants a glance over at him. Eliot raises his eyebrows in question, and Parker glares back: don’t you fucking dare. Eliot backs off. Hardison, frowning in concentration as he threads a wisp of Parker’s hair through a green bead, graciously pretends he didn’t see the exchange.
Hardison gets the hang of the beading fairly quickly, and Eliot shows him a few different techniques. He’s almost managed to convince himself that nothing is actually happening when Hardison says, conversationally, “You two are really bad at this.”
Eliot glowers his confusion. “At movie night? You started this, if you wanted to actually watch Alien then you shouldn’t have—”
Hardison’s smile is soft, but Eliot decides for his own safety to focus on the laughter at its edge. “No, at this.” And then he slides his hand onto Parker’s neck, caresses her cheek, and isn’t the slightest bit surprised when she gasps.
Parker whips around, and there’s hurt on her face but it dies in the glow of Hardison’s gentle, unteasing smile. Hardison pulls her up with the lightest of touches, and she goes, eyes fixed on his like salvation.
They kiss sweet and slow, and Eliot’s heart twists in his chest and he can’t breathe. He needs to leave now before he shatters in half, but if he moves then they will look at him, and he would rather never breathe again than meet their eyes right now.
Hardison breaks off the kiss, gazing at Parker with something just this side of wonder, and then he does look at Eliot. Eliot flinches. He opens his mouth to…say something, make some joke or hasty excuse and scramble out the door, but Hardison raises a hand to Eliot’s face, slides his long fingers to cup Eliot’s neck, and pulls him forward, as gently as he did Parker.
It’s a chaste kiss, no more than a soft press of lips, because Eliot is too stunned to respond and Hardison doesn’t push. It lasts a long time. A whole era of change happens in the span of that kiss, as everything Eliot thought he knew tears out of place and then settles, gingerly, into a new understanding.
Hardison pulls away, his hand still warm on the back of Eliot’s neck. His smile is pure sunshine. Eliot finds himself smiling back, helpless.
Hardison’s grin turns smug. “And that,” he says, looking between Eliot and Parker, “is how you do it. Y’all are disasters, honestly, I can’t believe two master criminals working together couldn’t manage a single real date—”
Eliot heaves a deep sigh and drags Hardison into a headlock, pinning his arms when he flails. Parker surges to her knees and starts tickling him mercilessly.
They don’t finish the movie.
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novelconcepts · 3 years
Note
Every time I watch episode 9 I think, for some reason, about what a long plane ride it is from Vermont to England and how Dani must of felt on that plane knowing she was going to her death and how Jamie must of felt on that plane ride, knowing what she was about to find. Not necessarily looking for an entire fic here, just wondering your thoughts on how long that journey was for them both and their mindset?
She’s fading. She can feel it--the past six months have served as more than a warning, of how it will go in the end. Moments vanishing into hours without her consent. Hours becoming days before she can blink. She’s fading, all the pieces that once were Dani Clayton being wiped slowly--slowly--slowly away like a wet cloth across a blackboard.
She moves as quickly as she’s able, knowing there isn’t much time left. Knowing the moments-hours-days in this unplugged reality can only end one way. One way that is acceptable, anyway. 
The Lady would prefer otherwise. The Lady would prefer another method, another road taken. Every day, Dani gets a little closer to walking that road. Every day, the Lady gets a little closer to the surface. 
She almost has a face, some days. Almost has a self, some days, beyond anything Dani has been able to make out over the years. Sometimes, she opens her eyes and watches blue eyes, long lashes, hair so dark, it’s nearly black tumbling across a sharply beautiful face, and she thinks, This will be me. If I let it. If I let her. No more Dani Clayton. No more love of Jamie’s life. Just this woman, whose red lips turn up at the corners like she knows a secret Dani would kill to keep buried. 
She boards a plane. A nearly twelve-hour flight to London, they say, with expressions that suggest so much more. You don’t look so good, Miss. You don’t look so good at all. Can we call someone to travel with you, to make certain you aren’t alone?
Not alone, she thinks hollowly. Haven’t been alone in so long. 
The last flight she boarded was so different. The last time on a plane, over a year ago, with Jamie at her side, had felt like one final bid for freedom. She hadn’t even cared where they were going--had just run her finger up a globe with her head turned to the side, heedless of where she’d land. Didn’t matter. Jamie’s hand over hers, Jamie’s ring caressing her skin, had been enough. 
The Lady followed her, of course. She’s been outrun by too many ghosts, never once able to pull ahead in the race for her own sanity. She knows by now--knew, even before the not-quite-face started appearing in every pane of glass--there would be no escaping. A sacrifice willingly made is only legitimate if it is driven to completion. 
But she’d thought--hoped--desperately needed--more time. More time with Jamie. More time burning popcorn, and lazily cherishing Sunday mornings in bed, and trying to wrap gifts the night before Christmas with Jamie bustling over mulled wine in the next room. More time. You get only so much, and she’s had so much more than she’s earned, but still--
I wish, she thinks, and does not allow herself to go further. If she finishes that thought, it’ll all change. If she finishes that wish, she might turn around in a London terminal. Book the first flight right back. She imagines herself turning up on the doorstep, imagines Jamie’s shell-shocked face on the other side of the lock. Jamie, pulling her close, whispering into her hair that she is still here, still her, still pushing toward a future both of them can see growing thin. 
I wish, she thinks, and does not finish. She leans her head back, lets her eyes close, letting Jamie’s sleepy smile play across her memory. The memories are really all she has now, for this final day. This final bid for Dani. She ought, she thinks, keep her eyes open. She ought, she thinks, drink in every color the world has to offer. The sunrise. The storm. The grass, the architecture, the human laughter which ties the world together on even the worst day. She ought to keep the world firmly in hand as long as she’s able.
But it’s memory that wins out, in the end. She’s so tired. Maybe this is the Lady’s gift to her--maybe this is the Lady being kind, in her own horrific way. Not tucking Dani away, not really; Dani is terrified to let her hands off the wheel even for a moment, terrified she might wake to a plane in an unresolvable nosedive. She holds on, knowing it’s only for a little longer, knowing the exhaustion has to win out eventually--and knowing, even still, there is this one thing left to do. 
No; she does not allow herself to be tucked anywhere. But the memories are stronger than the daylight stretching out beyond the plane carrying her home. The memories are stronger than the airline stewardess with her nervous eyes, than the drink cart rattling by, than the offer of food. Dani closes her eyes, and she is--
--in a bathroom, Jamie’s shirt soft around her shoulders, Jamie’s hand firm around her upper arm. Jamie, eyes refusing to shed tears, Jamie, lips trembling, Jamie, reminding her she will stay, she will stay, she has to stay--
--in a hotel in New York, skin stained with the neon of city lights strobing through the window as she kisses Jamie, as she keeps her eyes on Jamie’s face, as she watches Jamie cast her head back and arch into her hands--
--in a restaurant in Paris, cigarette smoldering between her fingers as Jamie’s hand slides around her ribs. Jamie’s thigh relaxed beneath the stroke of her fingers, Jamie’s perfume mingling with her own from the careless, easy way Jamie had leaned her head against Dani’s shoulder on the cab ride over--
--in their kitchen, a ring hidden in a pot, Jamie’s eyes widening with understanding as it clicks home that Dani is doing this, Dani is certain, Dani knows this is the thing to do even as she’s running out of time to do it. Jamie’s hands in her hair, Jamie’s thumbs on her cheeks, Jamie laughing and crying and kissing her all in mad, perfect joy--
--in the back room of The Leafling, Jamie shushing her, listening for the knock at the door that says they ought to have opened back up after lunch twenty minutes ago. Jamie shushing her, and sighing, and giving up any pretense as Dani kisses her neck, hand slipped between trouser and skin, not caring the least about time as it marches on--
--on a plane. She is on a plane, and the plane is touching down, and time is unraveling around her faster, now. She feels the world bend and twist, as though she is walking not on solid ground, but upon shifting waves. If she loses focus for even a moment, she might forget--might forget a woman cannot walk on water, might forget and sink under before she’s ready to go. 
Could she ever be ready to go?
She calls a car, wishing almost that it could be a dark-haired man in glasses and a leather jacket who steps out to help with bags she has not brought. She calls a car, and closes her eyes in the cold sunshine to wait, and she is--
--in an apartment barely furnished, takeout containers spread across the floor, Jamie’s head in her lap. Jamie, saying, “Christmas in Vermont--know it’s silly, but I feel like I was always supposed to be here.” Jamie, leaning up to kiss her with breath tinged with wine, the giddy anticipation of a new life dancing along her tongue as it slides between Dani’s lips--
--in a bedroom no longer her own, tears running down her cheeks, Jamie’s pinky notched around her own. Jamie, in shades of blue and promise, saying, “D’you want company? While you wait for your beast in the jungle, do you want--” and pressing lips to white knuckle in a knight’s oath--
--in a hallway, vibrating with need, wishing she could find the words to coax Jamie into another night. Just one more night, she thinks, knowing it could never be enough. One more. And one more. And one-- as Jamie is kissing her with sweet promise, Jamie guiding her hands up to hold tight, Jamie saying, “There are other nights, and there will be...”--
--in a grove of glorious flowers, rain sweet on the air, feeling as though this is what it is to jump--to fly--to bury her hands in Jamie’s hair and linger in every inch of her skin, her jacket pulled tight between her fingers, her hips bumping into Dani’s like she never wants to be apart from her again as she recognizes, “Once in a blue goddamn moon, I guess”--
-in a kitchen filled with the mundane ease of afternoon meal, of new friends and new charges, a woman strolling in as though she has nowhere to be and no rush to find it, her eyes meeting Dani’s with the simple certainty of oh, hello, you--
--standing at a lake. She is dressed, she notes with distant alarm, in a tight red dress unlike anything she’s ever owned. She is dressed for a show no one else will see. A moment, she thinks, given to the Lady without realizing. And still, she wound up here. Still, her legs carried her all this way. The Lady had allowed it, or Dani had mandated it, but either way: she is here, now.
She is here, and she wishes. She wishes with everything she would not allow herself on the plane over. She wishes, and she dreams, and she knows she could not for all the world put Jamie through it. Even now. Especially now. 
She is twisting the ring, as she begins to walk.
She is holding the ring, as the waves lick higher. 
She is gripping the ring, as her shoulders, her neck, her head vanish beneath the waves. 
And this, here, a final gift--from the Lady, or from Viola, or from the magic of the night Dani Clayton gave up her future to save a child from this very fate. One more sweet moment granted, as she closes her eyes, as she lets the cold seep into her bones. Her lungs are quiet. Her heart does not pound from her chest. She is--
--in a bed with someone she has chosen, for the first time. In a bed, with someone who helps banish the shadows, just a little. In a bed, with Jamie’s hair curling between her fingers, Jamie’s skin sliding warm and supple against her own, Jamie kissing every part of her she’s never allowed anyone else to grace. Jamie, asking if she’s all right. Jamie, asking if she’s sure. Jamie, already loving her in ways she can’t yet know will punctuate her entire life. 
Jamie, holding her tight as she breaks, swells, breaks again. Jamie, kissing her brow, tasting her skin, testing the weight of her as she rolls them both over and takes the lead. Jamie, smiling with wonder, eyes dilated, body seeking contact as they move between soft sheets. 
Jamie, falling asleep not upon finishing, but in the middle of a conversation. Jamie, who has been asking about school, about favorite movies, about Dani’s first look at the stars and last time being sick, as though she’s trying to pack a lifetime into a single night. Jamie, punctuating every sentence with fingers tracing Dani’s every scar, every freckle, every beat of a heart that already sings Jamie’s name. 
Jamie, falling asleep mid-word, pushed tight against Dani as though making of herself a talisman against the dark. Jamie, breathing soft and deep and even. 
Jamie, with her now, with her always, with her until the very last. 
Jamie. 
There is, at last, peace. 
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Can we get a fluf fic where Mc tries to keep up with goofy/funny/silly/playful/sleepy/naughty Vivienne? Please I miss my babe😢
Pairing with: PLEASE ANY VIVIENNE X ZOE X MC FLUFFY WOULD BE APPRECIATED 🥺
PLEASE may I request ANY Vivienne x Zoe x MC fluff? Pretty please?…
...
In hindsight, you should have seen it coming. You didn’t even stop to think about where Vivienne had gone off to, used to her random disappearances in the morning and far too distracted with the newest episode of a show Zoe and you liked to wonder about it for long.
