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secretsofthedarkestkind-arch · 3 years

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Part 2 of the episode 1 ramble. Triggers marked. Again who wants to be tagged for this?

Part One

word count: 1,707

@storieswrittcn (about to see why I said Kat would possibly want to kill Caroline for other than canon reasons)

Lee sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair at a desk listening to another boring teacher ramble on about the history of Virginia. She wanted to bang her head against her desktop. She didn’t need this lecture. She had lived through the 1860’s here, Lee remembered it too well. But hearing about it made her miss Katherine even more. She remembered how the state divided in 1863, it had made the then teenager worry if she’d be able to leave to see her aunt--to see her lover.

Lee shifted in her seat, setting her pen down as she fished her phone out of her jean pocket--downside to skinny jeans. She glanced at the teacher before unlocking her phone.

Text [To My Heart]: Want a recap of Virginia history? No. Me either but here I sit.

Text [To My Heart]: You owe me for this

Lee looked up just in time to see the doppelganger and her brother making eye contact, only for the girl to look away with a wide smile. Stefan though didn’t truly look away. She sensed the eyes of another on her brother, it was some jock. He looked between the two. Jealous much?

Text [To My Heart:] I’m watching a train wreck.

She pocketed her phone for now. The teen got a text herself and then almost preened for Stefan. A train wreck indeed.

-----

After school Stefan and Lee walked out to her car, she leaned against the hood. “Is she really worth this?” She nodded toward the school.

“Yeah,” He told her but he was distracted, his eyes searching the students as they left. Lee rolled her eyes for what felt like the hundredth time since she’d been back.

“She’s walking,” Lee tells him. Stefan’s head snaps toward her. “That way,” She slyly pointed at the doppelgangers back as she left the school property. “Go. Stalk. Let me know if you need me. I’m going to find something to do--then I guess do homework for the first time in about twenty years.” She was not looking forward to that at all.

“Twenty years?” Stefan asked though his eyes were on the girl’s retreating form.

“Yale 1980’s.” Lee confesses, her brothers really don’t know much about her life. “Just go and be that creepy guy.” She pushes his shoulder, Stefan nods and heads off. Lee slides into the car and starts it up. “Where to go and what to do?” She says to herself. Backing out of the parking spot, she pulls away and decides to drive aimlessly for a while.

-----

Lee sat at the Mystic Grill-- How original. She leaned back in her chair, popping another fry in her mouth as she watched everyone. Her sketchbook opened on the table a safe distance from the grease of the basket of fries, her phone right beside it. A conversation made her head tilt just slightly and look for the owner of the voice.

“His name is Stefan Salvatore.” Eyes landed on the blonde from that morning who’d look like she could eat both Salvatore’s up walking with the young Bennett witch. How much do you know? “Her name is Lee. They live with their uncle up at the old Salvatore boarding house.” Information easily gotten, what else do you know?

“They haven’t lived here since they were kids.” Lee’s brow scrunched. Where did she get this? “Military family, so they moved around a lot. They’re both Gemini. His favorite color is blue and hers is green.” Wrong, I’m the Gemini. Stef is a Scorpio.

“You got all of that in one day?” The teen witch asked skeptically. Lee sat up straighter in her chair, having to agree with the Bennett. That was a little obsessive.

“Oh please, I got all of that between third and fourth period.” Lee had to shake her head and laugh. Teenage girls, man. She picked up her soda to take a drink, “We’re planning a June wedding.” The blonde continued and Lee had to clear her throat so she didn’t choke. That we better be you and Stefan because if not…

The blonde moved to walk away and the young witch watching her go with a face that matched Lee’s disbelief.

Text [To My Heart:] So there’s a chance I’m having a June wedding I knew nothing about.

-----

Text [From Saint Stef:] Headed somewhere with Elena to meet a friend. Where are you?

Text [To Saint Stef:] Where you are probably headed.

Text [From Saint Stef:] What?

Text [To Saint Stef:] Teen hangout. Wanted fries. I’ll see you.

Lee set her phone down, eyes moving to around to the ones she assumed were Elena’s friends. In her mind she made note of everything, one day it would be important.

Not even ten minutes later Stefan and Elena walked in. Lee watched everyone’s reactions.

Innocent curiosity

Jealousy

Surprise

As Matt approached them, Lee flipped her sketchbook closed quickly and stood up to move to her brother’s side. This could go one of a few ways. Stefan signaled her with the slightest movement of his fingers not to interfere yet. She wouldn’t, instead she just stood beside him. “Hey, I’m Matt, nice to meet you.” The blonde offered his hand. Stefan took it.

“Hi. Stefan.” The two shook hands, one with forced politeness and the other without a clue to the other feelings. Lee wondered where this conversation was supposed to be going.

Matt looked over to Elena, who gave him a hopeful smile, “Hey.”

Matt did not look impressed but he still remained polite, “Hey.”

After that somehow Lee found herself sitting at a table with her brother, Elena, the Bennett witch Bonnie, and the obsessive blonde Caroline. Her phone was tucked away in her pocket and her sketchbook back in her satchel, leather jack across the back of her chair She really just wanted out of this conversation but when the group decided to sit, Elena had invited her and Stefan agreed. “So,” Caroline starts looking between the two, “you were born in Mystic Falls?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm-hmm.” The Salvatore siblings look at each other, Lee chuckles motioning for her brother to continue. The chuckle has Bonnie and Caroline both smiling. “And we moved away, when we were still young.” Not exactly a lie, Lee figures.

“Are you two twins?”

“Noooo.” Lee takes a drink of her soda, “Stefan is older.”

“Not by much.” He adds. Oh what webs have you woven, older brother?

