#i must say i find it hard to draw swelter in a way because the way he is described in the book is.........hmm. well it's wonderful in a | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sabraeal · 3 years

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Traffic Lights Are Burnin’

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @nebluus‘s birthday! She asked for some WFB, and of the options I gave she chose the next part of our Six Flags saga...only the beginning scene of that chapter ended up ballooning out into this so...it ended up being less Amusement Park Shenanigans and more Wholesome Boys Will Be Boys Content. I’M SURE MADI WILL BE JUST FINE WITH THAT TOO 😂

“Are you making an omelette?”

English is not, functionally, Mitsuhide’s first language. Not that he thinks of it like that-- first or second, third or fourth; there’s no ranking in his life, no moment in which one language followed another. There was English with Mama and quebecois with Papa; a plan quickly scuttled by Mitsuhide being the fifth Lowen sibling. Refusing to be pigeonholed into a single language no matter how many times Mama repeated consistency is key, his brothers mostly spoke a tossed salad of both and assumed he’d understand the lettuce.

Coupled with the fact that all his cousins lived in Toronto anyway, Mitsuhide had hardly begun talking himself before it became outside quebecois and inside English. Unless they left the province, in which case it was a free-for-all that left his few monolingual aunts and uncles dizzy.

Which is to say, Mitsuhide only becomes aware of the precise inner ranking of his languages in moments like this, where gut immediately kicks out a dry ‘j’essaie.’ The translation is vetoed on the grounds that although in quebecois he’s never met a word he couldn’t steep in sarcasm and smuggle in a sacre, he prefers to keep his English so clean it squeaks.

You’ve got it all backwards, Kihal had told him as he sweltered under the San Juan sun, English is fake, you can be as much of an asshole as you want it in, it doesn’t count.

It’s true, there’s something that’s more real to him in French, that’s more real about him, but, well-- there were far fewer cousins to tattle on his potty mouth this way. And now that he knows Obi...

Well, if Kiki ever made good on her threats to teach him any of his “church swears,” he’d probably never sleep easy again. So instead, he scrolls through his mental rolodex of possible appropriate replies before settling on, “Would you like one?”

Zen glances up from his array of pamphlets, glossy paper glaring beneath the overhead lamp. It matches the way Zen is looking at him. “We don’t have time for that.”

Mitsuhide frowns, giving his eggs one last vigorous whisk before pouring them into the pan. “There’s always time for breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day.”

He glances over just in time to see Zen’s grimace. “Shirayuki really could be your sister.”

There’s really no reason he has to look so horrified by the idea. His brothers may all be broad shouldered, barrel-chested giants, but plenty of his cousins made pocket money in high school through catalogue modeling. And they’re all very nice girls.

He doesn’t mention it. A conversation never ends well if you have to whip out photos of female relatives to prove your point. “Would you like one?” he repeats instead, a safer tactic overall.

Zen’s nose wrinkles beneath some dubiously drawn eyebrows. “Are you putting spinach in there?”

“Kale,” he agrees. “And chicken.”

“In a breakfast omelette?” He clucks his tongue, just the way the Wisteria’s chef would when he attempted to cook at the estate. Quel dommage, he would say, sighing over the cutting board, why would you do that to perfectly good eggs? “Why would you do that?”

Because these muscles don’t come cheap; Mitsuhide chokes down a truly staggering amount of chicken in order to keep them. Roasted, of course-- boiled is technically better for protein, but even he has to draw the line somewhere. The eggs have less, but they are calorie efficient; he’d eat more of them if he could stomach the slimy, snake-like sensation of swallowing them down hard boiled.

But explaining his diet regime usually ended with glazed eyes, so he settles for, “I could always put something different in yours. There’s ham.”

Fancy ham, Obi calls it. It’s just from the deli counter, fresh sliced from whatever quality cut’s on sale, but considering how the first time Obi saw a charcuterie board, he shouted, Oh, Lunchables!--

Well, Mitsuhide can accept that maybe they have different benchmarks for fancy. And somehow just the simple act of calling it that does make it taste better. Or at least more satisfying when it’s shoved between a Hawaiian roll and deli cheese.

There’s a soft shuffle by the kitchen door, and a wild thatch of bristle peeps around the frame. Mitsuhide shakes his head with huff. That’s a new one-- just think the devil’s name and he appears.

Obi lopes into the kitchen, all long limbs and smooth movements, blurring right into the background without any effort at all. He’d gotten Mitsuhide a few times when he’d first moved in, popping up wherever it was sure to be the most inconvenient, grinning like a cat with feathers in its teeth. But once you knew the trick of it, well-- it’s no effort to keep the kid in his sights.

Which is why he has a full, uninterrupted view when Obi slips right up to Zen’s elbow, and asks, “Whatcha doing, chief?”

“Wah!” Pamphlets fly up, a glittering flock of wings swooping beneath the lamp. Zen slaps them down before they can skitter off the table’s edge. “Obi! Make noise for fuck’s sake!”

“Sorry,” he sing-songs, not a sincere note in it. Two long fingers pluck a pamphlet off the wood, twisting it between them. “What’s all this? They starting to put theme parks on exams now?”

“No.” Zen scowls, snatching it out of his hands. “I’m just making today’s itinerary.”

Mitsuhide slides his omelette onto a plate, turning just in time to catch the glance Obi sends him. It somehow says is he fucking with me while also implying I’ll hold him down if we gotta send him to the doctor. “An itinerary?”

He leans a hip against the island, fishing out a fork. What was it Obi always said? Dinner tastes better with a show. Time to find out whether it extends to breakfast too.

Zen fixes Obi with a look that could have had trenches with all its affront. “You can’t go to an amusement park without a plan. How else do you get on all the coasters?”

“It’s only Six Flags New England.” A week ago, the name alone made Obi flee like a cat from a bath, but now every syllable drips with derision, like a sommelier reviewing boxed wine. “They’ve got what? Superman?”

Mitsuhide shoves a corner of his omelette in his mouth. It’s not as good as a sausage, mushroom, and cheese, but, well, it’ll do. “Bizarro.”

“Bizarro.” Obi scoffs. “See? Nothing. Besides, I thought you were the kind of guy to spring for fast passes, boss.”

Zen’s always been sensitive; the sort of kid who tended to pop off when a situation came to a simmer instead of trying to turn down the heat. When Izana had been sitting president, he’s spent half his tenure fielding tense calls, sometimes even climbing into a towncar at a moment’s notice to be taken back east. The school, he’s always say, lifting a shoulder, my brother is proving to be a challenge, and my mother is...unreachable.

He’d thought this Zen kid must be like the ones he knew on the ice, punching first and asking questions later, complaining about being put in the box. All temper and no temperance, Mama used to say when she drove him home, can’t talk when you got plastic between your teeth.

But then he’d met him, undersized and stick-limbed, living in that house with people paid to be invisible. A kid with too much on his shoulders and too many eyes to watch him stumble under it. He’s come a long way from there.

So when Zen squirms in his chair, red already starting to lick up his neck, Mitsuhide doesn’t enjoy it. On the contrary, Zen’s discomfort is his discomfort, a failure of him to keep the watchful eye on him that Izana asked him to.

But it also doesn’t stop him from adding, “Shirayuki believes that waiting in line is part of the amusement park experience.”

Obi looks as though he’s just been told it’s his birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one. “Of course she does.” His mouth sharpens to a wicked grin. “So you’ll be lowering yourself to the peasant’s lines today, huh, Your Highness?”

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbles, swatting him away. “No one’s being lowered anywhere. We won’t be running into any of them so long as we get there early and hit the coasters in the right order.”

Obi coughs. Or at least, makes it sound like he is. “Uh-huh.”

“Where is Shirayuki anyway?” Zen glares at the empty doorway, brows heaving like thunderclouds over the bridge of his nose. “I thought you said you’d get her.”

“I did.” Obi twitches his shoulders; as good as a shrug, from him. “She’s getting ready.”

“It’s been fifteen minutes.” Zen’s glare changes target to him, thunder rolling in the tone of his voice. “Shirayuki doesn’t take this long to get ready.”

When Mitsuhide glances up, chewing around another stab of egg, kale, and chicken, Obi’s eyebrows are already there to meet him. His head tilts, just the barest degree; this is your show, big guy.

Mitsuhide coughs, trying to clear his throat of leaf bits. “Girls,” he starts, the ground sinking beneath him with each word, “like to look nice. Especially when they are on, uh, dates.”

“This isn’t a date,” Zen informs him, more than a little put out. “Obi’s going.”

The sound Obi makes can only be termed as distressed. “I didn’t want to.”

For exactly this reason, is what he doesn’t say. Doesn’t even show it on his face, though it has to be lurking beneath it, considering how he--

Well, considering nothing Mitsuhide knows for sure. But certainly a few things he reasonably suspects.

“Chief.” Obi flips the chair next to him, straddling it. “You know, I really thought it couldn’t be true. I really wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But to hear you now--” he leans in, one narrow brow raising the same time his voice drops-- “you really do chicken out when it comes to getting chummy with Doc.”

Mitsuhide nearly chokes on his chicken.

Zen’s red all over, like someone pulled him from a boiling pot and put him on a plate. “You don’t know that.”

“Sure I do,” he says, so easy. “Doc told me.”

“She said that?” His skin’s so flushed Mitsuhide’s half afraid he’ll pass out, but instead he just collapses against the ladderback, head buried in his arms. “Shirayuki?”

“Pretty much.” Obi sighs, hands braced on the table. “I mean, is it so hard to say she looks nice when she dresses up? Or that you like her hair, or--” he stumbles, shaking his head-- “no, not the hair. Too loaded. But you know, one of her floaty little numbers. Her freckles. Something.”

“I have!”

Obi lifts a dubiously narrow eyebrow. “Like when?”

“Ah...” Whatever the answer is, it’s not helping his blood flow problem. Mitsuhide nearly opens his mouth, searching for a good way to make himself a target-- “The Big E.”

Well, there goes that plan.

Obi’s inquisition crumples into confusion. “What? When did you--”

Every word ekes into the air with the utmost resistance. “When she was wearing your hoodie.”

“When she was wearing my--?” Gold eyes round to coins. “Chief.”

For a solid minute, that’s the only reaction-- wide-eyed disbelief, earned from two sides. But Obi coughs, mouth twitching, and it’s a snort, a smirk, and--

And then Obi launches himself away from the table, both hands still gripping the edge as he falls apart utterly. The chair’s back keeps him from putting his head between his knees, but spiritually he’s there, tears tracking down his cheeks as his laughs wheeze out of him

One hand finally slaps the table, like he’s asking for a time out. Zen frowns down at him, red finally fading to a painful pink. “It’s not that funny.”

“It is,” Obi squeaks, and Mitsuhide has to shove his last bite of omelette into his mouth to stifle his own noises. It’s no good-- Zen whips around and gives him the same glare he’s been saving for Obi.

“If you don’t cut it out,” he says loftily, “I’m going to let a freshman stay in your room.”

Well, that brings Obi up. “Fine,” he coughs, voice still ragged from laughing. “But still. My hoodie.”

“The sleeves hung over her hands! It was cute.” Zen huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “Fine, if I’m so bad, why don’t you two show me how it’s done?”

There’s a pause, long and loaded; enough that Mitsuhide glances up from his plate to see just what tomfoolery he should brace himself to break up--

Only to find Zen staring at him.

Intellectually, Mitsuhide is aware that Zen is a Wisteria. He met him through Izana, after all; he’s been over to the manor, he’s even met their prodigal mother on one of her rare stopovers between vacations. But when he thinks of the name, it’s Izana who springs to mind, the gears churning behind his eyes.

It’s not often that Zen reminds him of his brother; Cookie’s always said that Izana takes after their mother with that long and lean model build, while Zen has always been Kain’s child. But now, now--

He sees it, and it sends a shiver right through him.

With a quirk of his lips, Zen says, so like Izana that if he closed his eyes he wouldn’t know any different, “You first, Mitsuhide.”

Obi’s mouth curves into a leer. “Yeah, Big Guy. Show us the skills that got you Ms Kiki.”

This probably isn’t the time to tell them that it wasn’t him who got her; Mitsuhide hadn’t been trying to do anything more than be the friend she needed, to be a person she could confide in, could trust. People like that were thin on the ground for girls like her; heiress tended to make men see dollar signs instead of personality. But Kiki--

Well, she had other ideas. Ones he’d only cottoned onto when she climbed on top of him and shoved him against the couch cushions with her mouth.

“D-Don’t look at me!” he manages, trying to busy himself with anything. But there’s only a plate to be put in the sink, and a pan to be wiped. Not enough to fake a decent amount of responsibility. “I’m not--”

“Aw, c’mon, Big Man. Don’t leave us hanging.” Obi leans back, grin so wide it practically splits his face. “Lemme paint the scene. You’re single, Doc is adorable, and she’s waiting there--” he gestures to Zen, who flutters his eyelashes in precisely the way Shirayuki doesn’t-- “for you to make your move. Go!”

He could point out he’s not single, and that he doesn’t have any plans to change that anytime soon-- but that only ends in one way: a two-pronged mockery with additional ridicule provided by the impending arrival of his better half. He could also point out that of all the people in this room, he’s the only one who hasn’t wanted to date Shirayuki, but-- well, the problems with that one were obvious.

Instead, Mitsuhide takes in a deep breath, learns on the counter, and says, “Why, Shirayuki! You’re looking beautiful this morning. Those shorts really flatter your legs.”

There is a long silence, and then to everlasting embarrassment, they burst out laughing.

“Her shorts?” Zen’s hand is pressed to his chest, like he needs support to keep upright. “That’s all you can think of? Her shorts?”

“Well, Obi said not to do her hair,” he protests. “Complimenting her dress seemed like low hanging fruit. I was trying to be unique.”

Obi doesn’t even bother to remain horizontal, sprawling himself over the long forgotten maps. “So you went for her legs?”

“There’s nothing wrong with legs!”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Zen sputters out in an effort to keep his mouth straight. “Definitely a very neutral place to comment on.”

“Definitely not known for being attached to things like asses.” Obi’s mouth twitches, as much a sign for danger as thunder rolling in the distance. “Or puss--”

“I was not trying to comment on that.” He’d felt bad for Zen earlier, but the sentiment doesn’t seem mutual. “It’s not typical, sure, but Kiki never seems to mind when I compliment--”

“Kiki?” Zen squawks. “Kiki?”

“Well, I think we’re all learning a little too much about Big Guy today,” Obi wheezes. “Mainly that it’s Ms Kiki that chased him, and not the other way around.”

“Yeah.” Zen shakes his head, long and slow and solemn, like a doctor about to give a terminal diagnosis. “No game at all.”

Mitsuhide’s not a competitive man. Sure, he was forward on the ice, the kind of player that got sent to the box before the end of the first half and slid right into the captain spot when it was vacant. Aggression is part of the game, competition laced in every turn of his skate and lift of his stick, but that’s a different situation, a different language--

But it’s that part of him that surges beneath his skin right now, that makes him want to saunter over and put both hands on that rickety, painted wood until it creaks. That makes him want to take a full minute to bend down, showing off every centimeter of his one-ninety plus, and ask real low if either of them has made a girl beg on their cock lately, but--

He puts it in its place. That sort of talk always sounded better en français anyway.

Zen waves his hand, slipping his pamphlets out from under Obi. “Anyway, enough messing around. Are you still making omelettes, Mitsuhide?”

“Ohh, omelettes?” Obi spins to him with wide eyes. “Can I get mine with fancy ham?”

Mitsuhide blinks. “Wait, aren’t you going to do your take?”

“Nah.”

Zen shrugs. “Joke’s over.”

“So I just did that for no reason--?”

“I wouldn’t say no reason,” Zen wheedles. “It was very educational.”

Obi grins. “Mainly about how Big Guy likes legs--”

“Oh,” drawls a voice that makes his body go cold and hot at the same time. When he turns, it’s Kiki leaning against the jamb, a single elegant brow raised, excusing amusement and menace in equal measure. “Am I to take it that the show is over?”

“K-kiki,” he stammers. “How long--?”

“Hm.” She saunters over to the counter, slipping onto a stool with a casual grace that still leaves his mouth dry. “Long enough. I have to admit, I was looking forward to seeing a display of Obi’s fabled moves.”

“Ms Kiki,” Obi simpers, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’d be happy to give you a personal demonstration anytime.”

Both her brows raise. “Did I say I was desperate?”

He’s saved from Obi’s answer by Shirayuki padding into the kitchen, flushed and breathless. “Oh, you were right Kiki! Everyone is already ready. Sorry to make you wait.”

There’s a hesitation in the air, and Mitsuhide can’t figure it out, not until he sees-- she’s wearing shorts.

Shirayuki blinks. “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Kiki hums, sending him a gaze so wicked it should be illegal outside the bedroom. “Do you have anything to say to her, Mitsuhide?”

“No!” It comes out a little too harsh, a little too loud. “I mean, I, uh...like your sandals!”

“Sandals,” Obi snickers, a sound that’s only covered by Zen’s hushed, “Shut up.”

“Oh!” She blinks down. “Thank you. I got them at Payless. I, um, don’t think they make them in your size.”

“No,” he manages mildly. “I don’t imagine they would.”

“You do look real cute, Doc,” Obi chimes in, slinking out of his seat to circle around her. “Did you dress up for today?”

Zen makes a noise, somewhere between a choke and a gasp, but even with the pink brushing her cheeks, Shirayuki’s too used to his antics to do much more than sigh.

“Of course I did, Obi.” Her fists perch high on her hips, cocked as she talks to him. “It’s the last time we’re all going to be going out together, isn’t it? What could be more special than that?”

Mitsuhide may not be a competitive man, and especially isn’t a malicious one, but when Obi’s jaw goes slack, the tips of his ears darkening just the slightest bit, well-- he does indulge in the slightest bit of schadenfreude.

“Well,” Zen says, a little sharp. “Let’s get going.”

“Aw!” Obi whips around. “What about fancy ham?”

“I don’t think you need--”

“Oh, I haven’t had breakfast either!” Shirayuki adds, eyes wide. “Do we have time?”

Zen hesitates, and then with a sigh, relents. “We’ll stop at Dunkies.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #The Wide Florida Bay #modern au #my fic #ans #mitsuhide gets so few POVs in the fic I can't help but let them get away from me okay #he's a gift #the actual six flags chapters are gonna have rotating POV #and it was just supposed to START with him #but then i was like WHAT IF I INCLUDED THE SCENE FROM BEFORE THE CANON DATE #and now we are here

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themangolorian · 4 years

Text

look how long this love can hold its breath

Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

pairing: javier peña x reader

summary: (slow burn/fake married) When Pablo Escobar escalates his war on Colombian law enforcement, the DEA is getting desperate to pin down his location. Reader is forced to go undercover with another agent, one she can’t stand, Javier Peña. Worst of all, she’ll have to try to infiltrate the Cali Cartel while pretending to be Peña’s wife.

warnings: mild language

a/n: i know it’s a generally overdone trope but i couldn’t resist doing my own version of fake married Javi with a pretty antagonistic reader. hope you all enjoy!

You’d been assigned to an undercover assignment of sorts. You were infiltrating the Cali Cartel. Sort of. The mission was simply to gain inside information on Escobar’s whereabouts. To finally bring that hijoeputa down.

The only problem was your assigned partner.

Javier fucking Peña.

You’d never worked with him, but you knew his reputation as a womanizer. His machismo. And, worst of all, he was an American.

You’d encountered him briefly on separate occasions in the briefing room and each time he’d rubbed you the wrong way. He had a habit of talking over you and every other woman in the unit. Well, honestly, him and his partner Murphy liked to talk over everyone but- to put it plainly, you didn’t like Javier Peña.

“What’s the plan?” You asked in your typical no-nonsense way as you joined him and Murphy in the briefing room.

Incredibly, the up aboves had put these two pendejos in charge of the operation.

“Hola amor,” Peña lilted at you with a smirk from his seat across from you, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

You glared at him. “What the fu-.”

“You’re married.” Murphy tossed the manila envelope on the table in your direction, interrupting your outburst.

He knew you and Peña got on each others’ nerves. This was his way of avoiding the inevitable bickering. It was a shitty way of doing so though.

You cursed under your breath as you fell into a chair and swept the envelope open.

The other two were quiet as your eyes scanned the documents.

“Fuck no.” You pushed the papers containing your’s and Peña’s aliases back at them.

Señor y Señora Villalobos. Dealers disguised as diamond salespeople. Married. To each other.

“Told you.” Peña told Murphy, his tone all-knowing.

“Cállate,” you snarled at Peña.

“You first,” he glared back.

“Hey,” Murphy exclaimed. He rested the tip of his index finger on the files and glared at you both now.

“This isn’t a request. These are orders.” He rubbed at his mustache and this time directed his gaze at you. “You either follow the mission or find another job.”

You glared from him to Peña who didn’t meet your gaze, too busy staring at a point on the table.

You threw your hands up in defeat, reached across and snatched the folder then huffed out of the room, muttering all the while. “Estos tontos Americanos vienen a mi país y piensen que tengo miedo de ellos, malparidos...”

Murphy looked from your retreating figure to Peña who was watching you walk away with amusement in his eyes. “What was that? What did she say?”

“She’ll do it,” Peña said, smirking. He stood and picked up his own file. “And learn Spanish while I’m gone, cabrón.”

Peña rapped Steve on the arm with the file affectionately and then he was gone.

Steve rubbed his face again, tiredly, worried that given the short fuses of both you and Peña, the DEA was making a huge mistake.

*****

“¡Apúúúúúúrateeee!” You dragged the word out, tapping your foot impatiently against the brake.

You were in an agency assigned car waiting around the corner from Peña’s flat for the pendejo to come outside so you could start the long drive to Cali.

Finally.

He threw his bag into the backseat then slid onto the passenger’s seat.

“Amor,” he greeted you with a sardonic smile as he slipped his sunglasses on.

“¿Y por qué tardaste tanto?” You ignored the stupid nickname he was no doubt using to taunt you in order to ask him what had taken him so long.

“I couldn’t find the rings.” He held up a shiny golden wedding band, and you saw a matching one already around his own finger.

For a beat you merely glared at the ring as if all of this was its fault, then you were taking it and roughly sliding it onto your own finger.

“Careful,” Peña said as he inclined his seat so he could sleep. “Keep being so charming and all the narcos are going to want to marry you.”

You revved the engine and took off jerkily, turning the volume of the radio up to drown him out.

The trip was a long one. You both took turns driving. Peña kept turning down the radio while you drove so he could sleep, and you kept changing the station while he was driving. You argued over where to eat and what temperature to keep the air at or whether to open the windows.

“We’re supposed to be married, not divorced,” he’d quipped at you once while he was driving after you’d knocked his hand out of the way of your water bottle as you reached for it.

You turned the heater up then, knowing it would bother him, even though you were already sweltering. He left it though, too stubborn to engage you at your game.

Until you opened your window. Then he was slamming the shut off button for the heater.

You glared at him...then- A mansion outside his window caught your eye. You watched it whiz past.

“What?” He slowed and turned the radio volume down.

“You passed it.” You sat back in your seat. “Coño.” You muttered under your breath.

He pulled the car over. When he let the car idle instead of turning around, you looked at him to see him already watching you, sunglasses off.

“What?”

“This is it. One wrong move and we’re both dead.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. You glared fiercely his way. “Are you reminding me how to do my job, Peña?”

He sighed. “Just- I know we don’t get along, but this weekend, we don’t have a choice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Look just because you swooped in from the grand US of A to save all us heathens,” you fluttered your hands mockingly, “doesn’t mean I need you to remind me of my job. I’ve been doing this for longer. If anyone in this car understands what’s at stake, it’s me.” You finished, angry.

“That why you hate me so much?” He asked thoughtfully in a tone so soft you had to look at his face to discern his intent for asking.

He wasn’t glaring anymore. If anything, he seemed curious.

“I don’t hate you,” you muttered but your tone belied your words.

He chuckled. “That’s a good start.” He started turning the car around. “Amor.” He added and suddenly you were fuming again.

*****

The introductions with the narcos and their wives went well enough, better even than you’d hoped. They accepted you as one of their own. It wasn’t hard for you to fit in, you were Colombiana to the bone. Peña on the other hand… But he’d sold it well. Almost too well. This had been your first opportunity at seeing how much he’d picked up during his time in Colombia so far. And it seemed like he’d picked up a lot.

Peña hadn’t been wrong when he’d indicated some of the narcos would take an interest in you. They greeted you both warmly, but their hands enveloped yours tightly and their eyes lingered just a moment too long. You thought Peña must have noticed too, and surely he worried that allowing such blatant flirting would endanger your cover.

That must have been why you suddenly felt his arm encircling your bare shoulders. You tried not to tense in surprise, so much so that you let yourself relax against him in a natural manner. He continued the pretense, kissing your forehead as he made a joke with the narcos about keeping the wife happy.

Inside, though, you were having a crisis and you hoped the look on your face was one caught between amused and loving. A shock had gone through you when Peña’s lips had met your skin. His act was so convincing; how was he so good at this?

You thought back to the first stop you’d made earlier on in the car drive. When you’d gotten out of the car, Peña had whistled softly upon seeing your sundress, warming your cheeks and angering you simultaneously. But he’d said nothing else. And you’d thought on it during the ensuing drive. Normally you wore suits to the office, pants and skirts, but suits all the same. And you’d made a point of never going out with Peña or Murphy. So he’d never seen you in anything else. Against your will, you wondered what the whistle had meant. Not that you cared, but you didn’t need to add one more thing to the long list of things you already had to think about.

You smothered the thoughts. They were distracting and unnecessary and right now you were lucky that Peña was so good at this because he was carrying you both.

As you trailed the narcos out back to sit and have drinks by the pool, you slipped your arm around his waist, needing to carry your weight in the farce and not wanting to have to hear later from Peña about what you should have done.

“Así,” you heard him murmur approvingly.

You dug your nails into his side and heard him grunt in pain.

Your smile then at the wife of one of the narcos holding out a drink for you was genuine.

You spent an hour bantering back and forth with the other couples.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think Peña was happily married in his private life. He played the part perfectly.

As you were both sitting at the poolside table, he would reach over absently and take your fingers in his. The first time a jolt went through you again. But you took the cue. You alternated touches. You would rest your hand on his thigh. You swore he jumped the first time you did that, but he hid it well. He took long draws from your glass. Once he even fed you an olive. If you didn’t know any better, he was enjoying torturing you. He knew you hated olives. But the gesture drew laughs from the men and awwws from the women. It was then you noticed how they were swooning over Peña. It upset you only because you realized that if the pinche idioto was in the position to do it, he’d sleep with all their wives.