Almost buzzing with excitement, you enter Zoe’s room, dropping in the moving chair she has by her side and eagerly watching the screen.
“How much is left?”
“Half an hour, but I think we’ll manage.”
With nothing else to do but wait, you quickly dissolve into excited theorizing, while Zoe just sits there and listens, adding the occasional ‘uh-huh’ here and there. You both had worked out what the twist might be the other week, so you limit yourself to wondering about the characters themselves. That eventually turns into a discussion of ships.
Zoe isn’t much of a shipper, you’ve noticed. She keeps to the margin and analyses everything objectively, acknowledging character interactions but never focusing on them. You were the complete opposite, and a crack shipper to boot, which often clashes against Zoe’s logical side and sparks some amazing debates.
You’re in the middle of one right then when Remy interrupts, knuckles lightly tapping against the door’s side as he peers in, face blank as he looks at the two of you on your respective chairs, cocooned by a blanket, popcorn sitting on your laps. “I’ll never understand what you like so much about that show.”
“Excuse you,” Zoe huffs, angrily grabbing her soda and giving him a sour look. “It’s an amazing show.”
“Amazing!” You echo, as you have done many times before. “I am appalled you don’t see its genius, Remy! Appalled!”
“Right, sure. I remember you both were hysterical over the last cliffhanger. Did you figure out who the murderer is already?”
“Oh yeah,” you wave your hand around, as if dismissing the subject. “Last week. What we are discussing right now is why the prosecutor and the assistant are such a good pairing–” Zoe turns to look at you as if you had just proclaimed the sky was purple, and she looks so baffled you dissolve into a fit of giggles right then and there.
Remy smiles, shaking his head fondly, and stepping out without another word.
“Leaving that atrocious pairing aside…”
Zoe nudges the discussion into another direction and you allow it, satisfied with the reaction you got from her earlier. You’re both stealing anxious glances at the screen, excited to see that only a few minutes are left.
“This is it,” Zoe mutters softly. “The end of this case. The next one is going to be so weird.”
“We’ll probably find out what happen to the firefighter, right? Honestly, it just looks like they got abducted by aliens–”
“MC!” Rings a voice. Zoe scowls immediately, as if that was her standard reaction to Vivienne – or yet another interruption. Probably both.
“Hey babe, where were you?”
Vivienne’s smirk softens at the petname, quietly pleased. “Oh, you know, getting some things ready…”
“Huh? What, for the heist?”
“Something infinitely better.”
“What could be better than the heist?”
Her eyes gleam, dark pools of chocolate drawing you in like a sailor entranced by a siren’s call. “Why don’t you come with me and find out?”
Zoe groans.
“Can you stop being horny for–” her gaze drops quickly to the clock, “–24 minutes? It won’t kill you, will it?”
“You are always invited to join us, darling.”
“Pass.”
“Your loss,” Vivienne says, with a small shrug. “Then, MC–”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure babe, just gimme 24 minutes.”
“Twen– what?” Her eyes follow yours, locking onto the screen. “…Ah. Today is Monday. I forgot.”
“Prepared a whole ‘romantic’ outing for no reason, did you?” Zoe grins. “Sucks to be you.”
A light frown appears over Vivienne’s face. “It’s… only half an hour. I can manage that much.” She finally says, body turning slightly, as if she were on an internal war over leaving and staying.
“Great. You’re making progress, Tang.”
Vivienne rolls her eyes, most of her good mood visibly diminishing. She hesitates a second longer before turning in your direction, pursing her lips. “So– a show. I’m getting cockblocked because of a show.”
“A great show,” both Zoe and you say, nodding solemnly.
“But you already know how it’s going to end. Who the murderer is. MC, you told me that last week!”
“I mean, it’s only a theory Zoe and I have. We still need to see if it gets confirmed.”
“It surely will.” Zoe says, smugly. “The signs are all there. He won’t get away with it. The scarf will be his undoing, no doubt.”
“Wait, you’re still with that? It’s the statue! It’s too fishy! If they check it and–”
“MC, you can’t be serious–” Vivienne tries to interject, but Zoe quickly cuts her off with her own rebuttal to your argument, and the seductress gets this strange look on her face, gaze flicking between the screen, Zoe, and you, stunned for all of two seconds before she shakes her head, schooling her expression.
You distractedly wonder if she’ll leave, your attention quickly taken by the beginning of the opening notes of the show. You enter than zone where nothing else matters, nothing else exists but the screen and you are positively buzzing, mind racing with all the things that could possibly happen until a red blur passes in front of you, something heavy landing so unexpectedly on your lap it takes your breath away.
“Wha–”
“Ow! Hey! Vivienne?!”
It takes you a moment to understand what happened, snapping out of the concentrated state you were a few seconds ago. Vivienne has perched herself on top of your lap, curled there like a smug cat, her arms loosely wrapped around your neck and her gaze is so intense it sets your whole soul alight, consuming every thought you had previously.
You have the same reaction any person would have in this situation, which is, to have a full gay panic.
She– she feels so warm and she’s so close and oh god those eyes–
“Vivienne, what the hell!”
One glance to the right reveals what has Zoe so pissed: Vivienne has her legs high up in her direction, blocking her view of the screen. You don’t even know why she’s so mad, it’s a very nice view–
“The show just began! Are you really that salty?!”
Show? What sh– Ah. That show. Right.
You try to maneuver around Vivienne’s head to look at the computer, but one of Vivienne’s hands instantly grabs your chin, forcing you to look at her with a gentle but firm gesture. Barely, you catch her move her legs to block Zoe too.
“Eyes on me, partner.” She all but purrs, commanding, and your brain short-circuits when she presses herself against you.
“Really? Really?!”
Vivienne gives Zoe her best smoldering smirk. “Oh, I know that look. It’s okay, dear, you can go first… maybe bend me over the table–”
“I’m going to throw you out of the window–”
“Is that your kink, Zoe? Press me against the window, giving everyone full view of–”
“Oh my god–!”
Taking advantage of the situation, you try to peek at the screen again. Vivienne’s grip tightens, making you whimper slightly, her blazing brown eyes meeting yours again.
“Ah ah ah, what did I say? Do not disobey me.”
“Viv…”
“Keep looking at me, sweetheart. If I catch more wandering eyes, you’re going to regret it.”
“Ah… but I…”
Her eyes flash, her thumb tracing the lines of your lips roughly, effectively shutting you up. Vivienne looks pleased, all dark passion, grip softening. She starts tracing a line down to your throat, leaving a trail of tickling heat after the touch.
“Suffering from success, aren’t you, MC?” Zoe dryly states, maneuvering around Vivienne’s outstretched legs with a scowl that could give Nikolai’s a run for his money. She reaches for the back of the moving chair you had borrowed, beginning to push you. Vivienne makes a chocked sound of surprise low in her throat, tightening her hold over your neck. “That’s it. All I want is to watch my show in peace, no interruptions-”
“Um, our show-”
“-and no Vivienne being Vivienne for the next 20 minutes.”
“What am I supposed to be then?”
“Be a doormat for all I care, just do it outside my room!” She punctuates her statement with one final, fully determined push, sending you skidding towards the hallway. Vivienne thrusts her legs to the right, managing to use her weight just so to spin the chair in time. The back collides against the wall with a dull thump, and you barely see Zoe’s deadpan expression before she closes her door. “You better return my chair later!” Is all she says, presumably heading back to her computer.
“…aw, I wanted to see this episode.” You finally mumble, shoulders dropping dejectedly.
Vivienne blinks owlishly at you. “Isn’t the episode going to be available later?”
“Well, yeah, but I’m curious to see how the arrest will go. I don’t think I can wait another day.”
“Arrest. Such an ugly word, when you are a thief.” Vivienne hums, pressing into you just slightly, eyes alight with mirth. “You are quite taken with it regardless… Is it the thrill?”
“Uh…”
“You know, partner, if you want to be in cuffs so much, all you have to do is ask.”
Color spreads over your cheeks like spilled wine, sweet, impossible to hold back. Vivienne leans forward, eager for a taste, that smirk of hers firmly in place and you briefly wonder if you’ll just burst, too filled with surprise and frustration and a little bit of heat.
“Think only about me, MC.” Vivienne mutters, breath ghosting over the skin of your ear, coaxing a shy shiver out of you. The vibrations of her voice send ripples of emotion through you, make you groan slightly. Smirk widening, not caring one bit that you are still on the hallway, one of her hands drops down, down-
“20 minutes! Just 20 minutes!” A flash of gray. Vivienne’s startled squeak. Her grip loosens and she goes tumbling down your lap, the floor receiving her with its cold embrace. Zoe’s door slams shut – again – and your gaze drops, discovering the slipper resting by Vivienne’s hand with an amused snort.
“She got you good, huh?”
“She – just took me by surprise, is all.” Vivienne says, after a pause. You giggle, pushing yourself to your feet and offering her your hand, which she takes gratefully. She doesn’t let go, instead pulling you in the direction of the apartment’s exit, and you throw a longing look in the direction of Zoe’s room before accepting your fate.
You’ll have to watch that episode tomorrow, it seems.
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keelywolfe · 3 years
Text
FIC: The Rose and the Thorn: Chapter 19 (Mafia AU)
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Summary:  Rus is having a chance for a few regrets. Bad mistakes? Yeah, he's made a few.
Tags:  Spicyhoney, Cherryberry, Mafia AU, Flower Shop AU, Violence, First Meetings, Attempted Sexual Assault
Warning:  Heads up, let me add a warning here for attempted sexual assault and violence.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18
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Read Chapter 19 on AO3
or
Read it here!
~~*~~
Rus came to with his head throbbing, feeling as if his skull had been stuffed full of cotton wool. The blanket under his mouth was soaked with his own drool, sticking clammy and cold to his face. With a grunt of effort, Rus tried to move and found he couldn’t. That quickly woke him up the rest of the way, that and the jangle of chains as struggled to get upright. Craning his neck, he looked up and down the length of his body to see the cuffs circling his wrists and ankles, each with its own chain fastened to a bedpost. He was still mostly dressed, he saw. His sweater was gone, but the button-up and trousers he’d been wearing were still in place, if horribly wrinkled. A small consolation that Rus clung to desperately, uncertain if he’d even know if anything had been done to him.
He had a vague, foggy memory of being carried, being moved, and burning hands moving over him but little else. No, that was wrong, he could remember more and didn’t want to, remembered Lilith and blood and fear, and might not know where exactly he was, but he knew who brought him here.
“no,” Rus whispered to himself, struggling harder, the restraints jangling with an almost cheery chime against the bedframe. “no, no, no.”
“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up, little flower."
A terrifyingly familiar voice, one that carried with it its own memories of hurt and fear.
“don’t touch me!” Rus blurted hysterically, struggling harder despite the tearing pain in his wrists. “you stay away from me!”
All his struggles meant nothing, the cuffs allowed only enough give for him to lay on the bed, and he let out a weak sob as a hot hand settled on the small of his back, pinning him firmly back to the mattress.
“Darling, we haven’t even begun.” The bed shifted as Blaze sat down next to him and his hand slid up Rus’s spine in a mockery of soothing. “How well do you understand me?"
Rus could taste salt-sweetness, tears running back into his sockets and gathering nauseously at the back of his throat. That hand moved to the top of his skull, knuckles rapping against it painfully. “Answer me.”
“well enough,” Rus said dully. This was his own fault, he’d been warned, and even if Edge found him this time, who was to say what might happen between now and then.
“Better. This will go much easier on you if you’re obedient, precious.” That burning touch moved down to Rus’s face and he tried to jerk away instinctively, the chains holding him back. “Now, now, pet, calm yourself. If I only wanted to fuck you, I could have done it already, couldn’t I.” Those burning fingers skimmed lower, fondling his jaw. “Tempting, I’ll admit, such a pretty mouth. But why use force when you’ll be giving yourself to me willing?”
That confident assertion set off a spark, scorching a path of fury through Rus’s dull acceptance.
“Fuck you!” Rus spat. He twisted around to look at Blaze, truly seeing him for the first time. A fire Monster, he’d known that much, his flames the deep purple of an old ugly bruise and whatever passed for his eyes hidden behind sunglasses. His shirt was mostly unbuttoned, exposing more purple flames and leading a path down to his undone belt. A warning of things to come and Rus couldn’t help trying to struggle again, twisting fruitlessly against the restraints.