“Right, because we’re all in the same class.”

“Parents?” Bonnie asks. The smile on Lee’s lips disappears, her parents--her father-- was not something she liked to think about. Little did she know her reaction would feed into what Stefan was going to say next.

Stefan clears his throat, “Our parents passed away.” Stefan’s gaze turns to Elena.

“I’m sorry.” Her words are so genuine and Lee wants to smack Stefan for doing this. Elena’s pain is fresh. Theirs is one that’s over a century old. It’s wrong and a low blow. A misguided way of getting closer to the girl. Even as twisted as Lee is, she wouldn’t have played the girls feelings of grief like that unless it was completely necessary. But maybe to Stefan it is.“Any siblings, I mean other than of course you both?”

Lee is about to say yes, but Stefan is quicker almost like he was expecting this question next. “None that I talk to.” Not a no, not a lie, smooth. Lee can’t remember the last time she truly talked to Damon. There wasn’t really a reason too, he was almost as dark as she was. Not that either brother knew that. Of course, she knew where he was. A habit Katherine had, one Lee realized wasn’t out of romantic interest but out of necessity--one day they were going to need them both and that day was closer than the two Salvatore men realized. “We uh live with our uncle.” His focus is still solely on Elena.

Something Caroline didn’t seem thrilled with. So the we was for Stefan. “So Lee,” Caroline’s eyes went to Lee. The brunette could see her calculating how to do this. She’s about to be used as a pawn. A move she might just play along with. As she had that morning, her thumb subconsciously plays with her daylight ring under the table. The metal feeling like it’s almost burning her skin. It’s in her mind but it’s a reminder of where her heart belongs. It’s just a game though right? A dangerous one if she decides to play. This girl is innocent and Lee knows what Katherine will do if she finds out. An old conversation surfaces in her mind.

“What would you feel if you saw me accepting the attention of another, Katerina? Not denying them but encouraging their actions.”

“I would kill them.”

And she had, so many times over the last 145 years.

“If you’re new ,” Caroline continued. Lee came back to the present and Stefan’s attention had been caught, he was now watching the blonde, “then you don’t know about the party tomorrow.” Caroline’s eyes are flirtatious as is the smile on her lips. Lee’s about to make a comment to shoo the attention away from herself when Bonnie explains.

“It’s a back to school thing at the falls.” She looks between the two siblings.

“Right.” Lee mutters, eyes never leaving Caroline’s. “I think you meant to ask Stefan…” The words aren’t cruel or harsh. Just a way to let the blonde know she’s not going to be a pawn. Not at the risk of her life, not when it isn’t a game played between her and Katherine.

Stefan raises a brow at his sister and Caroline seems a little flustered but covers it easily enough. “I mean…”

“You’re both invited,” Bonnie saves her.

Stefan looks to Elena and Lee fails to not roll her eyes. “Are you going?”

“Of course she is,” Bonnie smiles, all too happy to play wing-woman. Elena breaks eye contact to look at the witch, a smile on her lips. She turns almost shy, tucking hair behind her ear.

Lee glances back to Caroline, for a brief second she can see the blonde’s mask fall. The heart that usually only shows genuine kindness for one person cracks from its shell. There’s pain in the teen’s eyes, pain that at one point in life Lee knew all too well. That’s what forces the next words out of her mouth, “I’ll go.” She gives Caroline one of her cocky smirks. It’s a moment of weakness and one she’ll have to explain later. She can only offer Caroline friendship, but hopefully that will be enough.

#admit does tvd #tvd insert #tvdxoc #tvd x oc #tvd x oc insert #oc insert #r:bonnie #r:elena #r:caroline #r:stefan #storieswrittcn #tw: vampire #tw: violent thoughts #part 2/?#ramble #ramble:pilot #v: right kind of wrong #r:katherine #// Lee what are you doing?!

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sorrelchestnut · 5 years

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EVERYBODY’S PICKIN’ UP ON THAT FELINE BEAT, PART 36

I came back to work on this a little and realized that I had enough to post. And yes, I am still working on this, slowly but surely.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Part 11. Part 12. Part 13. Part 14. Part 15. Part 16. Part 17. Part 18. Part 19. Part 20. Part 21. Part 22. Part 23. Part 24. Part 25. Part 26. Part 27. Part 28. Part 29. Part 30. Part 31. Part 32. Part 33. Part 34. Part 35.

Title: everybody’s picking up on that feline beat Author: Sorrel Fandom: Fallout 4 Rating: Mature Warnings: None Relationships: Deacon/Female Sole Survivor Series: Part 3 of everybody wants to be a cat

It’s late when he gets back. A few hours after sunset, probably, though he's not exactly sure how many. His time-sense has gotten all out of whack lately. He always gets confused at the tail end of summer, when the days aren't the length they're supposed to be, and he's gotten used to having a chrono on-hand, as it were. Even if it's not his hand.

There's just enough moonlight coming through the skylight that he can navigate his way through the dark, empty atrium, picking his way past the bodies they left where they fell. If the Institute comes looking, they'll find a den of raiders that took advantage of their distraction to steal their chemist, and a bloodbath that followed when a Brotherhood squad came through to clean up the mess. As far as anyone would be able to tell, they were never here at all.

His knees go a little weak when he spots the short, lumpy shadow of the packs at the base of the steps. Both packs. She's still here. She waited for him.

He's not sure if that feeling in his chest is relief or terror. Maybe both.

His head aches as he climbs the steps to the second floor, moving dreamy and slow, like he's underwater. He hasn't slept since yesterday afternoon. Apparently it shows, based on how hard High Rise lobbied for him to crash in one of the spare rooms, but Deacon just dropped off his report and headed out with a smile. There were one too many curious looks, people wondering why he was on his own. Too many questions he wasn’t prepared to answer.