Finally and blessedly, your hosts suggested that you two retire to your room before dinner. Peña was to join the other men in Pacho’s office just before dinner for a discussion. You assumed that was when any useful information would be recovered. You realized then that you were here more for decoration than anything.

You fumed as you let Peña lead you by the hand up the mansion’s grand staircase. You both followed the housekeeper who led you to your room.

You dropped Peña’s hand the second the door closed behind you. He gave you a look but then the two of you were scouring the room, searching for any hidden recording devices. You shook your head at him, but he put his finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the bathroom. You raised your hands questioningly but followed him all the same.

He was reaching into the shower and turning it on full blast.

“¿Qué haces?” You hissed at his ear, having to get close to be heard.

“We don’t know for sure it’s clear. We only talk freely like this.” He murmured into your ear, his breath tickling your skin. You shivered involuntarily at the sensation.

You both established that your cover had been bought. And what most likely awaited him at the meeting. You left him to take a shower and went to lounge on the bed.

Several minutes later, the door to the bathroom opened releasing a wall of steam and-

You sat up, glaring, “What are you doing?”

Peña put a finger to his lips furiously. “Adonde está mi maleta, amor?” His sweet tone was a direct contradiction to the furrow in his brow. He shook his head at you, gesturing to his suitcase as if to ask how you expected him to get dressed without clothes.

“Allí, corazón.” You said for show, just in case, glaring at him as he took his time going through his bag to find an outfit. Your eyes tried not to linger on his bare skin and the way water from the shower trickled down his toned back.

You averted your eyes when he turned back, but he was smiling as if he knew you’d been watching him, so you flipped over on the bed to face the other direction.

When Peña left the room with the sound of a fake kiss, you were too nervous to sit still. You had to get ready for dinner anyway. But you were anxious all the same. Your cover could be blown at any second. You stored a handgun under the bathroom sink before getting into the shower and kept an ear out for any strange noises. But nothing happened. You dressed and put your perfume and makeup on. Still Peña was absent. You slid a smaller gun into the holster on your inner thigh and went to join the other wives wherever they were.

They turned out to be in a bar off the kitchen. Luckily already tipsy and talkative. They handed you a drink, but you took only tiny sips as you engaged them in conversation. You struck gold when one of them brought up Tata, Escobar’s wife. They were gossiping over who had a better kitchen. You hung onto every word while providing input as shallowly as possible. Apparently your and Peña’s kitchen was inlaid with marble and dark hickory wood.

Nothing they said gave up the location of the Escobars though and the subject soon turned to jewelry, at which point the women fawned over the diamond necklace provided to you by the agency. Which was your cue to try to sell them diamonds.

Soon enough the staff came in to lead you all to the formal dining room where the men were waiting. They all stood but it was Peña’s face you were focused on.

His lips parted when he saw you and his brow smoothed over. His eyes traveled from yours down along your entire figure. You couldn’t help but get the slightest bit flustered. You avoided his gaze, but he was coming your way to take your hand and lead you over to the seat next to his. It was strange. Surrounded as you both were by actual enemies, it felt like you were the only two in the room. It confused you and irritated you, but you managed to catch your breath again once you were seated at the dinner table. You ignored Peña’s dark eyes on you and took a long sip from your wine glass, trying to focus on the mission at hand.

“Not too much,” you heard him whisper as you placed the wine glass back down.

And there he was.

Underneath the table, you adjusted your feet, “accidentally” stepping on his shoe with one sharp heel.

The curse he muttered in pain under his breath had you smiling as you dove into the conversation, ready to take on a room full of the people who had played the bad guys in your life for so long.

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lochrannn · 3 years

Link

Warnings: Sexual Content (M Rating)

Characters: Lila Pitts; Diego Hargreeves; Hargreeves Siblings (background)

Relationship: Lila Pitts/Diego Hargreeves

Roommates AU; Fake Marriage; Slow Burn; Mutual Pining

Chapter 1/?

So it’s been a week since Lila fooled around with her roommate… her landlord?

… Diego! It’s been a week since Lila fooled around with Diego and she’s just a bit unsure about how she’s supposed to feel about it.

It’s not like things have become completely awkward, per se. They hadn’t been hanging out beforehand, they’d just been two people who were polite and courteous about sharing a living space.

One time she’d offered him the rest of her dinner that she’d cooked when he had come in really late in the evening - he kept odd working hours, but then she’s always thought Americans are bad at striking a healthy work life balance - and she’d kept him company in the kitchen while he was eating. They’d had a pleasant chat and she’d felt reassured then that he seemed like a decent enough guy, but that was basically that.

Until he walked into the living room one sweltering afternoon, while she was in the kitchen, apparently didn’t realise she was there, decided to have himself some alone time, and all of a sudden she was treated to his deep, rich voice making all of these rumbling sexy noises, and when she spotted his face turned up to the ceiling where his head was resting on the back of the couch, eyebrows knitted together, full lips slightly parted, eyes closed in concentration, it hit her like a tone of bricks how fucking hot he was.

So in the spur of the moment she decided to get herself involved. And all things considered, she can’t get herself to regret that. Not least because Diego reciprocated so thoroughly that for the last week she’s not been able to stop thinking about his lips, and tongue, and teeth on her every time she’s bumped into him. And sometimes even completely out of nowhere when he isn’t even around.

She told him not to make things weird after and he’d cockily responded with, “Why would I?”, leant into her where she was still sitting on the sofa, kissed her till she was breathless, clearly encouraged by the way she couldn’t help melting against her, before heading out again and to go and meet some family.

And maybe he isn’t being weird, maybe it’s her. He’s not mentioned it again and they’ve gone back to mostly just living their separate lives while in the same space, but maybe with this gentle underlying buzz of tension that wasn’t really there before.

And Lila’s noticed that when she finished his bottle of fizzy ice tea, he replaced it right away but hasn’t touched it himself since. Curious.

And so, of course, they inevitably end up in bed together.

It’s hot, and fun, and maybe a little rough, because she niggles and needles at Diego until he holds her down, until her muscles ache from how hard she’s shaking, and afterwards she doesn’t get up and go back to her room, instead she falls asleep with him, too tired and sated to move.

Lila wakes up in the middle of the night and is just a bit disoriented at first until the memories flood back in and she realises she’s lying with her head cushioned on Diego’s arm and her back nestled up against his side. He must have his face turned towards her because she can feel his breath ever so slightly hit the back of her head.

Idly, she wonders if she should head to her own bed, avoid the inevitable awkwardness of waking up together in the morning. At least, she thinks, her legs will support her now, she wasn’t too sure about that earlier. But she’s so comfortable and it’s been a while since she’s gone to sleep with anyone and not just fucked them, that she decides against bursting their little bubble and instead lays her hand in Diego’s outstretched palm in front of her, interlaces their fingers, and turns her head a bit so she can press her lips to his biceps.

Lila thought he was asleep, but when she kisses his arm she can feel him hum deep in his chest and he turns around and readjusts till he has his whole front tightly pressed to her back and throws his arm over her torso, splaying his long fingers over her belly.

“Hey,” he whispers and kisses her shoulder gently.

With a hum of her own, Lila stretches like a cat, mostly in response to the shiver that runs down her spine at the sound of his voice and then she thinks fuck it and covers his hand with hers and carefully moves it down and in between her legs.

Diego catches on immediately and nudges his knee between her thighs to give them more room to stroke and tease her together and Lila is delighted with the way he lets her direct his fingers, show him where she wants to be touched and how, while Diego scrapes his teeth over the top of her spine and then sucks hard at the spot.

It’s all too much and not enough for Lila, as she feels her muscles flutter around nothing and when she starts grinding into his hand that she’s pressing hard against herself with her own, she feels his arousal nudge against her bum. On impulse Lila tilts her hips further forward and reaches in between her own legs to align them, and before she can push back, Diego nudges his hips against her and pushes into her almost painfully slowly.

As a shaky breath escapes her lips and she hears a very similar noise from Diego, that he hums into her neck, a tiny rational part of her thinks they should have probably stopped to get a condom, but she’s too turned on to hold on to that thought, when Diego starts rhythmically filling to the hilt, never thrusting, never speeding up, just slowly but surely winding her up, until she has to sink her teeth into the flesh of his arm, making him hiss but not draw away, to muffle her loud moans.

Diego’s fingers continue to rub her in gentle but unwavering circles and Lila moves her own hand to feel where they’re joined. And as she feels with her fingertips how he’s stretching her, how tightly her muscles are contracting around him, the dam breaks and the orgasm that has so persistently been building washes through her, making her skin tingle from the roots of her hair to her toes and she makes a small whimpering noise with how she feels it absolutely everywhere.

Diego grunts and she can feel him begin to pull away, so on some possibly hormone driven instinct, she reaches back quickly and clamps her hand on his hip to hold him in place.

“Lila, I’m gonna…” Diego rushes out in a whisper but Lila interrupts him with, “it’s ok!” and a harsh breath escapes him before he pushes into her only a few more times and then empties himself inside her with a soft moan.

They’re both panting despite the fact that they barely moved the entire time and as Lila can feel her heart racing and a warm feeling spreading out from her centre and all through her body and into her limbs, she turns around in Diego’s arms, ignores the slightly unpleasant sensation between her legs, hooks one over his hip so she can hold onto him tightly and softly brushes her lips against his, glad for the dark, because she’s not so sure she knows what she’d do if she could see his expression properly.

Diego responds by tightening his arms around her and deepening the kiss, until all she can focus on is the way his tongue slides against hers, the soft pressure of his full lips, and the way they stretch into a smile as she hums drowsily into his mouth.

Lila loses track of time and at some point they must fall asleep because she wakes in the early hours of the morning, slightly less entangled in Diego’s limbs but still pressed into his side, and in the cold harsh light of day, as her rational thoughts are no longer completely being drowned out by her desire, she realises the stupid mistake she made during the night, and swallowing down her panic, slips out of Diego’s hold and his room to find a pharmacy and a morning after pill as quickly as possible.

Diego is drifting in and out of sleep when the comfortable weight at his side suddenly disappears and Lila leaves him in the early hours of the morning, closing the door silently behind herself but somehow the sound nevertheless reverberates around Diego’s sparsely furnished room.

His arm feels so suddenly unoccupied and useless that he tucks it behind his head as he stares up at the ceiling and watches dustmotes float around in the sunlight that filters in through his half drawn drapes.

He doesn’t go back to sleep, even though a quick look at his alarm clock tells him that it’s very early, instead he lies awake and frets.

How has he let this happen again? He’d felt guilty enough about it the first time around and had promised himself not to indulge in anything more with Lila again, whatever his feelings might be and yet now he’s taken her to bed and though she was enthusiastic about it, how can he be fully certain that she doesn’t think he has some kind of expectation now, or that her continued stay in his apartment is somehow dependent on her willingness fuck him?

And then he remembers that he slept with her without a condom.

“Fuck!” he says out loud. He’s not some horny teenager anymore, he knows so much better than this. Unbidden his thoughts drift to his biological mother, a woman he’s never known, and wonders whether she’d been in a similar situation, whether some asshole who couldn’t keep it in his pants had left her high and dry when she got pregnant, leaving her with no other option than to give him away.

Diego covers his eyes with his hand, pressing his fingers into them in an attempt to stave off the tears that are threatening to leak out.

Fuck, he’s a grown-ass man, and he might have a failing business and apparently really shitty luck with women, cause of course the first time he meets someone he feels truly drawn to in years, she’s his fucking tenant, but he’s damned if he won’t take responsibilty for his own actions.

He’s got to get to work, but the next time he sees her, he needs to clear the air with Lila.

#otp: just be gentle #lila pitts #diego hargreeves #dielila #diego x lila #diego/lila #tua #the umbrella academy #fanfic #ongoing fic

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allycryz · 3 years

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WIP Wednesday

More first draft of Thancred and Haurche on the Source waiting for Nerys. Gonna start seriously editing the Y’shtola Stormblood fic I have in folders so I can post that maybe in July.

tagged by @kunstpause and tagging all who want in!

They appear once when Haurchefant splits logs in front of the building, supervised by three pixies. (He had to get their permission, naturally. As he works, he explains each step of his process for their amusement. It keeps them from asking about his scars.) Two small figures on the path, coming into focus and drawing nearer until Minfilia waves one hand in the air. There is an excitement to it he hasn’t witnessed in her before and his chest tightens, delighted to see her acting her age.

He lodges the hatchet into the chopping block and waits for them. If his hands on his hips and posture show his body to good advantage for Thancred well...he likes being admired. Surely there is no harm in it.

“Haurchefant!” Minfilia smiles. “Is Urianger home too?”

“Urianger is home, child.” The man himself says, emerging from the home with his gathering basket hung on one arm. “About to gather produce for supper. Thou lookest well.”

She looks at the basket with open yearning. The girl likes these foraging trips, working with the flowers Urianger tended to around the house. The three men share one of those fond, smiles adults might about their charges and even Thancred allowed himself to soften.

“If you’re not tired from the trip, go on with him.” He says to his charge. “But be careful and don’t pick anything unless Urianger says you can.”

“I will!”

“She shall be safe in mine care.” Urianger nods, giving Haurchefant a meaningful look it takes him a moment to interpret. Sly, wonderful man.

Thancred turns to him, eyes flickering to follow the bead of sweat Haurchefant feels rolling down his chest. Just as quickly he looks back up, shoving hands into pockets.

“You must be sweltering,” says Haurchefant. “Care to join me in shirtless labor?”

“You’re too kind. I’ll be fine.” This time Thancred’s gaze lingers longer. The pixies don’t titter because they all followed the other two into the woods. It is just the two of them, alone and admiring each other.

“If you insist! That was nice of you just now, by the way.”

“It doesn’t take much to make her happy.” Now Thancred looks away, eyes turning cool and hard. “She...didn’t see the sky or the grass until I freed her.”

Haurchefant swears under his breath. No matter how familiar he’s grown with Minfilia’s story, it always fills him with fury to think of. A child kept locked in darkness and trained to kill regardless of what she wanted, fated to die…

A hand curls upon his shoulder. He looks down and finds Thancred so close the fabric of his jacket brushes against his chest.

“It’s alright. We’re protecting her now.”

“Yes, we are.” The urge to tease Thancred is gone with this new subject. Hhe takes the man’s hand and squeezes. Presses it over his beating heart. “I swear it Thancred, I’ll do anything to protect you two.”

“Don’t say that,” Thancred hisses. “I appreciate you Haurche but if you sacrifice yourself for me one day, i’ll be furious.”

#thancred waters #haurchefant greystone #ryne #urianger augurelt #thancred x haurchefant

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wistfulcynic · 4 years

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melancholy

There’s a post somewhere in the depths of Tumblr (if anyone knows where please post the link) something to the effect of a person who had been suffering through a bout of depression one day started to sing while they were cooking. Their roommate immediately rushed in, overwhelmed with relief because they knew that singing meant the person was feeling better.

This is inspired by that.

melancholy:

August is always a difficult month for Killian. As if the sweltering heat and the mosquitoes and the bittersweet sense of summer waning weren’t bad enough, it’s also the month in which Liam died. Each year Killian grows tense and snappish as the anniversary approaches, both eager for the damned thing to be over and wishing it would never come.

And this year, this one, is the worst yet. This August marks ten years since his brother passed, a fact that first begins to worm its way into Killian’s mind on a soft May day when he should be happy—his own bloody birthday. He’s 29 this year and with thirty now not so much waiting around the corner as looming up directly in his path, he finds himself struck by the realisation of just how painfully young Liam had been when he died. He can’t stop thinking about it as August draws nearer, or of all the things he’s seen and done that Liam—dead before he even saw his quarter-century—never had the chance to try.

He knows himself well enough to be aware of what miserable company he is when these fits of melancholy overtake him, and this being such a long and vicious one he does his best to stay away from Emma as much as he can until it passes. His roommate has enough to deal with, he thinks, she doesn’t need him adding to her burdens. So he keeps to himself, stays in his room with music on his headphones or goes to the bar he knows she hates to brood over a glass of rum. Sometimes he takes long walks late into the night, alone with his thoughts and safely away from the temptation of Emma Swan.

On the day of the anniversary itself he runs into her despite all his efforts. Her skip kept her out later than usual and so it happens that when he returns from the bar, drunk and aching deep in his soul, he finds her not asleep in her bed but in the kitchen making grilled cheese. She gives him a look that’s at once understanding and tentative, oddly yearning and full of sympathy, and he forces a smile to his face but does not speak. She opens her mouth but he shakes his head hard, willing her to understand that there’s no way he can bear her kindness now. If she offers it he will break and he can’t risk that, not with her. She means too much to him and he already wants so many things that she can’t give—there’s no telling what he’ll do or say if he lets his guard down now when he’s so bruised and so needy and so alone.

She nods and swallows and tries to smile, and he retreats to his room feeling worse than ever. He lies in bed with sleep nowhere to be had and he thinks, once again, about Liam. He thinks about how his brother died before he had a chance to see the world as he always wanted. Before he could learn to sail the ships he used to admire in the harbour. Before he could fall in love.

What kind of woman would he have chosen, Killian wonders. Or, perhaps, what kind of man? Either is equally plausible; he truly has no idea how Liam felt about love or sex or romance. It occurs to him that in some ways he hardly knew his brother at all.

He’s certain though that whomever Liam might have chosen to love, he’d have made better go at it than Killian. Better than the married woman that he failed to save, better than the roommate with her mile-high walls who will never love him back. It’s almost like he’s trying to be alone, he thinks bitterly, and to waste every opportunity offered by the life that Liam worked so hard to give him.

His August mood that started in May lingers well past the end of summer, and the air is crisp with the bite of early October when Killian realises that he’s managed to go a whole day without once thinking of Liam. It makes him rather sad again but it’s also a relief; he can’t live his life trapped in grief and guilt and recrimination. And he needs to live that life, and live it as well as he knows how—he owes Liam at least that much.

The following day finds him in the kitchen making fajitas when Emma gets home. He’s in the mood to cook for the first time in ages and he’s making more than enough to share, both because Emma’s been known to have a bowl of cereal of an evening and call it dinner and because Killian figures a nice meal will serve as an apology for how difficult it must have been living with him these past few months.

He’s singing to himself when the front door opens, one of the old sea shanties he grew up hearing, and when Emma appears in the kitchen he gives her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, love,” he says. “I know the shanties aren’t your favourite, but—urgh.”

Emma strides across the room and flings her arms around him, squeezing him so tightly he grunts. She presses her face against his neck and he feels the warmth of her tears on his skin.

“Thank God,” she whispers. “Thank fucking God.”

“What’s this, Swan?” He hugs her back then pulls slightly away so he can look down at her face. “What’s wrong?”

“When you’re sad you stop singing,” she whispers, as fresh burst of tears begins to flow. “This is the first time you’ve sung in six months. I’m just—” she breaks off on a sob. “I’m so relieved you’re feeling better. I was so worried, Killian.”

He stares at her. “You were worried about me?”

“Of course I was!” She tries to snap but it comes out weak and watery. “I lov—ah—I care about you.”

His breath catches and his heart stutters as she goes rigid in his arms and watches him warily. In times past he’d have convinced himself it was a slip of the tongue and nothing more, but his vow to live his life the best he can is fresh in his mind, and Emma is still holding him so tightly and she’s still crying... crying because he was sad. Because she saw that he was sad. Not that he was a pain in her arse to live with but that deep down he wasn’t well.

She always sees him.

Live, he reminds himself. Take the risk, for Liam who never could.

He brushes the hair back from her face, tear-streaked and gorgeous and full of an apprehension that breaks his heart. “I love you too, Emma,” he says softly.

Her mouth falls open. “You do?” she gasps.

“Aye. Very much.”

“Oh, Killian.” She squeezes him again and he lets her, cradling her head as she weeps freely into his shoulder, letting his fingers tangle in her hair as they have longed to do for years now.

“I’m so sorry for worrying you, love,” he murmurs. “I never dreamed you’d notice.”

“Of course I noticed,” she retorts, pulling back to dry her cheeks on the sleeve of her sweater. “I know it’s ten been ten years since Liam died and I knew how much that would upset you. I wanted to help, but—”

“But I didn’t let you,” he finishes, shaking his head. “I’ve been a bloody fool. Can you forgive me?”

“Of course I can. So long as you promise me one thing.”

“Anything, darling.”

“The next time you feel that way, don’t try to handle it alone. If you don’t want to talk to me there are counsellors—”

“You’ll do, Swan,” he assures her. “And I promise.”

She nods, her smile brilliant with relief, light with lifted worry. “I’m always here for you, Killian,” she says. “To listen or hold your hand or anything else you need.” She takes a deep breath. “Because I love you.”

Something settles in Killian’s chest, something that feels terrifyingly like happiness. He cups Emma’s face in his hands and kisses her, a gentle, clinging kiss that she stands on her toes to return, and for the first time in ten years Killian Jones knows that he is not alone.

#cs fic #cs ficlet #cs ff #cs ff au #cw: depression #captain swan #profdanglaisstuff

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hollenka99 · 3 years

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The Futility of Talking

Summary: Ghostbur decides Soulbur needs people to talk to.

Warnings: implied suicidal ideation, referenced parental neglect, referenced animal death, nearly drowning (accident unrelated to the first tw)

Masterlist

It takes days of wandering in the woods for Ghostbur to gradually decide he's had enough. It's isolating out here in the open. This isn't helped by the fact Soulbur seems hellbent on avoiding him whenever he is bestowed the privilege of catching a glimpse. Did he do something wrong? If he made Soulbur upset somehow, he'd really love to apologise and work through it.