“Manners,” Blaze chided. “You’re so certain? You haven’t even heard the bargain yet.”
“I don’t care what it is!”
“No?” Blaze leaned in closer, flames crackling close to Rus’s audial canal. “What if I agreed to let up on Edge and Red? I’ve been toying with them for some time, you’re simply a shiny new game piece. I’d let them be, no more long nights worrying about when the next strike comes. They’d keep their silly little club and all their sluts would be safe.” He leaned in, his breath pouring over Rus like the heat of an opened oven. “I’ve heard you’re quite fond of those whores, hmm? Did my little kitty tell me true?”
Rus said nothing, squeezing his sockets tightly shut as he tried to keep the memories from pouring in. He couldn’t, could only think of Lilith, her pretty, confused face filling his mind’s eye as she fell to lie bleeding in the street, only to be replaced by Mona in the same way, hurt and dying. Sweet Mona who’d been kind to him from the start, tried so hard to help him, who was studying to be a nurse to help other people, their people.
But it was what Blaze said next that sent the rising uncertainty and fear in Rus’s soul boiling, a heat to match the Flame Monster’s own as he said, “Oh, there’s also your brother. Adorable little thing, isn’t he? To be honest, he’s a little more to my tastes.”
Rus jerked around as much as he could, craning his neck to glare that smug face. “you stay the fuck away from my brother!”
“Well, now, I can’t do that unless I get to stay the fuck with you. What do you say?” Two blistering hot fingers curled under his chin, hooking into his jaw and flames licked and curled painfully around his face. “Tik tok, precious, limited time only. You spread your legs so easily for Edge, what’s one more?”
He didn’t bother saying that he and Edge had never had sex, not really. There was no point; even if this Monster, this monster, believed him, it would only be more fuel for the fire of his hatred. He’d probably be fucking delighted to hear it, one more thing he could take from them, one more cruelty to inflict. There was only one bargain available, this one, right here and now. Rus wasn’t so foolish as to believe Blaze was telling the truth, but if it only kept him away from Blue, bought them a little time, what other option did he have?
Tears burned, nearly as hot as that touch, trickling down his face and hissing to stinging steam as they fell against Blaze’s hand. He couldn’t even turn away, Blaze forcing him to look up into that hated face as he whispered out, “deal.”
“What was that, precious?” Blaze smirked. “Speak up.”
“i said deal!” Rus snarled.
“Perfect.” He let go of Rus and stood, unzipping his fly. Rus closed his sockets before seeing what it revealed, forced himself not to flinch away. He wouldn’t give the bastard the satisfaction. “Now let’s see how good you suck cock to start.”
“don’t ever recall you bein’ much of a rapist. guess you learn somethin’ new every day.”
That unexpected voice seemed to come from nowhere at first, slowly solidifying by the door. Blaze whirled around, his flames crackling in loud astonishment and Rus craned his head to see, a feeble blossom of hope sprouted in his soul.
Red stood leaning against the doorjamb, hands in his trouser pockets and a smoldering cigar clenched in his jagged teeth. His eye lights were their own flames, deep red coals that matched his cold grin. “what’s the matter? don’t ya know how to greet an old friend?”
“How did you—” The question was bitten off so hard Rus could practically hear the click of nonexistent teeth over Blaze fumbling with his fly, fastening his trousers again with haste.
“eh, wasn’t too hard.” Red pushed off the wall and wandered closer, dusting off the front of his suit jacket with an absent flick of ringed fingers. “kid is wired up like a gyftmas tree, got little ornaments tucked all over in his clothes. figured you’d find a way to snag him eventually, so best to be prepared.” Rus’s sneakers were lying abandoned near the foot of the bed and Red nudged them with the toe of his shiny, expensive loafer. “you’re gettin’ soft, hothead, shoulda stripped him bare where you first took ‘im.”
Blaze crossed his arms over his chest, flames rising in a flickering dance the only sign of his agitation. “You’re assuming I didn’t want you to find me.”
“true,” Red allowed.
“I admit, I was expecting your brother. It’s so rare for you to come out and play these days.”
“well, now you’ve got me on the monopoly board, so let’s get this over with.” From that angle, Rus could hardly see Red, only from the chest down. Two gold buttons from his vest were visible and the broad chain strung across it, jewelry instead of restrains. Always that ridiculous extravagance, he thought with bitter, near hysterical amusement, even now. “you know, always had a little regret at leaving you behind that day, but, eh. can’t ask someone to choose them over their brother, can you.”
Blaze made a sound like hissing steam. “you left me to die!”
“sure did,” Red agreed, with such bald unapologetic blandness that Rus cringed into the blanket beneath him. “but that’s an ‘us’ problem.”
“You abandoned me!” Now Blaze was huffing like a bellows, his flames darkening nearly to black, lashing and crackling around him. “We came up from the gutters together and you left me behind like I was nothing, like I was ash to be scraped from your shoes!”
“you always were a fucking drama queen.” Red only puffed on his cigar, utterly calm, as if he were arguing with someone in the market over the last head of cabbage, and Rus could only listen with distant, dizzy surreality. Even his tears were drying, leaving behind itchy trails on his face. “turnin’ shit into a dust feud, like there ain’t enough people out there that want us dead? yeah, we did, dragged ourselves out, spitfire, and you shoulda already known by then that my bro always comes first.”
Blaze said nothing, but he took a step back when Red came closer. One of his hands shifted to hover over Rus and he could feel the banked heat even from the distance, a warning to them both.
Not that Red seemed to care. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to Rus, his words were careful, slow, as if repeating important directions to one who was easily lost. “been letting you blow off steam for a while now. lost some merchandise here and there, you’d stick your fat fingers into one of our pies and we’d lose a payday. that was fine.” A step closer and Rus could see his face now, Red’s grin wolfishly wide. “‘preciate ya leavin’ the school and the daycare alone. was a bitch settin’ those up without getting’ our names tangled up in ‘em.”
“Harming children is for Humans.” Bitterly spat, someone who’d met Humans on their terms too many times already.
“ain’t that the truth,” Red agreed lazily, His voice changed then, that easiness ceasing as it vanished into bitter, bitten cold, “gotta say though, i ain’t too keen on you threatenin’ my bro or his little pet.”
“They aren’t children. You’re here for him, then.” His hand dropped, settling in the small of Rus’s back and he couldn’t bite back a whimper at the sudden, aching heat licking at his bones. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, you always were too concerned about those sluts of yours.”
“always were a sweet talker, fire crotch.” Red straightened briskly, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “time to get down to business. brought you somethin’ ya might want, thought you might consider makin’ a little swap.”
“How generous,” Blaze purred. The tension in him hadn’t eased, his flames still licking high, but he shifted like he’d found his footing. “You have nothing that I want, lover, not anymore.”
“no?” Red licked his teeth, his wet teeth gleaming in the lamplight. “not even a fresh supply of golden flower tea?”
Blaze went suddenly still, all that oozing smarm stilling into whispered astonishment. “You do not.”
“sure do.” Red pulled a hand from his pocket and dangled a small packet between two fingers. “fresh enough you can prolly smell it from there and plenty more where that came from.” He nodded in Rus’s direction, “only, he’s the direct line to it. you kill him, that’s it. supply begins and ends with the flower shop. you can have your fun with him if ya want but—” He shrugged, his broad shoulders rolling under his suit coat. “i ain’t about to tell ya how to do business, but if you want in, i don’t mind sharin’.” He licked his teeth again, his smile widening as it curled around a single word. “lover.”
Blaze rocked from foot to foot restlessly and even beneath the sunglasses, the shift of his gaze from the packet to Red’s grinning face was unmistakable. “The fuck you would!”
“the fuck i ain’t!” Red countered, “see, that’s the beauty of it. you know the value, dontcha. these rubes ain’t got a clue, not even my bro gets it, but you and me? sweetspark, you and i know the value of a buck, don’t we. an’ we definitely know the value of this.”
“You’re lying.” But the words were without heat, almost uncertain. Wanting to believe.
“you think i’d come here without proof.” Red opened the packet and poured a little into his palm. He blew across it, scattering dried petals into the air subtle scent of golden flowers filled the air. Rus could taste it, his mouth automatically watering at the familiar flavor. Golden flower tea was a palliative when he’d been growing up, Blue brewed it whenever Rus wasn’t feeling well, whether the sickness was one of the body or the soul. There was always a cup for them both on days their pop had been particularly cruel or drunk, soothing away the lingering hurts. To taste it now, here, was abhorrent.
Blaze spread his hands and the floating petals still hanging in the air disappeared in tiny flares in his palms, that familiar smell going burnt and bitter. “You left me.”
“yep, i did,” Red agreed, unapologetic. "shoulda known if the choice was between you and my bro, there ain't no choice. get that you’re pissed, have every right to be, but don't go blamin’ me for being exactly who ya always knew i was. now, if ya wanna let the flower shop go, then we’ve got a deal.”
“Do you swear it to me?” Blaze said. He didn’t look at Rus, neither of them did; he was nothing, only a pawn in their game. They were the major players, two kings on either side of a chess board, deciding who to sacrifice and who to spare.
“’course i do,” Red snorted, “you got my word, sweetspark. i promise ya.”
The two of them stood for a long, terrible moment in a heated tableau. Rus kept as still as possible, terrified of tipping the decision in the wrong direction. Then came the sound of a drawer sliding open, a painful, hot hand grabbing his wrist as a key slid into the lock. Blaze repeated it on each limb and Rus scrambled to sit up, nearly falling in his haste to get to Red.
“get your shoes on, flower shop,” Red told him, “wouldn’t wanna hurt your little tootsies before i take ya back to my bro.” Rus did as he was told, all but shoving his foot into his shoe as Red turned back to Blaze. “good to be doing business again with ya. we’ll work out the details, but first. shake on it like pals, yeah?”
He held out a hand and Blaze took it, but the sudden sound that came from Blaze made Rus jerk, looking up from his shoes to see Red using that grip to yank Blaze closer, down to his level. His sunglasses slipped down, exposing the hollows that passed for a fire Monster’s eyes gone wide, disbelieving. “You—”
The whisper died in a fall of dust scattering to the floor. Red only watched it fall in a dark, glittering cloud and the soul speared through with the sharpened bone still in his hand was the last to dissolve. No king, only another pawn taken from the board.
Red shook his head, tutting softly, and tossed the little packet of golden flowers onto the dustpile, the remaining petals scattering. “better luck next time, pal. least you went out with dollar signs dancin’ in your head.” He frowned at his dusty hand and pulled out a linen handkerchief that matched his shirt, wiping it off as he turned back to Rus. “normally woulda let one of my boys do it, but i guess i owed him that much, to take care a’ it personal-like.”
Rus couldn’t move, crouched there on the floor with one shoe on as he stared at Red with words clotting in his throat. “you…you…”
The wide slash of his grin only went wider. “go on, spit it out.”
“you killed him.” The last word broke on a sob.
"sure did," Red agreed. He looked at his cigar, his expression twisting in impatient disgust at the dust coating it. He tossed it aside and pulled out another, biting off the end and lighting it with a match struck on the bedpost. "hate to break a promise, too. been putting it off too long. kept hopin’ he’d get over it and sign back on, but he took it a lil’ too far.” Red shrugged. “eh, dogs are better anyway. loyal.”
He wandered past Rus towards the door, his voice floating back where Rus was still sitting with his shoe in his lap. “thanks for the help. knew he’d get his mitts on you eventually and lead the way to where he was holed up. didn’t figure on it goin’ that way, but it didn’t work out too bad, all things considered.” He turned back, one finger curling in a ‘come here’ gesture. “hurry up, kid, time to go.”
With one shoe still untied, Rus stumbled after him as Red led the way out of the room. They were in a large house of some sort, open and spacious where the Fell brothers’ home was all narrow hallways and mazes. No one tried to stop them as they made their way downstairs, every room echoing and empty, and Rus clung to the bannister to keep from falling. His mind still felt fuzzy and wrong, disbelieving, catching onto what Red had said minutes too late.
“you used me as bait?” A sob heaved out of Rus, helpless and wretched, followed by more, as if they’d been bottled up in his chest and now that the first escaped, they were bursting out like bubbles an opened bottle of soda.
"’course i fuckin’ did. you were a pain in the ass to boot, always takin’ off like ya did. made it harder to track whether you were just bein’ a shit or not.” Red paused on the landing impatiently as Rus tripped his way down. “knock it off with the waterworks, yer givin' me a headache."