There's a door open at the end of the hall: their makeshift bedroom, the one with no external windows and a minimal amount of blood on the walls. It's where they slept before, waiting for the op, and it's where Whisper's sleeping now: curled up in a little ball on the stained mattress, with one hand on the knife under her pillow and the other tugging her too-big coat up over her shoulders like a blanket. Her face seems hollow and strange in the faint greenish light of her Pip-boy, sitting on the upturned crate she's using as a night table. She doesn't usually leave it turned on when she's not wearing it, says it runs down the battery. She only leaves it active like that when she's trying to keep her comms line open. She must still be wearing her earpiece. Fell asleep waiting to hear from him.

Ah, fuck.

He's not sure if she heard him coming up the steps, but she doesn't move when he comes in and sits down on the end of the mattress, so he knows she's awake. He waits, staring silently at the gang tag spray-painted on the wall, for her to say something. Yell at him, maybe, for running off. Demand what the fuck he thought he was doing. Hell, even make a joke—it'd tear at his insides, making light of this, but what the fuck, right? It's what they do.

But she says nothing, and that's when he knows what he has to do.

"When I was young," he says to the wall, "a hell of a long time ago, I was… well, scum."

She stays silent, but he senses movement, quickly arrested. When he sneaks a glance at her out of the corner of his eye, her eyes are open and fixed on his face. He looks quickly away.

"I was a bigot. A very… violent bigot. I ran with a gang in University Point. We called ourselves the U-P Deathclaws."

"Catchy," she says, her voice hoarse from the clinging remnants of sleep.

"I know, right? That's what happens when you let teenagers name things."

"No taste at all," she agrees. Her heavy-lidded gaze is watchful. "So what'd you do?"

"Oh, the usual. Drank, stole shit, took inadvisable amounts of chems, kicked around trash cans—you know, the same shit hooligans always do when they're trying to make themselves look tough."

"Sounds familiar." She hauls herself to a sitting position, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, her back to the wall. Her face is fully clean; she must have found some solvent to scrub off the last of the grease paint. The green light from her Pip-boy gives her face a gaunt, somber cast. "We all make mistakes when we're young."

"A mistake or two, yeah. But what I did…" He takes a breath, lets it out slow. "One of the older boys, he had a real mad-on about the Institute. His mom disappeared when he was a kid—everyone figured she just took off, but his dad swore up and down the Institute must've taken her, and we all believed it. So when we thought someone might be a synth, it just seemed right, y'know? We'd make their lives hell, and it was just. It was fair. The Institute took from us, so we sure as fuck were going to take back from them. Any fucking way we could."

From the look on her face, she already knows where this story is going to go. But he tells her anyway: the whole sordid story, piece by excruciating piece. She doesn't say anything when he tells her about the beatings, and doesn't say anything when the beatings graduated to a lynching, and she keeps on not saying anything when he tells her about getting out, starting over halfway across the Commonwealth. The only time she makes a sound is when he tells her about Barbara—he hears a quick intake of breath when he says her name, so quiet he wouldn't have caught it if he hadn't been listening. But when he looks over, she's just watching him, her face and body arranged into perfect, doll-like stillness. Giving him nothing.

"And that's when I got approached by a recruiter from HQ," he says, finally. "I guess they figured I'd be sympathetic, seeing that I'd lost my wife. And, well." He shrugs, a short minimalist roll of his shoulders. "What I did afterwards."

"They didn't know you used to run with the Claws?"

It's the first time she's spoken in a while, and the familiar pitch of her sleep-roughened voice tears at his throat like a feral's teeth. Deacon looks down at his hands, the fingers twining restlessly together. "It'd been a few years, and I using another name. And I'd just killed everyone who could recognize me from that life. Still. Think I spent the first year, at least, waiting for the other shoe to drop." Until the Institute almost wiped them out, anyway. Then it was too late. "Never did. Nobody ever figured me out."

"You are good at what you do," she says, neutrally. She's not wearing her shades, but she might as well be, with how little he can get off her face. "So that's how you ended up with the Railroad?"

"Yeah. That's me. The best con I ever pulled, after getting Barbara to marry me. Not like I was any more honest with her than anyone else." He stretches his legs out in front of him, studies the toes of his boots so he doesn't look at her face. "That's who I am, you know. A liar. You think I'm like this because of the job? Hell, no. I'm a fraud right down to the core. Always have been, always will be."

Out of the corner of his eye he sees her open her mouth, but keeps going before she can say anything.

"I mean, why do I even lie anymore? Who could possibly give a shit? But I do. I can't stop. Everyone—Tom, Dez, even that asshole Carrington—they deserve to be in the Railroad. You? You're a fucking hero. You belong here. I don't. I'm everything that's wrong with the whole fucking Commonwealth."

"Deacon-"

Her voice is shredded. There's a shine of tears in her dark eyes, and he holds up a hand to stop her, panic scrabbling inside his ribs. "Let me finish, okay? I had a whole speech here."

She opens her mouth, and then closes it again, very deliberately. He sees her twining her hands together, as if to keep herself from reaching out, and has to look away.

"You're my best friend, you know? Probably, uh. Probably the only one, since we're on honesty hour here. You're… you're pretty much all I've got. So." He takes a breath, feels it rattle anxiously in his chest when he exhales. "I know I don't deserve for you to be okay with this. And, hell, I'm not even asking for it. I just…" He stops. Clears his throat. Tries, and fails, to bring himself to look her in the eye. "I just figured you should know."