Friend turns his head at a slight rustle coming from the trees. Ghostbur's face lights up when he follows the sheep's gaze and his eyes land on a calico lazing around on a branch. He commands Friend to stay there. Climbing the tree isn't that difficult so it doesn't take him long to perch on an adjacent branch, hand outstretched to gain the cat's trust. "Hi, I'm Ghostbur. Do you like chin scratches? I know she did." He sits by the steam, pole in hand. He's done for the morning with the trading he set out to the village for. There seems to be more than enough fish to spare here so today is getting more successful by the hour. A squid found itself on the end of his line earlier too. He'll have to work out how to prepare it. He's sure Phil demonstrated once but that was likely years ago. Phil himself has gone off for a short trip and was due to return by this evening. If Wilbur can keep the squid fresh enough, he'll ask him for advice so they can have some tomorrow night. A stray cat has warily made her way towards him. No sudden movements, he remembers. Strays tend to be skittish (this one evidently no exception) and need patience shown to them if you wish to pet one. He slowly offers the cat a chunk of one of the fish. She loves it and it is clear she is requesting more. So he gives in to her incessant mewling. What he hadn't considered during this interaction was how quickly a stray could begin viewing you with affection if you gave them the time of day. Having hung around him while he fished, she inevitably follows him after he packs up to go home. At first, he'd chuckled in a 'ha look at this cat attach itself to me' way. Then she leapt into his little boat and it suddenly grew more serious. Uh, yeah, you might not want to go all the way home with him, little kitty, it'll be a hell of a hike home otherwise. She looks to him expectantly. Ha, okay I know I gave you some fish today but you can't have any more because I need some left to eat myself so it's best if you hop out of- Oh alright you're going to clamber onto my lap, huh? Fine, fine, I'll let you hang out at my house for a little while. Prepare yourself for Tommy though, that kid can be a fairly boisterous at times. Tommy is quicker to greet her than help his brother with the bloody shopping or today's catch. He fusses over her as if she was already their pet. "Oh nice, have we got ourselves a cat then?" "No, they're-" Yes. Yes, they were absolutely going to take in this stray, weren't they? God damn it. "They're going to need a name before we do that." The two of them bounce names off of each other. In the mix are the likes of Pumpkin, Carrot, Rose, Apricot and Amber. Wilbur jokingly suggests 'Basilina' in reference to something which unfortunately leaves Tommy's face blank. Whatever gets suggested, none of the options come across as the right one. "Why do people call orange red?" Tommy asks out of nowhere. "Oh, it's because you're never going to get an animal with fur that's actually red but orange is close enough so you get people saying orange fur is red. Something like that. It's the same way someone might look at a cat and call their fur blue when actually it's more grey with blue tones." "That's dumb." Tommy scoffs. "Hey, apples are red." "...They are, yes." "I want to call her Apple." "I thought you liked Pumpkin a minute ago." "She can be both." "Like a first name-last name kind of deal? Well... I think Appleby might be an actual surname that exists so what do you think about Pumpkin Appleby?" The small boy bursts into giggles. "That's the stupidest name I have ever heard." "Oh really? Well if you're so great at coming up with names on the fly, you do better." He teases. Tommy frowns with concentration as he deliberates on the perfect identity for this ginger cat who has wandered into their lives until he comes up with "Apple Pumpkinson." "Sure." He laughs. "Sure, we'll call her Apple Pumpkinson, I guess. As good a name as any." He crafts the name tag that very afternoon. With the cat clearly not interested in social interaction right now, Ghostbur leaps to the ground. A familiar animal comes into existence. Apple gets a fair amount of attention before complying with his offer of being carried. It's been so long since he had her against his chest. It feels good. "Come on, let's find Soulbur. I'm sure he'll want to meet you." --- There is a voice drifting in the wind from somewhere nearby. Close enough to hear, far enough to not be able to discern more details about its origins. He knows it is most likely Ghostbur trying to chat with him despite all his effort to evade his company. Forgive him for hardly having 'talking through our last interaction' on his hypothetical 'stuff I'd prefer to do today' list. But then again, it could not be. Someone could have somehow breached the boundaries of his private world. Is that possible? He... thinks so. To be fair, he can leave so there must be exploitable fault lines somewhere. Perhaps he should defend himself. Obviously, a threat to his safety can only go so far given that he can't permanently sustain injuries, let alone die again. And fuck knows he never gave much of a shit about physically protecting himself in those last several weeks of life. But look at him waste valuable time deliberating. Shit like that could easily get you killed. Whoever is approaching, they're getting closer. Maybe Ghostbur. Maybe someone who doesn't wish him well. Does he risk trusting the most likely option? Or does he risk coming across as a paranoid weirdo who overthinks the slightest things too often? He's in an open space with no-one else around, in a sectioned off part of the void that no-one visits. Ha, someone could take him out and Ghostbur likely wouldn't find him until tomorrow or whatever. But wants to believe this will have the best outcome as a result of heavily misinterpreting his senses. God, there he goes again, decreasing his chances of properly defending himself from a potential threat in time. Listen, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon, it's probably Ghostbur so don't manifest a weapon. He draws a sword as he whips around. If the pursuer is far away, he has time to switch to something long range like a bow and arrow. Otherwise, he won't have the chance to correct what could be a fatal mistake. "Hi, Soulbur!" The smile drops in shock. "O-Oh." See? Just Ghostbur with Friend tagging along close behind. Honestly, who else would it be? "Ghostbur." Shoulders sag in what could be interpreted as relief or some sort of exhaustion. The sword drops from his loosened grip, vanishing as if it never existed in the first place. He makes no further comment when he notices there's a ginger cat in the ghost's arms. Not just any feline with orange fur either. There is no doubt in his mind who this is. He wants to be flooded with recollections of petting sessions, moments spent unable to leave the spot he was sitting due to a napping lump and times he'd laughed while getting yelled at. Yet no matter how hard he tries, only two associated memories reveal themselves to be prominent. The first revolves around sitting on the large bed, one arm occupied with Fundy while the other drew Tommy closer without causing his brother's hand to slip away from the fur it was emerged in. The other featured the sweltering heat of the Nether and knowing it was possibly the very last place he wished to be at that very moment. "Do you remember her?" "Y-Yeah, I think so." He attempts to crouch but, thanks to still coming down from hyperactive thoughts, he miscalculates his balance and ends up sitting within seconds. Allowed back on the ground, Apple cautiously approaches Soulbur's offered backhand. "Oh." He exhales. "Hi, Aps." His eyes can fuck off. There is no way in hell he's letting himself cry over something that happened years ago. Especially not with Ghostbur present. Instead he focuses on gently kneading the spots behind her ears. "I am so sorry. It's my fault for not monitoring you more closely." "I'm guessing she stayed with Phil after Tommy, Fundy and Alivebur left." "You think we would have left her at home? No, no, no. She's been gone for years. It was back when Fundy was tiny. Tommy was watching him while we made dinner but called us over for something. We could have sworn we covered those mushrooms but Tommy made it sound urgent and we..." Soulbur's gaze redirects itself with a soft sigh. She glances back at him. "Why the hell did you have to go snooping around and nibbling on things you're not supposed to, huh missy?" "I don't know why but Tommy got it into his head it would be cool if we buried her in the Nether. Pretty sure we were too emotionally drained to say anything other than 'fuck it, why not'. There was a warped forest not far from where the nearest portal landed us so we left her under one of the trees. Did you like that? I know it was a bit warmer than you'd expect it to be." 'Tell me more about her', he wants to say. 'I know I'll forget pretty much as soon as you finish but could you spare a story?', he nearly asks. 'Let's practise futility together', he is seconds away from offering. "Thank you." He instead says. "So... are we letting bygones be bygones then?" "Did something happen? I'm trying to think but nothing is coming up." "Uh, yeah." He frowns. "We-" Oh. Of fucking course. Stupid him for stressing about a potential confrontation between them where they'd need to discuss their argument. All this time and Ghostbur didn't even bloody recall any of it. Well done, Soulbur, for wasting your goddamn week. His only consolation was that at least several days meant nothing when compared to near-infinity. "Never mind. It wasn't important anyway." "I'm sorry if I did something bad. I'm really trying to remember." "Sure. Whatever. Doesn't matter so don't worry about it. Either way, I'm sorry too." All across their world, out of their view, every fungal species goes extinct in an instant. Mostly because he refuses to let history to repeat itself, partially because he needs to say fuck you to something. --- Ghostbur is delighted to see Soulbur when he makes a surprise visit. It's completely unexpected but somehow, it makes the interruption to his day all the better. His counterpart encourages him to follow along. Apparently, there is something Soulbur would like to show him. He asks after Apple as they travel. She's doing alright and is back at Soulbur's hideout. Across a hill is an entire valley of flowers, populated by a variety of colourful plants. There were daisies over there, a rainbow's worth of tulips scattered in most directions and oh look, patches of bare grass. Friend will love that. At the centre of the flowery ocean is a dark blue pool of the flower he's been struggling to find up until now. From the edge where they are standing, there is pleasant line of birch trees acting as a border. Looking further, he spots a lake of the other side. "This whole thing is yours." "Everything?" "Yep. Knock yourself out." "But why?" "Because I can?" He shrugs. "You got me Apple and I'm not such a huge twat that I wouldn't at least attempt to return the gesture." "Thank you!" Ghostbur throws his arms open, spontaneously moving towards the other half of Alivebur. The momentum doesn't lead to his body affectionately colliding with Soulbur's. Instead, it causes his hands to impact with the ground, the only things preventing his face from joining them. Glancing up, he catches wide eyes staring back at him and the twitch of an arm that, in another set of circumstances, might not have been 'corrected' before the command to complete the intended action was fulfilled. Then the sight vanishes as Soulbur's expression morphs into something more akin to a fed up frown. "Yeah, don't mention it. No need to make a big fuss. In fact, I think I'm done here. Just um... maybe you could set your base here. I don't think you ever got around to actually building a house, right? You could clear some wood from these trees and put it around about here." With that, he sets off. Like... he always does. Looking out over it once more, there is no doubt that this place really was gorgeous. He's grateful that Soulbur thought to make something like this for him, he truly is. However, he can't fully appreciate it because Soulbur always seemed to end up mad whenever Ghostbur was around. He's even materialised a pearl to make his escape faster. Oh, hang on, what if it's simply him that's the issue? You can't expect somebody to like everyone they know. Perhaps the solution is to provide him with more people to talk to. He'd only had Schlatt (their lifetime hatred had transferred over) and Mexican Dream (while their relationship was better, it was hardly like they were close, as far as Ghostbur could tell). Now that this line of thought has occurred to him, he could also benefit from speaking to expanding his social circle while here. He sighs. But first, he should find Friend. He's sure his loyal companion of a sheep will love the grassy parts of this gift as much as Ghostbur does. --- Tucked in the cliff face, Soulbur was perfectly content with spending time with his cat. He'd half forgotten how it felt to have weight pressing on the side of his face or across his chest, if he's going to be honest. He knows his company is not the most entertaining but he appreciates that Apple seems not to outwardly mind. One day he might actually fish or hunt again for her instead of simply causing her food to appear from thin air. He's sure she'll like that. Either way, all of this is to say that no, Ghostbur, he would rather not get dragged to your field for some activity you haven't even explained clearly. All he'd managed to surmise was that it entailed speaking to someone. Had Schlatt or Mexican Dream discovered a way to come here? He hopes not since this was supposed to his private piece of the void. Although, now he thought about it, he's pretty sure he's unintentionally missed the last couple times he and Mexican Dream had tried to schedule a Spanish lesson. Damn it. Yeah, Mexican Dream likely wasn't super pleased about being left hanging. Next card session, he'd apologise. Had someone they'd known died and found their way here somehow? No, he's sure Ghostbur would have mentioned their name by now if that had been the case. Even when they reach their destination, nothing gains any clarity. "Alright, we're here. What do you want from me?" "I was thinking about how we can make people show up because, well, I already made Apple appear. Anyway, it might be good for you to have more friends here because before me, you were very lonely." "I'm not... lonely." He huffs. "Besides, when it comes to a lot of our 'friends', we didn't part on the best of terms. Lots of uh, animosity, I suppose you could say." "Then you get that anger out. You're very good at that." Yep, that's him, the guy who was always angry. Not like anger or its cousin frustration weren't simply the easiest to settle into. He's played the asshole villain once before, he can keep doing it for the sake of maintaining his reputation. He supposes he should be glad that Ghostbur has never caught any moments where his face hadn't been as dry whenever the ghost has approached his cave. Or when he's recovering from a rough nap. So yeah, Mr Angry, that's who he is. But god is it tiring to maintain a single emotion. Must be great for Ghostbur to get a wider range. "So who do you want first?" Deliberation. Then a stubborn sigh. "Phil. I guess." Within a minute, a replica of Phil is standing before them. He's a pretty decent copy of the real man, although he swears those wings should be darker and he's certain Phil's missing the handful of grey hairs his 40s have provided him. Close enough though. Not to mention this is literally only an illusion. Anything Soulbur might want to say to him doesn't matter because Phil's not actually going to hear it. Neither of them can predict how he'll genuinely react to wherever a potential conversation may lead. He comments as much to Ghostbur who comes across as unfazed by this issue. Well, screw it, might as well get it out of the gate. "Kind of a shitty thing you did. And I know that we apparently asked for it but... you didn't have to actually do it." "Go on, don't hold back." The ghost encourages. "I mean, where the hell do you want me to start? Him killing us, the frequent trips away that turned into fucking off indefinitely, the fact I didn't feel like-?" "Not me, him." A groan. "Fine. You agreed to let Tommy stay so he should have been your responsibility more than mine. In my teens, I should have been more preoccupied with dumb things like wanting to have a bunch of friends or catching a girl's attention. Not deciding whether I needed to leave Tommy home alone so we could still eat because you weren't back from another sodding trip yet. You probably know by now but surprise! Fundy was never just some rapidly aging kid I seemed to always be babysitting. Not that you were ever there long enough to press me on that by that point. You know, I didn't realise being a parent had a time limit. By that logic, I should have told Fundy to get on with being an independent adult as soon as he turned 5. Maybe it's a good thing Tommy pretty much chose to live on his own at 16, god forbid I had to spend another 2 or so years frequently looking out for him. I might not have known what I was doing and honestly, could have done with some tips, but at least you already taught me what not to do. God knows why I bothered to offer you a chance to start over with those letters." "I'm sorry." The fake Phil says. "You don't get to choose if he'd actually apologise." "Isn't that what you want?" "It's what you want." Ghostbur's brow furrow with genuine confusion. "And you don't?" "You want some perfect world where things can be fixed with a single conversation so no, I don't want that. Not realisitic." "What do you want from him then?" He takes a long, scrutinising look at the imitation of his pseudo-father before him. Objectively, he is vaguely aware there were many moments of affection that grew sparser the older he got and the more often Phil would go adventuring with Technoblade. He was... loved and he used to love back. Or that is his best guess. He was becoming very close friends with Techno back when they were in their teens too. There's a reason he was never able to fully trust the piglin hybrid during their time in Pogtopia. It was Phil's fault for entrusting him with responsibilities always a little bit too early. But it was Techno's fault for not bringing it up despite the amount of times they left without the other two when Wilbur made it as blatantly clear as he could that he wasn't happy about it. He didn't always shut the door more firmly than he should whenever they bid farewell. And he is sure that, once upon a time, being surrounded by one of Phil's wings was among his favourite places to be. Not anymore. "Guess." He answers. --- It's a week after he talks to 'Phil' that Ghostbur suggests they try the exercise once more. Soulbur begrudgingly accepts. "Oh, I know. How about Tommy? He and I used to hang out. We even went on holiday together." "A holiday?" "Mhmm," Ghostbur nods enthusiastically. "Dream took us on a boat and I did my best not to touch the water even though I like teasing Phil by sticking my hand out when it rains." Faintly, from an intangible distance he can't perceive the length of, alarm bells toll. Dream wasn't the type of guy to randomly send a teenager and his brother's ghost on a holiday abroad. He wouldn't be surprised if there were ulterior motives at play. After all, Dream had practically enabled Wilbur with the TNT stock increase so... he doesn't know what to make of it. One way or another, something didn't add up. However, he is lacking in context and if it's as dubious as he suspects, Soulbur doubts Ghostbur can recall the necessary background intel to complete the full picture. Ghostbur seems like he has more to say on the matter in his ramble but Soulbur jumps in with "Doesn't rain burn you though?" "Well yes but when it's tiny like drizzle, it's all tingly instead. It only really hurts when I touch a lot of it." "Like for example... the ocean." "Yes." He giggles. "But I wasn't going to actually do it. It would have been fun if I could. Phil always makes this face when I try to touch rain. It's like when Alivebur used to sneak a few more berries in his mouth than he was supposed to or when he got his clothes wet by jumping into rivers." "Right. Anyway, let's get Tommy over with." 'Tommy' is, again, a good copy. His hair has grown out which Soulbur suspects may have been something that occurred in his absence. He's not used to this length since Tommy always kept his hair in a flux of 'short and kind of tidy' to 'too annoying and shit'. You know what? This length lowkey suits him. If Soulbur, or more to the point Wilbur, were still alive, he'd say so to the real Tommy's face. But instead, he supposes he has to vent for the sake of the activity. It takes a minute but he is able to think of something. "You shouldn't have acted as my right hand in exile. You did decently during the war and did your part to help with the election. But when it came to exile? You kept opposing the TNT idea but didn't really offer any potential alternative solutions to deal with L'Manburg instead. At one point I think you even came close to unintentionally helping Schlatt with his plans for the sake of a distraction. And shit, Tubbo might have ended up being a bit of a yes man but at least I knew not to fully trust his motives and actions. You were supposed to stick by my side or tell me to get fucked. You did both and neither. You might not be an adult yet but you're certainly not a little boy anymore. If you are going to take a stand, you can't just let yourself be a dissenting bystander. I might have even listened to you if you came up with a viable enough plan to rid our country of tyranny without destroying it for good. But well... too late for that now." Tommy appears dejected. Immediately, Soulbur really wishes his ghostly twin would stop giving these clones feelings when the point of all this was to do it without the actual person they represented knowing what his thoughts were. They would have to sort it out. --- The sun is warm in his field and it's nearly enough to negate the slight universal chill he's slowly begun growing accustomed to. With Soulbur laying near him, Friend grazing somewhere off in the distance and Apple enjoying the sun in the gap between the humans, it's a rare moment but lovely all the same. "Do you ever think about how it was supposed to be over, how we were supposed to be done with everything?" Soulbur speaks up. "No? What do you mean?" "I mean the button. We kept telling Tommy we wouldn't die in the explosion, that the people who'd die were those unfortunate enough to be in L'Man- Manberg when we set it aflame. Never us, no no no. Us, in our little button room? Nah, why would you ever think that? People lied to us, we lied to them back. Nobody's fucking trustworthy. Eret dumped potatoes on us like 'Oh we're the best of friends now and everything's all great between us'. Fuck off, if you think I'd let my guard down around you, especially you, you have another thing coming. Probably wanted to hurt Tommy and I again for the hell of it. And maybe we weren't that far gone by October, maybe we were being honest about not intending to die with our nation. But on the day, we fucked up. I don't know what it was, I think... I think it was the combination of Tubbo being targeted for supposedly having loyalty towards Pogtopia, Schlatt being a prick as usual and everything seeming to happen at once. Whatever happened, we freaked out and couldn't focus enough to realise we needed to take maybe like... five steps forward to find where the entrance to the room was hidden. So we lost our great chance and had to wait for the next one. All that time telling ourselves we just had to get to the 16th and then we'd get what we wanted, all of it for nothing. I suppose we should consider ourselves lucky that it was only an extra month to get worse. When we set a date for war, it gave us a target to aim for. So yeah, we got worse and threw ourself into making sure that this time we would not fail under any circumstance. Who cares about basic things like staying safe and healthy when we knew the when and where of our death? We were like... we were like those people that are terminally ill and their body just loses its appetite the sicker they get. Either way, we got what we wanted and then realised this wasn't what we expected it to be. Screw us for hoping to catch a fucking break, right?" Ghostbur begins questioning why exactly he was going on a rant like this but Soulbur barrels on regardless. "Whenever people speculate about what the afterlife is like, a lot of them imagine it as this great time where you reunite with those you knew who went before you. You all sit in a circle and hold hands and enjoy each other's company, forever. You do that shit forever. Seeing people you cared about sounds nice in theory but in practice? There's a reason you don't stay in the presence of even your favourite person ever 24/7. It's tiring. Fuck that, you know? I don't know whether humans were made to be social for eternity. It's like 'Oh hey Grandma, fancy seeing you here for the trillionth time since I died'. Not for me, thanks. Not for a bunch of people either, I'm sure of it." "You said it was January when you left?" "Yes." "And you're sure about that?" "Yes." "Well that's only two months. And trust me, I might not know how long I've been here but I know it's been far longer than two months. Which means, Ghostbur, which means that time moves faster here. I don't know how much faster, there's no way of working it out, but one thing is for sure, we're going to get more days here than down there. Because... because here's the thing, Ghostbur, here's the thing, it doesn't matter how hard you try to keep count of the days in little notebooks or whatever, because it will get to a point where you don't care if the index number- that's what the little number in the top right corner is called, right? Nobody cares if the number is 8 or 9 by the time you've been here long enough to be counting that high. Who cares if you've been here for 2 times 10 to the power of 6 or- or 5 times 10 to the power of 300 days? One way or another, you'll have been dead for a long, long time. By that point, who gives a shit. The main problem is that it seems the dead are stuck with a longer infinity than the living." "Sometimes- Okay, I'm only admitting this out loud because technically we're the same person and I mean, who are you going to tell, other than Schlatt or Mexican Dream- Friend might also count, I don't know... Same difference. But fuck it, you're not going to tell anyone who actively gives a shit about trying to play the bigger person with the intent of stopping me." He catches his breath. "Sometimes, Ghostbur, sometimes I wonder if I were to collapse this pretend world and leave myself with no protection from the Void, whether that would cause me to lose consciousness. Wouldn't that be interesting? Never having to regain consciousness, just... lights out and then a nap that lasts long enough to see the universe end. Death as it should be." He glances over at Soulbur silently. Speechlessly even because what on earth is he supposed to say after all that? His other half is thoughtfully playing with a poppy still connected to the ground. He is seemingly none the wiser to Ghostbur's lost gaze. "I guess these flowers aren't too bad. Shame I'll get incredibly bored of them eventually." "...I think you need some blue. Let me find you some from my collection." "Believe me, I don't think blue will help in the slightest." "Try it anyway. It helps me." "Well, infinite time to gather infinite resources... I doubt you wasting some on me will make a difference in the long run." He stumbles as he rises. Blue, just focus on making blue. He's laughter and encouragement and an open pair of comforting arms when necessary. He was not made to contemplate the universe or its mysteries. So he'll deliver blue to those who need it. Maybe he'll spare some blue for himself. But Soulbur first, definitely. --- The next week, amongst the suggestions he throws at Soulbur regarding who he should speak to this time, Niki's name gets mentioned. The more volatile half of Alivebur outright refuses to even consider it. His reasoning is that he has nothing to say to her, regardless of how much the real Niki likely has to say to him. Ghostbur doesn't get much of a chance to argue they could speak to Niki without having to criticize her. She appears in their void world either way when Soulbur is gone because who says he can't hang out with his friend? He provides all the ingredients. He lets her be in charge of grounding the wheat into flour since she is much better at it than him. Instead, he is in charge of slicing the apples into segments as equally as he can. The slices that won't go in the cake or on it as part of the decoration will become snacks for Friend. They work well as a team, chatting and laughing together as they prepare it all for baking. "Niki, Alivebur didn't do this often, did he?" "No but it's okay, he was a very busy man." "We should do this regularly. We can do that now." "Sure. It'll be fun." The end product is as delicious as it smells. They sample the result of their hard work, leaving a minimum of half to share with a certain someone. The cliff face never reeked of nicotine in life as far as he's aware. Then again, he has no memories of Alivebur ever considering touching a cigarette while living here. He doesn't expect to recall something like that in the first place but... he believes his point still stands. Apple Pumpkinson is probably lingering in the vicinity since he can't see her right now. He does, however, spot a figure with their knees tucked towards their chest and a glowing burning dot. There is a mix of sniffling and coughing coming from them as well. Part of Ghostbur plans to enquire whether that's simply the result of Soulbur's habit or an indication he isn't feeling great at the moment. Despite not truly wanting to, he decides to leave it. He doubts Soulbur would appreciate the intrusion. So he sticks to his original reason for coming here. "Niki and I baked a cake so here's your share of it. It's got a bunch of apples inside and on top. Don't tell anyone," He chuckles. "But I've already had a taste test. It's very, very good but I might be a little biased." Perhaps when he checks in tomorrow, the cake will have been undisturbed. More for him, he jokes internally. He does hope Soulbur will enjoy the gift though. So when he swings by again the next day to leave a new set of flowers (a bunch of oxeye daisies that were as lovely as they were cheery) and discovers there is no evidence of a baked product ever being delivered, Ghostbur is optimistically hopeful. It was a rather large portion which is why he expects Soulbur not have eaten it in one go. He comes to the conclusion it might be good if he does this more often. --- Having suggested people like Niki (nope, no thanks, he doesn't know if he could manage to look any version of her in the eye) and Eret (no chance in hell, for arguably the inverse reasons), Ghostbur has once again dragged him back to the flower field for one of the talks. It's Fundy this time, though he was incredibly reluctant to accept. There's no trace of war or any sort of strife for that matter on his son. He's in a t-shirt and an open black hoodie, slightly younger than he last recalls so perhaps in his late teens. It's dawningly apparent that this is the boy who was yet to sneak off to join his uncle on an adventure to find somewhere cool, far away. It won't do. Soulbur has things he wants to say but not to this kid who is probably only 17 or 18. The war veteran turned spy wearing a dark jacket with their familiar coloured stripes on the side of the partition appears as his replacement. That's better. "You went behind my back. You not only ran against me in the election, with one of my closest friends might I add, but then attempted to win by committing voter fraud. Not to mention you went on to basically side with Schlatt. I don't care if it was supposed to be a ruse. You still did things that benefitted his cause. I'm not going to go into the fucking flag because I don't feel like being here all day. I know full well showing you basic human decency doesn't mean you're in my debt. But the least you could have done was not turn your back on me the minute you decided you didn't need me anymore. Being in your early 20s doesn't mean you suddenly begin to know what the hell you're doing. I should know!" Ghostbur steps between them, arms thrown out wide. "Fundy is a good son. He's never done anything wrong." "Don't try to debate when you don't have all the evidence." "Well, you shouldn't either then." "Tell me, how great was your relationship as Ghostbur? Because I can't imagine he'd welcome the remnants of his dear old dad back with open arms after all the shit that had just gone down while we were exiled." "I visited him in his home. Phil was there sometimes too." He scoffs at the breezy nonchalance. "Bet that went well." He takes another look at his little boy, not quite as little as he once was, and that's all it takes for him to stop acting pissed off. Four months was a short amount of time for so much to happen to Wilbur. But, likewise, practically just as much happened to Fundy and the others once united under the flag of L'Manburg. Doesn't he know it. And that's exactly why he is positive he cannot stay here a minute longer. "You undoubtedly know where to find me." "Soulbur, wait! You don't have to go. We can-" "I'm tired, Ghostbur. I really don't want to keep doing this. Mostly because it's always been pointless but also, how many times do you want me to get purposefully upset at people we used to care about?" Dejectedly, Ghostbur's gaze diverts to the side as he mumbles out "Cliff or trees?" "Cliff, probably. Apple is there." There is a nod in response and that's all the cue he needs to get the hell out of here. "Do you want to stay up tonight?" He asks his cat. "I can feel it will most likely be a festival kind of thing if I close my eyes. A-And I really can't do that if... Fundy's so close to the front of my mind right now." Speaking of festivals, he thinks he knows who he should have a one sided chat with. But this time, he won't be the one doing the talking. --- He wasn't actually seeking out Soulbur this time. It's an accident that he catches the scene but he's glad to see Tubbo in front of him. It's great that Soulbur was in fact willing to give it a go after all. He felt like it might have slightly been an act, the whole reluctance and instances of hesitation to fully commit. He'll leave them be. If Soulbur wants to do this on his own, Ghostbur is hardly going to breach that privacy. Tubbo takes a breath and it goes downhill from there. "You got me killed. Twice. Your incompetence and neglect to see what was going on got us all killed. You should have realised sooner instead of helping to lead us down to a massacre. In fact, your leadership wasn't what won us the war. It was Tommy sacrificing one of his lives and then both his discs that won us our freedom. And when I trusted you to keep me safe while I risked so much to help you out, you let me die. You lied to me and told me Technoblade was on your side. Look how well that turned out. I was scared out of my mind. I thought you'd at least try to think of a way to help me. But no, you stayed on that roof. Even tried to use the chaos following my execution as a distraction while you ran to the fucking button. You know, it's a shame you destroyed L'Manburg because, even at only 16, I would have made a much bet-." Tubbo cuts off suddenly at the sound of sobbing. He'd tried his best to be silent, he really had. He's not sure why he didn't leave like he'd intended to once Tubbo began talking. Oh and there's Soulbur with that scowl on his face again. "The hell are you doing here, Ghostbur?" "Why are you making him say that? Tubbo wouldn't say that to us." Weary exasperation. "None of them are real, they're just manifestations for the sake of having something to focus on and visualise. What, you'd prefer I switch him to a more suitable individual?" Tubbo morphs into a tall man with unkempt brown hair, a trenchcoat and fingerless gloves. His face bears a matching scowl to Soulbur's one from a moment ago while displaying signs of neglecting basic care... the same sort that, again, Soulbur exhibited. Point made, the third Wilbur dissolves into the air. "You really think that Self Loathing Central is going to thrive positively in a mental capacity by saying things aloud? I'm not the one who needs to sort through his feelings when it comes to harsh truths, Ghostbur. The problem is you seem to be literally incapable of that, given your whole side of the amnesia. Can't help it, I know. But you don't know how- god, if only you knew how goddamn frustrating it is." "I'm sorry. I'm really trying." "Yeah. Me too." Soulbur spits back. The frown remains despite his sharp, conceding exhale. "I just struggle to imagine how we make up the same person sometimes." --- Ghostbur's typically calm, even sunny, demeanour changes to a frown. Okay... he questions whether he's gone too far, given that his counterpart's mood has now tipped into frustrated. Well, either way, he pissed people off in life and he's still continuing to piss them off (although now it's technically himself, in this scenario) in death. This isn't really anything new. Shit, he's even managed to push Ghostbur to a fleeting bout of frustrated anger once before. But this isn't fury, not yet. "Okay, why are you so mean? You are always angry or sad or- or bitter. It's like... what's the phrase? It's like talking to a brick wall. I don't like it." "You don't like a lot about me. Your point?" "My point is be more nice. I just want to get along." "So you can betray me again?" "I never betrayed you! I know Alivebur did a lot of bad th-" "Forget Alivebur." Soulbur spits. Okay, he supposes this is getting quite real now. Fuck knows where this will end up but who cares right now. "Never mind what wrong we did while alive. Right now this is about what you did. You specifically." "But we are the same person." "We are two halves of the same person, yes. Unequal halves at that. Which is your fault." "I never did anything." "Oh my god. Are you serious?!" He starts pacing slightly. Fingers make their way through his hair, stopping halfway, then join their respective arms in being thrown to the sky. He almost seems to be addressing the sun with his next words. "Do you hear that? Do you- do you bloody hear that? He never did anything wrong. Sweet, innocent, harmless Ghostbur is absolutely incapable of wrongdoing." Now whipping back to the ghost. "Why do you want to fuse? Be honest." "Well um, people need Alivebur back. I can't be him. So we need to-" "Go back down there? Yeah, sure, we planned to end up here after destroying L'Manburg but we'll just start living again as if the last few months of our life didn't happen. As if we didn't... Fuck." "But we can live again. Just different." "And that's the problem, isn't it, you being the one willing to live? You know what I want from a hypothetical fusion? To be whole. I want to have all our fucking memories in one spot, to remember what it was like to be goddamn happy. But no, can't risk that, especially now I'm sure you'll do the one thing I don't want you to." He can tell Ghostbur is attempting to formulate a counterpoint to this outburst. He doesn't allow him to. Besides, the ghost had been pushing him to vent at various 'friends' and, in Soulbur's opinion, there was one person who could do with targeting more than the others. Funnily enough, they were already standing right in front of him. "Do you know what it's like to be betrayed by someone you considered a friend?" No answer. "No? Well, I do. I know exactly what that's like because we thought Eret was loyal to L'Manburg's cause. If there were any red flags to be caught, we missed them all. People died. Kids died. In that room, I think we might have been one of the last to go, or at least lose consciousness. Being left to bleed out is bad enough. It's worse when you have enough time to realise how young the others were. We were left there with a couple of 16 years old, one of whom was our little brother we practically raised by ourself, and then our very own son. I'm sure you remember what it was like to watch Tommy and Fundy grow up though, don't you?" "Yeah." It leaves Ghostbur's mouth barely above the threshold for human hearing. "I don't, not really. But I do know we loved them. And I also remember seeing them stiller than we should have ever seen them. I'm not sure how exactly Tubbo died but there was certainly a ridiculous amount of blood around him. Fundy, I'm not too sure about either but Tommy, god Tommy. He was trying to escape Dream and fell, hit his head hard enough to die probably instantly. He was just- He was just lying there for a little while before his body registered it still had more lives and began the respawning process. And then the duel... that arrow hit him right in the chest and he simply stumbled back then dropped. More blood than I want to recall. You know what makes it worse? Those two deaths happened on the exact same day." "Do you know what it's like to watch all your friends leave you?" Again, no verbal response. This time though, there is a frown as Ghostbur recognises his twin was here to shame him. "No? Of course not. Listen, I admit that maybe I helped by refusing to fully trust anyone again but all they did was prove my point. You can't fault me for looking out for number one." "That sounds selfish." "It is not selfish to practise self preservation or wanting to make sure you don't repeat mistakes that had fatal consequences." "You're the reason everyone hated Alivebur." "We are both Wilbur. We are both responsible for everything he did or was. The only difference is that I am the one who remembers Pogtopia and you don't." "Why are you acting like it's my fault? I didn't do anything." "Because it is your fault, Ghostbur! You are literally the reason we split, the reason I've been stuck in this hellhole of a limbo with no decent memories to balance out the bad or even traumatic ones. You took that from me. You and only you. I thought I could rid the world of L'Manburg and everything that made it doomed to inevitably fail, myself included, then hopefully find some peace for the first time in who knows how long. But no. No, you had to decide you weren't as done with it all as I was. You took everything I wanted. You... you..." "You're being unfair. Who's to say you weren't the one who caused our split?" "Because I remember it. Unlike you, it seems." Soulbur's fury falters for a moment as this truth becomes apparent. This pause doesn't last long. "Oh, of course you wouldn't remember it. Why should I expect you to remember the most important moment of our post-death?! You are hopeless." "I'm not." Ghostbur's face is half covered in cornflower blue rivers flowing from his eyes. "You are. I would give anything to be whole again without needing to fuse with you. If I knew how to take those good memories back and leave you with as little as you left me, I think I would." "No, you're just lying to make me feel bad. Stop it. Just stop it." "Fucking make me." Ghostbur vigorously wipes his tears away, inevitably smearing the rich colour across his desaturated face. He's snivelling too as he pretends he's not in breaking down into whimpers. In another situation, if he saw Ghostbur like this, he would show sympathy. But at this very moment, with his wrath no longer kept at bay? He's almost inclined to call the sight before him pathetic. "You are a 24 year old man, stop acting like you're 4 and the world's ending because you scraped your knee." "Why are you acting like this?" "Because I want you to take responsibility for the misery you've forced me to endure! I've tried to keep a level head, god knows I have tried not to take it out on you too much, but I don't know how much longer I can keep this act up. You know, I keep seeing the people I cared about dead. If I think about L'Manburg for a few seconds too long, I end up watching the thing that was supposed to symbolise safety from back when I still had faith in it get destroyed over and over again. I can't stop thinking about how everyone turned their back on me, only to end up doing it to myself. For- for you to end up doing that to me." God damn it, why the hell can't his voice stay steady right now? "Do you understand how horrible that was? So grow up and show that you're sorry. Just saying it won't do. You have to prove it." Through the tears that had sprung from his own eyes, he can see the ghost has screwed his eyes shut tight with blocked ears. Oh, this was ridiculous. Soulbur grabs his counterpart's hands in an effort to pry them from the side of his head. "Stop acting like you can simply run from everything." There's more fuel to keep this fight going at his disposal but he doesn't get a chance to continue. Ghostbur tugs forcefully to free his hands. Unfortunately for both of them, it's too late. What's done is done. --- Wilbur wasn't used to having such a gathering. The only people who he could expect to be found in the house somewhere were Tommy and Phil. Technoblade too, as of his arrival in their lives a few months ago. He was technically in his early teens but Wilbur guesses piglin hybrids matured sooner than humans since he appeared to be approximately at the beginning of adulthood. Either way, the three people he lived under the same roof as weren't the only ones here today. He tended to hang out with his friends from the village instead of the other way around. It was far more convenient for him to make the short journey to them than all of them individually visiting him together. Yet here they all were, ready to celebrate today with him. And no, Tommy, he does not have a crush on any of the girls in the group. You even try to insinuate that in front of everyone today and you will find crumbs in the most annoying spots on your bed. Presents are exchanged while Phil dithers in the kitchen, awaiting his cue. He wouldn't say he had a bad go of it this year. He was definitely not expecting the newly forged diamond sword. These arrows are great as well. And oh, was that the cake Phil was bringing out? His arm comes too close to the cake as he goes to blow out the candles, eliciting a "Wil!" from his father. What the hell is he- oh shit. Fuck, his hoodie sleeve is on fire. Not good, not good at all. Shit, shit, shit. Stop staring at it. Do something, idiot. Uh... uh water. Kitchen. Dump it in the sink. Better dump it on the floor and stamp on that soggy piece of shit too for good measure. Remembering himself, he returns his attention to the others. "Um, I think the problem's solved." "You will be the death of me, you know that?" Phil takes a long exhale. There's also a laugh that sounds like someone coming down from stress. Which, he supposes, it is. "Just put it to the side somewhere and come have the cake. Preferably without setting yourself alight again." "Got it." Luckily for everyone, the rest of the cake section of the day goes off without a hitch. Wilbur animatedly chatters with his mates as they eat. He's not entirely sure how they end up at the topic of swimming. "Well, there's the river nearby. We should go there after this. Screw the 60 minute rule." Tommy's head perks up. "Can I come too?" "Obviously." "Guys..." Phil sighs. This weariness is met with a grin. "You only turn 16 once, Phil." Hand gripping his 8 year old brother's one, they sprint towards the water. Wilbur steps back a few paces once they get there so he can do a run up before entering the water in a cannonball position. Hair dripping, he encourages Tommy to do the same. His friends leap in at their own pace. One even pushes a mutual friend in, which only leads to a shriek that gets cut off abruptly then a string of words the youngest member of the party probably shouldn't be hearing. "Oi, Wil!" He turns to one of his friends, only to receive a faceful of water. "Happy birthday." "Oh, you fucker. Hey everyone, gang up on Mark." A war ensues that ends up with all of them getting their faces wet, some even have their heads dunked underwater. By the end of the day, there aren't enough towels to meet the demand. Either way, Wilbur's beaming, even as he deals with his soggy fringe in the middle of saying goodbye to all his guests. Pretty decent birthday, he'd say. --- It's not that Wilbur hasn't been freezing before, because he has, even outside of some dumb tundra. The main difference right now was that it was February and Phil had decided this was the perfect time of year to be in a place like this. He'd moaned and grumbled about it yet his father was having none of it. At least he'd been allowed his fair share of opportunities to pummel Phil with snowballs. There seemed to be an endless supply of ammunition here. Snow was also fun to run across sometimes. It was usually thick enough for him not to slip on the underlying ice too. So that's why, after getting temporarily distracted by a polar bear sighting, he dashes back to Phil's side without a second thought. There is less friction between his feet and the ground here. They really should have considered the ratio of ice to snow before any pounding transferral of body weight had been made. Neither he nor Phil had paid full attention to all of the increased risks until Wilbur was already in the water. He splutters. He kicks. He sinks and manages to drag himself back up again and again. And oh man, is it cold. Worse than cold. He wants to breathe, please let him stay upright long enough to catch a breath. His arms hurt too. They really, really do. It's like they're getting stabbed a bunch by icicles. Everything feels stabby like that, actually. He hates this. His mouth keeps getting hints of freezing salt too which is awful. Where's Phil? He's too busy trying not to bob down again to fully see. There's shouting though. "Wil! Wil, I swear to god, just calm down. Don't let the cold shock mess with you." 'Easy for you to say' is what he would bark back if he wasn't desperately trying his best to keep his head above the surface. "Wilbur, trust me, you're going to become a block of ice at the bottom if you keep reacting to the cold like that. Hang onto the edge and let yourself get used to the cold. That's it." He's still treading water a little too diligently when his body finally stops freaking out about the temperature so much. Phil will likely scold him for wasting energy like this. Not like he wasn't floundering in a panic a minute ago. Yeah no, Phil's totally going to have a go for that too. Wilbur was taught all this stuff when they got here. He should know exactly how to react in a situation like this. What if Phil hadn't been here? What would he do then, huh? Stupid, stupid, stupid. "Good, good. Now do your best to become horizontal." In the water, he forgets how to reposition his body. All his focus is on trying to move his legs accordingly and maintaining a secure enough grip on the ice. Glances towards Phil show that he's laying flat on his stomach as he instructs him. Something, something, surface area or spreading your body weight or whatever, right? When Wilbur has completed this next step, Phil slides a pickaxe over to him. Fumbling frozen fingers nearly allow it to slip under the water, out of reach. His co-ordination is practically non-existent right now but he still manages to position a tip of the pick into the ice. Dragging himself across to Phil is an arduous task but at least he's out of the water. They're on their stomachs until Phil feels absolutely sure they are not at risk of history repeating itself. After that point, he follows the man's lead by standing up with some help. He's barely on his feet when an external force is dragging his body in a direction he wasn't anticipating once more. Yet this time, he's in no real danger. It's just arms keeping him pressed against a heavy coat. Phil's shaking but not for the same reasons as him. "Christ sake, Wil. Try to be more careful next time. Otherwise I'll end up keeling over right here in the middle of nowhere." They reposition after a minute. Wilbur's hand is around Phil's waist while the winged man's grip secures itself to his son's left shoulder. Neither will drift far from each other like this. "You doing relatively alright, at least?" He hums briefly in response. Oh wow, that does not feel good. Vibrations are getting temporarily banned from his throat thanks. "Okay, let's get a move on then." "Okay. Ki- Kinda tired." Nope, nope, nope. "Can't- can't t-talk." He mumbles as they begin walking. "Shiv- shiverin' n' naus- naus-" "Nausea? Shivering and talking makes you feel nauseous?" The overwhelming tremors cause him to nod his head rapidly which is probably the most counterintuitive side effect he's ever experienced. Phil softly chuckles while drawing him in even closer with his arm. "Well, don't talk then, Wil. We'll sort out the shivering soon. After that, you can collapse in a heap on your bedding if you want." "Warn- warning. Just in... case." It's a struggle but he can't not communicate things that may be of importance. "Alright, alright. Thanks for the thought but you really should go easy on yourself, okay? It's not that far." Phil gets the fire going as soon as they return to their base. Wilbur simply sits there, desperately hoping his brain will stop sending signals to his throat and stomach to potentially prepare for a collaboration. His soaked clothes are stripped from him and replaced with blessedly dry ones. Any available blankets are piled on him for good measure. The past hour or so finally registers in full as Phil helps rub his arms through the layers in an effort to warm him up. "Pretty scary, wasn't it?" His father comments in response to the sudden bout of sobbing. "Try not to fall into anymore frozen water next time, alright? Don't think my heart could take another shock like that." "Do m'best." "Good lad." Phil smiles. "That's all I ask." He wipes a scalding tear off the boy's cheek as it comes cascading down. He'll sit with him and help discard of more tears hours from now when Wilbur wakes from visions of unending water or his mind fools him into believing he is caught in trembles that refuse to cease. And when it comes, Phil's decision to leave the tundra couldn't have brought more relief to Wilbur. --- It was odd. Soulbur had retained the part with the fire. He recalled the heat, the instinctual panic he felt upon realising he was in danger. He'd been able to somewhat be aware of when it had happened, that that disastrous moment had occurred during his 16th birthday. Although, that had been the extent of it. There were no birthday cakes or messing around in the water or well meaning banter amongst those he considered friends. He had even been oblivious to the identities of anyone who may have been present. When your safety and wellbeing are jeopardised, the last thing you're concentrating on is useless information like whether or not your father is standing beside you. So this was the kind of moments Ghostbur had hoarded for himself, was it? It feels so good. It's been too long since the last time he laughed. For a second, he can almost recall the feeling of drawing his stomach in as fuels for giggles and the pull of muscles as the corner of lips spread upwards. He waits for the inevitable withdrawal of it from his reach. His brain will go against him by discarding of the anomaly it just registered. Any second now. Maybe? ...No? Clearly, not enough time has elapsed. There is no point in getting his hopes up like an idiot. Except, he wants to. He desperately wishes this is not a fluke due to be rectified the moment he lets his guard down. It... isn't, apparently. And for the first time since he'd been abandoned in death, Soulbur kept a pleasant memory. It's not enough, a greedy part of him decides. No, he thinks Ghostbur needs to learn how to share. Surely there is more stored in the ghost's head than he needs. He won't miss a few more. Besides, why should that traitorous bastard get all the good stuff? Not to mention, they were as much his memories as they were Ghostbur's. They should have equal rights to them. All that seems to be required is a brief bit of skin contact. So that's what he'll do. Soulbur doesn't believe he has ever been the type of person to be all touchy-feely, not that he's particularly had the opportunity to prove otherwise, but for the sake of a few memories? Well, what's an occasional hand on the shoulder or pat on the back in the general scheme of things?