Rus tried, hiccoughing painfully as he said, "he shot lilith."
"and she almost got you a fire dick up the ass for her troubles,” Red said. The raw crudeness made Rus wince, choking back his tears. “anyway, save the cryin’ for somethin’ important, she's fine. for now. all bandaged up and ready for a heap 'o regret for sellin’ you out."
"don't,” Rus blurted. “please. don't hurt her."
Red swung around to look at him and Rus couldn’t keep from flinching, stumbling back a step from that piercingly sharp gaze. "you defendin' her?"
"she didn't know how bad it was. she tried to stop him."
“regrettin’ after you fuck up don't mean you get off." Red started down the stairs again, but he sounded almost pensive as he said, "’course, she did get shot, that ain’t no summer picnic. i'll think about it."
Hardly soothing, but Rus nodded, relaxing a little as he wiped at his face with his sleeve, mumbling out, “thank you.
Red chuckled, low and rich with perverse humor. "heh, already thinkin' you won, kid? i ain’t as easy as my bro, said i’ll think about it.”
Outside was a long black car, expensive and indistinguishable. A Dog got out of the driver’s side and held open the door for them, Rus scrambling in after Red and sat on the seat opposite. The door wasn’t even closed when Red began rummaging through a little fridge, pulling out a clear crystal bottle of dark brown liquid. “here, have a drink. think you might need it.”
The entire bottle was probably more accurate, but it was better than nothing. Rus took the glass wordlessly, swallowing it all down in one gulp. He couldn’t hold back a grimace; the sharp burn of expensive whisky tried to wash away the taste of burnt golden flowers clinging inside his mouth, but it still lingered in his nasal cavity and he wondered dully if he’d ever be able to smell them again without remembering this moment.
Across from him, Red slumped back against the leather seat, sockets closed, his own glass dangling loosely from his broad fingers. His browbones were drawn together, a line of weariness between them and Rus suddenly wondered how long they’d been looking for him. There were no clocks in the backseat and the sun coming in through the tinted windows revealed nothing. Blue was probably hysterical and Rus couldn’t blame him, his own stupidity got him into trouble again, and Edge—
He didn’t want to think about Edge, not right now.
His mind refused to be blank, kept flittering about and Rus latched on to one of the questions lingering inside his skull, pointless and perfect for this moment. He held his own glass in both hands, the cool crystal slowly warming between them. “why was blaze so interested in golden flower tea?”
“that’s need to know, kid.” Red didn’t open his sockets as he took a sip from his glass.
“yeah, well, i need to know,” Rus said stubbornly. “you used me as bait, so tell me. why was he willing to let everything go over some stupid flowers?”
Those closed sockets slit open, the barest gleam of crimson gazing out at him. “heh. you think i owe you somethin’, flower shop?” Rus said nothing, afraid of agreeing, and Red’s sharp grin widened. “learnin’ how to be careful of those debts, huh. good for you.” He shifted in his seat, loosening his tie as he sighed. “but you got a point. okay, flower shop, here's the deal. see, most monsters and humans get a little relaxed with it, s’all. probably a strong cup of chamomile’d have the same affect.”
“unless ya have lv. golden flower tea is pretty damn useful for monsters with lv.” That sharp smile twisted unpleasantly. “sweet thing like you don’t know what it’s like carryin’ around a lump of charcoal in your chest. feel it burnin’ ya from the inside out…”
For once, Red looked away from Rus first, stared pensively into the dark depths of his glass. “that tea helps, a fucking lot. only once we came to the surface it was hard to find. don’t grow easy around here, not without help.” Red tossed back the rest of his glass and poured another, whiskey slopping out around the lip, spattering the little bar. When he offered the bottle to Rus, he accepted it, pouring more into his own glass. “ain’t had any in ages. not ’til you turned up, flower shop, you and your brother.” He chuckled roughly and shook his head. “mother angel’s mercy, fuckin’ florists of all things.”
“i didn’t know,” Rus admitted, and now that he did, he wasn’t sure if he regretted asking.
Red shrugged. “that ain’t no surprise, you ain’t got any lv and your bro don’t have enough to make any difference.”
That idle statement made Rus jerk, spilling whiskey down the front of his shirt. “my brother has lv?” His voice seemed too small, confined in that backseat.
Red paused and a brief, bothered expression flitted across his face before it smoothed again. “like i said, not enough to make any difference.” He finished off the last of his glass, the silence filled with only the hum of the engine and the tires against the road. “anyway, that’s enough explanations for you. ya did me a favor helpin’ me get a lead on that old flame burnin’ up my ass. think i might owe ya a little extra for a rough time. so tell me, whaddya want?”
Outside the tinted windows, the real world blurred past them. The really real world, where the worst thing that ever happened was a rude barista might mess up your order or a Human might call an insult from the other side of the road, and Rus never hesitated. “i want to go home. i don’t belong in all this.”
“eh, that’s already on the table.” Red crushed out the stub of his current cigar and lit another, the burning smell from the match nearly making Rus heave. “what else you got?”
“that you leave my brother alone!”
Red exhaled a cloud of foul smoke and shook his head, “that’s ‘tween me and him. care for a third try before ya strike out?”
His empty glass thudded to the carpeted floor as Rus buried his face in his hands, trying to catch his breath. He should let it go, drop the pretense of ever balancing the sheet between them. He’d be back home soon, back to the shop and the normalcy, nothing but bouquets and daydreams, oh, the daydreams. There was one thing yet that he wanted with self-destructive desperation, and the words came out barely muffled by his bony fingers, clear and stark. “i want one night, with him. with your brother. no strings attached.”
“you think i can get you that, huh? well, honey, you hit the jackpot.” Through his fingers, he could see Red’s eye lights glittering, the deep, burning crimson of a devil or maybe a djinn from the stories Blue read to him as a child. Looking at them sent a shiver down Rus’s spine like a sin even as Red spoke, his voice rough and amused as he offered a single word.
“done.”
tbc
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The Splendor of These Exploding Skies (Yet All I See Is You)
Chuck Grant x Reader
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Warnings: SMUT, drug use to combat PTSD (also y’all’re in California and weed just happens sometimes I’m sorry but it’s very true), light angst, light jealousy, fluff bc I’M FEELING LONELY AND COULD USE SOME CUDDLES, fireworks (both literal and metaphorical).
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Even after knowing and loving you for almost half a decade at this point, Chuck Grant still found himself in awe of how beautiful you were.
Despite the fact that for the first year at Toccoa the two of you hadn’t been able to stand being in each other’s presence for more than five minutes at a time- he still was able to acknowledge how attractive he found you. If anything, that awareness only added to his resentment of you and anything to do with you. 
You were too easy on the eyes to be as annoying as he found you. It just wasn’t fair.
In hindsight, he’d made a complete ass of himself during your first interaction- he’d been too drunk and too confident in his abilities to sweet talk women and too hyped up from his friend’s encouragement when he’d decided to make a move on you. Chuck couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said, but what he did remember was putting his hand on your ass and being slapped so hard his ears were left ringing for the next few days.
And, because he was young and cocky, he’d immediately labeled you as a prude and made it his mission to hate your guts. Even though he knew that he was in the wrong. Because that’s just how he was back then.
Had anyone asked Chuck then if he’d one day willingly share a home with you, let alone a bed, he probably would’ve punched them in the mouth. He imagined your response would’ve been similar.
My, how far the two of you had come.
Chuck leaned against the doorframe at the mouth of your bedroom, crossing his arms across his chest and smiling at the sight before him. As much as he knew that you got embarrassed by his open admiration, he still couldn’t find it within himself to curb this bad habit.
The vision of you at ease was a sight to behold- especially after seeing you on edge for years on end.
Right now, you were sprawled on top of the bed the two of you had bought a month ago, dressed in one of your old stretched-out t-shirts and thick-knit socks and a pair of black underpants that showed the cute divet where your buttcheek met your thigh (a part of you that you also scolded him for paying so much attention to). The window towards the foot of the bed was open and the cool air from the ocean delicately tossed the finer strands of your hair around your head, the lights of the city at night making each hair glow like some radiant halo.
All of the lights in the bedroom were off, the skyline illuminating the room in a warm blue cast that never failed to make him feel at ease. Your head was propped up on your hand as you gracefully brought your joint to your lips and took a deep drag, tapping the train of ash onto the clay plate you’d made at a pottery class sometime before the war. Purple grey smoke slipped through your parted lips attractively, and Cuck felt his chest ache at the knowledge that only he got to see you like this.
“Are you going to stand there like a creep all night, silly boy?”
When Chuck refocuses, he realizes that you can see his silhouette reflected in the window’s glass, and he can hear the teasing smile in your voice. Stubbing out the smoldering joint onto the plate, he watches you press yourself up onto your elbow and turn to look over your shoulder at him.
He bites back a smile of his own as he hits the light switch in the hallway so the room is entirely dark, closing the door softly behind him as he starts to toe off his shoes.
“Sorry, Dollface,” he says in faux seriousness, using the terrible pet name he’d called you the first night he’d met you. “Got distracted by the view…”
You snort a laugh at that, turning back to look out the window and shaking your head.
“Careful, buddy- my boyfriend’s got a mean right hook.”
He rolls his eyes despite the fact that he knows you can’t see it, stripping down to his shirt and boxers and coming to join you.
“I don’t know,” he grumbles. “I’ve heard you’ve got a nasty backhand as well.”
Using his hands to map out where your legs are, he carefully fits himself behind you like a familiar and comforting puzzle piece. While the side effects of his head injury were relatively minor compared to the severity of the wound, he still wasn’t always able to trust his eyes when it came to their depth perception. You didn’t seem to mind his way of accommodating this certain handicap. 
You weren’t shy to admit how much you liked his hands on you.
With the sort of ease that only comes from years of routine, you turn your head at just the right time for him to pluck a kiss from your lips, the taste of chocolate and cannabis on your lips. Chuck lets his legs tangle with yours as he rests on his elbow beside you, bringing his other hand up to cup the back of your head and keep your lips on his for a few moments longer. When you hum happily, he can’t help but smile.
He knows that today is difficult for you- the noise and the bright light and the cool bay breeze bringing back memories of foxholes and biting frost and heartbreaking exhaustion. You didn’t smoke weed often, even less now that you’d been out of the military for a few years, so he knew that when you did that you just wanted to not remember for a little while.
You wanted to forget the bad and go back to the days when these festivities brought you joy and wonder. Chuck got that. The desire to shut it all off and just live was too familiar to him.
And if you were willing to be there for him, he’d be damned if he didn’t do the same for you.
Pulling back, he lightly presses his fingers to the base of your skull, chuckling warmly when you nearly moan in relief.
“Hey there.”
You slowly open your eyes at his greeting, gaze open and slightly lethargic.
“Hey yourself,” you say with a sigh. “I missed you today.”
Chuck knew what you meant. After living together day in and day out for so long, coming home and establishing lives and routines of your own had initially been difficult. He’d felt bad about leaving you this morning, knowing how difficult this day in particular was for you.
“Such a sap.”
Your easy expression twists into a comical scowl, your eyes rolling as you turn back to the window and make a sound of annoyance.
“Of all the idiots who propositioned me, I had to go and pick the most obnoxious—”
Chuck freezes at that, furrowing his brow in surprise and using the hand on the back of your head to gently fist a handful of your hair and turn you back to face him. 
‘I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
Your eyes scan his face before a slow smile breaks across your lips, clicking your tongue admonishingly at whatever it was that you saw.
“Charles Grant, as I live and breathe,” your voice has taken on a wicked quality, one that he both loves and hates at the same time. “Is that jealousy I detect?”
He frowns at that, hating how well you can read him- even in your slightly intoxicated state.
When he doesn’t reply right away, you purposefully lift your backside and press it against his stirring cock. God, you knew how to irritate him- you could be such a brat sometimes.
Luckily, he had learned long ago the most effective way of curbing your obnoxious provocations. 
Tightening his grip on your hair infinitesimally, you let him crane your head back and hiss quietly at the sweet sting of it.
“Y/N, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say that you were trying to make me jealous.”
You smirk, wetting your lips before rolling your hips against him once again.
“Me? I’m just being honest- you can’t truly think you were the only one to make a move….shoot your shot, if you will….”