Whisper says nothing—and keeps on saying nothing, for so long that he eventually, inevitably, has to give in and sneak a glance back towards her. She's still watching him, with that steady, assessing expression: the same way she studies raider dens and mutie camps and every stupid, gullible mark that wears their heart on their sleeve, like a lever just waiting to be pulled. She's never looked at him like that before and he hopes she never fucking does it again, because right now he feels more naked than he's ever been, fully dressed and wearing his shades and still stripped to the bone by the brutal clockwork efficiency of her regard. Whatever dusty fragments of honesty he managed to pry up for her ruthless inspection, in that moment he knows that she's observed and cataloged a dozen things more he didn't even notice. He's taught her too well for her to do anything else.

When he finally manages to nerve himself up to catch her gaze, however, she still doesn't say anything. Just rolls up to her knees and shuffles down the length of the mattress, tapping the earpiece of his shades with an inquisitive expression. Gut churning, but basically unable to tell her no to just about anything right now, he nods and slides them off, tucking them into the front pocket of his shirt. She meets his gaze, makes sure to hold it, and then kneels up and swings one leg over his thighs.

His hands come up automatically to to steady her, then drop away to the mattress like they've been burned. She shakes her head and settles more firmly into his lap, clutching his sleeve for balance, and he reaches up again, tentatively, to cup around her hips. She smiles, a little sadly, and then leans down to press a kiss very precisely to the middle of his forehead.

Deacon closes his eyes against the stupid, inexorable prickle of tears, and she kisses each eyelid, light as a butterfly.

"You do what you gotta do to survive, D." Her voice is a low murmur; intimate, almost confessional. The kindness in her dark eyes detonates in his chest like a frag mine. "That's all there is. You take one step, and the next, and you tell yourself whatever you have to to keep moving, because if you don't you'll fall down and you'll never get back up again. I know. I know."

"Whisper-"

"And you don't have to apologize to anybody for it," she continues, relentless and beautiful with the same steely determination that takes out raiders and muties and Kellogg and anything that gets in her way. "Not Dez, not Carrington, not me. Especially not to me. Okay?"

There's really only one thing he can say. "Yeah, okay." It takes a moment to remember how to move, but when he does he slides his hand up under her hair to cup the back of her neck the way she likes. "Copy that, partner. Loud and clear."

Relief flashes across her face like a lightning strike. "Good. That's- yeah." She leans into his grip, breathing a sigh he feels down into his bones, and closes her eyes. "That's good. That's exactly what I needed to hear."

They sit together for a while after that, just the two of them in the quiet. After a bit Whisper shifts so that she's sitting sideways in his lap, her head tucked into the curve of his shoulder but determinedly keeping her grip on his sleeve. He wraps his arms around her, rests his chin on the top of her head, and closes his eyes, gratitude a hazy burn at the back of his throat.

He doesn't know what the fuck he did to deserve this, but damned if he's going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Eventually, she stirs, nuzzling a haphazard kiss to the underside of his jaw. "We should sleep," she murmurs into his neck, and he shivers at the hot wash of her breath against his skin.

"Probably a good idea," he agrees, but he doesn't move until she does, lurching out of his lap with a grunt. He subtly stretches out one leg, and then the other, trying to shake away the tingles as blood goes flooding back, and then drops next to her longways on the mattress, not bothering to take off his boots. She immediately rolls over and fits herself against his back, wrapping one skinny arm around his middle and fitting her knees up behind his like silverware in a drawer.

"Thank you," she says, into his shoulder. Already half-asleep, he grunts something that might have been an interrogative, and she sighs and nuzzles against the knob of his spine. "For coming back. For telling me. For being here. Just. Thanks."

His jaw works for a moment before he can speak. "Anytime, partner," he manages, and then she flicks off the light on her Pip-boy, and there's nothing but silence.

~*~

He would have thought he’d sleep for shit, given everything that went down last night, but when he wakes up the next morning he feels almost refreshed. He's not sure exactly what time it is, their room being distinctly lacking in windows, but there's a hint of dampness to the air slipping through the leaky siding, a breath of fog the sun hasn't yet had a chance to burn off. Still early, then. They probably weren't out more than four, five hours at most.

They shifted positions sometime in the night, and Deacon lies there for a while, staring up at the ceiling and enjoying the warm, heavy weight of Whisper sprawled across his front. She's breathing quietly into his collarbone, not quite a snore, and he'd love nothing more than to let her stay there forever, but they do, after all, have somewhere to be.

"Whisper," he murmurs, running a hand down her back. "Whisper, hey. Time to get up, pal."

"Kill you," she mumbles indistinctly into his shoulder. "To death."

"Wow, that's rude." He sets his chin on top of her head and hums a jaunty tune, some old pre-War ad jingle that never fails to get a rise out of her. Right on time, she makes an annoyed grunt and digs her chin into his collarbone. "Ouch! Here I am, trying to make sure you enjoy the fruits of your labor, and you can't even muster some basic civility." Nothing. "C'mon, gorgeous, it's a beautiful morning out there. The sun is shining, the birds are singing…"

"So shoot 'em." She makes a spirited attempt to burrow down into his ribcage, tucking her face defensively under his collar. "They're probably Watchers anyway."

"You're such a pessimist," he says fondly, and tweaks one of her curls. "I'm serious, partner, time to rise and shine. Daylight's a-wastin', and you wanted to be across the river by lunchtime."

She finally deigns to open her eyes, tilting her head back just enough to look at him in muzzy-eyed confusion. "I did?"

He smiles down at her, helplessly affectionate. "You've got to pick up Valentine for his procedure, remember?"