#dream smp #my writing #twobur au #tw suicidal ideation #tw drowning #tw parental neglect #tw animal death

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the--highlanders · 3 years

Text

Rain Shadow

The Doctor and Jamie enjoy a rest in the middle of a long journey.

on ao3.

Squeezing his eyes closed, Jamie stretched his arms up until his fingers brushed against the smooth stone ceiling. It swept up and down in undulating curves, little relics of how the stone had flaked away under hammers and chisels. The surface was cool to the touch, and he pushed himself onto his tiptoes to press his palms against it, imagining the redness of the rope-burn being drained out of them. They still stung when he rocked back onto the soles of his feet, but he had earned himself a few seconds of relief, at least.

He dropped his arms, letting the stretch roll its way through his shoulders and down his back. It went slowly, in a way that might have been luxurious had he not been so sore. There were many long days, with the Doctor, days full of anxious waiting or flurries of activity, but this must surely have been one of the longest. If he were to say so aloud, then the Doctor would doubtless remind him that the days here were longer than he was used to – about thirty of your Earth hours, he would say. But there was more to it than that. Time had dripped by like molasses, on their long mountainside scramble. The slope had gone on forever, every stretch of gravel and boulders and stubbornly-clinging-on weeds reaching out into a sweltering, uniform eternity. The Doctor had not seemed half so exhausted, pressing on with whatever inhuman reserves of stamina he hid beneath his slight form, but Jamie could have wept with relief when they had tumbled over the final ledge to see the little rest stop carved into the ground.

Ducking out of the bathroom, he stumbled across the bedroom like he was already asleep. The Doctor had settled himself into – well, it had to be a bed, Jamie supposed. It was sunk into the ground, a cylindrical hollow in the rock with padded sides. Blankets and a few pillows were scattered across it with a carelessness that might have been artful, or perhaps just borne of the Doctor’s clumsiness. Either way, it was comfortably ruffled into shape, and he crouched down to hop in beside the Doctor.

“It’s no’ often that you’re in bed before me,” he said, settling himself beneath the blankets. They were slightly coarse to the touch, but in a soft, pliable sort of way, like washed linen, and he grasped one of the pillows against his chest to rest his chin on the end of it. But the lip of the bed was pressing against the middle of his back, sharp and scratchy through his shirt, and he grimaced, shoving the pillow behind him instead. Satisfied, he leant over to plant his head on the Doctor shoulder, frowning when he realised he would have to contend with the way the bones poked against his cheek, too. “What’re ye readin’?”

“Oh, just a little something I found on the bookshelf.”

“Is it interestin’?”

“Mm.” The Doctor turned the page, drawing his finger down the next paragraph.

“Hmph,” Jamie huffed out in return. “I’ll read it myself, then.”

He had sounded far more confident than he felt, and sure enough, looking down at the book made his already-exhausted mind ache. He ought to be grateful he could understand anything at all, he thought. It was a strange thing, that the TARDIS could turn any language into something he would understand, even when she was miles away from him here. The writing of this world simply looked like random collections of dots to outsiders, the Doctor had said. There were hardly even real sentences, at least not in the way someone from Earth would understand them. Just little clumps to represent a person, a place, a feeling. How can the TARDIS translate that? Jamie wondered as he stared down at the book. Did the slim volume look awfully different, to the Doctor’s eyes? What would happen if the words fit on the page differently? Could the TARDIS make the book longer or shorter, larger or smaller?

The afternoon sun was still streaming in through the skylights poked into the roof, but it was already far too late to be asking those sorts of questions. “Are we nearly there?” he asked instead.

“Mm?”

“To the top of the mountain.”

“Oh, yes.” The Doctor turned another page idly. “Yes, we ought to reach it tomorrow, if we climb fast enough.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jamie saw a smile twitch at the Doctor’s lips. “And it ought to be cooler, on the way back down,” he added.

“Oh, aye.” Jamie did not have the energy to inject much enthusiasm into his voice, but relief flooded through him at the prospect anyway. The climb itself would not have been so bad were it not for the heat. Even after half an hour under the shower, his skin was still sticky with sweat and itchy with grime, like the sand and gravel had been melted into it.

“It’s quite fascinating, really.” The Doctor snapped his book shut, apparently diverted. “It’s called a rain shadow – it happens on your Earth, too, though I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one there. When a mountain range is tall enough, it can block rain clouds from going past, and, ah – well, one side becomes very dry. Do you see?”

The weight of Jamie’s body had pushed through the pillow’s stuffing, and the lip of the bed was digging into his back again. He squirmed from side to side, trying to avoid it, but no matter how hard he tried, it always managed to poke at him somehow, fending off the sleep that might have weighed down his eyelids. “Aye, I think so.”

“So once we reach the other side, things should cool off.” The Doctor frowned down at him. He had a way of looking at Jamie like he was utterly inscrutable – usually, Jamie thought, when he was doing something incredibly mundane. “Ah – Jamie, are you quite alright?”

“’m fine,” Jamie mumbled back, twisting around to scowl at the offending chunk of stone. “It’s just no’ very comfortable here, that’s all.”

“I see.” There was something amused in the Doctor’s voice, buried beneath his disbelief. It was rather unfair, Jamie thought, for the Doctor to be laughing at him, when he was still wearing his old coat in bed. There were far too many layers between him and the stone for him to feel just how sharp it was. “Well, ah – why don’t you lie down here instead?” He patted at his lap, and Jamie took the invitation gratefully, shuffling forward and flopping his head down in the offered spot with a breath of relief. The Doctor’s hand soon found his hair, fingers digging in to scratch at his scalp and tug gently on a few stray strands. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Reaching behind himself to grab the pillow and press it against his chest again, Jamie arched his back in another stretch. Something in him ought to crack, he thought, or pop back into shape to fix all his aches and pains. But his bones refused to cooperate, and he relaxed back into the Doctor’s lap, unsatisfied. The Doctor was twirling a clump of his hair around one finger now, and he half-rolled over, as boneless as a cat picked up by its scruff. “Go on, then.” Having the Doctor read him to sleep sounded like the most wonderfully tempting thing he had ever heard, but an overwhelming sense of peace had settled into his throat, and he could not manage more than a mumble. “What’s the book about?”

“Ah – well.” Opening the book again, the Doctor rested the spine on Jamie’s shoulder. “It’s about – oh, I don’t suppose you’ll find it very interesting.”

“Hey.” Fumbling around behind himself again, Jamie tried to catch hold of the Doctor’s hand. He aimed too high, and ended up tapping at his cheek instead. “It’s interestin’ if you’re readin’ it.”

“Oh, if you say so. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The Doctor hefted the book up a little higher. “I was just reading a section on hydro power from this mountain, you see – because of the rain shadow, there’s rather a lot of rainfall, and it’s reliable, too...”

#second doctor #two/jamie #fanfic archive #my writing #just found out the new post beta doesn't copy over paragraph divisions from ao3 : (

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eremiss · 4 years

Text

12: Tooth and Nail

(light cw: descriptions of post-fight injuries and being poisoned/drugged. Takes place during Post-HVW MSQ “Consequences”)

Ten minutes, Thancred had said. Ten minutes for Gwen to try and wait out the lingering symptoms of the poison she’d been dosed with, make sure Falcon’s Nest wouldn’t fall apart in their absence, and try to find Honoroit --”If you truly must.”-- then they were heading back to Ishgard to deliver the news of the disastrous Conference. His tone had brooked no room for argument.

She took extra care to mind the time, as being late would likely have Thancred assuming the worst. They’d already had quite enough excitement for one day and she had no desire to add to it, plus his mood was already poor enough.

Ten fruitless minutes later Gwen trudges up the ramp to the landing platform, shoulders hunched and spirits low. The garrison’s morale is understandably poor and there’s naught to be done about it, though it seems her departure isn’t cause for it to deteriorate further. There was no sign of Honoroit anywhere, and the people she’d spoken with hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him.

Her stomach rolls and twists, a weak, nauseous ache permeating her limbs that shivers up her throat whenever she moves too quickly. She’d retched up the tainted wine the moment she was able, but it had plainly been in her system long enough for its effects to linger.

If I knew what was in it, I could maybe try and counteract it somehow… But she doesn’t, and the woman who does is likely dead.

The landing platform is deserted and quiet, the chocobo stables practically empty compared to when she’d arrived. Apparently she’s the one that has to wait for Thancred for a change.

Whoever is supposed to be on watch has abandoned their duty for the moment, and no one around to see her wander past the gates. The wind is faster and sharper without buildings or mountains to block it, cutting through her outer layers and straight down to her bones. She shivers harshly and crosses her arms tightly across her chest as her bangs whip her face and her ears burn themselves numb, missing the sweltering heat of the barracks. At least the sharp chill doesn’t make her feel ill.

Gwen sweeps her eyes across the empty platform, wondering where Honoroit could have gone, and what he might’ve been thinking. There’s no way he just up and abandoned Emmanellain, surely? He’s stuck to his master’s side like glue through everything until now. He couldn’t possibly…

There’s a lump on the far side of the platform. A small figure with brown hair dressed in familiar blue and white garb. It looks sort of like--

Her heart leaps into her throat. “Honoroit?”

He twitches and raises his head, peering blankly at her as she rushes over to him. “M-Miss Ashe?” he croaks, confused.

“Hush, hush, don’t talk,” she chides gently, panic and worry tightening like vices around in her chest as she kneels to inspect his wounds.

Bruises are splattered across every ilm of bare skin, and his clothes are torn and dirtied with patterns that distinctly resemble boot prints. His face is mostly black and blue with a nasty cut over his brow and on his lips, one of his eyes swollen nearly shut.

Honoroit tries to sit up, slow and careful as he shifts his weight and favors his right side. He only makes it halfway before he grimaces and sinks back to the ground with a pained sound.

A fresh surge of concern mutes the dismayed, impotent static buzzing through her thoughts. Questions and anger can wait. She lays a light, comforting hand on his arm and hopes she isn’t touching a sore spot. “Be still, Honoroit...”

He needs to get somewhere warm, first of all, as his lips are distressingly blue. Ideally that will be somewhere with a healer, as her initial assessment of his injuries isn’t good. Even natives of Ishgard aren’t immune to the cold, and she has no idea how long he’s been out here lying on frozen stone. But how to move him without worsening his injuries....

“Honoroit!!” Emmanellain’s distraught voice cries from behind her.

She lifts her head as two sets of footsteps rapidly approach, the nobleman making panicked sounds every step of the way with Thancred, expression grim, just behind him.

When Emmanellain is finally able to see the extent of Honoroit’s injuries his face twists with horror and he drops to his knees by Gwen’s side. “No, no! What have they done to you!?”

He reaches towards Honoroit, and Gwen puts an arm in his way. He whirls on her, his stricken glare demanding an explanation.

She tries to appear calmer than she feels and makes a mollifying gesture, shaking her head. You shouldn’t move him.

A wash of different emotions twist Emmanellains face one way and then another, and he looks like he has half a mind to shout at her. Instead he makes an aggravated, high-pitched whining sound and slaps his hands down on the stone ground.

“Is that you, my lord?” Honoroit offers a feeble smile and struggles for a light tone, as if making a jest, “You... you seem rather flustered.”

“Because of you, you imbecile!” Emmanellain exclaims, “What in the seven hells happened to you!?”

“My… my apologies… Some few of the guests expressed a wish to leave...and I implored them to stay.” He makes a weak imitation of a laugh, “It would seem they took issue with my request.”

Rings would explain the small cuts and abrasions in the bruises on his face...

Gwen’s stomach lurches in a way that has nothing to do with the poison she’d been dosed with. All of her worried thoughts take on a frazzled, angry edge that wears at her already thinned nerves. A twinge in her clenched jaw and a telltale ache shooting from her teeth to her temples signal that she successfully kicked off a headache.

“Gods forgive me…” Emmanellain groans, burying his face in his hands. “If I had only been more careful with my words!”

“Do not blame yourself my lord,” the younger elezen insists. “I know… I know that you and your brother have Ishgard’s best interests at heart. That poor woman… She lives in the past, clinging to memories of the lost.”

He’s admirably composed considering everything that’s happened, even accounting for the fact he’s generally more mature and levelheaded than his master. Empathy for the dissidents and protesters has only made his conviction for Aymeric’s cause that much stronger.

“But the future holds so much promise. So much joy. And you…” His voice wavers and Gwen tenses, her heart skipping a beat. “You... know that better than any…” His words fade to nothing and his eyes slip closed. Then his head lolls to his chest.

Gwen immediately checks his pulse. It’s steady, thank the Twelve, as is his labored breathing, but his complexion has gone frighteningly pale.