Chuck feels heat curl in his stomach, shaking his head at your insinuation. When he angles your head to bite at the lobe of your ear, you tremble beneath him with excitement- your antagonizing behavior had become a strange turn on somewhere between Alderborne and Normandy.
“Who?” 
You said nothing, your breath hitching in your throat as you feel the press of him against your backside. You knew how much he hated when you did that- knew how frustrated your silence made him. It’d been your silence that had led him to kiss you for the first time- the arrogant way you’d held your tongue to his baiting teases driving him so crazy he was willing to risk your wrath just to get a response from you.
With an angry sigh, he fixes you with a glare.
 “Fine. Don’t tell me. I know how to get what I want out of that pretty mouth.”
Chuck swears he sees a self-satisfied glint in your eye, but before you can revel in your mirth he pulls away from you and makes you whine.
“Chuck, don’t go—oh!”
The feeling of his hands gripping your ass tears a gasp from your throat, your head bowing into the mattress as he grips your hips and pulls them up so he can reach beneath you and squeeze your sex possessively. As expected, you’re wet and warm for him- a confirmation of your desire for more.
His name sounds sweet on your tongue, your voice muffled in the soft down of the comforter as you arch into his touch. Chuck’s mouth waters at the sight of your shirt’s hem sliding up your spine and revealing the bare skin of your back to him, and he doesn’t hesitate to press hot kisses to the newly revealed skin by your hip bones.
“How about this, Sweetheart?” he asks innocently, using the hand not rubbing at your sex to yank your underwear down your thighs. “I’ll give you a name, and you tell me if they were stupid enough to try something with you, hm?”
 Your groan is unintelligible and unclear but when he looks down the slope of your back he sees you nodding vehemently.
God, you were perfect. 
Using his index and ring finger, he holds open the petals of your sex and begins to play with your clit.
“Luz?”
Even with your face in the blanket, he can make out your scoff of ‘no’. Good. he hadn’t thought so, but it still made him glad to hear it.
“Shifty?”
One of your hands swats at his thigh, and you turn your face so you can make your words clear.
“Charles, you were there when Shifty accidentally saw me changing- what do you think?”
Chuck chuckles at the memory of that- the poor kid had been so embarrassed that he’d nearly run into a wall in his attempt to escape the ‘improper sight’.
When you open your mouth to say something else, CHuck smacks your ass and your words are lost in a yelp of surprise.
“Chuck—”
“Bull?”
“No. Obviously no, geez…”
He goes through the roster of Easy Company, getting the obvious ‘no’s out of the way: Buck, Winters, Sink, Strayer, Sobel, Blithe, Lipton, Speirs, Welsh. With each negative response, he lets you roll yourself against his hand- the sight of you so desperate for him working him up so high that he knew he was going to have to get inside of you soon.
The first ‘yes’ you gave was for Talbert, which earned you a bite on the curve of your buttcheek despite the fact that Chuck had already figured as much. Same went for Christenson- which he’d known already because he and Pat had first bonded over the fact that you’d rejected both of their advances.
Then came the first surprise- Nixon.
“What?! Are you serious? Lewis Nixon?”
“Does that piss you off, Silly Boy?”
Your tone is teasing, but there’s a hint of genuine curiosity in your voice that catches him off guard.
It did, actually- piss him off, that is. Chuck didn’t want to think too hard about why.
Not when this little game of yours just started to get interesting.
With another resounding smack to your backside, Chuck grips himself in his fest and coats his cock with the slick from your sex that had soaked his fingers. The idea of you with someone like Nix simultaneously inspired rage and pride in his chest- anger at the concept of a married man, your SO, looking at you in a way that was less than professional and pride at the fact that you’d still chosen him despite Nix’s advances.
“Chuck,”
When he looks back at you, he sees that you’re looking over your shoulder at him with desperation, your face flushed with arousal and subsequent denial.
“I want you, please don’t make me wait anymore…”
Well, he never had been very good at making you wait. 
The sound you make when he slips inside of you almost has him bursting right then and there- the sound so broken and full of want and lewd promise that it almost hurts him to hold himself back. Your hand has reached up and behind your head to grip his hair, pulling him down and over you in a haunting pantomime of how he’d covered you from enemy fire in the hellish woods outside of Foy.
You’re chanting his name like a prayer, babbling as you slip into a state of carnal bliss. When he kisses you it’s desperate and messy but you are still craning your head back at an angle that must be painful in order to continue it.
All jealousy takes a back seat to the feeling of this- your skin under his hands and your breath on his lips and the squeeze of you around him. It doesn’t matter, none of those other men and their understandable attraction to you matters because you are undeniably his. 
You chose him- you chose him when he was the picture of health and when he was nearly dead on an operating table. You’d held his hand as he healed and you’d taken him as your husband in a shelled out Austrian church with a priest and Ron Speirs and God as your witnesses. 
You were his, and that was all because you wanted to be.
His throat feels tight with emotion as he slowly thrusts in and out of you, resting his forehead between your shoulder blades as you cry for more- taking each rough rut of his hips into yours with a beautiful moan and a challenge for another.
Sex with you was more than a physical release, it’s a renewal of unspoken vows of devotion and dedication despite the knowledge that neither of you had escaped your war unscathed. His promise that he’d be yours each and every night when the horrors of memory plagued your dreams, and your reassurance that you saw him for more than his experiences, his trauma.
It was more than he ever could have hoped for in this life. Pre and post war.
Your chest vibrates beneath his, and when he is finally able to refocus he realizes that you’ve been trying to talk to him.
“Look!”
The fireworks show has begun, the bursts of light looking magical and surreal over the glass surface of the bay. It’s beautiful, and he knows that despite your fear of the sound of explosives you cannot help but find yourself entranced by its splendor as well.
Chuck turns his face so he can see the reflection of your face in the mirror, the fireworks making the drawn pleasure on your face clear and coloring you in its brilliance.
When he makes you come apart beneath him, you’re awash in purple light and infinitely more glorious than the celebration outside. The bite of your nails into the meat of his thigh sends him tumbling into pleasure right behind you, and when he squeezes his eyes shut he feels like a firework himself- hot and infinite and sparkling in the cold air coming through the open window.
Your body is quaking beneath him, the electricity of your orgasm still dancing through you and making you clench around him painfully every so often.
Blind from his own pleasure, Chuck moves his hands up your sides to get a feel for where you are, repositioning his weight so he isn’t crushing you with his boneless body. The boom of the next firework shakes through his chest, and as he feels you coming down he smooths your hair from your face clumsily.
“You married me.” his voice sounds far away, his mind just as lost as he reminds himself of the most important part of his life. “You married me and you make me happier than I can say.”
The feeling of your lips kissing his palm has him opening his hazy eyes to take in your state of disarray. You were looking at him with more love than he had ever thought to wish for, and when you nod it brings tears to his eyes.
“Happy Fourth of July, Chuck Grant.”
Lifting his gaze, he looks back out of the window, where the firework show is coming to an end and soon the two of you will be left with the warm blue light once more.
You were right. This was a happy Fourth of July.
~ ~ ~
THIS IS JUST OKAY AND I UNDERSTAND THAT BUT THANK YOU FOR READING IT ANYWAY! 
Taglist: @mrseasycompany​ @itswormtrain​ @mrsalwayswrite​ @happyveday​ @sunsetmando​ @teenmagazines​ @liebgotttme​
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brexrif · 4 years
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The Thief and the Witcher: Part 1
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Anon Request!
Geralt and reader sitting in a pub with Jaskier. Geralt and Reader are seated while Jaskier is off doing whatever (we all know he is singing though) What about Geralt fingering the reader in public and expecting—quietly DEMANDING—reader to be quiet or it will only get worse. Maybe Jaskier comes over to have a conversation and Geralt is calm as ever, and the reader is struggling to keep conversation?
(Not my pic but a good one)
Warnings: smut smutty smut smut
Did my best to follow the request while working off of an idea I already had in mind! Please comment below and let me know what you think! Follow me for other Geralt smutty goodness.
You can find The Thief and the Witcher Part 2 here!
You can find all my work here: MASTER LIST
Xxxxxxxx
You slinked through a narrow, candle lit hallway grinning, pleased with yourself and your bounty. The leather sack slung on your back shifted as you gauged the weight of your spoils, deciding that you could stand to raid one more room. You approached a thick wooden door at the end of the hall that you knew the inn-keep usually saved for less desirable occupants. You whipped out your favorite dagger collected years ago from some pathetic noble lord; you remember the half-lidded look on his face when you had seduced him into a kiss while carefully taking the dagger off his belt- men are foolish. You drove the pointed end into the heart of the padlock, wiggling it slightly in a familiar pattern before hearing the lock click and give way to the heavy door. It creaked on worn hinges as you let it swing open, hiding from the doorway before checking to see if anyone was inside.
“Housekeeping!” you sang into the room while scanning quickly- no one was there.
Within your quick and practiced surveillance, you were able to take stock of what this poor soul had to offer you. You found two swords resting against the wall beside a set of very weathered armor, made for a very large man. With the fire blazing and the battleware of this particular customer, you ventured you must act quickly. Light-footed and practiced as usual, you glided over to the swords, grabbing a sack of coin from the table nearby. You noticed a pile of underclothes strewn carelessly beside the bed. Examining the swords, you quickly recognized one superior to the other. One of the stranger’s swords was made of pure silver, a weapon that could stand up to the flesh of monsters. Your eyes widened and you had to have it. You sheathed the sword in your belt, rotated it to the back of your right hip and covered it with your long woolen cloak. Pleased with your treasure, you made your way out of the room. You pulled the hood of your black woolen cloak far over your head before coming through the doorway and pulling the door shut behind you, quickly and quietly. You lowered your head, only your small chin and plump lips, now curled into a self satisfied smile, could be seen.
Making your way back down the hallway you heard heavy footsteps coming up the staircase. You kept your head bowed low and saw two very large, seemingly wet, naked feet making their way towards you. Surprised by the bareness of these feet you let your eyes wonder upward and damn, what a mistake that was. In their travel, your eyes found their way up two gigantically muscular calves, a pair of large, manly knees and the start of tree trunk thighs, covered in a generous layer of thick, dark hair. A dingy towel wrapped around his waist betrayed him, revealing a bulge you could scarcely tear your eyes from- you nearly tripped upon this discovery. This man was very clearly well endowed. Feeling some sweat start on the back of your neck, your eyes traveled further to the tightly defined ab muscles of this Adonis, which peaked prominently on either hip and dipped steeply downward in a V shape towards his other gift. A sweet, thick trail of wet hair swirled around his tight navel and dragged downward underneath the towel along with the crevasses of his rippling muscles.
“uhmmm..miss?” his deep gravely voice coated the thick air between you.
You realized your lips had parted slightly and your mouth was quite literally agape. “Excuse me” You quickly responded in a voice at least 3 times a higher pitch than your own, the kind you had used to announce yourself as housekeeping. You made yourself small against the wall without looking up and he walked past you slowly, confused and shaking his head a bit. His big body limbered and you could feel his heavy steps even in the stone beneath your leather boots. Once he cleared you, you practically flew down the three flights of stairs to the inn’s pub.
You spotted your friend, who was supposed to be keeping watch at the foot of the staircase for you, but was clearly distracted. She was poised precariously on a bench with a large mug of ale leaning almost halfway over the wooden table towards a very vibrantly dressed bard, who was holding a lute and playing softly to her. Her breasts were heaving out of her dress, her smile loose with alcohol and his eyes were resting on her chest as he played. What a sight.
“Lucja! We need to get out of here.” You came up behind her swiftly, your black cloak flowing and catching up with you as you commanded, detectable notes of annoyance in your voice.
“Don’t be silly, Y/N. I’m just getting to know my new friend here, Jaskier. He’s an artist” she cooed, returning her eyes back to the man across the table from her.
“Come, come! Have a seat!” Jaskier invited you to sit beside Lucja. You sat hastily, swinging only one leg over the bench and facing her harshly.
“We need to go” you looked at her severely, impatiently waiting for her head to fall out from the clouds and realize you were serious.
Just then you felt a few familiar steps come up from behind you.
“Ahh, Geralt! Finally! I thought you might have drowned in that bath-you were gone for-EVER. This is Lucja and uhhh-” Jaskier looked at you questioningly, obviously having forgotten your name as every functioning brain cell he had was devoted to courting Lucja. He spoke so quickly you hardly realized he had arrived at you by the end of his thought.