"You make it sound like he's going to the vet," she says automatically, but then comprehension filters into her eyes. "Oh. Shit. Already?"

"They say time does fly when you're having fun," he agrees. "And as much as I'd love to keep the party going, we do have an appointment to keep. You know how much I care about punctuality."

"I believe your exact words were 'for suckers.'"

"Exactly! So no one will expect us on time. It's all about keeping 'em off their toes."

"If you could just dial down the cheer like, at least thirty percent, that would be just great." She hauls herself into a vaguely vertical position and then just hangs there, elbows on her knees, staring resentfully at the wall. He nudges her in the back and she grunts. "What? I'm up, leave me alone."

"You're lying," he says, very kindly.

"Takes one," she grumbles back, but puts a hand on his thigh and squeezes in wordless acknowledgement. That's when he knows: she's not going to bring it up, ever again.

God. He really doesn't deserve her.

"Sticks and stones, Livvy-love," he chirps, and grins when she levels him with a death glare. "What? I'm just getting into character."

"I hate that you're a morning person, just so you know," she informs him, and stumbles out of bed. "If you don't have coffee ready by the time we leave, there are going to be consequences."

#fallout 4 #deacon #female sole survivor #deacon/female sole survivor #fic #everybody wants to be a cat

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thatlittlered · 6 years

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Burning Desire | Quattuor

Warning: Some mild smut.

Summary: A late night at some trashy bar gets John a whole lot more than he bargained for but he’ll have to put on a fight just to keep it.

Series Masterlist.

The waitress makes her way to his table with all the grace of a newborn horse taking its very first steps. She has the air of a person in shock, someone whose brain is running someplace else. The girl looks as if she fell through a hole and ended up here, in this miserable place.

Tucking her dark hair behind about a thousand times, she pours him water with trembling hands. He feels bad for this poor young thing. Diane, her tag reads. She looks out of place in this shithole. Had it not been for his eyes searching for you everywhere, he might have paid her a bit more attention.

Diane looks relieved that the ordeal of filling his glass is over and rushes back to the kitchen, almost tripping over another patron’s foot. The whole tray comes down with a clang and it’s not long after that a stern, chubby man appears behind the counter.

He’s shouting loud enough for the half-broken light at the ceiling to shake dangerously, reminding John of a sling in the park just two blocks away from his house. This place is falling apart and he wonders what the fuck someone like you is doing in here.

There’s an ache in his chest for the girl that disappears behind some little door, tears pouring down her face as the horrible man follows suit. But then he hears your name being called, the one that’s lingered in his head all day. The same one he chanted like a prayer just hours ago in his bedroom.

You appear out of seemingly nowhere, a rug in hand and a frown in your face as you crouch on the floor to wipe it clean. John watches you in awe, you’re still a vision as much as before but there’s something wondrous about seeing you while dressed in evening light.

He loves that uniform on you. Then again, you could be wearing garbage bags and he’d think you’re fantastic. Still, the uniform suits you. It looks like something straight out of the 50s but unlike the rest of this place, it’s freshly washed and drowning in your scent, which he welcomes. It sits a little tight on your curves and he notices… everyone does.

There’s a light movement of your breasts with every swipe on the floor and well, he's trying not to stare but he ’s long lost all willpower. He watches your lips pucker, blowing away that annoying strand of hair time after time before you finally give up and push it back with your arm. That’s when he catches a glimpse of the bruise-like mark on your neck. It only shows for a second but he sees it, of course, and he can’t help but smile.

Pride swells in his chest to see he’s marked you.

He only wishes the others could see.

When you rise from the ground, it’s a siren wail in his mind and his face disappears behind the grease-stained menu. It stinks of fried junk food and spilled soda drinks… and then it doesn’t.

There’s a tingling feeling that washes through his body as he’s being overwhelmed of that powdery rose that he’s dreamed of. It succeeds in fogging his mind every time.

“Good day to you, sir. What can I get you?” your voice reminds him of canaries singing and he thinks he’d like to listen to you talk all the time. You didn’t do much talking last night.

When he sets down the menu, the smile on your face is inviting. It makes him feel like he could share all his secrets, melt right in your arms like he wants to.

You make eye contact and the smile disappears, only briefly, before it blooms again on your lips like a heavenly flower. Like a lovesick fool, he smiles back just as wide.

You glance behind you to check no-one’s watching and John has the time to admire you fully. That dress is weaved from cotton candy, he swears. Your hair is pinned up with about a dozen pens, not that he’s counting. It leaves a soft burning feeling in his heart.

“What are you doing here?”

“Having dinner.”

“I’m sure you are, but why here?”

“Ugh, I heard this place is good?” his eyes fall back on the stained menu and he sighs.

You laugh, open and loud for everyone to hear. Someone clears his voice behind you and you turn to see your boss glaring daggers at you with those small, beady eyes of his and you You’ll stick a pen in his throat one day, that’s for sure.

The vixen’s smile returns upon your lips and John ceases to breathe as you lower yourself to his level, leaning down just enough to make him die with your cleavage and stop his heart as you whisper in his ear, “You’re a horrible liar, John Wick.”

His mind breaks out of its daze as if he was just doused in cold water.

“How d’you know my name?”

“It’s written on your doorbell, honey. I can read, you know.” You pull back and John takes this opportunity to breathe again. “It’s a nice name by the way… Sounds mysterious. What do you think, Mr. Wick, are you mysterious?”

His chest rumbles with chuckles and they’re warm. They make you smile wider.

“I don’t think I’m interesting enough to be mysterious.”

“Well, I find you very interesting. Almost as interesting as how the hell you managed to find me here.”