“Honoroit?!” Emmanellain half rises, panicked. His mouth works uselessly for a moment before he turns his fearful eyes on Gwen, “Gwen, do something!”

Her chest constricts sharply and she freezes

Ever since the Vault she can’t...

Couldn’t, a small voice corrects. Y’shtola has been tutoring her for more than a moon, and she’s made enough progress that she’s begun regaining the ability to use healing magic. It’s feeble and terribly taxing, a far cry from the white and red magic she used to wield, but she can manage it. As she is now, weakened by that poison and with a fresh host of doubts welling up and knotting in her chest...

But Honoroit needs help. And she can help, at least minorly.

She bites her lip, voices she’ll never hear again murmuring at her in time with her heartbeat. One rings out louder than the others, gentle despite the volume.

For those we have lost. For those we can yet save.

She can’t fully mend his wounds, but she can at least ease his pain. No matter what her clinging doubts try to mutter, she knows she can do something. Not much, maybe, but not nothing, and that’s enough. It has to be. However draining it is on her, she’ll manage. She’s had worse, after all, and she can rest and recover once they’re back in Ishgard. For now... She has to at least try.

Gwen takes a steadying breath and makes a clear place in her mind before holding a hand over Honoroit’s chest. She closes her eyes and breathes, gathering her focus and recalling Y’shtola’s patient instructions, replaying the simple exercises they’d practiced for bells. When it all feels solid enough to work with, she begins to mumble an incantation.

As the spell takes shape a weak light flickers to life under her hand, drifting over Honoroit like mist. She senses bruises of all shapes and sizes, cuts, cracked bones... no internal bleeding or anything blatantly life-threatening, at least. It’s an issue of quantity, the sheer multitude of otherwise-lesser injuries amounting to something more severe.

With the injuries assessed, she shifts her intention to healing. Immediately the spell begins to pull at her in earnest, drawing out her energy and replacing it with intangible weight that begins to pile on her shoulders.

Even a layman could tell that her conjury is that of a novice, at best. But, feeble as it is, it’s still enough to slowly mend cracked bones and knit broken skin, and the cuts on his lips and brow gradually close. Hopefully he’ll be able to rest a little easier.

She knows it won’t be long before fatigue settles in, but hopefully Thancred and Duskfeather will make sure she at least gets back to Ishgard before she falls asleep on her feet. Her head is still pounding a dull rhythm, and she’s sure it will likely start to worsen soon, too. It’s fine… So long as the spell is working, it’s fine.

“He’ll live, but it’s imperative we get him inside and into the care of a chirurgeon once he’s stable,” Thancred says calmly. With any luck his steady composure will help Emmanellain pull himself together. “Gwen can only do so much.”

“Only so much?!” Emmanellain demands shrilly.

Gwen winces, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut against the kick of doubt and frustration that tries to crack her barely-solidified concentration. She screws up her mouth and works to ignore that, too.

Thancred’s tone hardens, “It’s a sight more than either of us can offer, unless you have knowledge of conjury that you’ve been keeping secret.”

Emmanellain struggles for a response, half syllables coming out one after another before he settles for an angry hiss. “Gah! We were so close! Why does it all have to fall to pieces!? Don’t they want to live in peace!? Don’t they want to be happy!? We all want the same thing, and still-- STILL it falls to pieces!”

The words buzz in her ears like stinging bugs, the volume piercing her focus. Suddenly she can feel sweat gathering on the back of her neck despite the wintry chill, and the edges of her vision are doing strange things.

“Tell me, what--what was I supposed to do, hm?!” He demands, a desperate, petulant twinge cracking his voice.

She can feel the way each throb of her head rattles the focus she’d worked so hard to gather, pain and exertion freely jostling her thoughts.

He stomps his foot furiously, “Someone, anyone, tell me: what was I supposed to do!?”

Her vision warps and her headache throbs in her teeth. The spell unravels in her thoughts and on her tongue, and she abandons the incantation with a pained groan.

It’s hard enough to heal Honoroit between her struggles with conjury, the headache, and the lingering symptoms of poison, and now Emannelain is making it all worse by yelling.

She drops her head into her hands and gulps steadying breaths, fingers icy and numb against her pounding head. Stop being dizzy, stop being dizzy... She isn’t sure if it’s her numbed fingers or a genuine fever making her skin so hot to the touch, but the sheen of sweat suggests the latter.

His voice cracks with panic when he realizes she’s stopped her healing spell. “What are you doing?! Don’t stop!”

The Banquet, the Vault, Azys Lla, the Antitower, faces she’ll never see again, and too many other godsamned things shove up up against the inside of her skull until her head feels like it’s going to split in two.

All at once her throat itches with a stifled scream, her eyes sting and her chest aches like she sprinted for malms without stopping.

She doesn’t know what she should do, what she wants to do, but her nerves are bristling, her heart is pounding, and her body is thrumming with desperate, impotent fury, and she’s so sick and tired of losing people, of failing, of being so useless-- of-- of--

A hand clamps on her shoulder and gives one firm shake.

Her thoughts upend and crash back to the earth, abruptly deflating and crumbling into splinters and shards.

“Breathe.”

She sucks in a mouthful of wintry air and chokes on the cold. After a few tries she catches her breath enough to loosen some of the knots in her chest. When did she start holding her breath...?

Gwen’s head is still a litlte woozy as she looks up. Thancred is leaning over her, his mouth set in a firm grimace and his expression woodenly calm. He twitches his head towards Honoroit, Focus. Heal him.

The tide of anger and adrenaline passes as quickly as it came, taking the dizzy spell and a modicum of her headache with it. Gwen wipes the sting out of her eyes in place of shaking her head, pushing away the briars and splinters clinging to the inside of her head. She’s no less overwhelmed than she had been a minute ago, but she’s pushed off the worst of it for the moment. That’s good enough.

Thancred releases her shoulder, straightens and turns to face Emmanellain. The nobleman is being surprisingly quiet, perhaps realizing he’d overstepped.

She counts the breaths hissing between her teeth and grasps for calm, pushing her shoulders down and trying to clear her mind. The sight of Honoroit, battered and unconcious, is sobering enough to quell the last simmering strains of irritation and get her mind back in line again.

She closes her eyes and re-gathers her focus through the haze of her headache, trying to ignore the briefly-forgotten fatigue that’s still hanging on her shoulders. Twelve but white magic is so much more taxing than it had ever been--than it should be.

Gwen rests her hand on Honoroit’s chest to center herself and stubbornly, purposefully mumbles the incantation over and over until the sounds and shapes of the words hollow out a big enough place to hold her concentration.

Emmanellain speaks, “Well? If you have something to say, say it!”

The spell takes shape again, magic trickling from her into Honoroit and flowing out to the worst injuries yet in need of attention. She can feel that the spell is weaker than before, that it’s working more slowly, but it’s still helping. That’s what matters.

Thancred’s voice is hard and flat, scolding, “Stop looking to others. You make your choice and you live with the consequences.”

There’s brief sputtering followed by a few harsh, seething breaths.

Suddenly there’s a short, hard impact. Instinct identifies the sound before her mind can: a punch.

“And what would you know about consequences!?” Emmanellain spits bitterly. “You, who always knows just what to say and just what to do! Your every deed is greeted with a round of applause!”

Gwen winces away from the words, bitterly wondering how fate’s timing could be so spectacularly terrible. There couldn’t be a worse time for such perfectly aimed words. Matoya’s cave and the Antitower are scarcely a sennight behind them. People claim fate likes to ‘jest’, and apparently its sense of humor is twisted and cruel.

All at once the air grows close and heavy, bristling with energy like the calm before a storm. Apprehension tightens across her back and she catches the inside of her cheek in her teeth, worrying thoughtlessly at it. It is much too quiet...

A much louder, harder impact rings out, more like a thunderclap than a drumbeat.

Emmanellain’s yelp of pain is abruptly cut off by the heavy, metallic thud of a chainmailed body hitting stone ground.

Thancred’s voice is low and furious, the point of a knife sinking home. “You know nothing about me. I have fought tooth and nail for the people I hold dear-- done everything in my power to save them, to protect them...and I have failed.” A beat of silence filled with a harsh breath, “Learn to live with it. I have.”

A heavy feeling settles in her stomach, apprehension morphing into worry that convinces her turn her head. She opens her eyes and peeks over her shoulder, keeping the majority of her focus on her tenuous spell.

Thancred is standing over Emmanellain with a face like a thunderstorm, fists clenched tight at his sides. Emmanellain stares silently up at him, frozen in shock.

Thancred seems unharmed, while one side of Emmanellain’s face is rapidly darkening and his jaw is hanging at a slightly awkward angle that suggests it might be broken.

Gwen has never heard Thancred so furious before. She’s never seen him snap. He spat those words like curses, like they’re a burden he’s suffered and agonized over for ages without reprieve. They speak of a kind of deep ache and near-hateful sort of guilt that Gwen is much too familiar with.

Thancred turns brusquely on his heel and storms away in silence.

Gwen avoids Emmanellain’s gaze and turns back to Honoroit.

She immediately resolves to talk to him, but not until he’s had time to cool off and settle out. She’ll do what she can for Honoroit first, then she’ll go after him.

Gwen is more than a little wobbly on her feet as she staggers back down the ramp into Falcon’s Nest. Her vision is behaving itself, but her head is throbbing, her legs are weak, and her stomach is refusing to settle down.

Though it took entirely too much effort, she still finds no small amount of satisfaction in successfully managing healing magic again. She’s improving, slowly but surely.

Casting her eyes around the open square turns up nothing, and she rubs at her heavy eyelids with a pout. She’ll have to go searching, then. But where to start? On a whim, she turns for the barracks.

She finds Thancred in an out-of-the way spot a stone’s throw from where she’d hidden earlier to purge the tainted wine from her system and wait for her grasp on conciousness to solidify. He’s leaning against the wall and radiating the air of a man better left alone, arms crossed tightly across his chest and a stony glower on his face.

He glances up as she approaches, shrewdly scrutinizing the rhythm of her steps and the way she’s carrying herself.

Concern, discomfort and reemourse coil around her chest and tie knots in her head, images of Matoya’s cave flitting past her vision. She takes a slow breath, feeling a bit like she’s readying to try more healing magic.

Mourning and grief do crazy things to people, and no one handles it the same. Gwen knows that. She withdraws, physically and mentally, growing hollow and distant and numb. She wilts and shrinks, always drained and slow as if she’s wrapped in a layer of lead that separates her from the world, trying to insulate and protect herself. She hasn’t yet mastered pulling herself out of it, but she’s always --eventually-- managed it with the help of her friends.

Thancred closes himself off and binds himself to his mistakes, as if not forgiving himself for them means he won’t make them again. He pushes others away and walls himself in with his hurt, treating it as a lesson to be learned rather than a wound to mend. It lies just beneath the surface and drives him to lash out when it grows too painful to hold, like on the landing platform, and over time it sinks into him, a weight he carries that he never speaks of or shows even as it changes him.

But...

It’s not that Gwen thinks he doesn’t have the right to his misery or grief, especially after losing someone so dear as Minfili. The events of the Antitower are barely behind them. Of course he’s still hurting and struggling with all of it.

It’s how he’s handling it--or rather, not handling it, and what it’s doing to him that she’s worried about. He’s hurting. He’s insisting on struggling alone, on holding everything in and carrying it with him, like he did after being freed from Lahabrea, and refusing to allow it to rest.

It’s too soon to really begin healing, maybe, but not so much that she can’t remind him that he isn’t alone.

Gwen stops in front of him, just out of arm's reach. Her limbs are heavy, her head is throbbing and her stomach is shifting unpleasantly, but she does her best to keep her discomfort to herself. She settles her weight on her feet and regards him with a concerned and placidly questioning look. What was that back there?

They stand in silence, simply looking at one another and waiting.

Thancred’s expression loses a smidgen of its harshness, though otherwise remains flat. Gwen loosely folds her arms against the chill, chewing the inside of her lip and worrying the sleeves of her coat between her fingers. She can wait for as long as she needs to.

Thancred shifts against the wall and sharply turns his head, putting the black wrap of cloth towards her. A dismissal, most likely. He doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want sympathy and, more than that, he doesn’t want her there. It stings, even as she corrects herself that he likely wants to be left alone to brood and doesn’t want anyone around.

Blue and purple are creeping out from beneath the edge of the cloth. The evidence of Emmanellain’s punch.

Gwen shifts her weight, numb fingers prickling as they slowly warm, her teeth sharp against the inside of her cheek. Then she takes one slow, somewhat cautious step forward.

Thancred tenses but doesn’t move, clinging to the hope she’ll go away if he ignores her long enough.

She takes another step and comes to a stop, now well within arm’s reach. She cautiously lifts a hand towards his face.

The motion makes him twitch and he jerks his head back around. She pulls her hand back in time to avoid colliding with his bruised cheek.

His expression is guarded as he glowers at her, a hint of incredulity and impatience tugging at his mouth while his eye is sharp. There’s a feeling tense expectation hanging about him that has a definite, bristling edge to it. He’s braced for a reprimand or a lecture, and is plenty ready to retaliate and start an argument. In fact, he almost looks like he’s hoping for an excuse to do just that.

Gwen gives him nothing of the sort, regarding him with a calm, weary look. She tentatively moves her hand towards his bruised cheek again, carefully studying his reaction.

He allows it, watching her like a hawk.

She stops short of touching his bandana, fingertips hovering just beside his cheek. She focuses on the back of her hand and scrounges up the last onzes of her energy for just one more small conjury spell.

Thancred’s jaw shifts beneath her hand, his shoulders tightening and lifting like he’s getting his hackles up.

A somewhat tenuous whisper of soothing magic ripples out of her fingers and flows across his skin. The effort leaves her feeling a bit like she stood up too quickly, but she sets her jaw and keeps at it. The fringe of blue and black begins to gradually soften and melt away, shrinking back beneath the edge of his bandana.

After a few slow, drawn out seconds his jaw flexes and he lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds distinctly like resignation. A bit of tension bleeds out of his posture and his shoulders begin to slowly sink back down.

Thancred’s expression gradually smooths out, angry sparks fading and antagonistic edge dulling. Eventually it settles into the dour, brooding look she’s more accustomed to.

His jaw tenses up, relaxes just enough to shift, then tenses again. She imagines the sound of his teeth grinding.

He turns his head ever so slightly, just enough that his cheek barely connects with the pads of her fingers. He takes a few careful breaths and closes his eye, brow not quite furrowed. There’s an air of resigned expectation to his silence and the passing seconds, as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Gwen doesn’t say a word, maintaining their slight connection and not pushing for more. He’s free to pull away, or to lean in. He’s free to talk, or not.

At length his eye opens again, and he looks a great deal calmer and more composed. “...I may have overreacted.” His voice is quiet but unapologetic, as flat as his mouth. “But it needed to be done. He was becoming hysterical.”

Gwen tilts her head a little, acquiescing the point. Thancred’s reaction wasn’t appropriate, no, and it was worryingly unlike him, but it was… understandable. Emmanellain is the one who threw the first punch, in all fairness, and he’d been doing a spectacular job of hitting their sore spots before that. She doesn’t blame the young nobleman for his frustration or whatever else he’s feeling, but that doesn’t mean she’s willing to listen to him rant whilst trying to heal his manservant.

Thancred takes another long breath, gaze drifting slowly over the stones around them. Eventually the silence urges him to speak again, “I understand the desire to look for reasons. For excuses. To convince yourself you had no choice. But the past is the past, and there is naught to be gained from reliving your mistakes.”

His tone has a heavy undercurrent of repetition to it, as though he was reciting words he was tired of hearing. Yet the words make his frown turn pensive, if a little wrinkled with bitterness, in a way that makes her think he’s yet working to fully process that statement himself.

Gwen tilts her head the other way, giving him a meaningful look. Are you telling me this? Or yourself?

“I know this,” Thancred insists immediately. “I know this.” His expression tightens, almost slipping into a grimace, and his eye drops back to the ground, “But he…”

He he huffs a sharp, frustrated breath and shifts moodily against the wall. He makes a point to keep his head still, maintaining their tentative connection.

She wonders how much striking Emmanellain made him realize the extent to which everything is affecting him.

Baby steps. Healing takes time. Understanding and overcoming one’s frustrations with themselves is a long road, and acknowledging them in the first place is the first step. He’s taken a step in the right direction. Hopefully.

Gwen can senses his cheek isn’t quite healed, but reluctantly admits she’s too spent to finish the job. She still has to fly to Ishgard and deliver the report to Aymeric, after all. And with her luck she’ll likely have more to endure after that, too, poison be damned.

She lets the spell peter out with a weary sigh, letting her hand linger for a few more seconds before dropping it back to her side.

Thancred takes a long moment to look her over again, bluntly studying her face and the way she’s holding herself. "You look hellish.”

Gwen’s lips twitch with a hint of a smile. No one is around, they’re alone and in private for the moment, so she reaches out to brush the tips of her fingers along his knuckles.

He watches, not quite impassively.

As her hand withdraws his turns, slowly as if it’s half-frozen. He curls his fingers just enough for the tips of hers to catch on his.

It’s surprising how steadying such a small thing can be.

Less than a breath later he lets hers drop. He shoulders himself off the wall and straightens up with a bit of muttering, brushing off his clothes. “Get your bird and let us away. We’ve important matters to attend to in Ishgard, and have kept the Lord Commander waiting entirely too long already. The lordling can arrange his return on his own time.”

--------------------

Tooth and nail - adverb with all one's resources or energy; fiercely

Oy vey @_@ this FFXIVWrite is really kicking my butt.

This is the first, and only, idea that sprung to mind when I saw the prompt. This part was so intense, and the conference just felt like the latest thing in the long list of “everything is going wrong fuuuuuu” @_@ I need to write more about this particular time in Post-HVW

#ffxivwrite2020 #Guinevere Ashe #Thancred Waters #Thancred x WoL #Gwencred #Post-Heavensward #Dragonsong War #My Writing #UGH MY BRAIN #god when he punched Emmanellain @_@#I was like 'oohhhh shit o.o... Uh Thancred? You good my guy?'

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astraeagreengrass · 4 years

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The Queen's Husband [4/?]

When her reign is threatened, the Queen of Ergona must find a husband to secure her throne.

Word Count: 4.909

Warnings: There's smut on the second half - don't read if you're under 18! English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

A/N: Grab your dresses and your tiaras - we're going to a royal wedding! This is my first time writing smut and it took me such a long time to make it somewhat decent (if anyone has any tips on how to write better smut, please help a friend out). And although it's pretty tame and lame, keep away from the last part if you're under 18. As always, thank you to every one who's been following this story - it turned out to be so much more than I was expecting and I am forever grateful to anyone who takes some time off their day to let me know their thoughts ♡

Chapter four moodboard

Series masterlist

My masterlist

You and Captain Rogers were married on the first Sunday of October.

The bright summer months - mystical days when your relationship bloomed like flowers under warm sunlight - made way for fall. The air was growing colder and, early in the morning, you could see a white fog settling over Albeon, until the last remnants of the mid-year sun chased it away.

October’s arrival and the eminence of your wedding brought chills to your spine that had nothing to do with autumn. Everything was changing - your life, your kingdom, your heart. Outside the Keep’s walls, the streets were decorated with colorful flags, ribbons and balloons. Overnight, a group of street artists painted Main Street’s cobblestones with beautiful intricate chalk drawings of the most important moments of your reign. You’d never seen the capital - or Ergona, actually - in such high spirits.

To Lord Fury’s outrage, you ordered the Keep’s gates to be open on the wedding day. You simply turned your back on him as he berated about the dangers of letting the common folk in. Fury couldn’t change your mind - these people were your family. You may have growing affections for your groom, but you were walking down the aisle for them.

If they couldn’t see your sacrifices, may them at least know your love.

In the throne room, where the ceremony would take place, another chair sat on the dais. It was made of mahogany wood with gold accents, red velvet cushions and precious gems encrusted in it’s legs, armrests and back. The new throne was identical to the old one, albeit some five hundred years younger. It was a joint present from Lord Stark, the richest man in Ergona and your former guardian, and the Duke of Arvenia, Steve’s father: twin thrones to symbolize equal rulers, a first in your country’s history.

Steve himself said nothing when he first laid eyes on his throne. He kept a blank, neutral expression as his gaze quickly assessed the furniture, as if making mental inventory. He stiffly thanked Lord Stark and his father, before bowing to you and taking his leave, Sir Barnes hot on his heels.

Later that night, wrapped in the safe embrace of his arms, you asked him:

“Did you not like your throne?”

Steve sighed and pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You were in your usual spot outside your chambers, three nights before the wedding and his coronation. Your moments alone were even more sacred now that you had found the courage to kiss him. It was physically painful to be apart from him during the day, counting down the seconds until you could shed the heavy cloak of duty and just be young and enamored. Steve’s courtship was bolder, more passionate. He’d kiss you back with such devotion it’d leave your head spinning.

“It’s not that” he replied. “I’m just afraid I can’t be what you need. And what Ergona needs.”

You were so worried overthinking the endless possibilities regarding your union that you never stopped to wonder how Steve was faring. He was quick to accept your proposal - more concerned about the legitimacy of your request than the weight of it. And sure, he was no ordinary man, but maybe the prospect of becoming king was taking its toll on him. You’d been trained for your role for eighteen years, while Steve barely had four months to prepare.

“Do you regret our engagement?”

“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not! I would never. It’s just… Overwhelming, I guess.”

He bit his lip, as if the pain of teeth on skin could bring him the right words.

“I don’t want to say I was never scared while in battle, because I was. I’ve felt the fear of dying, but I embraced it. I embraced the possibility of not coming back from war, of perishing at the enemy’s hand. I supposed that what made me a good soldier - embracing your fears makes it look as if you don’t have them, even if you’re terrified. But what I’m feeling now… I can hardly understand it.”

“If I failed in battle, it would mean my death and that was it. But if I fail as a king, my mistake will live on and on in the lives of all of those in Ergona who will suffer it’s consequences. It’s terrifying.”

“How do you do it?” he begged. “Please help me be the king you and our country deserve.”

Steve Rogers was a good man. And you were falling desperately in love with him.

You saw him very little after that. You aunt Virginia, Duchess of Foghar, and your cousin Morgan arrived from the East, taking up most of your free time. Morgan insisted on sleeping with you, which prevented Steve from lingering at you door, but you didn’t have it in your to break the little girl’s heart. Instead, on your last evening as a maiden, the two of you built a pillow fort and cast shadows in the wall, spinning a fantastic tale of lovers and dragons and a king and queen who ruled Ergona.

Your bridal gown was a magnificent alabaster piece made of thick fabric, with long sleeves, elongated neck and a train. Mother-of-pearl buttons fastened it to your front and silver embroidery drew intricate patterns from hem to shoulders, which were covered by thick a fur shawl. It was a garment made for heavy winter, not autumn, but you insisted on it since it was your mother’s wedding dress. The only addition were the mother-of-pearl clasps, shaped like stars - a nod to Steve’s shield.

It was sweltering hot inside the antechamber where you waited. A set of double doors kept you from the throne room, your future husband and what appeared to be the entire kingdom. You were never one to be nervous with large crowds - you couldn’t - a mask of nonchalance couldn't hold stop Sir Samuel Wilson, Captain of the Queen’s Guard, who stood by the entryway, from noticing your fingers twitching.

“Are you having second thoughts, Your Grace?” he joked. “I can’t get you out of here, just say the word.”

You snickered. Captain Wilson was one the nicest, most genuine people you knew. Your first act as a queen was to knight him - your childhood best friend from Foghar, who followed you all the way to Albeon because “someone has to look after your royal ass.”

“You can’t help me this time, Sam” you sighed.

“Don’t be dramatic. Steve’s a good guy, Y/N” he reasoned. “You chose well.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about.”

Sam raised one eyebrow.

“I thought you shouldn’t lie when you’re wearing that” he pointed to the crown atop your head, a heavy adornment made of white gold and diamonds. “You have feelings for Steve, which makes you anxious because you hate it when you can't control things."

Before you could come up with a witty response to Sam's very accurate conjecture, Lord Stark arrived, your bouquet in hands - edelweiss for courage, baby’s breath for purity and myrtle for good luck and love in your marriage. Sam excused himself to give you and your uncle some privacy, as well as announce to the grand hall the bride’s upcoming entrance.

Lord Stark cleared his throat.

“You look beautiful, kid” he praised, brown eyes glistening with the tears he was trying to hold back. “Are you ready to do this?”

“Not if you cry” you cooed, gently swiping your thumb on his under eye. His skin was thinning, marked by some wrinkles that weren’t there when you first found yourself in this antechamber. Albeon had taken a heavy toll on your uncle, but not once had he complained.

“I can’t help it” Uncle Tony shrugged. “You’re my oldest daughter, it doesn’t matter what biology says. And I’m happy for you - I’m just crying because that’s what dads do, I suppose.”

Very carefully, you pressed a kiss to his cheek. It was hard to move your head around with the crown. It’s weight forced you to stand still and look ahead in perfectly regal posture. Which was how you walked down the Dragon’s Keep throne room, left arm linked to your uncle’s, as soon as the double doors opened.

On nights you couldn’t sleep you’d often find yourself here, in this wide room built by your ancestors to celebrate their victories and reinforce their rule. It was fairly simple for a throne room - Asgard’s throne room, for instance, was much more opulent - with few ornaments apart from the regular flags and traditional marble arches. It’s grandeur was in the sheer size of it and the glass dome that reflected sunlight in thousands of colors, all of which painted your gown as you made your way to Steve, who stood broad-shouldered at the foot of the dais.

He was wearing his military garb, composed of dark blue jacket and white breeches. The jacket was adorned with all the medals he'd received during his relatively short but immensely successful career. Sir Barnes was on his left as the best man, wearing red, watching with a satisfied, happy smirk as Uncle Tony placed your hand in Steve’s.

Presiding the ceremony was The Ancient One, a tall, bald woman of unknown age who was the leader of the Church of Ergona. The only occasion she left the sacred city of Kamar-Taj was to celebrate royal weddings and coronations in Albeon. Beside her were Master Wong, Master Mordo and Lord Strange, himself a master of the unseen arts too.

She married you first. Took your joined hands and laced them together in golden cloth, as you and Steve recited vows of love, trust and respect. It was fairly simple, not much different that it would’ve been if you were a commoner couple. After brief twenty minutes or so, The Ancient One declared you husband and wife.

There was no kiss - your first duty as a wife held precedence over it. From behind Steve, Lord Strange came with the crown and Master Wong with the State Sword.

Steve knelt before you, his gaze locked on yours. With clammy palms, you took the State Sword, gently placing it on his right shoulder.

“Do you solemnly promise to govern the people of the Kingdom of Ergona, according to its respective laws and customs?”