“Y/N” you said quietly, averting your gaze. You suspected the man behind you was the same man you encountered more than half naked in the hallway and hopefully not the same man who owned the silver sword you had swung on your hip currently.
“Right, right. Y/N. I was just singing about you to Lucja, Geralt.”
“Mmmmmfh” Geralt grumbled behind you, the distaste palpable.
He took a seat beside you gesturing to the barmaid for two more ales. You reluctantly swung your other leg over the bench, feeling the silver rub against the wood of the shared seat.
“Y/N?” he asked, drawing his amber eyes from the table to you. You reluctantly pulled back the black woolen hood to your cloak, revealing your face and your flushing cheeks. You nodded your head apprehensively, trying not to look at him too hard. You worried once you started looking at him, you wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Geralt” he offered. He was clothed now, wearing a black tunic with a series of small buttons running up his chiseled body. It opened at the chest to reveal a luscious forest of dark and thick chest hair that covered his built pectorals and prominent collarbones. You realized you were staring too long and turned your focus quickly to the drink that he set in front of you.
“What’s wrong Geralt? Why so grumpy? Bath water too cold?” Jaskier teased him from across the table.
“Someone in this shit inn has stolen one of my swords” he growled into his mug.
“Oh uh- that’s not good Geralt. That’s not good at. all.” Jaskier looked worried and started getting visibly anxious. Lucja’s eyes slowly and casually made their way to meet yours and she finally understood.
“Maybe we should leave you two to your search then” Lucja offered, starting to grab your wrist.
“Oh no. I wouldn’t so easily give up the opportunity for someone else to take some of Jaskier’s blathering for an evening” Jaskier started to protest but Geralt continued “besides, I only feel bad for someone foolish enough to steal from me… Maybe they could use a head start before I get to them.”
Lucja laughed nervously and continued her attention to Jaskier, keeping a weary eye on you and Geralt.
A few moments passed that felt like years. You pretended to be interested in what Jaskier was saying and gulped down your ale. Lucja had another drink for herself and one for you waiting. Within no time, she was falling forward on the table again.
“So, should I consider myself lucky that you left my clothes behind?” Geralt broke the silence between you two whispering the best he could, which honestly just came out more like a low growl. You turned to him abruptly, fully now, and you were blown back: his gorgeous honey eyes, surprisingly light given his accusation, his chiseled jaw peppered with the most delicious stubble- not a single patchy spot in sight, his long white hair and full, bowed lips curled into a mischievous smile.
“You seemed to prefer me in a towel” Geralt chided, smiling into his mug.
“I have no idea what you are talking about” you spat at him, quietly not looking to draw attention from Lucja or Jaskier.
“Come on, as if I could forget those lips, and how they fell apart for me so easily. It’s not the first time I’ve stopped a woman in her tracks with the sight of my cock” he offered arrogantly. You were shocked and embarrassed, you didn’t know how to answer and you wished you could pull yourself away from looking at him so intently. He faced you fully now, leaving his mug on the table and closing the space between you suddenly-
“and what exactly did a little thing like you plan on doing with my silver sword, hm?” he paused realizing you wouldn’t answer so easily, “I am talking about my sword now, not my cock” he added, the heat between you two smoldering and intensifying. You felt a large hand creeping up onto your thigh, the sweat on the back of your neck returning. Without thinking, you parted your legs for him, his touch so commanding. You remembered the bulge under his towel that stole your attention.
“I was going to use it” you retorted curtly. His large fingers made their way up your thigh crawling in towards your heat. You sighed deeply, surrendering yourself to him by widening your legs even further.
“Is that so?” he was teasing you now, he smiled at you and inched closer. He lightly placed his fingers outside your opening, testing the heat beneath the fabric of your trousers. He leaned in and put his lips gently on your neck, just below your ear. He whispered quietly, “would you like to find out what happens to little whores that take things that are not their own?”
“I am not a whore” you whispered back to him.
“Just a thief then,” he bit at the fleshy skin of your earlobe and reached his hand around your hip to grab the hilt of his sword. He wiggled it a bit and pulled back from your neck to read your face. Your eyes were hard on him, your lips starting to pout, trying to deny your defeat.
“You know nothing of me, Witcher”
“I know that you’re wet for me” he returned his hand between your thighs and pushed two fingers to the crest of your folds. He rubbed slightly, expertly over the thin fabric of your pants. You sighed deeply at the feeling of his rough fingers coaxing pleasure from you so easily, even with a barrier separating the two of you.
“I also know that if I hear anything other than a sigh out of you, I’m going to have to get my sword back in a much uglier way” his lips curled into a mischievous smile and his eyes laid harsh on you. As he spoke, he rubbed his fingers in towards you harsher and quicker. You nodded knowingly, falling helplessly to the sweet delirium he was eliciting from between your legs.
“So tell me Y/N, how long have you been surviving on thieved goods and gold?” he asked, pushing a fresh mug of ale towards you with one hand and crawling his fingers to the laces of your trousers with the other. The inn was loud now. With the late hour, there were many more patrons greedily eating and drinking, singing catchy pub songs arm in arm, and yelling to one another across tables. Jaskier and Lucja carried on beside you, leaning over the table and now joining hands, their eyes drunkenly fixed on each other.
“hmmm?” he rumbled to you sliding his giant hand down the slope of your mound. You readjusted on the bench, moving back to accommodate his swift work. You surveyed the boisterous atmosphere and pulled your cloak around protectively, embarrassed and desperate for some privacy. You could stop him if you wanted, you had stopped plenty of men from touching you in the past, but this was different. You wanted him, Geralt was different. His command was teasing, but you truly thought your heart might stop without his fingers on you, his gaze and attention on you.
“I have always fended for myself, did what I had to”
“Hmmm” he sighed, moving his large and powerful finger between your wet folds. Your front teeth sunk deep into the plump of your bottom lip, trying to contain the pleasure he elicited from you. “And somehow, that involved stealing my sword” He allowed for some time to pass, slowly dragging his fingers up and down the folds of your sex, feeling you. Your hand clenched around the mug in front of you and you tried to cast your gaze downward towards the table.
“You also took a small sack of coin, did you not?” He broke the silence. You turned your gaze to him suddenly, embarrassed now that he also noticed that. Geralt looked at you amused, “I can hear your heart almost falling out of your chest” he brought one of his large fingers, slicked in your wetness to your opening and quickly pushed it into you. You jumped in your seat, adjusting to the size of him and sharply inhaling. He chuckled deeply at you, enjoying the apparent struggle it was for you to keep yourself together under his touch and his interrogation. You looked at him breathless and overwhelmed.
“That’s okay, Y/N, you go ahead and keep that coin. I have a feeling I’ll get my money’s worth from you by the end of tonight” He clenched his jaw and moved in closer to you, now pumping that finger in and out of your opening quickly. You squirmed and sighed, trying not to pant under his touch.
“Mmmmm” he leaned in under your ear again growling, kissing up your neck into the tender start of your hairline. You could feel the rough stubble of his jaw tickle your soft skin. “Remember what I said, not a sound.” He paused his thrusting rhythm and brought his finger back to your clit, which soaked in your moisture, he wiggled freely and easily in circular motions. Each arc of his swirling unraveling you further and further under his touch. He was driving you crazy, he had you completely at his whim. He continued kissing up your neck gently and working your clit under the table with his thick arm.
“Ahhh. Yes. So, Geralt.” Jaskier slid down the bench to be across from you and Geralt. “Sorry to interrupt your uh-well. I seem to have run out of coin and the lady and I need more ale yet and well” he lowered his voice, embarrassed. Geralt moved his face from your neck to look at Jaskier, his fingers continued below the table and without Jaskier’s knowledge you were coming undone right before him.
“I wish I could say I was surprised Jaskier…but I think a good bit of my coin was taken by the foolish thief as well.” He moved his fingers back down to your opening and stuck two fingers deep inside you, punctuating the word foolish. “Perhaps Y/N can oblige you for now” He looked to you casually, raising an eyebrow while you squirmed. You could hear his fingers thrusting in and out of you, lewd wet sounds coming from just below the table.
“Ummm. Yeah...mmmmhm” you were practically moaning, not doing the best job at concealing the pleasure writhing through you. Geralt’s thick fingers stopped their thrusting and started exploring slowly inside you, journeying, rubbing along your quivering walls.
“Y/N, is everything okay…?” Lucja turned to you, swaying with drink, her eyes struggling to focus on you completely.
“Yeah yeah mmhm” you responded, sweat beading on your forehead and your lips parted, trying to not obviously and openly pant. You reached for your coin purse and basically threw it at Jaskier, the aggression of your sexual frustration fueling the toss. He paused for a moment, noticing a strange tension, but took the sack and slid back down the bench. Lucja became distracted again when Jaskier went about acquiring more drinks for the two of them.
“Hmmm.” Geralt hummed, closing in to you again and seeking better leverage for his busy hand. “That was a little too close Y/N. You’re going to have to do better than that” he commanded raising his impressive and clenching jaw. He looked down at you, his amber eyes burning and harsh, determined. The pad of his middle finger found it’s way to the flat, hard surface of your g-spot. You gasped loudly, then coughed to try and maintain the façade.
“Focus for me sweetheart. I’m going to make you cum, but I need you to keep quiet for me. Do you understand?” You nodded, your eyes trying to roll in the back of your head. You looked at Geralt, he was stern and commanding. You remembered the glimpse you drank in of his almost nakedness, how every inch of his towering body was covered in rippling, hard muscle. You looked now to the dark hair swirling on his chest and remembered how it trails down pleasantly to what has to be a magnificent cock below. You put your hand on his knee, bracing yourself for the orgasm, but it started creeping up his thigh until you could feel his impressive, rock hard cock throbbing beneath his leather pants. He took his other hand to your wrist and moved it back to his knee. He shook his head at you.
You dug your fingernails in as he started rubbing your g-spot. Your teeth sunk hard into your bottom lip and you closed your eyes tight. To hide your face, you threw your forehead into the palm of your other hand, which was being propped up by your elbow on the table. You shielded your face and breathed quickly through your teeth as Geralt brought you closer and closer to ecstacy.
“Mmmhm. Good girl.” You heard him growl and lick his lips as he watched you struggle, your heels digging into the floor as his finger began rubbing hard on your g-spot. A woman down the table from you shook her head disappointedly, but you couldn’t be bothered to care about anything other than chasing this feeling. Just when you thought you couldn’t take anymore, you felt his large thumb press on your clit and wiggle slightly. You came undone and let out a whimper. Geralt was relentless all through your orgasm, waves of pleasure radiating through your bones and sneaking out your mouth in pathetic little sounds.
“Mmmmmm, quiet now” he assured, bringing your lips to his. You put your hand over his, desperate for him to stop. He finally ceased, kissing you sensually, biting on your bottom lip before pulling away.
“Now…lets see how you can handle a sword”
Xxxxx
Need more? You’re in luck:
PART TWO!!
1K notes · View notes
thegreatestofheck · 4 years
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Promises, Promises ✾ JJ Maybank ✾
request:  Hi! Can I request where John B has a younger sister who is extremely close to JJ but there is kind of a unspoken rule between the three of them: you can look, flirt all you want but no touching or crossing that line. Well they deeply care for each other more than John B knows. Well on the day Luke picks him up from jail in that scene before getting in the car he sees her, just staring at him because she knows what will happen if he gets in. The rest is up to you!
word count - 3.8k  warnings - mentions of abuse, uncomfy interactions with Luke Maybank,  synopsis - You and JJ have an unspoken thing, passed only through stolen glances and half serious flirting. But the day after he takes the fall for Pope, you find yourself standing at a crossroads; do you step in to protect him from his dad, or do you stay out of it? a/n - thank you so much for this request anon!! I wish I could have gotten to it sooner, but I’m so grateful that you came to me with this request, I love it!! Here I am with another Routledge!Reader fic. I will never be tired of these. Never ever. I tried really hard to be proud of this, anon, because you deserve a masterpiece, but I really struggled and I’m so sorry for that. I hope you like it all the same!
                                                               ***
You and JJ had shared many different looks in your lifetime. The kind where your eyes were squinted tight, filled with tears because you were both laughing so hard. The kind where your eyes were wide and his were stone cold because you were terrified and he was ready to raze hell to keep you safe. The kind where you’re standing on opposite ends of the room but you meet each others’ gaze and you know that the both of you wish that distance was closed. 