“Went back to the bar and found the owner closing up. He didn’t have a number to give me but from what he knew, you work in this shithole. I’m not still kind of doubting that course of action but… here I am.”

He feels your fingers softly knead through his beard and his heart stutters with every word that comes out of your mouth, “You shouldn’t. I’m glad that you are.”

He frowns at that.

“Are you? Because I did wake up alone, which wasn’t very nice, to be honest.”

You laugh at how this wonderful beast of a man with the broad shoulders and black onyx eyes has turned into a pouting puppy before you. It’s hard not to kiss him right now but you can feel the drilling gaze of the patrons on the table behind you and you figure they’ve waited enough.

“I had to leave for work and you were sleeping so peacefully, my heart couldn’t take it to wake you. You gonna hold that against me, Johnny?”

With a bat of your lashes, he melts. “You know I couldn’t.”

You smirk, “Goodie. Now go ahead and give me your order ‘cause the boss man inside is gonna have my head if we keep this up any longer. Spoiler alert; the food here tastes like cardboard.”

John breathes a bitter laugh.

“Well then, I guess I leave it to you to decide what has the least chance of killing me.”

“Alright then, I’ll be right back with your order.” You move to leave but his grip on your wrist stops you.

The way he grabs you is careless and unnecessarily strong, he can tell. And so he loosens it in fear of breaking what he deems so fragile. The thought that it may leave a bruise stings and you can tell by how soft his next words are.

“We’ll talk again?”

Seeing the doubt in his eyes saddens you and so you offer him a smile - one that you hope is comforting.

“My shift ends in an hour. I’ll meet you out in the back if you can wait.”

He nods and releases you but you don’t move away just yet. Your hand dances with his for a second and you squeeze it in hopes of putting him to ease. There’s a quirk on his lips that tells you it did.

Pulling out the very last pen, your hair is finally released and you sigh at the tingling feeling when some of it brushes against the sensitive skin on your neck, right where John marked you.

You never made an attempt to hide it. Why should you?

There’s nothing shameful to conceal from the world. And when it comes to a man such as John, you’d happily allow him to brand you all over. Your fingers graze over the bite mark, almost reliving the sensation right here where you’re standing. The effort he’d made to silence his moans…

It makes you shiver with excitement. You only hope he’s outside.

Making the best of the bathroom’s cloudy mirror, you try to fix as much as you can on your face. The heat in this place is unforgiving and it seems you can’t get rid of the heat on your cheeks. All you can do is wipe the last beads of sweat off your face.

As you lean down to grab your bag, a button pops open in your uniform, allowing more of your cleavage to spill out. You’ll have to fix that tomorrow, for sure, but for now, you simply smile at the thought of John’s reaction.

Waving Diane goodbye, you’re out the door in an instant, eager to be out of this godforsaken place and into the arms of a certain someone. John’s waiting outside as you asked.

He looks so good under the dim street lights, leaning against his Mustang with his hands buried deep in his pockets. A cigarette hangs from his lips and your mouth aches to replace it.

The moment he spots you, the cigarette is thrown on the ground and long forgotten. With a stomp of his foot, he puts it out before taking long steps towards you and grabbing your face in his hands. His palms are rough but incredibly warm and as they rub your cheeks so gently, they feel almost like cashmere.

Your lips connect far more harshly, teeth clashing together in eagerness. He tastes like coffee and smoke, but you find it hard to mind. When you finally part for air, you take a chance to admire him.

This look is a stretch from what you met him in last night; a full-on suit and slicked back hair. Tonight his hair is wild and welcoming to every touch of your hands. His suit is traded for a T-shirt and some jeans that you can’t help but think could cause delicious friction.

“You took pretty long.” He breathes just a couple of inches away from your mouth.

A laugh escapes you and you reach up to leave a kiss on his jaw, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I suppose you’re forgiven.”

You smile. “Any clue about where we’re going?”

“Someplace where it doesn’t smell like piss, preferably.”

Another giggle blesses his ears then, “Sounds like a plan.”

You don’t move an inch. The car’s still parked in the diner’s parking lot but you’re too busy making out like teenagers to care. John is half shadow beneath you, every muscle on his torso flowing from the light into the dark. He holds you tight against his chest, your legs hanging on each side of his body. Your sexes press together in the most sinful way, providing delicious friction but not nearly enough to satisfy.

It’s so hot outside, the car’s A/C is working on full. Still, the heat of your bodies is making the driver’s window fog. You figure that should you part now, you would most likely freeze. Thankfully, it seems John wouldn’t even consider releasing you.

The man is kissing you desperately, aching to feed off your very essence. You’ve rid him of his soul and he seeks yours to replace it. His rough palm is exploring your bosom, exposing the delicious skin there as the uniform’s button pop open one by one.

The other hand grips your thigh, climbing up your skirt oh so dangerously. But he allows it to wander no further as if the contact itself might burn.

When you part, your heartbeat rings inside your ear. The look he gives you makes you melt like butter inside his tight embrace. You almost fear he’ll stop holding you.

“Let’s move this at home?” his tone is that of a man in despair, always begging.

“I can’t. I have a dog at home that needs me.”

The very sentence hurts to say, especially so when you spot the disappointment on John’s handsome face.

“Well fuck, so do I.”

“There’s always my place… but I doubt my roommate will appreciate how loud you can make me.” You whisper the last bit in his ear and feel his member twitch against your skin.

John groans and shakes his head, eager to escape this maddening spell but it’s fruitless.

Feeling bad for the poor man, you cease the torture. Your smaller hands grasp his face and guide him until his onyx eyes are piercing into yours. Your sensitive fingers relish in the feeling of his beard.