“I do.”

“Do you solemnly promise to be guided by justice and mercy in all of your tasks and doings, placing your people’s need before your own even in the darkest hours?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to protect your people from their enemies, even if it means waging war?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to be fair in your decisions and respectful in your actions, making no distinctions between citizens?”

“I do.”

The tip of the sword weighed like thousand of bricks on Steve’s shoulder, but nothing compared to the golden crown you placed on his head. It was burdensome, soul-crushing - and he'd never felt closer to you.

No one but him noticed the way your hands lingered on the sides of his face or your soft smile when you announced:

“Rise, Steven, King of Ergona.”

The throne room erupted in cheers.

After the feast, Natasha and Wanda prepared you for your wedding night. Your corset was loosened, your skirts removed, your jewelry stored away. Natasha delicately rubbed lavender scented oil on your pulse points while Wanda brushed your hair. A new nightgown was laid on the bed: made of the purest white linen, with lace trimmings and buttons down the front. The perfect look for a virgin queen on her nuptials.

The wedding feast had been a success. Guests from lands near and far enjoyed a decadent dinner of the likes your halls hadn’t seen in a long time, courtesy of Anthony Stark, the Duke of Foghar, to celebrate the nuptials of his beloved niece. Talented musicians entertained the guests, which included the Wakandan royal family and Steve’s cousins, the Princes of Asgard. You and the new King were lavished with the most incredible gifts - gems, tapestries and even horses. All the while, your hand clasped his tightly. His wedding band dug into your palm, but the sharp sting of it was reassuring.

Whatever happened from now on, you were not alone anymore.

There was a brief knock on the door before your aunt Virginia swiftly walked in.

“The King is on his way” she announced as she made her way to you. “Are you ready for this?”

Worry creased her eyebrows, hardening her beautiful face. Here was the woman who raised you as her own - when your mother perished and your father sent you away, Virginia Stark gave you all the love her heart could muster. While your uncle was your advisor and therefore had a duty to aid your rule, your aunt was the hand on your back, ready to offer you her comforts when the weight of the crown was too much.

She couldn’t help your carry it, but now, with the arrival of a man that could, she worried not for the Queen, but for the young woman at the verge of consummating her marriage.

“Please say something” Natasha pleaded as she tugged on your sleeve. She was wearing a beautiful ball gown of forest green which complimented her hair perfectly.

“This must happen” you answered as if you were speaking to your subjects and not the people who knew you best. “I’m sure he will be… Kind.”

Natasha snorted but before she could say anything another knock echoed in the room, louder and more persistent this time. You nodded at Wanda, who opened it, revealing Steve.

“Ladies. My Queen” he greeted at the threshold. From behind him you could see the silhouette of your uncle Tony.

None of the women moved until you commanded:

“Please leave us.”

Bowing to you and then to Steve, the women left the room. When Wanda closed the door behind the King, she sent you a reassuring smile.

You remained still in front of the huge four-poster bed, watching as your new husband slowly made his way inside your room. The windows were closed with pale pink velvet drapes matching the seating in the furniture. During the day they offered the most beautiful view of the gardens, but tonight no one but you and Steve would be witness to whatever took place.

The soft yellow glow of the candles cast shadows on his beautiful face. He’d always been incredibly handsome and yet you were amazed by how striking he looked now: clothes a little rumpled, lips wine stained and eyes blown wide and dark. A fading red line on his forehead from where his crown had been all now.

“We don’t have to do anything tonight” he said and you knew he meant it.

He was standing right in front of you now, although five feet apart. The distance between you felt as big as the distance between the Earth and the Moon, nothing but gravitational pull holding you still.

“I’m not scared” your voice declared, chin held high.

Steve laughed, so softly it felt like a breeze rustling the petals of the rose courtyard.

“I don’t think anything could scare you” he smiled. “But I’d hate for you to regret this.”

Steve loved you. He truly did loved you.

You’d believed his words when he said them. Knowing him to be truthful and honest, you believed his declaration, even if the meaning of it was incomprehensible for you then. You’d know the love of family and the love of friends, but never the sweet, selfless love of a lover, and you honestly never thought you would. But then Steve came like a hurricane, unabashedly storming into your life. Your feelings - neat organized boxes you kept in a imaginary shelf - were scrambled and confused, drowning you in a cerulean sea of bewilderment.

You trusted your body: the aguish you felt when he was away, the incessant fluttering in your stomach when he was near. The heat that took over your veins and crumbled your defenses.

You felt his care in your skin. You saw it, in the green shades of his blue eyes. It was there, visible for only you in candlelight. When morning came maybe you wouldn’t see it again and you’d wonder if it was even real or just your young mind playing tricks. But tonight maybe, maybe, you could let him love you properly.

“Then I guess you should make me not regret it.”

His steps towards you were slow and measured. His boots made little sound on the wooden floor, but the wait was so agonizing you swore they thumped to the rhythm of your heartbeat. When he finally reached you, chest to chest and feet to feet, Steve took your chin in his hands, tilting your head so your eyes could meet.

The move was just like the first time, but the kiss was anything but. Steve’s lips were familiar now, safe territory where you could get lost in for hours. Your tongue had traced its shape and your teeth had pulled on it’s skin. You learned that a kiss was so much more than a press of mouths. There was a lot that could be soundlessly said: “I need you”, “Thank you for being here”, “I’m scared”, “I adore you”.

Your husband’s hands were on your hips, holding and squeezing with fervor. You threw you head back when he started kissing your neck, lips and beard trailing fire on the column of your throat. You barely held your gasp when he squeezed your bum.

“No,” he gruffed. “Let me hear you.”

Tentative fingers tangled in Steve’s hair, their grip tightening as his hands wandered further. Kissing him was the most divine delirium. The otherwise soft fabric of your nightdress now felt scratchy as it shielded your nudity. Even the rich velvet of his waistcoat couldn’t compare to the stroke of his skin.

You were panting heavily when Steve touched your foreheads, eyes glazed and lips plumped. You thought you’d gotten pretty good at reading him these past months - how the hues on his irises hinted at a thousand words he sometimes wouldn't say. He was a quiet one, your husband. He saved his voice for when it was necessary, not just to join the superfluous stream of words you sometimes were victim to.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hoarse and breathless and tantalizing.

You answered unbuttoning the first button on his waistcoat, then the second and third. He didn’t stop it when you pushed it off his broad shoulders and to the floor and then moved on to his tunic. Steve’s torso was a masterpiece of solid muscles under tanned skin. Some faded scars littered the expanse of it, souvenirs from battles past, but you thought they worked on reminding you he was real.

Carefully, you placed a kiss in the center on his left shoulder blade. His skin was warm and tasted salty, but you liked it. Under your palm, Steve’s heart raced.

“Y/N?” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Can I remove your nightdress?”

You nodded, cheeks pressed to his chest so you could ground yourself in his heartbeat. Steve pecked you softly before kneeling.

“You have me on my knees, my Queen” he professed. “I will cherish you and love you until the end of my days.”

You shivered when he gently took your left foot in his hands, laying a kiss to your ankle. Slowly, his hands and lips moved upwards, trailing your calf, knee and thigh. Out of all of Natasha’s explanations about eroticism, she never mentioned the delirious feeling of a man’s beard touching skin - but then again, you were very fond of Steve’s beard.

When he reached your hip, the nightdress was sitting sideways in your body, covering everything but your leg. A hand went to Steve’s shoulder to steady yourself as he bit your hip bone. Everything was hot, as if the whole room was aflame. Blue eyes locked with yours before he lifted the rest of the fabric, rising as he revealed your body.

It was a strange sensation, sharing your nudity with someone. Of course you’d been nude in Wanda’s presence as she bathed you, or your aunt’s, or even as doctor’s, but it never felt so vulnerable. You wanted your body to be appreciated and desired - for Steve to bask in it the same way your were basking in his, but you couldn't help the shame and insecurity.

He saw the change in your demeanor, how your shoulders tensed and your arms moved to cover your middle section. Steve was hard as a rock, his erection straining his trousers in a terribly uncomfortable way. It wasn't his first time, but no past experience could compare to the reality of finally being with you, his beloved, whom he loved from afar for so long.

He hugged you, just like you did that night when he confessed his fears of ascending to the throne, and you relaxed. Your chest against his was heavenly, and your heartbeats harmonized as if all they ever needed was to touch each other through the skin.

“You’re so beautiful” he whispered. “I’m so happy. Thank you for marrying me.”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you?” you joked.

He laughed and it was irresistible, so you kissed him again.

Cautiously, his fingers caressed your spine, sensually gazing over your bum and reached the back of your thigh. Sometime during the night - while you were fervently kissing him or trying not to faint, perhaps - you failed to notice how your intimacy was progressively getting wetter. Steve’s touch startled you, making you jump in his arms. He immediately removed his hand and apologized.

“I’m sorry, is this too much? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“No, no, no” you stuttered. “It was just sudden. But it felt… Good.”

Gods, what a shame. If only there was a guide on how to lose your virginity without making a complete mess of yourself!

“Should we lay down?” Steve suggested, an amused smirk on the corner of his mouth.

“Please.”

You swiftly sat on the bed, pulling on some furs to cover your modesty. Steve stood, hands on his waist as he watched his bride try to hide her inexperience. He wasn’t surprised - you were taught any kind of imperfection was a sign of weakness. Over the years, you learned of hundreds of different ways to hide your inabilities until you eventually overcame them. It was the way of your world. He had hoped to break down these barriers during your courtship, but time wasn’t on his side. It would be his lifelong mission to cherish you and your imperfections, no matter how big they may seem to you.

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to disappoint you, I’ll try to…”

“Take off my trousers” he interrupted your rambling.

“What?”

“Take off my trousers, Y/N.”

Attentively, as if fondling a bird, your hands moved to the front of his breeches. He look regal, almost imperial, even with chest bare of and hair mussed - and you, his disconcerted queen who could barely undo the fastings. It was comical, really, how you gawked at his cock when it sprung free. There was no way that would fit inside you.

“Now, could you please lay down?” Steve asked softly. It was a bit odd to guide you - he was used to you holding the power and making the decisions, not the other way around. Yet his manhood twitched at the sight of you obeying him and his heart soared knowing you trusted him enough to follow his lead.

You lowered your head on the pillows, body stiff as a board stretched on the rest of the bed. Steve laid on his elbows by your side and gravity made the front strands of his hair hang by his forehead - your angel on Earth.

“Will you let me touch you?” he murmured. “I promise I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

You nodded, hypnotized by him, naked in your bed. Steve pecked your lips, your chin, your jaw and moved to your neck. Your feet started dragging the comforter on their own accord as he showered your throat with tiny bites and teasing licks, as if you were a delicacy he was just dying to taste. Your breath hitched when he reached you collarbone and sternum. His right hand took one breast as he would a petal, caressing it with the pad of his thumb.

You lost it when he took a nipple in his mouth, the soft skin peddling as he licked it. Steve decided he’d fight a thousand wars just to hear your moan like that.

His member was pressed to your stomach and you tentatively reached for it. It felt like iron and velvet at the same time. Your husband hissed at your touch, pulling your nipple from his mouth as he groaned your name.

“Did that hurt?” you asked.

“In the best possible way” he was so disheveled and it was glorious. Before you could let go of his cock, Steve wrapped his hand around yours and his member, his wrist tugging them up and down the hardness.

His sounds urged you on as he resumed his assault on your chest. He grunted particularly teasingly when the hand that was on not caressing him tugged his blonde strands.

Gingerly, his fingers found the apex of your thighs again. Slowly he dragged them across your labia, as if memorizing your intimacy with his digits. His thumb found your clit and he rubbed figure eights on it, making your body go lax on the mattress.

“Steve…” you whined, and he drunk from your desperate sounds.

It didn’t take long for you to come with two of his fingers inside you. You felt so full and so good and so intoxicated by his smell and presence. It was an out of body experience - reaching higher and higher until you just soared, Steve as your guide. As for him, he had the smuggest smile on his face as he watched you fall apart.

Your vision was blurry as he hovered over you, the picture of perfection, and kissed you again. Involuntarily, as if they knew that’s what they should do, your legs opened to him, and his hips locked to yours.

“May I?” he whispered right as you felt the tip of his cock on your entrance.

“Yes.”

It hurt like hell. As slow and gentle as Steve was, you couldn’t help the tears leaking from the corner of your eyes and the colorful expletives you yelled at him.

You both breathed in relief when he was fully sheathed in. His shoulders were red and dotted with half-moon marks from your nails and the muscles on his arms and back were tensed from sheer pleasure. It left a bad taste in his mouth - fucking you shouldn’t feel as divine as it did when you couldn’t feel it. But God almighty, the way your cunt squeezed him…

Slowly, he started moving, taking the salt of your tears with his lips and turning them into delight. Gradually, your whimpers turned to moans as you lost yourself to this new, euphoric feeling. Your right leg, the one he so fervently adored just moments prior, was hooked around his hips. A bead of sweat made its way down his forehead and you wanted to lick it and taste it, take it from him the way he was taking from you.

But it felt so much more than that. He was taking just as much as he was giving - your hands clasped together in the mattress was an anchor, a portal channeling your souls. His became yours and yours became his.

Steve came exclaiming your name, his semen leaking from your body to the mattress. It was a strange victory, to have him sweating and struggling to breathe, but you rejoiced in it anyway. Despite the ache between in your legs, you longed to do it again.

Your husband rolled over, collapsing next to you on the bed. He took your palm, still entwined with his, and kissed it. Dozens of kisses had been shared tonight, but mayhaps that was the most meaningful.

“Are you well?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

“I’m fine” you assured him, and you were. The discomfort would fade, but this newfound happiness would stay. Not from sex, but from sharing. He was in your blood now - your husband, King and partner.

You tugged his forearm when he rose.

“Where are you going?”

“To get you a warm cloth” he explained.

“Stay” you pleaded. “Just a little bit.”

Steve pulled you to his embrace, limbs tangling and hearts meeting under the canopy.

“I love you, Y/N” he said. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Your mouth opened on instinct, but your throat was raw. You wanted him to know that you knew and you believed. You wanted him to be sure that you'd meet him there, even if your steps were slow and sometimes unsure. The need to assure him that you were not on the same page yet, but yours was turning was vital - however unnecessary. Before you could utter anything, his thumb was on your lips, shushing you.

“I know you can’t say it back yet, but it’s fine. We have time.”

On the first Sunday of October, Captain Rogers became the Queen’s husband - and Steve became the keeper of your heart.

#steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #king!steve #king!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #king!steve rogers x you #king!steve rogers x reader #king!steve x reader #marvel au #steve rogers au #corneliabarnes #my writing

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taeken-my-heart · 4 years

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Moirai Chapter 12

Summary: On your 18th birthday a name appears on your wrist. The name of your soulmate. It’s a momentous day that everyone looks forward to, but you’ve always brushed aside; refusing to believe in a fickle mistress called destiny. But what happens when on the morning of your 18th birthday you wake to find the name of your mortal enemy? Jeon Jungkook.

Pairing: Jungkook x Reader Genre: Soulmates au/ Enemies to lovers au. Angst, fluff, bickering, romance, eventual smut.

Word Count: 5651

Chapter notes: Nothing terrible, a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff. The usual, haha

++++

Work came far too early the next day and you tiredly rubbed your eyes as you made your way towards the nurse’s station where Lizzy was standing, a coffee in her outstretched hand.

"Wow, you weren't lying when you texted you looked like a zombie." She quipped, "Aren't you glad I got you a pick me up?"

"Always an angel." You murmured, pulling the coffee to your lips and sighing into it as you leaned your elbows against the counter.

"So, I saw him." Lizzy replied smoothly.

"Who?" You asked, eyes still firmly shut as you focused on not sleeping where you stood.

"Dr. Jeon, of course." Lizzy sighed, slapping your arm.

"Oh." You said, eyes opening and staring down at your paper cup. Honestly, you'd forgotten about him in the aftermaths of a late night giving physical comfort to Jimin and an early morning at the hands of the sweltering heat.

"Oh?" Lizzy repeated blankly, "Y/N, no physical description does him justice and all you can say is oh? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine," you said softly, "just really tired. Didn't get much sleep last night."

"Oh," Lizzy smirked, "really? What exactly was keeping you up, my dear friend?"

"Take a wild guess." You chuckled and Lizzy squealed like a teenage girl. "You act like you haven't gotten any in months!" You complained.

"I haven't!" She whined, "I'm living vicariously through you so you have to be generous with me."

"I am not sharing the details of my sex life with you, Lizzy." You smirked and she pouted.

"Well, the least you could do is give me regular updates of the good doctor."

“Lizzy!" You complained, "I've got better things to do, you know. Besides, I have a boyfriend and I don't think he'd like me paying so much attention to another man."

"Again, I am living vicariously through you. My appetite must be filled or I cannot be responsible for my actions." She insisted.

The doors to your right suddenly swung open and you glanced over to find Jungkook walking towards the nurse’s station, already dressed in his scrubs and dark hair pushed back across his head.

You watched as Lizzy practically drooled and you had to stifle your groan. "I was told you had a file for the Gibbons surgery." Jungkook said, coming to stand beside you at the nurse’s station, his gaze trained on Lizzy.

"Oh, yes I do, let me just grab that for you." She squeaked.

You stood silently, staring at the wall and squeezing your coffee just a little too tight and you noticed Jungkook incline his head towards you. "Good morning, doctor."

"Ah, yes, good morning." You replied awkwardly.

"You slept well; I trust?"

"Yes, I slept fine, thank you."

Jungkook nodded silently before the two of you plunged back into silence and Lizzy finally found the file, frowning at you with furrowed eyebrows as she handed him the file. "Here you are, Dr. Jeon."

"Thank you." He replied, flipping it open and waltzing back through the doors he'd come through.

"What the hell was that?" Lizzy asked.

"What was what?" You asked, casually.

"Oh, no, no. You can't act all coy and avoid the elephant in the room. The air was so tense just now, even I could feel it and I'm pretty oblivious. What happened between you and the good doctor? You only met him yesterday!"

You sighed, fiddling with the lid of your drink and shrugging. "Look, it would take too long to explain and right now I honestly am not in the mood for it. I'll explain it to you someday...maybe."

Lizzy pouted and you smiled softly. "Well, I suppose I can't pry it out of you, but just know I will probably die of curiosity."

"That's a shame," you hummed, "I was really growing fond of you." Lizzy's expression turned sour and you laughed, lifting your cup at her and backing away. "I'll see you later."

++++

Today you were spending most of the day in the blissful clutches of labor and delivery. Under normal circumstances you hated the labor and delivery unit. There were moments of reprieve where the mothers were thanking you profusely for the gift of an epidural but usually there was a lot of shouting and screaming, especially if you couldn't make it to their room in the 2.5 seconds after they requested your services.

However, anywhere that was not forcing you into Jungkook's company was a welcome relief and since he was spending the majority of his morning in trauma surgery, you were happy to greet your new favorite ward.

"You've got an epidural in room 12." One of the nurses sighed in lieu of a greeting. "She's been asking for you for the last 30 minutes in between crying and hitting her husband for ‘putting her through this.’"

"Oh goody." You smiled. "I suppose I'll head that way, then."

You were honestly trying to like the maternity unit, you really were. Babies and life were beautiful things and of course you knew that, but the ugly head of debilitating pain always reared its head in the form of screaming mother's to be and that could be overwhelming for even the most practiced of physicians. You were more used to your patients making no noise at all because 9 times out of 10 you were assigned to some sort of surgery that didn't involve neonatal work but there was always that occasion. Today you at least had 2 cesarean sections and that was an area you felt you could thrive in.

Despite your best efforts at keeping a positive attitude, you were absolutely exhausted by the time you slouched into your seat in the cafeteria and Lizzy looked up at you from her yogurt and grinned. "Babies got you down?"

"No!" You insisted, sitting straighter, "in fact, I'm having the time of my life over there. I'm just tired from last night, that's all."

"OK." Lizzy grinned and you rolled your eyes at her.

"So how has your morning been?" You asked, unrolling your sandwich and picking through it for any tomatoes and dropping them on Lizzy's plate.

"I suppose I can't complain. I really only had to draw a couple vials of blood and give one sponge bath. You know I'm jinxing myself right now, though, right?"

"Probably," you admit with a grin, "you'll have to let me know how things go the rest of your shift."

"What about you, Ms. L&D? How's your shift really going?"

You shrugged, swallowing your bite. "It's OK, the usual, you know? There is a sense of freedom, though."

"Really? Normally you say it makes you feel like you've been given a prison sentence."

You laughed, nodding and crumbling the sandwich wrapper in your hands as you gobbled half the sandwich in one bite. At this rate, trying to avoid conversation with your friend was going to cause indigestion. "Yeah, that's normally the case. Today isn't so bad though, I find I suddenly have the stomach for it."

"What changed?"

"The scenery."

"The scenery?" Lizzy asked, eyebrows rising, "I don't get it. Did they get some new potted plants or something?"

You glanced down at your watch before standing and stretching. "Hey, I've gotta go take a quick power nap before I head back to maternity. We can chat later, OK?"

"Fine," Lizzy pouted, "but you've gotta stop avoiding my questions. I'm just going to keep asking."

"I know you will." You grinned, popping the last bite of sandwich into your mouth and walking away with a wave.

++++

The on-call room in your hospital was an unfortunate mix of three sets of bunk beds, one single twin, and a mini fridge on a small wooden table that looked like it was about to give up the ghost. Thankfully no one was in there when you arrived so you dropped down onto the one single mattress (the coveted single twin was prime real estate in the room) and flipped yourself back to bury your head in the pillow. You had an hour until your next scheduled appointment (unless you got paged) and you intended to use the opportunity catching up on the sleep you'd missed last night.

Just as your eyelids were becoming heavy with sleep the door clicked softly as it opened and closed and you pouted, keeping your eyes firmly shut as you grasped at the tendrils of sleep now escaping your vision.

"Sorry." Came the soft baritone and you resisted the urge to shiver. His voice had always been deep but age had served to deepen it further.

"It's fine." You mumbled, refusing to open your eyes to look at him, even as he took the bottom bunk beside you. You could hear the springs squeaking as he shifted a few times and almost smiled. "If you're looking for a comfortable way to lay, you'll be hard pressed to find it. The beds here are all a bit sad, aside from this single mattress that Dr. Watson affectionately named "Bertha"."

"Charming name." Jungkook quipped. "You don't happen to need to leave in the next few minutes, do you?"

You smiled, opening your eyes and glancing at the clock by the door. "I've still got 40 minutes."

"OK," He sighed, "well dibs after you leave."

"Fair enough." You nodded, closing your eyes.

"So," Jungkook murmured after a few minutes and you began to resign yourself to the idea that you probably weren't going to be getting much sleep. "I never knew you had an interest in medicine."

"To be fair, we never really 'knew' each other."

"We did when we were kids." He said softly and you opened your eyes, turning to look at him.

"Yes, we were friends when we were kids but then you got pretty mean for a while. Never did give me a satisfying reason why, either."

He sighed, shrugging. "Because I was a stupid kid. I really don't have a good excuse for my behavior back then. I just hated that we were always forced together by our mom's and I took it out on you, even though it wasn't your fault. I guess it was right around the time that I started making friends with the other boys around and they were kind of mean about girls so I just started reflecting what I was seeing. I am sorry, though."

You chewed on the inside of your lip as you pondered your next words. "Doesn't really explain what happened in high school or, you know, when we got these." You raised your wrist slightly for him to see his name, partially obscured by the green of your scrubs.

"I didn't know what I really wanted back then." He sat up suddenly, leaning forward onto his knees and wringing his hands together. "See, the thing is-"

The chirping of your pager interrupted his next words and you glanced down at the message, frowning. "Someone is begging for an epidural up in L&D." You mumbled. Standing, you shoved your hands through your hair to try and tame it and readjusted the elastic of your pants. "Sorry."

You didn’t give him any time to reply before walking through the door and back out towards the maternity ward. The rest of the day was spent too busy to even breathe and by the time your shift ended you were slumping towards the door that hid your car from view.

“Doctor Y/L/N! Y/N, wait!” You turned to watch as Jungkook came to a halt by your side. “I’m off in 20 minutes, I was hoping we could grab a coffee or something and continue our conversation from this afternoon.”

“I don’t really think it’s such a good idea,” you said softly. “I’ve gotta get home to make dinner for my boyfriend and considering who you are…well, I don’t think Jimin would like that so much.”

“Considering who I am, maybe I could have 5 minutes of your time to just explain myself.”

“We talked about this, Jungkook.” You frowned.

“Y/N, I was 18 years old-”

You could see Lizzy walking down the hallway towards the two of you and the last thing you needed right now was to explain what your history was with the new surgical resident so you shook your head and stepped towards the door.

“I’ve gotta go, Dr. Jeon. Let’s just leave the past in the past, OK? Enjoy the rest of your shift.”

++++

Later that evening after you’d finished eating and the AC repair man had come and gone you looked up at the clock on the mantle, frowning. It was 9 o’clock and Jimin still wasn’t home. Sometimes things did run later with divorce cases and especially with this new couple, but he’d been strangely quiet the last few hours, normally he was sending you at least one eye rolling emoji if things ran overtime but so far…nothing.

You were lying in bed with a book before you heard the sound of his keys in the lock. Shuffling feet and a softly placed brief case met your ears before you finally saw him stepping through the door. “You’re home late.” You murmur softly and he jumped in surprise.

“You scared me.” He chuckles, before stripping down to his boxers and climbing into bed, laying his head against your stomach and sighing. “I’m sorry I’m home so late.”

“Why didn’t you text me?” You questioned, running your fingers through his hair.

“Didn’t really get the opportunity.” You can hear the frown in his voice and in turn you found yourself frowning.

“Normally you manage to find time.” You wish you had better control of the bite in your voice but as it was you were too emotionally exhausted to really try.

Jimin sat up to look at you, leaning against the headboard. “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

“What was the giveaway?” You mumbled, pulling your book back into your lap and resuming the page you were on last.

Jimin sighed, pushing his hair out of his face. “Baby, I was honestly just really busy today. On top of all of my other cases, I had three new clients today in office and then had to go into court to oversee the completion of one of our divorces and sign a ton of paper work. Then, to top it all off, Mrs. Johnson wanted to meet to discuss some details of the divorce with her husband. He’s trying to shift some funds into another account outside of the country or something, I don’t know. Look, you know I would have messaged you if I could have, I just really didn’t have time.”

“You’ve had busier days than that before and managed to find time, I don’t know why today was so different.” You sniffed, putting your book down and sliding under the covers, turning out your light. “Let’s just talk in the morning, I’m tired.”