A thousand different looks, a thousand different moments, and thousand different silent words shared by only the flick of the eye. All of that and it seemed like it boiled down to this moment in time, this one very important look. 
You were standing across the street from where his dad’s car was parked, only a block or so away from the police station. JJ’s face was still messed up from his fight with Rafe, Kelce, and Topper at the Summer Movie Series, but his eyes were more haunted now than they ever had been before. Because he wasn’t walking alone. His dad walked alongside him; jaw tight, hands clenched, gait furious. 
And you knew. You knew what was coming to your best friend if he got into that car. He had taken the fall for Pope, found himself thousands of dollars in debt, thousands of dollars that neither him nor his dad didn’t have. 
Your had curled around the wad of cash in your pocket. After watching Shoupe drive away with JJ the day before, you had broken into your piggy bank, gathered all the tips you had ever received from the wrinkled, old, white men who hit on you at the Wreck, torn apart every piece of furniture in your house to find every last goddamn penny you owned, praying that it would be enough for bail. And if it still wasn’t, you were fully prepared to bat your pretty eyelashes and pout a little bit. 
After all, no one had ever been able to say no to y/n Routledge before. 
But now that you saw JJ walking beside Luke Maybank, you felt oddly silly in your too tight tank top and extra short shorts. All the money in your pocket suddenly lost its worth because JJ’s dad already knew. JJ was already heading straight for hell. 
You watched him for a good while before he tore his gaze from the concrete beneath his feet and looked up across the street. It took a few moments for relief at seeing you to glaze over the fear in his eyes. You barely managed a smile. 
Of all the looks you ever shared, you hated these kind the most. Where you knew that JJ was upset, terrified, on the verge of tears, but he covered it up with a smile and a dirty joke. There would be no jokes now, but there had been so many in the past. 
Like the time you and your brother were cleaning up the Chateau after a nasty storm and he came staggering onto your lawn. He was drunk off his ass, his face a terrible array of purple and red. John B didn’t see the way JJ’s eyes flit back and forth as if watching for someone. He didn’t see the way JJ stumbled to cover the limp in his step. He didn’t hear the way his voice broke as JJ drawled out a snarky remark about the weather.
But you did. You saw everything. 
Maybe it was because you spent your entire life looking. Stealing glances in the early morning when he was still asleep on the pullout. Watching how he flinched when Pope or John B raised their voice a little too loud with an enthusiastic thump on his shoulder. Seeing the way he buried himself in weed and alcohol and girls just to take his mind off of the overbearing fear of not being good enough. 
You saw it all because he was, after all, just a mirror of yourself. 
And you wanted him more than anything. You wanted to know how his calloused hands felt against your always cold skin. You wanted to be surrounded by his scent, the smell of cigarettes and cheap beer and sea salt chocolates. You spent hours awake every night, knowing that he was just a few feet away from your room, wondering if he was in as much agony as you were. 
It wasn’t like you were afraid to tell him how you felt or anything. He knew exactly how badly you wanted to take the pain straight from his heart and put it into yours, how badly you wished to be the thing he craved, how badly you needed to have him around all the time. 
He knew it all because you were, after all, just a mirror of himself. 
The years of pining and flirting and joking and pretending that there wasn’t a barrier between the two of you placed there by your very own brother meant that, at the very moment when JJ needed you the most, you could tell instantly. 
It all took a second. An entire conversation in just the blink of an eye. He knew why you were standing there across the street in your too tight tank top and your too short shorts. He could see the outline of the coins and the cash in your pocket. And he knew that even though you couldn’t save him from spending the night in a jail cell, you would be damned before you left without trying to save him from his dad. 
“No,” his eyes told you as soon as the elation in his face faded. “You’ll get hurt.” 
“If I don’t, so will you.” 
It didn’t matter that an entire road separated the two of you. You’d spent years communicating through a brick wall built by your own two hands. You could still read him perfectly. 
But now wasn’t the time for reading. Road be damned, brick wall be damned. 
You pulled your hand out from your pocket and forced a wide grin on your face. JJ scowled at the sudden change in your demeanor. 
“JJ! Mr. Maybank!” You called and stepped into the street. The old man turned to look at you with the deepest scowl you had ever seen in your life. Just before your mother abandoned you and John B, she had told you that the only thing scowling achieved was wrinkles. Looking at Luke Maybank’s face now, you knew that she was right. 
“What?” He snapped as you stepped back onto the sidewalk. 
“My dickhead brother was supposed to come pick me up but he’s off with some chick,” you lied smoothly, your smile never once faltering. Luke grunted and took a step to push past you and continue walking. As you stepped in front of him again, you sent one quick look to JJ to affirm that you were doing just fine. 
“I was wondering if you could maybe give me a ride?” You asked as sweetly as you could. 
“Look, y/n,” Luke grumbled. “I’ve got shit to deal with right now.” 
At the word ‘shit’, Luke sent a sharp glare over to JJ, who tried not to flinch. Your eyebrows pinched together. You dropped your smile into a small pout and heaved out a heavy sigh. You knew exactly what you were doing, but you tried to ignore Luke’s eyes on you all the same. Just thinking about it sent shivers down your spine. 
“That’s okay,” you said, looking up with a pouty sweet smile. “I’ll just walk.” 
You gave JJ a small wave of your fingers, but you had no intention of leaving. Because only seconds later did Luke Maybank let out a sigh equal to that of your own. 
“Get in the car, y/n. A girl like you walking across the island is bound to get unwanted attention.” 
The smile that grew on your face was equal parts to cover up the fear that his words struck into your heart and elation that your plan had actually worked. You looked over at JJ again, only to see this his eyes were stormy and his jaw was clenched tight. You sent him a wink as his dad brushed past you. 
Falling into step with JJ was like breathing. With you by his side, he was less tense than before. Neither of you said anything on your way to the car, but neither of you really needed to. You hooked your pinky around his and gave a short squeeze before letting your hand fall back to your side. 
There was half a race to the passenger door, but, like always, you won. You sent him your best attempt at a playful smile as you pulled the door open, forcing him to slide into the back seat, disgruntled. In your mind, the harder it was for Luke to reach JJ, the happier you would be, even if it meant sitting next to the one person you hated most on the planet. 
In an attempt to keep your nonchalant air about you, you propped your feet up on the dashboard, leaning back and draping your arm out the window. JJ jammed his knee into the back of your seat, giving you an angry glare, which you dismissed and ignored.
“Feet off the dash, sweetheart.” Luke’s voice was tight even as he tapped his hand once against your shin. You tried to laugh it off as you pulled your feet back but you suddenly realized what exactly you had gotten yourself into. 
“Sorry, Mr. Maybank,” you said as you cast your eyes back to JJ, who was smoldering silently in the backseat. 
“It’s Luke, please,” the older man said, pulling out of the parking spot. You swallowed a lump in your throat and gave a quiet laugh. 
Eight years you had known this man and never once had he let you call him Luke. A pit formed in your stomach. 
“Haven’t seen you around in a while, y’n,” he said. He didn’t turn his head but you can see his eyes shift toward you. 
“Oh, you know. With my dad missing, I’ve been taking care of John B a lot,” you said, waving your hand through the air like it was nothing. “Leaves very little time for a social call.” 
“You’ve grown a lot.” 
How in the hell were you supposed to respond to that? Normal people shouldn’t say shit like that to a teenage girl. You didn’t even have to look at JJ to know that he was absolutely fuming. All you could do was let out a stiff laugh. 
“Where do you need to go?” Luke asked. You cringed to yourself. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead. Improvising was more JJ’s area of expertise, but you’d picked up on a thing or two over the years. You hoped it would be enough to keep you out of deep shit with Luke. 
“JB and I have been working on this bike back at the house and I came out here to buy a part from some guy online. Turned out to be a scam,” you said with a sigh, playing with the broken rubber on the door. 
“This boy back here hasn’t been helping you out?” Luke asked, jamming a thumb in the direction of JJ. You noted how he refused to say his name. 
“Uh, it’s kinda a brother/sister project.” You glanced back at JJ again. He rolled his eyes, smelling your bullshit from a mile away. You weren’t really the tinkering type. 
“I see. What’s the part you need?” 
You almost panicked, your eyes going wide. You knew jackshit about what different parts of a motorcycle were called. JJ had tried to teach you once a few months ago before John B had so rudely interrupted. Giving yourself a few seconds to rack your brain for the name of even a single mechanical part. 
“It’s the uh, I can’t really remember the name,” you chuckled, your heart starting to pound as Luke eyed you carefully. “It’s something weird. Something small and it goes in the engine? I don’t know what JB was thinking sending me.” 
“Why don’t I take you to the house and you can show me which piece you’re missing?” 
Your heart constricted even further. There was a rule you and JJ had. Well, aside from the silent rule not to ever act on their feelings for the sake of John B. This rule had nothing to do with your brother. Never, ever, ever were you supposed to go back to his house. No matter what happened, JJ had told you to stay clear of his house. 
But if you didn’t go, what would happen to him once he was alone? You almost couldn’t stomach it. Looking back at JJ, his eyes were narrowed into a warning. 
“Don’t you dare,” his eyes said. You grimaced. Could you really leave him knowing full well what was waiting for him on the other end? It didn’t feel right. It’s not like Luke would try anything with JJ there. You would be perfectly safe. Or, at least, you had managed to convince yourself you would be. 
“Um, yeah. It’d have to be quick though. Kie’s picking me up from the Chateau in in an hour.” 
It was another lie. You just hoped it would be enough to keep you out of any trouble. JJ sighed audibly and you tried to send him an apologetic look but he was too busy staring out the window. 
The trip to the Maybank abode was full of awkward small talk between you and Luke, JJ refusing to make a sound. He refused to even look at you once Luke parked the car and stepped out. You were expecting him to storm inside, but he stood there and waited for you. The look on his face told you that you had royally pissed him off and for half a moment, you felt ashamed for breaking your promise never to go to his house. 
But that shame faded into a firm resolve. You were helping him. He may be angry at you now, but he would understand later and he’d be grateful. 
You followed after Luke as he walked into the house, keeping your chin high. You were right about this. You had to be. 
“You want a beer?” Luke asked you. You could tell that he had already had a couple this morning. You wondered how many beers it would take for him to pass out. 
“Sure,” you said, tugging on frayed edges of your shorts. Luke didn’t ask JJ if he wanted one. 
“Beer’s and the parts are out in the back,” Luke told you. 
“Okay.” 
You slowed, pausing to stop next to JJ. 
“Are you okay?” You whispered to him. You couldn’t imagine what it would be like to spend the night alone in a jail cell. The idea of him being there all by himself made you queasy. 
“You promised,” he whispered right back, keeping his eyes fixed on his dad, who wandered around the porch looking for something. 
“I know.” Your voice was quiet. 
“y/n!” Luke called. “C’mere!” 
JJ tore his gaze from his father to look down at you. He reached out and grabbed your wrist. 
“Don’t.” 
“He’ll think something’s up. It’s just a beer.” 
“Get out of here, y’n, I swear to God-”
“And leave you here with him?” You let your quiet voice raise ever so slightly and then glanced toward Luke to make sure he hadn’t heard. “No. I’m staying.”
“y/n.” You slid out of JJ’s grip and took a started toward the back porch. “y/n!” 
You stepped onto the porch with a smile. There was an opened beer just waiting for you to grab. You picked it up with as much of a smile as you could muster.
                                                           ***
Forty-five minutes later, you were holding a piece of metal that was supposed to do something for a made up motorcycle that you had no idea how to use and Luke was passed out on the couch. You let out a sigh and set down the empty beer bottle that you hadn’t taken a single drink of. Luke was tipsy enough before you even started talking about motorcycles that he didn’t notice you pouring your beer out over the side of the porch. 
JJ was leaning up against the wall, watching you and his dad carefully. Once you were convinced that Luke was asleep, you turned around to face your friend. 
“My room,” he said, pushing off the wall and turning down the thin hallway. Your heart skipped a tiny beat. He was still upset with you. All your life, you hadn’t really been like John B or JJ. You weren’t confrontational. You liked to keep your head down, walk away without a fight. 
But this wasn’t confrontation you could avoid. You had to follow him. You had no choice, even if the idea of it made you want to vomit. 