“This isn’t over. Just postponed.” When you see the hope ignite inside him, you smile and kiss him sweetly.

He prolongs the kiss with a bite on your bottom lip and you sigh in pleasurable pain.

It hurts to detach from each other and every move is carried out impossibly slow. Fixing the last button on your shirt, you pause enough to breathe. John is lighting a cigarette beside you, his gaze never wavering from the disheveled you.

You grin and play with fire then. Inching closer, you grab the cig from his puckered lips and take a long drag. He watches you exhale and the smoke surrounds you, making you look like some dark daydream.

Handing it back, you peck his cheek.

“I have to go.”

“I could drive you home.”

A smile blooms on your face at his eagerness.

“There’s no need, I live nearby. Besides, you already know where to find me.”

“Most people use phones.”

“We’re not most people.”

You watch his dark locks move along with his head.

“This isn’t over, you said?”

The expression on your face softens, “Of course not. I’ll be waiting to hear from you, Mr. Wick.”

And with that, you’re out of the car and shutting the door behind you, you feel the hot air wash over you – a sharp difference from the cold air inside the Mustang. When you glance behind you, John is still looking.

He watches you disappear into the night.

Tags: @homesoutofhuman @fandoms-pizza-wifi-ym13 @morningriseghost @charmainemaclendon

#john wick x reader #john wick series #john wick #john wick imagine #series update #new series #burning desire #burning desire chapter four #chapter four #keanu reeves #keanu reeves imagine

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kyberled · 7 years

Text

DETAILED APPEARANCE INFO

do not reblog, repost.

HEAD

FACE SHAPE: oval, going off this chart (click) and his real-life face claim CHEEKS: A bit pink, but not to the point where it looks like blushing; Many adults have deemed them pinchable. CHEEKBONES: High and defined, but not sunken; To quote Rodi, ‘I’m in love with [Braig’s] cheekbones.’ LIPS: Bow-shaped, lower lip is fuller than upper; Almost naturally pouty, very pink. Can be a bit dry and cracked after some missions, but doesn’t chew them often, so they’re not too frayed. SKIN COLOR: Olive, light medium; He’s a bit lighter when he’s younger, because he didn’t leave the Temple until he was eight, and that was to go to Ilum, of all places, but he gets more sun when he starts going on regular missions. (Somewhere between III and IV on THIS SCALE (Click); the exact place on the range changes slightly, but yeah. Closer to III) SKIN TYPE: ‘normal’, as far as skin types go. Not especially oily, not especially dry, just somewhere in a neutral ground. (Not combination, though.) Rough and calloused around his palms, fingers, knuckles, and the bottoms of his feet, from training and missions, but relatively soft and smooth everywhere else. Scars brown, would be subject to a bit of hyperpigmentation if the Jedi couldn’t apparently use the Force as sunscreen (the Jedi Path taught me a lot) EYE SHAPE: almond-shaped, hooded, upturned at the outer corners EYE COLOR: Calf brown EYEBROW SHAPE: Full, straight, barely arches, tapers off EYEBROW COLOR: Black EYELASHES: Thick, long, black NOSE SHAPE: According to this chart, it’s a ‘small hero’ nose (which I find hilarious); Slightly hooked; Rounded tip, little bit of a button; Again, adults have reported that it is very boop-able HAIR TEXTURE: Thick, smooth yet unruly, and has a gentle wave to it HAIR COLOR: Jet black HAIR LENGTH: Depending on how old he is, it’s either about to his chin (baby Braig), just over his shoulders (young teenager), just passing his shoulders (older teenager), roughly the middle of his back (adult), or, heck, even down to his hips (Elder/old Braiggos) EARS: Somewhere between rounded and oval, unattached lobe, average size

UPPER BODY

SHOULDERS: A little narrow when he’s tiny, but puberty kicks him in the jaw and he broadens out by his late teens. ARMS: Toned - Muscular, though in the sense that it’s more ‘practical muscle’ and less ‘overly defined’; Buff for use, not for show, if that makes sense. Have you ever swung a sword around for a few hours? Great exercise. This kid uses two on a daily basis. A few noticeable veins, here and there; A couple small scars in various stages of fading. STOMACH AREA: Toned. His life is 24/7 training. This kid is ridiculously in shape. Probably some scars here, too. LOVEHANDLES?: Friend, if it wasn’t for the fact that he was buff, he’d vanish when he turned sideways. He’s got barely any fat on him. (It’s actually probably a little bit of a health issue.) CHEST/BREASTS: Smooth, also muscular. Taut, but not swollen or ballooned out. He’s lean, I suppose, is the word I’m looking for. Probably still a few scars. NIPPLES: Average size, reddish-brown in colour. BACK: Same as before - lean muscle, little scars here and there. Straight posture, a mixture of confidence, formality, and training. HAND SIZE: A little on the small side, honestly? Broad palms, long, slender fingers. Very calloused, along the palms, pads of fingers, and the knuckles (first two especially).

LOWER BODY

HIPS: They don’t lie, I’ll tell you that much. Again, muscular - a little wide, though whether this is due to muscle growth or just Braig being naturally a lil curvy, who knows. BOTTOM: As I said, he doesn’t have a lot of fat on him, so it’s not big, but like the rest of him, pretty toned. Both of his romantic partners in their respective verses have given it five stars. (He’s unsure what to make of this.) THIGHS: Sturdy, muscular, lean. He’s flexible, with great balance, honed through training. He can’t outmatch physical giants in the Jedi Order like Hano, or, to pick a canon character, Krell, in terms of raw strength, so he focuses on agility. He’s got nice legs. Again, probably a few small scars, here and there. CALVES: Proportionate to his legs. Muscular, the calves of a martial artist and a trained warrior. Also, more scars. LEG LENGTH: I suppose long-ish? They’re a bit longer than his head+torso, but not by much, so pretty average.