“Babe,” Jimin groaned, flipping you onto your back and hovering his face over yours, stroking his thumb down your cheek. “Come on, tomorrow is our anniversary. Please, let’s not fight. I want to enjoy our day off together.”

You sigh, rubbing your eyes and nodding. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m just really stressed at work these days. “

“Is something going on? Someone bothering you?” He asked gently, peering down at you in the dark.

This was not the time for this conversation. What were you supposed to do, tell your boyfriend that your soulmate had reentered your life? That he was trying to make amends and “talk”? That was a conversation you did not foresee going well so you smiled, shaking your head.

“No, nothing like that. Just medical stuff, you know. I was back in the labor and delivery department today; you know how I feel about that.”

“Will you be there next shift?” He asked, laying his hand across your stomach.

“No, they only need me sometimes. Usually Dr. Gray takes those shifts but she was out of town so I was filling in. I don’t know, work has just been stressful and I know it’s not your fault. I just felt upset that you didn’t call or text or anything.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t let you know what was going on. I’ll be more mindful of it in the future, I promise.”

“Thank you, baby.” You whispered, reaching up to kiss him softly. “Did you think about anything you wanted to do tomorrow?”

Jimin smiled, wrapping his arm tight around your waist and pouting in thought. “I for sure want to sleep in, then some lazy sex, breakfast in bed, the usual.”

“And who’s making the breakfast, hmm?” You teased and he grinned.

“We’ll order in, how about that?”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I’m gonna go get ready for bed.” He yawned, standing from the bed and stretching his hands above his head, “you gonna be asleep by the time I get back?”

“Most likely.” You grinned.

“Well then, see you in the morning, my love.” He leaned over, kissing soft into your lips and you sighed, linking your arms around his neck to pull him closer to you.

“Goodnight.” You whispered against his mouth.

++++

You woke to the smell of pancakes, inhaling deeply and rolling to your side, hand flailing out against an empty mattress. Eyes blinking blearily open, you glanced around your room, but Jimin was nowhere to be seen.

You could hear pans banging in the kitchen and you smiled, laying back against your mattress. The cotton of your duvet brushed against bare legs and you stretched your arms above your head. You liked the idea of Jimin making you breakfast in bed, though he wasn’t very quiet about it.

You stood, long shirt drooping to your knees and made your way out into the living room. Jimin stood at the counter top, carefully cracking eggs, but when you entered the room he whined loudly, stomping his foot. “Ah, you’re supposed to still be asleep. I wanted to surprise you.” He pouted.

You smiled, walking over to him and wrapping your arms around his waist. “I was thinking…maybe we could skip the food and go straight to dessert.” You whispered, nipping at his chin and he turned to look down at you, eyes darkening.

“Trust me, you’re gonna wanna eat. You’ll need a lot of energy for what I have in store.” He replied; husky.

Your stomach churned with electricity, chest crackling in excitement. “I like the sound of that. I don’t wanna wait, though.”

You kissed at his jaw, making your way towards his lips and he melted into you, mouth hot against your own as you opened to him, running a hand across his lower abdomen. “Mmm, food first, you naughty baby.” He replied, slapping you hard on the butt and you yelped, glaring before sulking back to the bedroom.

“I was thinking we could lounge and watch a movie today.” Jimin said, walking back into the bedroom a few minutes later with a tray full of food. You held it for him as he sat down, placing it in the center and grabbing for a piece of toast.

“Did you have a movie in mind?” You asked, turning to look at him.

He shook his head, pushing his fork into one of the sausages on his plate and taking a bite. “No, you can choose.”

“What if I choose something so horrendously sappy that you want to vomit?”

“Then I would still love you,” he said, tilting his head to the side, “but I’d have to go to therapy for all the damage inflicted. On your dime, of course.”

“Of course.” You nodded, grabbing a grape from the fruit bowl on the tray and popping it into your mouth.

“Let’s finish breakfast and then we can watch a movie.”

“What about sex?” You pouted and he smirked, tweaking your nose.

“Who said we need to be in the bedroom for that? We could multitask, you know.”

“I like the sound of that.” You purred, leaning over to give him a kiss.

++++

Later that evening, after making dinner together and laughing late into the night, lounging back into the cushions of the couch. Jimin ran to grab something from the bedroom, promising a big surprise. You watched after him as his figure disappeared into the dark of your bedroom, heart thumping eagerly in your chest.

He returned shortly, a small gift bag in his hand and grinned, sitting down beside you. “I wanted to get you something special. We’ve been together 8 years now, which is incredible, don’t you think? Anyway. This year just feels really special and I wanted to get you something big; something that would remind you how much I love you.”

Your heart raced in your chest; pounding against your ribcage. A small, blue velvet box rested inside the bag and you reached in, breath stilling in your lungs. Jimin watched you eagerly, eyes bright and lips rubbing together in anticipation as you slowly opened the box.

“Oh…” A pair of sapphire earrings blinked up at you from the cushion of their casing. Nothing like the engagement ring you’d been expecting.

“What? What’s wrong?” He asked, eyebrows drawing together.

“Nothing. They’re beautiful, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I…I just assumed…” You trailed off, bottom lip wobbling. All that anticipation built up and still…no ring.

“What did you assume?”

“Are you ever going to propose?” You whispered, and you could already feel the burn of your eyes filling with tears.

Jimin sighed, rubbing at his temples in aggravation and laying back into the couch. “Y/N, I really don’t like when you pressure me.”

“When have ever I pressured you?” You cried, swiping at a tear as it slipped down your cheek. “I’ve never said anything!”

“It’s not with words, baby. You think I haven’t seen the magazines you leave around, wedding rings, wedding dresses, ring sizes? I’m not obtuse, Y/N. I know you want to get married and I know we’ve been together a long time, but I’m just not there yet. Marriage is just a social construct, like soulmates. Just the government and the media trying to get us to do what they want.”

“What?” You gaped, brushing angrily at the tears staining your cheeks, “where is this even coming from? You’ve never told me you thought so poorly of marriage. We both agreed that we don’t like the whole soulmates thing, but marriage? I thought we were on the same page! It’s been 8 years, Jimin!”

“I just don’t know if I’m a marriage type of guy!” He huffed and you glared at him.

“You should have figured that out 8 years ago before dragging me along and wasting my time. I could have been married by now.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that. I didn’t say I don’t want to get married, I said I don’t know if I do.”

“That’s practically the same thing.” You hissed, pulling your arm away from him as he reached out for you. You stood, legs wobbling with emotion.

“Y/N, I love you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and right now if I pushed myself to get married, I feel like it would really ruin a good thing. Please, just give me more time. You’re the only one I could ever actually envision myself marrying.”

“Then why won’t you?” You fussed, crossing your arms over your chest. He ruffled his hair in aggravation, standing and walking towards you carefully, watching your every move as though you might take off running, before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his chest.

“I love you. More than anyone in this entire world and I want to share my life with you. I just don’t know if I’m ready for marriage right now. I’m only 31.”

“How much longer are you going to make me wait?” You whispered, “I can’t wait around forever. I want a marriage and children, Jimin. Don’t string me along if you really don’t want that.” You looked up at him, his dark hair hanging down into his eyes.

“Just give me a little more time.” He pleaded, pulling you tighter into him, “please.”

You sighed, heart heavy in your chest. In the end, you couldn’t imagine life without him. He was your best friend and the only man you’d ever really wanted. You were willing to wait a little while longer. “Fine,” you agreed, “but you need to figure this out, Jimin. I can’t wait around forever and I won’t. I deserve more than that.”

“You’re right.” He agreed, “I promise I’ll be thinking about it and I’ll give you an answer. Just give me…just give me a year, one year. Please.”

“OK.” You nodded, “One year. But then you’ll have to make up your mind. Marriage and children may not be important to you, but it’s important to me.”

“I can accept that.” He nodded, leaning down to nudge his nose against yours. You melted against him, lips warm against yours and you inhaled deeply as you pulled away. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, pulling from his arms and retrieving the gift he’d gotten you. “I was thinking…I got you a gift too and it’s in the bedroom. Why don’t I wear both your gift and my gift…and nothing else?”

Jimin grinned wolfishly, holding your hair out of your face as you slid the earrings into place. “That sounds like a really good idea.”

You looked up at him and he smiled, running the pad of his thumb against your ear. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, grabbing his hand and leading him into the bedroom.

++++

“So, I was thinking. We should do a welcome dinner for Dr. Jeon. It’s been two weeks now and I’m looking for an excuse to get obnoxiously drunk and not be judged for it. Plus, getting to look at his face for a couple hours is like a cherry on top of that already beautiful cake.” Lizzy spun her straw in her drink, feet kicked up on the seat across the table from her.

You glanced down beside you, the dirty soles of her sketchers greeting you. She smiled at you, cheek dimpled and you took another bite of your mashed potatoes. Somehow, by the grace of the gods, you’d been giving a longer lunch than normal, so you’d indulged in calorie dense cafeteria food to sooth you.

“Your bias is showing.” You said, staring over at her, spoon hanging from your bottom lip and she scoffed.

“I’m not biased! We’ve always had a welcome dinner for new doctors so it’s not like it’s a weird thing to suggest. I wouldn’t even be surprised if one was already being planned by the supe. Come on, where’s your party spirit?”

“Left it at home.” You shrugged, picking at the roll on your plate. It was a little stale, but it was cafeteria food, after all.

“Is this seat taken?” You looked up to find Jungkook standing beside you, peering down at the seat that Lizzy’s feet currently occupied. Lizzy quickly sat up, dropping her feet back down to the ground and smiling wide, waving for him to sit down.

“No, of course not! Sit down doctor. We were actually just talking about you!”

You glared over at her and she smiled pretty, pushing a corkscrew curl out of her face. Jungkook took the seat beside you, the legs of his chair squealing against the linoleum tiles and he looked between the two of you.

“You were talking about me?” He asked, eyes wide, “good things, I hope.” He smiled and you could practically see Lizzy melt.

“Of course.” She giggled, twirling a strand of hair around her finger and you looked at her like she’d sprouted a third head. She cleared her throat, sitting up straighter and leaning forward. “Actually, we were just talking about how we should throw you a welcome dinner. We do it for all the new doctors, or at least the ones we like.”

Jungkook chuckled good-naturedly and you wanted to die. “Ah, yeah, Dr. Ramirez actually mentioned that to me earlier. I think he said the administration is planning one for this Saturday night.”

“Excellent!” Lizzy beamed, “we usually do it in the breakroom since we can’t all take the night off to go out to eat, but we can spare a few minutes to stop by and say hello. Plus, the catering is pretty rad so it’s good for moral.”

You smiled, nodding, “I’m certainly never opposed to free food.”

Jungkook looked over at you, lips quirking at the edges and you looked back down at your food. “Sounds like it’ll be a good time, then.”

Lizzy’s pager beeped and she swore, looking down at it with a sigh. “Duty calls. Anyway, Y/N, I’ll find you later before I leave. I’ve got a dentist appointment so I’m gonna be leaving a little earlier today.”

You nodded, waving her off and she smiled, waving to the two of you before making her way out of the cafeteria and out of sight. You could feel your shoulders, coiled in tension as the sleeve of Jungkook’s scrubs rubbed against yours. He said nothing for a moment, just munching at one of the meatballs from off of his spaghetti and you took another bite of your potatoes.

They were nearly gone and you mourned their loss.

“I like your earrings.” He said suddenly and you looked up at him, fingers going to touch the sapphire studs in your ears.

“Thank you. They’re from Jimin, for our 8 year anniversary.”

“He chose well,” he remarked, looking down at you, “they really suit you. He’s a lucky guy.”

“Thank you.” You murmured, shoving a large bite of stale roll in your mouth to occupy yourself. You still had 10 minutes left in your break and didn’t intend to stand on your feet unless you absolutely had to.

“Lizzy seems nice.” He remarked and you nodded.

“She is; she’s my best friend. You gonna try and date her too?”

Jungkook huffed a laugh, looking down at you. “All I said was she’s nice. I’m just trying to make conversation Y/N. I thought you said you don’t want to talk about the past?”

“I don’t.” You sniffed.

“Well, then what would you like to talk about?”

“Preferably nothing.”

“Come on, Y/N, we’re colleagues, let’s try to get along, hmm?” He chuckled as you shook some hair from your face, taking a sip from your water bottle.

“Fine, you’re right. How’s your residency going?” You turned to look at him and he smiled bright. It made your heart ache but you refused to shrink from it.

“Well, it’s only been a couple weeks, but I’m pretty happy with it so far. The people are really nice, the hospitals facilities are excellent. I didn’t think I’d be getting to work with such state of the art technology so that’s been really exciting. Plus, my parents were thinking about coming to visit this weekend so I’ll get the opportunity to bring them to the hospital and show them around before the welcome dinner.”

“How are your parents?” You smiled, “I haven’t seen them in years. I think the last time was just after I graduated with my bachelor’s degree.”

“They’re great. They’ve been traveling around the world a lot. Making me look like a chump with all their cool adventures. What about your family? How are they?”

“They’re all really good. My parents are mostly just chilling. My dad is still working so my mom joined a Zumba club to keep herself entertained. Ella is actually getting married in about 3 months as well, so that’s really exciting.”

“Yeah, she actually sent my family and me an invite. I’m really happy for her.”

“She sent you an invite?” You asked, eyebrows rising.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I know, it seems crazy right? We made amends years ago, though, so all is well.”

“Wait, really?” You asked, turning to face him and he nodded.

“Yeah, she didn’t tell you?” At the shake of your head, he continued, “I was a sophomore in college and one day I just decided to call her and check in, see how she was doing. I wanted to apologize to her for dragging her through so much crap, it was never my intention. I really valued her friendship at a time when I felt like I was going crazy and losing it was pretty painful. We talked it out and she forgave me. I’m really glad she found her soulmate, she deserves to be happy.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.” You frowned, finishing off the last bite of your food.

“She probably thought she was sparing you, by not talking about…well, about me. Anyway, yeah, she sent me an invite and I’m excited to say hi to her and Michael. Have you met him yet?”

“Yeah, briefly last year, not long after they met.” You said, distracted. Your pager suddenly beeped and you glanced down at it. “Ah, I’ve gotta go, but it was nice talking Jeon.”

“Dr. Y/L/N,” he called as you stood up, grabbing your tray. You paused to look at him. “You’ll be at the dinner, right?”

“I work that night, so I’m sure I’ll sneak in at some point to grab some food.”

“Come say hi?” He asked carefully, “I bet my parents would love to say hi.”

You looked down at him, dark hair swept to the side of his face and looking so handsome you almost couldn’t look away. “Sure,” you quipped with a shrug, “I’ll make sure I say hi.”

“Thanks, Y/N.”

You nodded before spinning around and going to return your tray, making your way back out into the hallway.

++++

Ahhh. This chapter was so fun to write! The more I write this story, the more I love it. I am so, so excited for the next few chapters to come. Some interesting things are gonna be happening ^^ Also, I have a job interview tomorrow. Wish me luck! <3

Chapter 11

Chapter 13

#btsbookclub #jungkook scenario #jungkook angst #jungkook fluff #jungkook smut

259 notes · View notes

jawllines · 5 years

Note

WEREWOLF BLURB PLEASE!!!! ☺️✌🏼

:D YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND

Y/N’s flustered.

She hadn’t started the day out flustered – she had actually started it rather composed. After coming back from a small trip home, she had been more than ecstatic to see Harry, Niall, and the rest of the pack. To reorient herself with Maisie at the bakery and reunited Grandpa with the pups in their playroom (who, from several videos sent by Harry, were missing Gramps terribly and were rolling around in his bed and whining every time Harry brought it into them). To climb into Harry’s too large bed and only use a quarter of it because they’re snuggled so tightly together they account for merely one body.

Being away from Harry for the first time since they’d bonded felt more or less like she was leaving a limb behind and promising to come back. Which was to be expected, or at least that is what Harry told her. They were bonded, linked in spirit, through the rush of blood through their veins. It was nowhere near in the theatrical high schooler way of panic when a couple spends the weekend without seeing one another – it was a legitimate concern amongst their kind when a mating pair had to separate large distances.

The yearning was like an ache that consumed them both all over, like icy needles of want that pricked them. Sure, they could call, but it had almost made it worse – she could see his face and hear his voice but she couldn’t reach out and fiddle with the hair at his nape, and he couldn’t worm his arm around her waist and draw her nearer to him in the middle of the night when he heard her shiver. Y/N couldn’t hide her face into the base of his throat and let her eyes flutter shut when they were cuddled on her couch, Grandpa warming their feet. Harry couldn’t hold her hand as they walked along the stream on the grounds, with the crystalline water that glittered in the beams of sunlight, and she couldn’t feel his laugh rumble through his chest when she says something that makes him pull her close and chuckle.

In more direct terms, it fucking sucked.

And maybe Y/N had forgotten how flirty guys and girls could be, but she was almost a hundred percent positive that she had never been the usual target of people’s conquering affections. If anything, she used to feel as if she practically repelled it, especially at home where she spent most nights alone and having her “dates” to dances be her friends. It was just something she was used to…the majority of the people she went to school with knew her from when she was deep in an attempt of a goth phase that never really stuck and saw her cry over Polar Express about thirty times, so she wouldn’t much want to fraternize with high school her either.

Yet, when she returns, it feels like the eyes on her are endless. Not in a confidence-boosting way at all – it was a way that made her skin crawl, the way it appeared like they were drinking her in, their eyes rolling up and down her body. When she and her old high school buddies went to a club one night, there had been a group of people and 6 out of the 8 found an excuse to hug her at some point. Some of them she could hear breathe in deep and at first, she had attributed it to everyone really liking her perfume, but when the next question that followed was, “Do you have a boyfriend?” She began to become a bit suspicious.

She brought up to Niall – asked him if it were possible that there be other werewolves, who instead of staying sacred grounds, galavant through clubs and go around sniffing people. After a lengthy lecture about how she should have let him come with her like he asked, he kindly let her know that all packs were different, and while his and Harry’s had a pretty hefty mistrust for humans that were not her other packs may not care. May roam about and fuck around till their heart’s content, some even change people for fun. He told her that most likely, the people spotting her extra attention that they otherwise wouldn’t give is because she’s coated not only in the scent of a wolf but the potent scent of an alpha. One so strong and inviting that they can’t not find their way to her, caught off guard by the human body carrying it along like she’d spritzed it over her pulse points and walked out of the house.

So they were intrigued beyond belief, wanting to sniff and to understand, hoping to question her but she was always creeped out enough that she slipped away before they had the chance. She forgets how intimate the wolf community is, surpassing human limits of personal space the nth degree, especially when she hasn’t been around them for a second. At first, where there had been snide glances and uncomfortable shifts in her presence, she is now greeted with arms encompassing her tightly, deep breathing and warm laughter as they share stories with her. They enjoy how she squeaks when they squeeze too tightly and even more so how Harry grins, watching them.

“You are family,” he once told her, “They love you as I love you – though I do love you most.”

And she was okay with that – with them – but strangers who like hugging tightly, whom she first mistakes for people her friends are introducing her to (or re-introducing her to), who just go in for a whiff? It’s unsettling, and she was far more cautious in the rest of the time she spent away. Along with far more yearning from the wolves she had become used to, this switch up left her rattled.

So it’s safe to say, save for missing her friends and family back home, she was excited to go back. Ecstatic, even, and Harry was absolutely buzzing as well.

“I will be there for you at the station!” He had exclaimed to her when she explained she was now boarding the train, “With a big ol’ sign, and flowers, like in them movies you showed me.”

Low and behold, as promised, when she finally made it out of the terminal and into the main area of the station, Harry was with Niall, both holding up a large sign that had that read WE MISSED YOU and the messy painted prints of the pups that had tracked all over the white paper. A bouquet of flowers the size of her head, ones freshly plucked from Miss. Tealy’s garden on the grounds (she let Y/N eat some of the berries she’d been growing once, and when Y/N had told her they were the best she’d ever tasted, Miss. Tealy frequently began requesting her if she and Harry weren’t caught up with something else), and a box of her favorite cookies from the bakery that she knew Maisie sent in her place (she was leaving for a week-trip to Germany that day, so she had to be at the airport).

It was hard not to let her eyes well up, almost tripping over herself as she rushes over to them, walking briskly she had taken on the persona of someone in New York who has no time to get to the places they need to go. Her arms found Harry’s neck in seconds and he squeezed her so tightly that it was just about bone-crushing – if she hadn’t known any better, she would think that this was his intention.

Even if it were though, she couldn’t say that she minded it. Being in his arms again felt drinking a cold glass of water at noon, on a sweltering summer day. She was overcome with such immense love that it felt like it might burst from her orifices, ooze from her until she’s melted into a puddle on the train station floor. The only reason she pulls back is to smother his face in kisses, from his forehead to his chin, his cheeks, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. And he giggled, trying to kiss her back but he barely could do to the onslaught of her own peckish kisses.

“I missed you too,” she murmurs, nestling her nose in the bed of his throat and breathing in deep, though as she relaxes when Harry does the same he tenses up. Rigid as a board, and it’s so akin to how he was when they had met the very first time she recognizes it instantly.

In her attempt to drawback and question him, his grip around her tightens, and she feels a low rumble of a growl threatening his chest, “You do not smell of me,” he notes – not in accusation, but annoyance is clearly laced through his words as he holds onto her tighter, “Niall told me of the people troubling you with unwanted attention but I had not known they were so close. You reek of them.”

Her face drops into a pout, wiggling out of his arms with her brows furrowed, “You know the last thing you want to hear from your boyfriend after being away for two weeks is that you reek,” she chides him, turning to grab her suitcase, but she notices then that Niall had already grabbed the handle, “I showered about ten dozen times, so I don’t know why I still smell like them. I’m sorry.”

His features soften at her words, head shaking urgently, “Do not apologize,” he tells her seriously, “It is to no fault of your own – you do not…reek in that sense of the word. I smell the others more than I can smell myself on you, so I must re-scent you.” He reaches out for her again, taking her by the wrist and pulling her back towards him, to which she goes easily, allowing him to burrow his face in her hair and wrap his arms around her in a much less organ popping way, “Which is not a problem by me.”

Before Y/N can question what “re-scenting” actually indicates, Niall clears his throat dramatically, and Y/N and Harry both turn to face him, “Listen, I know the lot of you are lovebirds and s’precious, but I have not gotten a single ounce of attention for the five minutes you’ve been here, and I would just like to remind everyone I’m the reason you two met in the first place.”

Snorting, Y/N rolls her eyes and slips from Harry in favor of giving Niall a hug, “Hi Ni, you know I missed you too.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he wraps the hand not occupied with the sign around her shoulders, giving her a firm squeeze, “Missed you too. Missed your cookies and Grandpa most though.”

Grandpa, who was now being retrieved from his carrier by Harry (who did not believe that any animal should be kept in a crate, and only allowed it when Y/N explained that he had to be), was wiggling happily in his arms and licking and slurping at his face. From a jealous puppy to werewolf correspondence, to being the only two beings in a room who understand each other wholeheartedly, was a wholesome development on their part. Harry adored Grandpa (if not for being bonded to him, Y/N would have assumed he missed him far more than he missed her), and when the security guard walks up to him to let him know that animals are not allowed outside of their carrier in the station if they are not a service animal – she could see the flicker in Harry’s eyes that he was not going to allow it.

“He will stay out of his crate,” he said sternly.

“Sir –”

“Would you like to be put in a crate?” His voice is deepens, a dull growl that makes Niall stiffen and her heart race; it’s the voice of an alpha that encourages Niall to stand up taller, Y/N’s veins sizzle and her abdomen twinkles and warms, and the security guard shrinks away, “He is living and breathing, has his shots, and in no way violent. He will not be put in a crate.”

The security guard nods, “Very well, Sir.”

The power he emanates and oozes is maddening, radiating throughout the entire station, from wall to wall, and it is so all-encompassing that Y/N feels swallowed whole by it. In the absolute best way possible. Over the phone and on the screen, she forgets, because he doesn’t use that voice with her but when he is around his pack, or if she’s ever gotten him in public and something is occurring that is not up to part with his standards, he uses it. She hates the way it makes her insides twist and thighs squeeze together; the response is instinctive and apart from her – she’s usually got such a handle on her arousal, but when it comes to Harry and when it comes to that voice, she doesn’t have a handle on anything.

Harry turns to them, a goofy smile painting his lips as Grandpa pants happily beside his face, a complete contrast to the man that had just been standing there before, “There is a great feast, awaiting you, my Love, we must go at once.”

. . .

It was a second homecoming in the span of two weeks when she steps onto the grounds and inside of the now-familiar foyer. Werewolves, she finds, do not take well when their assumed human leave for any amount of time and come back smelling of others. So she was passed around like dinner plate as they all welcomed her with hugs, Grandpa following suit, sniffing and licking all of them, and in their own way, they were all scenting them both. At least taking the edge off of the other wolves, is what Niall said, when he embraces her one last time as to not look like he didn’t care that she apparently “reeked”.

Dinner was set up already and her assigned spot besides Harry had already been set with food – all of which her favorite that she had tried since she’d been here. From vegetable shepherd’s pie with duchess potatoes to marmalade sponge pudding, about three separate slices of chocolate pie coated in rainbow sprinkles. The scent of the dining hall, in general, made her mouth water, and as Harry holds her chair out for her (as he always does), she tells him as such and he reaches out, stroking at her face tenderly.

“The chefs have done their best work for you, I’ve made sure of it.”

They eat till their stuffed full; Y/N feels as though her stomach had expanded three sizes and one more bite might make her pop. She tells them stories of her hometown, what she did in her absence, and how every single one of her friends just about gushed at the fact that she was with Harry. “They talked you up so much, I was almost jealous,” she told him as she cut into her slice of pie with the side of her fork, “Got irritated when they would be saying, ‘Oh he’s so hot’ or ‘God, look at the mouth on him!’ ‘cos like, no shit I know that – and they weren’t even bringing up how absolutely sweet you were. Didn’t want them objectifying you, s’why you didn’t video chat with any of ‘em.”

Harry had made a point to keep their fingers interlocked the rest of their time at dinner, squeezing every so often, and she revels in how much she loves the feel of his hands on her skin. It almost feels urgent that she gets him to his bedroom then, and from the way they lock eyes towards the end of dinner when they’ve come around to collect the plates, she knows Harry is aware. More than aware, actually, of how she’s feeling, because not only has his body grown to match it, but he can smell it. He once told her, that the smell of her arousal commands his attention almost as instantly as her heart starts to pump a little faster, the blood rushing to her groin.

(He told her this, because she had been trying to hide how needy she was for him when he was particularly busy. Though as they sat quietly in his office, him bent over papers and Y/N silently reading, he had slammed his palm against the desk in a clap that echoed through the room, dragging her attention to him, “How am I meant to focus, when you smell so enticing? Why have you not asked me to tend to you?”)