You had never been in JJ’s room before. Of course you hadn’t. You weren’t really sure what you had been expecting, but it wasn’t really this. Maybe some old movie posters, some pictures of the pogues, a record player and the albums of his favorite bands. 
But his room was bare. The paint on the walls was peeling. His bed was nothing more than a mattress on the floor with a sheet and a torn comforter. There was a wooden dresser on the wall under the window, but it was chipped and one of the drawers that had been pulled out was broken. Clothes were all over the floor, but it was clear JJ hadn’t been back here in a few days. You knew exactly where he had been, of course. 
“JJ-” 
“What the hell were you thinking?” JJ’s hands were on his hips. You wrapped one hand around your wrist and twisted nervously. JJ putting his hands on his hips meant he was especially agitated and the more agitated he was, the more he was likely to yell.
“I was just trying to keep you safe,” you said, voice quiet. 
“I don’t need you to protect me!” 
You clenched your teeth together as tight as you could. You wished you could properly articulate your side of things without your voice shaking or tears gathering in your eyes, but the sad truth of it was that yelling always made you cry. And you hated it.
“What was I supposed to do? Let you get your ass beat?” 
“Yes!” You flinched at the tone in his voice. “What’s the point of trying to keep me safe if you’re the one who gets hurt?”
“I didn’t get hurt,” you reminded him gently. “I’m fine.” 
“Yeah, well, you might not have been.” There was a look in his eye that you recognized, but you had seen it only a few times before. Fear, true fear. He had gotten good at covering it up over the years, but there was no shroud over the fear in his eyes now. It was a level of vulnerable that was so rare to see on JJ. 
“I understand that,” you said. “And I’m sorry if I freaked you out, but I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.” 
“Why not?” 
“Why not?” The tiniest shred of courage found its way into your heart and your own voice started to rise. “You know damn well why not! What kind of friend would I be if I just let you get into that car alone?” 
“You promised me you would never get in between me and my dad again. You made that promise to me and you just broke it.” 
You tried not to scowl. 
“First of all, I didn’t technically break any promises. I didn’t get in between you and your dad this time. I stopped it from happening in the first place. Second, the promise was never valid because I had my fingers crossed.” It was childish, sure. But you were a child so you had a habit of acting like one from time to time, especially when you got nervous. 
“Dammit, y/n! Can’t you see I’m just trying to keep you safe?” 
“Yeah and I’m trying to keep you safe.”
JJ huffed out a sigh and turned his back on you, which sent a spike of pain through your heart. 
“You should go,” he said. 
“JJ-”
“I’m not kidding. Get out of here before my dad wakes up.” 
You let out a short breath through your nose and clasped your hands together in front of you. You couldn’t help the agitation that burned in your chest. 
“Whatever makes you happy, J.” 
“Fuck you, y/n. You know this doesn’t make me happy,” he turned back around slowly to face you once again and you pursed your lips. 
“Don’t stay here,” you told him, going back to your quiet words and almost shy demeanor. “Come back with me to the Chateau. We can figure everything out.” 
“How?” He asked with an aggressive shrug. “How in the hell are we going to figure anything out?” 
You paused for a moment, searching for the right words to say. You had one shot to get this right, to say the one thing that would get JJ to leave this place with you. 
“Like we always do,” you said after a few moments. “Together.” 
You extended out your hand to him, silently begging for him to bridge the gap between you. He hesitated, glancing between your tear-glossed eyes and your outstretched hand. Eternity passed in those few moments before he made his decision. A bead of sweat ran down your spine. A cool breeze left a wave of goosebumps across your legs in its wake. Your eyes swam with tears but not a single one of them fell. And you waited. 
Eternity passed and JJ finally made his move. His hand was up, reaching for yours as he took a step forward. You were pulling him into your arms before his fingertips even grazed your own. He let out a single, shuddered breath like a sob of relief as he tucked his face into the crook of your neck. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you pressed a gentle kiss against the side of his head. 
“I can’t promise you that everything will work out the way we want it to,” you whispered quietly to him. He let out another shaky breath as he held tight to your hand, one arm wrapped around your waist. “But I can promise you that whatever you face, you won’t be alone.” 
“Your fingers aren’t crossed this time?” he asked in a half hearted attempt to joke, but he didn’t even attempt to crack a smile as you pulled away from him to look him in the eyes. 
“I promise,” you told him, holding your uncrossed fingers up in front of him. He nodded once, his hair shaking loose and falling in front of his eyes. “Come on, then. Let’s go home.” 
________________________________________________________________
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heli0s-writes · 4 years
Text
crystalline*
A/N: Instead of attending to the rest of my WIPS, here’s 1.6k words of Bottom Bucky and Service Dom reader. Throatfucking. Erm. Cathartic crying. 
Warnings: Bucky working out trauma. Please stop reading if you are not 18+
brooklyn after dark masterlist
You teach him how to want things again.
His pieces from the past, the joys he used to have taken too soon— you tell him he can have it all back.
It started with food, predictably. No longer being tube-fed slurry, Bucky quickly embarked on discovering all the new flavors of the 21st century.
Chocolate alone was a month-long passion as he attempted to scrub out the standard issued combat rations haunting his tongue. Chalky cuts like cold pressed gravel— fuck that. The first time you broke off a square of unroasted, dark, sprinkled with Himalayan sea salt chocolate, Bucky’s head hit the back of the couch with a pathetic mewl and a million things rushed through his mind of all the ways he could keep feeling this good.
Sleep came next— something he thought he’d had enough of, but the difference between getting perma-frosted every decade and lying face down in whatever memory foam’s made out of is lifetimes apart.
Bubble baths. Streaming apps. Nice clothes.
Attention and affection. Kisses. Braids in his hair. Tickles for extra laughs. His ego’s in overdrive because he has half a thought about anything and you’re fulfilling it like his personal genie. You say he needs all the dopamine he can get and you’re gonna give it to him.
And you give it to him in spades.
Orgasms. Jesus fucking Christ, he’s spoiled rotten.
Morning sex, afternoon sex, sex before bed. Blindsided in hallways and under conference room tables. The compound pool’s been properly christened more than once, and if Tony ever found out just exactly how many of those precious luxury cars have seen the imprint of Bucky’s ass, he’d set them all on fire.
But, reconciliation comes for him eventually. Spend long enough feeling all good he figures it was about time he starts screwing it up. He turns greedy, he starts wanting for too much. His girl’s an insatiable little beast, but even beasts have limits.
-
Bucky went shy when he asked, stuttering about how it’s okay if you didn’t—if you weren’t—it’s kinda strange— but you’d put your hand over his and tilted his chin up.
“Bucky,” you said fondly, “Baby,” and then a sweet smile curled over your pretty pink lips like spun sugar, “I’d eat your ass like a five-course meal. I’ll let you fuck me on the moon. What is it, huh?”
He could’ve kissed your dirty mouth silly.
“I want you to use a toy—"
“We do all the time.”
“—on me.”
And that sweet candy pink smile turned red hot and wicked. No limit in sight.
-
You approach the bed like a fever dream and all the blood in Bucky’s body congregates south.
Nothing on but the 2-day-shipping-because-the-phone’s-a-genie-too leather harness sitting snugly on your hips and a grin. The heaviness between your thighs hangs like both an offering and a weapon.
He asked for it. He wanted it. Just—maybe, to start— can you be rough with him. Then, stuttering once more because he doesn’t know how to justify why. It doesn’t make any sense and it’s hard to say out loud that with all the things you let him have, that after nearly a century of being out of his own body, he… wants to give it away.
He’s messed up, baby. Sick down to his rotten core.
You only shushed him. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll rough you up real fucking good. No why’s necessary.
Fleshy weight brushes against your inner thigh, swinging idly from one side to the other. “This okay?”
“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, still dressed at the edge of the mattress, skin beginning to prickle, nerves taking a hard left into arousal. When your hand finds rough landing in his hair, he thinks he must be the luckiest bastard in the entire world.  
Bucky drops on his knees like dead weight, nearly tearing off his clothes, feeling the upsurge of heat in his cheeks and chest. His eyelids are fluttering, your face going fuzzy but he can still see that look of adoration you reserve for him.
He’s pondering if that old saying is true—if there can be too much of a good thing, if he’s become spoiled sick, or if he could overdose on pleasure when you start thumbing the edge of his mouth.
“Pay attention,” you say with a glimmer in your eyes. “Open.”
He’s tingling when you put two fingers in, moving around his tongue, scissoring them against his inner cheek. They explore for a while, bolder each passing second. He can tell you’re getting excited too, your chest heaving gradually, watching him with curious intent.
“You like this?” You ask, lip between your teeth, and Bucky nods, leaning further in, spit following the path of your hand down to his neck. You palm the cock like it’s always belonged to your body and he’s mesmerized at how it rises from your grip, moving over his face to rest on his cheek.
“It’s big, baby.” You warn, full on now. You stroke the outline of his jaw with it, leaving a burning path in its wake. “You sure?”
He quietly likes that you ask—honey-toned and patient, needing to hear it, knowing that he needs to hear it from himself. All those things he’d been made to say with his body and not with his mind.
Now he gets it back, as you said. Gets a part of himself back, too.
“Yes—ah—yes.”
Bucky’s words are slurred into your hand, but he’s begging with his eyes. Yes. I want it. Please let me. Please make me. Please fix me.
You replace your fingers, sluicing up the cock with his spit. Then, you fuck his mouth slow, feeding it to him inch by inch before dragging it away. Bucky’s lips are quivering for more, jaw slack, panting hoarsely. He feels overcome at how you stand over him, mesmerized by him, too.
“Yeah, honey,” you croon, and Bucky’s heart swells with pride. “You’re doing so well, pretty boy.”
He’s licking blindly and sucking between ragged gasps when he attempts to say your name, knowing full well he’ll never get the whole word out before you wedge back into him. And god, it’s hot. It’s dirty and filthy and so fucking sweet.
You grasp the base of his skull, keeping his head still and laying into his mouth rhythmically. The cockhead hits Bucky’s throat, pushing into the soft palate, reaching further. His eyes are rolling, whimpers catching where the toy ends, caught in the breath of air in his mouth.
“Take it, baby,” you command, and Bucky gags. One hand scrambles for your thigh, other clawing his own, pressing red crescents into the flesh. It hurts. It hurts good like it never did before and Bucky chokes it down, eyes squeezed shut now, tears prickling from the ducts and collecting at the corners.
“Oh, you’re so good,” and his body just keeps lighting up. “You good boy. You perfect, perfect boy.” And he’s nodding desperately, needy, gut coiled tight like a spring.
“So fucking dirty,” you hiss, pulling hard on his hair, “Look at you— leaking all over yourself.”
He is. He’s a goddamn mess, sticky lines of precome down his shaft and collecting at his base.
“Drooling all over my cock like this. You’re hungry for it, aren’t you?”
“Uhhngg— hnnng—” He moans weakly at the things you do to him and for him.
“That’s right, you are. Keep going, show me how much you want it.” Jesus, the way you make him feel— like he could be exactly who he is and never have to apologize for a goddamn thing. Broken and ruined but you’d still give him the whole fucking world.
The noises Bucky’s making are muffled and obscene as he fists himself, shuddering and pumping erratically. One more final drive from your hips and he’s bursting at the seams, shattering to pieces, coming with a strangled cry.
You don’t let up, taking his throat unrelentingly, watching him sob and fall apart. He’s going limp in your clutch, letting his eyes well up like pools, your smiling face so beautiful in the crystalline light.
If he’s sick, then you must be the fever he can’t sweat out. The fire burning through his bones until he’s nothing but smoldering bits of debris afterwards. Grains and soot of him floating in the steady flow of your faithful current.
When he’s made a perfect mess of himself, come-covered and quivering, you finally let him breathe again, pulling out wetly.
“There you go,” you say, kneeling to kiss his panting mouth, “Did that feel good?” 
Your lips are a cool balm on his swollen ones and Bucky hums a response, body still thrumming. “Yeah,” he sighs, sensitive like a wound, raw and open and tender. “Real— good.”
You rub his back and run your fingers through his hair, letting him rest in your arms. You wipe away the tears on his cheeks and over his trembling eyelids.
Gentle words tumble from your lips. Promises of love and of good memories to replace the bad ones. More kisses. More affection. More reclamation.
All those little granules of fractured time, you collect in the soft surrender of his mouth. Wet and salty, they fall together there, and Bucky feels himself clicking into place. Perfect and whole and treasured like an iridescent pearl.
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