OTHER

BODY HAIR: Doesn’t have much. It’s pretty much localised to his underarms, and the nether regions. His arms and legs are bare, and he couldn’t grow facial hair if he tried. (He did, in fact, try, just on a whim. It was disappointing, to say the least.) What he does have is a bit sparse, and very dark - black, like his head-hair. SCENT: He smells a bit like leather, a bit like old stone, a bit like the air before a lightning strike (I, personally, imagine that lightsaber blades sort of give off that ozone-y energy smell), a bit like heated metal, like tea, and sweat, and battlefield dust, and the fake-not-pineapple scent of bacta and maybe a bit of medical disinfectant, a little like soap and shampoo and laundry detergent, and boot polish, and flowers, and weapons grease, maybe a bit like Obidad’s aftershave or cologne if he’s had a bad day and needs a tight hug. And a few people say he also smells a little like sweets, but that depends on the day. How much of each scent really depends on what he’s been doing recently. HAND NAILS: Very short, usually only a sliver of white over the pinks. Rounded and smooth, good for making a proper fist while also being well-manicured and clean. Sometimes, there’s a bit of dirt, or grit, or blood underneath, and other times there might be a bit of boot polish or weapons grease, but he washes his hands regularly enough that it’s never really a problem. He usually makes sure his hands are clean before leaving the Temple, if he can. TOENAILS: Short and neat, though he’s a bit less meticulous with his toes than with his hands - people don’t see his feet too often, and he doesn’t need his toenails short to make a fist. He keeps ‘em best as he can, but if they get a bit long, he won’t kick himself for it. VOICE: I think, at least as a teenager, he would in fact sound like his FaceClaim, Boo.Boo Stew.art - A really good clip of him talking (to puppies) is here: (click), though when he’s older, it does deepen; I’ll have to look for a good voice claim for that. One important thing to note is that he does have a Coruscanti accent; ‘English’, in our Earthling terms, though it’s closer to Ewan’s Ob/i-W/an accent, since that’s what Braig grows up with. ACCENT: As I said, an English/Coruscanti accent. It’s not too thick, no more than Obidad’s is. He has it in every verse - his bio father, Eadric, has a very English accent, as well, so he grows up with it no matter who he was initially raised by.

HEIGHT: 5’0” as a young padawan (eg from age 13), 5′7″ as an older padawan (eg from age 17), and 5′9″ is his full height. WEIGHT: 155.55 lbs is his full weight as an adult, but of course it depends on his age/height. PIERCINGS: None, though Rogue Braig and modern Braig have seriously considered getting a single earring in his left ear lobe. TATTOOS: None, though he has a few he’s considered. Again, Rogue and Modern Braig are more likely to have these. BRA SIZE: Doesn’t wear one. SHOE SIZE: Apparently it’s 8 in American men’s when he’s fully grown. I barely know my own shoe size, so I’m leaving this. PREFERRED CHOICE OF SHOES: Simple leather boots in canon; In modern, he has a battered pair of old hiking boots, and another set of old comfy sneakers, and those are the ones he loves most. CLOTHING STYLE: He dresses in pretty typical Jedi clothing. Brown tunic, trousers, boots and belt, often wears a red sash under his belt, and, of course, his scarf; He loses the scarf when he gets older, (around 16-17) and adopts more greys, as well as a brown tabbard and grey vambraces, as a Jedi knight, his shirt is grey with two brown stripes on the right sleeve (brown stripes on your sleeve, according to Legends canon, signify having been born in the Coruscant system; These things are completely optional, but he likes them). The brighter colours in his outfit shift away from red and towards purple. As a Sith/Sith apprentice? Black clothes, tunic, maybe a tabbard, red accents, typical stuff. As a Rogue, it’s a lot of thrown-together, whatever he can find type-stuff. He likes things with pockets, since he can hide things there, and he modifies most jackets he wears to have pockets hidden on the inside where he can stash his sabers. He likes leather jackets, and he’d absolutely be willing to shell out the necessary credits for armourweave clothes he can wear around. It’s a way less formal, refined look than he wore when he was younger. He’s still big on neutral/earth tones, but if he needs to buy more opulently coloured stuff to blend in, he will. He also wears a small, woven black ‘bracelet’ around his left wrist - this is his padawan braid that he cut off himself, and he melted the beads down to join the ends together. He fiddles with it when he’s stressed. Modern Verse Braig likes dark/neutral pants, jackets, shoes, etc, but bright and vividly coloured shirts, and accessories can fall on either end of the scale. He likes comfortable, durable clothes that he can move around in, and if he’s gonna get a design or graphic on his clothes, he prefers a simple picture. he’s not above wearing jewellery in this verse (or his Rogue verse, might I add) though, again, prefers a simple necklace or one of those camp-style friendship bracelets to anything else. GENERAL BODYSHAPE: I will say right now that finding accurate body-type name charts for men sucks (though one said Braig’s body-shape is called ‘Adonis’, and I think we’re both giggling). I guess it’s somewhere between inverted triangle and rectangle? Could even get off calling some younger shots hourglass, before he starts filling out and growing into himself. I dunno. He’s Braig-shaped.

TAGGED BY: i stole a meme on free meme day TAGGING: literally all of my mutuals who want to tackle this monster i have been staring at pictures of boostew for like thirty minutes to figure out what shape his EARS are do you think i have the presence of mind to tag people

#long post //#&& give the sun a head start; ooc #&& temple archives; headcanons

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