However, both of them were filled to the brim with food and feeling sluggish and slow, and so sleepy. Y/N couldn’t fathom doing any vigorous activity other than trying to find a suitable snuggling position in bed, and when she tells Harry as much he looks grateful. Though, just as soon as Y/N lies beside him after switching into her pajamas (made of the finest threads of silk, from Harry as a gift for Christmas, despite him feeling it was a baseless holiday and he feels he should be able to gift her things because he wants to and not out of obligation for the season), he drags her to him so closely that barely a slip of paper could fit in between. He dips his nose into her neck and rubs the tip against the skin of her throat, his arm encircling her waist so that she could barely even wiggle.

Soon, where his nose was, his lips meet in a soft press against her throat. She thinks at first he’s just being sweet – he liked neck kisses – but then he captures the skin, sucking it between his lips and pinching at it with his teeth. A gasp slides from her throat, her eyes opening up wider as she’s hit with a short gust of liveliness from where she had been slowing down for bed. The hand of his arm tucked around her, is tucked between her and that mattress as if to hold her even closer, as he works the skin over, only parting to lick the broad of his tongue around the tender skin.

When she cranes her neck to look at him, he pushes their mouths together with little warning or thought, a smear of lips that makes her body tingle. He slides his tongue in between her lips and curls it around her own, no hesitation, no playful flirtiness to it like he sometimes did, but full, needy strokes like this was all he had been thinking about. All that he could think about.

The hand that had been at her side, slides up to her cheek and cradles her face, aiding her in turning so that he could more adequately invade her mouth. He shifts so that he is halfway on top of her, his thighs astride her own, his cock throbbing to life in the small, tight pair of boxers he wore. They were the ones he chose when he couldn’t be arsed to go fetch his laundry. He’d long since outgrown them, but Y/N is often grateful that he kept them around, given they left very little to the imagination and the cotton – while worn – was soft (which, in filthier connotations, was very nice to grind against).

“Need you to smell like me,” he parts from her mouth but doesn’t stray far, speaking the words against her tongue as she flickers it against his plushy, swollen bottom lip, “Inside and out.”

______________________________________________________________________

Harry has always been an impassioned and fervent lover.

Ever since the first time, when she’d been thrown into a false heat, he was diligent and dominant, made her thighs quake, kissed her breathless, held her close, rocked into her hard, and made her melt in the best way possible. He was enthusiastic and always came in what felt like waves, filling her so full that she leaked of him. Sex with Harry had always felt like such a transcending experience, she came out feeling enlivened and refreshed – exhausted as all get out but like she could conquer the world if she really wanted to.

And right then was no different.

He slides his tongue against her in these slow, stroking movements, his hand cradling her jaw in his palm so gently. Harry had wiggled over so that the heavy, heated bulge that sat heavy between his thighs was hovering just over where she coveted for him. Their noses were pressed together, where his other hand is at her hip – the fabric of her shirt had skated up her side, so his fingers dug into the bare skin. It felt like touching white-hot fire against her, her hips rolling upward idly, and just barely grazing against him.

Harry’s so hard, she knows that he must be aching for it, and when he tucks his covered cock to the crotch of her panties, he rolls his hips in these deep, digging motions. Her veins fizzle and spark, her own fingers finding themselves burrowed in his curls, bucking back up against him with her toes curling. A wet, throaty gasp pops from her throat against his mouth as she curls her legs around his hips to keep him close, as he undulated his hips against her.

It’s so good and hot and sweaty; she’s full, sleepy, her eyes heavy but she feels so nice. She’s being satiated in every way she could think possible, as the fabric of her panties grew damper with each roll. He parts from her only to breathe but they’re so wrapped up in one another they’re just sucking in each other’s air. It’s humid, her skin beginning to perspire, and Harry was always so warm in general that it contributed to the growing heat, especially the one that pulsates throughout her entire being.

“Sweet little thing,” he murmurs, his lips stroking against her own with each word he spoke, and she pushes forward to capture them for a second but he parts, “I can smell how wet you are. Can practically taste it,” he pauses the ministration of his hips and laughs when she whines, their noses pushing together for a moment as he draws backward, “You want me to taste you?”

She nodded quickly and Harry hums, slipping down to her chest, displacing the soft material of the pajama top she wore and sliding her breast in the divet of his thumb and forefinger. He takes her nipple into his mouth, pursing his lips and suckling, and her back arches some to press closer to him. It felt so good. So incredibly, horribly good, and he was nowhere precise or meticulous; it was truly feral, wet and sloppy. When he switches, he drags the fabric further, only this time he tears the fabric down the middle and Y/N gasps loudly but he couldn’t be bothered. Instead, he drags her other nipple into his mouth and wettens it with his tongue, sucking and nipping at the bud as it pebbled beneath his attention.

Icy hot tendrils of arousal spike down her abdomen; she feels herself pulsate, feeling herself drip into her panties. His movements downward are brisk, but harsh suckled bites at the tender skin of her belly, his fingers digging into her panties and ripping them at the elastic. It snaps back against her, a sting that strips up to her hip bone but she has no time to mourn the black cotton because Harry’s burying his face into her cunt like he was starved. His tongue slips between her licks, deep grinds of the wet muscle from her hole to the swollen bud.

She’s throbbing, all the blood rushing to her clit as Harry demonstrates his desire wholeheartedly. Slurping and lapping, moving is head side to side and moaning; it’s so wet, like he’s drooling over her, sloppy and messy, these groans that rattle through her body and vibrate her bones. One hand slaps down beside her side, fingers dug into the sheets beside her, and the other tangling up in his hair, which was now even more unruly than when she had left. His eyes had long since fluttered shut like he was soaking in and enjoying every moment of tasting her. He always licked into her like it was his first and final time – like he had to commit it to memory in every way he could.

“Harry,” she moans breathlessly, and Harry hums against her as his response – her whole body quivers, “Fuck, you feel so – you feel so good.”

He hums again, removing his hand from where he was pressing on her thigh to keep her spread out for him, and her parts for just a moment so he can place two fingers at her entrance. Her mouth drops open soundlessly but her breath gets caught in her throat, as he sinks them in slow, looking down at it with a small smile before his eyes glitter up to hers, “You haven’t touched yourself since we were together last, hmm?”

Her cheeks warm at his inference, nodding her head – it was true; no matter how hard done by she felt, there was no use in her own hands anymore. When she tried, she was just left with an unyielding want for him, a distinct tugging at her chest that beckoned for his fingers, his cock, his tongue. To have his nose smushed up against her mound as he slurped and sucked and licked her dry. Harry had completely ruined her for anything bringing her an orgasm that wasn’t him.

And the bastard knew it! He knew it so well, from that stupidly cocky and beautiful smile that tilts at his lips, “You’re going to cum already.” He remarks thoughtfully, sighing, “So sensitive today, Pet.”

“Stop teasing me,” she whined, shuffling down, letting her hips thrust forward against his hand. He’s got two fingers inside of her, stroking against the soft, spongy bump that makes her thighs squeeze and tremble, her walls rhythmically throb around him as his palms pressed close to her clit, “How m’I supposed to hold off when you’re doing all that?”

Tutting his tongue lowers his palm and lets his other hand slide into his ministrations, using the pad of his thumb to gently guide her clit in smooth, round little circles that make the muscles in her abdomen visibly tense, “I’m not teasing.” He tells her, eyes trained on the wet little gash between her legs, “If I were teasing then I would just –” he slides his hands from her, leaving her empty, and cold, pushing his fingers into his mouth.

“No!” She gasps, wriggling to try and get closer to his fingers and his mouth again, “No, no, don’t –”

“Look how needy you are,” he hums, framing her pussy with his hands, his thumbs holding her open as her hole clenches and squeezes, “Begging me to claim you – make you smell like me all over.” He murmurs, leaning down and letting the very tip of his tongue dip inside of her, groaning against her, and sinking in further. She thinks if it were up to him, he would lick her completely dry.

Harry giggles against her as he swirls his tongue in a circle, before peeling back again, only this time he scales up her body, pushes a kiss to her mouth so she can taste herself on his tongue as he draws his boxers down. His cock slaps up against his abdomen soundly, stiff as a rock, with the aching, purpled head leaking precum in a rivulet down the side. The tip was shiny and her mouth waters instantaneously like she’s one of Pavlov’s dogs stuck in a Cathedral.

She would beckon that he let himself into her mouth, maybe rock his hips into with his hands cradling her jaw like she’d asked him to before, but he’s got a way about him when he isn’t in the mood for a blowie. The way his eyes are blown, his movements are gentle, yet quick, and the urgency in which he lines himself up with her are a few telltale signs, to say the least. He circles the head around her soaked lips, his pillowy mouth dropping open just a little, his brows furrowing in pleasure as he revels in the feeling.

He sinks into her slowly, groaning out loud that he muffled by latching his teeth around the juncture of her neck and shoulder (his favorite spot). Y/N struggles to keep from pushing him deeper, but she refrains from it, letting him ease in how he likes. Harry wants to feel every ridge, every curve, every wall; like he’s memorizing how she feels inside. She wonders if he closes his eyes, he can feel her – she can feel him when she focuses on it enough. Can feel the wide head stroking against her insides, nudging and bumping into all the spots that make her toes curl.

The first rock of his hips is just a small roll, where his hips are still tucked against her thighs, and it shifts her body upward against the sheets. This is when Y/N’s legs wrapped around his waist, holding him closely (“Are you trying to keep me in, Baby? Don’t have to worry about me pulling out – might just have to walk around with you snug on my cock.” He had once said, and she almost hates how much she would love it), her arms around his neck, so that their fronts are mashed together. Another pretty noise leaves his lips, this time as he unbeds his teeth from her skin, moving so that he was slipping their mouths together again. He slips his tongue between her lips, drinking in the heady moan that leaves him when he starts up a steady pace.

They’re so close that she can feel the muscles in his stomach tense and relax, moving beneath the skin as the filthy sounds of him fucking into her begin to feel the room. The thwack their bodies colliding that reverberates in her ear like a beat, his fingertips dug deep in her thigh while his other hand kept him held up as he pressed it against the headboard, working with the balance he’s deviating onto his knees.

Y/N would ride him if she could but she knew well enough that he needed this and she needed this. Needed the raw, primal energy of him fucking into deep, hard, alternating between slow and quick – it made the both of them feel better. She had missed him so desperately, to feel this close after being so far apart was like stumbling upon a hot spring in Antarctica. Their souls have tied and knotted, their hearts beating as one, her eyes water from the undulating pleasure of being loved and getting brought to a mind-shattering orgasm after weeks of nothing.

She reburies her hand in his hair, tangling her fingers up in the strands and she clenches around him when he lets out a low growl as she tugs, “Make you smell like me, Puppy,” he murmurs, almost more to himself than to her, “Bloody fucking bastards had their hands all over you – don’t they know you’re mine?” He cradles her face, running a thumb over her cheek and Y/N peers up into his soft, green irises with a blurry gaze. Harry doesn’t worry when she cries during sex – mostly because he can feel deep within his being when she’s actually upset, but partly because he just knows…he knows she gets so overwhelmed by the sensations of everything, she can’t help but tear up. “Don’t they know I’m your Alpha?”

“They know,” she feels the first telltale sign of her orgasm bristling at the edges, “You feel so good – you smell so good, they know, they know and if they don’t I’ll tell them myself. Show them all my bite marks.”

Harry groans, nodding and leaning forward to smear his mouth over hers, reaching down to her clit and rubbing tight little circles into it. Y/N’s thighs squeeze around him tightly, her orgasm ripples through her in hot waves of static, that sizzles through her body in electric waves. She moans against his mouth and he swallows the sound down, his own orgasm striking him, his knot slipping inside of her. He’s cumming in hot spurts that coat her walls, filling her up and despite his locking with her some still manage to slip out (she can feel it). Harry cumming in her is one of her favorite feelings, as he throbs and pulses, his hips twitch and buck, his grip on her – wherever it may be – tightens up and holds her close. He empties everything he’s got until she feels full and she revels in it.

As they both come down, Harry’s eyes flutter open with a dreamy smile that he gives her, and her heart leaps against her ribcage, “I missed you.” He tells her for at least the twentieth time that night, “With my whole being.”

She returns his smile, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, “I missed you more.”

His brows tilted, “There is no possible way,” he repositions them so that she was lying on her side and he was spooning her from behind, his arms wrapped back around her, one palm warm palm on her stomach. He dips his face into her throat, breathing in deep, and a low rumbled purr begins to rattle through him. To know that he’s comfortable soothes her even more than she had been, as her eyes began to flutter. The exhaustion that they had felt prior catches back up with them, she can tell as they melt into each other.

“Come with me next time,” she tells him, “Come meet my family.”

He pauses, raising his head and him shifting makes Y/N crane her neck to peek at him, “You want me to? Even though I am – I am –”

“Perfect?” Y/N finishes for him, not allowing him to get insecure about his nature, “Yes, I want you to, even though you’ll definitely show me up.”

And Harry breaks into a cheek splitting grin, moving forward to kiss her again, his hold on her even tighter than before.

#bLURB #OR #BLURBS #Anonymous #harry smut

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wordynerdygurl · 4 years

Text

Winter’s Warmth

Author’s Note: This is a little story for my Fairy Godmother, Suzz, who magically helped me get tickets to see Betrayal on Black Friday!!! It’s my first time in NYC and she’ll be with me when I see Tom on that stage. She’s an woodland witch, incredible friend, and like I said… magic. Also, the GIF is of Jonathan Pine but I love that coat!

Summary: Winter in the woods… how do you spend a day? Outside in the snowy silence, your God, Loki to keep you warm!

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader Warnings: Fluffy smut!

“Little one? I’m going to find you… and when I do… oh, you’ll wish that you hadn’t hidden from me.” Loki’s voice rang out menacingly through the trees. A scarlet cardinal, shaken by his presence, streaked from one branch to another drawing your eyes off of your pursuer.

You silently prayed Loki wasn’t able to hear the thump of your heart. If it was anywhere as loud as your panting then he would find you in no time. Plus, it was hard to hide the warmth of your breath in the snowy cold of November and you needed to stay out of sight.

Clinging to the tree trunk that is your refuge, you heard Loki. Closer now, false reasoning in his tone, "Dove… Be a good girl and come out of your hiding spot. I promise I’ll be… gentle.” With sneaking steps you crept around the pine that has been your shield. Swinging your gaze from side to side there’s no sign of Loki but somehow you know he is on to you all the same. Dropping low, you dash towards the nearest grove of silver birches eyes watchful for the dark God chasing you.

Sensing your movement, Loki’s head snaps towards you, watching as the black of your boot tucks into the thicket you’re now using for cover. He slinks, panther like, stalking you with an evil smirk splitting his face. Your tracks in the snow are so visible that they might as well be an arrow pointing out your location. Slowly, carefully, Loki rounds the copse of white skinned trees. “Gotcha!” Squealing, you take off in the opposite direction, sliding in the slippery slush. Your laugh echoes off the dusky woods as you dart left, looking for cover under the heavy, snow filled branches of an ancient evergreen. But it’s too late.

You feel Loki behind you. Facing him, you fake right, dodge left, but the Trickster anticipates your steps. Grabbing you from behind in a bear hug, Loki announces, “The day is mine, kitten. All that’s left is declaring me the winner!” “Never!” You twist away, intent on running again. Loki gains on you, determined steps pushing you back until you collide with the trunk of another forest giant.

Smirking, “Never? But Little One, I’ve beaten you at hide and seek. Now, you must pay me my due.” “You cheated. I don’t know how you did, but I know you did it.” Sticking out your bottom lip, that way Loki cherishes, you pout.

Shaking his head, Loki admonishes you, “Me? How dare you. Fair is fair, kitten.” Holding out his hand, Loki motions for you to hand over his prize.

“Fine.” You unzip your parka. Your nice, warm parka, and place it in Loki’s arms. Shivering a bit from the loss, you feel your nipples harden in the cold air, a thing that catches Loki’s eye. Licking his lips in want, he adds, “Your turn.” Closing your eyes tight you count, “One… Two… Three… Four… Five… Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, TEN! Ready or not, here I come!!”

He leaves no tracks in the snow. Damn his magic, you mentally curse. It made the fun one sided. But then you hear the small snap of a twig in the distance and you barrel in that direction.

A flash of green draws your attention. Turning that way you call out, “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”

There’s another crunch, closer to you now, so you slowly wind towards it. Eager to catch Loki, you circle around a set of saplings already sagging under the weight of snow and stop to listen. A low whistle had you spinning your head, a glimpse of Loki’s green jacket streaking past in the opposite direction, and you were in pursuit.

“Almost got me, pet…” Whisper soft, seemingly in your ear, you heard Loki’s voice. Backing against the trunk closest to you, you flattened out, ready to catch him. Bracing your arms around the rough bark, you inched towards the other side, smiling at your all but won victory.

“What the hell?” Loki grabs your wrist holding it tightly to the tree behind you. Before you register what’s going on he’s on you, his lithe body pressed to yours, pinning you in place. Eyes dilated from the thrill of the chase, a stray lock of raven hair flopping forward, Loki had never looked so daring… or more dangerous. “Loki. This is cheating.” Your breath hitching from the combined effects of exertion in the cold and the closeness of your competition. It’s infuriating the way your stomach flips at his nearness. Your body flushes in a pantie soaking spasm of arousal at Loki’s bold play. “No it isn’t. You win this round, Little One." Brushing his knuckles down your cheek, cupping your chin, "Congratulations.” His kiss is rushed, crashing your mouths together, tongues tangling.

Pushing away from you just enough, lusty eyes locked on yours, Loki unbuttons his own wool coat. The black Henley he’s wearing accentuates his lean frame and you lick your lips, tasting his kiss, eager for more. When he hangs his jacket on an obliging branch, the tiniest bit of Loki’s belly is exposed, a crescent moon of manliness. Your desire to taste that pale stripe is overwhelming.

Having thoroughly invaded your personal space, muttering lowly, “Come on, Loki… It’s freezing out here!”

"You wanted to play Strip Hide and Seek, little one. I’m merely complying with your wishes.” Refocused on you, Loki parts your legs with his thigh, his thick muscles grating against your center. It’s not enough to find relief, not yet, but the slow burn he’s started in you is catching fire.

Twinkling eyes, full of mischief, are as bright as his smile. “I know it’s cold. It makes your cheeks a lovely shade of pink.” Loki was close enough now that his heat was yours. A warm hand grazing up your neck, thumb brushing over your full bottom lip, tugging your mouth apart.

Loki licked into you then, forced to swallow your guttural groan, as your lips opened to his. Slower, smoother now, Loki tasted the roof of your mouth. The scent of snow, spearmint toothpaste and that electric flavor singular to him, made craving Loki your only thought. You fought against his grip ravenously desperate for more. He pulled away from you then, leaving you in that wanting state, starving for Loki’s carnal attention.

Tongue clicking, “Not so fast, darling.” Slowly, painfully slow, Loki undoes the buttons on your thick flannel shirt. His hands, hot in the day’s chill, cup your exposed breasts over your bra. Your exhaled moan fogs the air between you. Tugging the fabric of your bra down, your exposed nipples tighten painfully, the cold acting on your body instantly. To his credit, Loki lowers his mouth to one. The contrast of his fiery flicking tongue and the icy atmosphere making you squirm against the rough bark behind you.

“Damn… Loki!” You clench your fists in frustration. How lovely it would be to return the favor, give Loki a little bit of the pleasant pain he’s forcing on you. It’s just that every time you lift a hand he drags it back to your side, or worse, pins it over your head.

Kissing down your uncovered belly right to the edge of your button fly, Loki chuckles at your obvious excitement. Goosebumps rise on your naked skin, “I know it’s cold, pet… but I’m going to warm you up. Have no fear.”

Deftly, Loki opens your jeans. He’s desperate to get at your sweltering sex. Over the plaid cotton of your panties his fingers mold to your female form. Your pants, unfastened but not removed, help hold his hand to your heat. There’s no wiggle room, so when Loki presses the fabric into your crease, rubbing the heel of his palm across your straining bundle of nerves, you shiver.

“Is that because of the temperature? Or perhaps, it’s this?” Loki husks into your ear before nipping the lobe. You tilt your head back, gasping, and that’s the moment he glides one long digit into your core.

A wanton wail escapes you echoing across the forest floor. “Shh! We don’t want to scare the wildlife, darling!”

“Loki! Sorry… sorry. I’ll be quiet… just don’t stop? Please?” What are you saying? You don’t really know, it’s all mindless pleading babble. All you can focus on is him, the hot warmth of your arousal and the numbing cold of the air.

“As if I could stop, my spirited snow bunny." Without warning Loki adds a second finger to his digital assault. Stuttering, you curl towards him, engulfed in his mighty presence, stifling another sob.

Your body is acting on pure impulse. When Loki presses into you, probing deeper, your slick arrives in earnest. "Your wetter than ever, pet. I think you like this… do you? Tell me.”

Fluttering open, your heavily lidded, lust filled eyes linger on Loki’s blues. “How much I like your touch? A lot, Loki. Too much, Ok?”

Smirking at you, Loki lowers his head and kisses you. This time it’s hard and deep, sucking the air out of your lungs, weakening your already wobbling knees. Reaching for him, your hands free, you anchor yourself. One clings to Loki’s shoulder and the other wraps around the wrist of the hand giving you so much pleasure.

With a devilish drop in his tone, Loki rumbles, “And what would you have next my freezing fox?”

“All of you, Loki. I want it all.” Growling in feminine need denied, you rolled your hips, Loki’s dexterous fingers gripped tightly by your velvet walls.

It’s his turn to growl. Pulling from you with a grunt, lowering himself onto the plush bed of fallen pine needles at your feet, Loki takes your pants with him. “Your boots have to go.” It’s a command and you take two seconds to kick them off.

Loki basks in the sight of you. Jaunty winter cap, pom pom flopping to the side, makes your hair stick out at odd angles. A pout on your puffy lips as your cheeks turn rosy from the exposure makes Loki bite his own on impulse.

He swallows hard at the state of you. Top unbuttoned, breasts bare to the nippy climate, nipples puckered in exquisite pain. Underwear gone, tangled with your jeans, exposing the tender lower lips of your womanly body. Legs uncovered, feet cozy in thick, fuzzy socks.

Funnily, you aren’t cold. Faintly flushed with the excitement of Loki’s teasing after running around after him has left your body warmed over. Alight with arousing ardor you raise an eyebrow his direction, “Like what you see, Mischief maker?”

Stepping closer to you with a rueful chuckle, “Certainly, my Snow Queen." Nuzzling your cheek into his open palm, Loki cradles you, pulling your near naked body against his clothed one. The way he rubs against your heated skin is almost too much to bear.

Again Loki claims you with his mouth. Teasing you with his tongue, his kiss ferocious, deepening with each sigh that escapes you. Your hands find a home in his ebony locks, tugging him, guiding him, using him to your own ends.

Breaking your kiss with a small sigh he trails toasty pecks along your jaw. Loki bites down your neck, hovering over you, sandwiching you between his unbearable firmness and the unyielding strength of the trunk behind you. Whining in a whisper, "Why am I the only one undressed?”

“Because that’s what I want. You, shameless, exposed and mewling." Those big hands slide over the satin of your thighs, lifting your knees, wrapping you around his hips. Loki’s rigid length searches for a snug seat inside you blocked only by his dark denim second skin. The frazzling friction of fabric makes you dizzy. "Loki! Please…"

He doesn’t have to hold your squirming form. The bark, scoring scratches into your back, means you’re trapped. Instead of hanging onto your dusky hued demigod you reach for the solid spruce you’re being rocked into. Its natural presence grounding you, connecting you to the solid earth, even as Loki’s hard cock and hungry kisses send you soaring.

Pressing his hips to yours roughly, the button of his jeans flexing against your fleshy pearl, Loki rips his shirt off in one motion. He’s a vision, hard planes of smooth muscle, sparse raven chest hair curling southward. The moan you release is as involuntary as the clench of your belly.

"No more words."

Nodding, your eyes shut in ecstasy, as Loki palms your chilled breasts. While his hands knead the gentle flesh, Loki’s mouth scalds you with long licks over your throat, tiny, tasting nips of your neck and savagely sucking on your earlobe. His breath is ragged in your ear.

Loki, aroused beyond measure at your willing, responsive body, is growing impatient. Snow starts to drift in lazy circles around the large tree that is your shared shelter and the smell of fresh frost stills the air around you both. You could live here, tantalized and teased by Loki, in the silence of the snowy woods until springtime. But your eager god has other plans.

Snaking a hand between you, Loki pops the button of his pants, freeing himself with a lusty groan. You muffle a moan by biting your bottom lip, Loki’s searing steel bucking over your quivering core, purposefully pushing against your sensitive nub. Busying his hands with your abraded backside, shifting you a fraction higher, he positions you for his plunge. Loki sighs your name as he lodges his length inside you at last.

Snow swirls outside your arboretum. Under the branches of your pine there is solitude and near silence. Time is spinning slowly in the grey skied afternoon as you start to unravel around Loki’s smooth, deliberate thrusts.

You open your eyes skyward, deep green needles spreading above you, a few flakes floating between the branches. One lands on Loki’s naked shoulder, at the dip of his collarbone, so that’s where your lips latch onto him. Marking him. Yours.

He’s panting now. Those long, steady strokes stretching you, spreading your hips wider around Loki’s middle as your female form squeezes around your lover. Like a thin skim of ice on a frozen pond, your body is immobile under Loki’s driving desire, freezing and thawing with each thrust.

Snapping his hips into you, one hand stroking your full breast, the other dropping down to slide over your straining bud, Loki is determined to have your quiet completion. You smile, sex drunk, at the idea of his working so hard to get you off. Because he is doing all the work.

You’re stuck between a God and a hard place. Your pleasure forced on you with everyone of Loki’s piercing pushes. Syncing the rhythm of his cock with the circles on your clit, you felt the fragile ice of your orgasm snap, pulling you into the frigid waters of ecstasy. You lock your mouth to his as you silently scream your release.

Loki’s tongue tussles with yours, licking over your bottom lip, before sucking it between his teeth. When he spilled inside you, hot and hard, you tasted blood from his bite. Loki, kissing it away, rested his forehead to yours.

Swallowing hard, Loki smiles at you, satisfied. Your hair was tangled, twisted into the tree’s trunk, your snow cap was on the ground. One of your fuzzy socks had slipped off, leaving your right foot bare, in the fiery furnace of your fun time. Already you could feel the red welts rising on your bum and back.

You smirked at Loki. His pants puddled at his knees. Wearing only his boots and a smile you could imagine nothing sexier.

Gentler now, though still hushed, Loki held you. From under the boughs of your forest shelter you noticed a fresh pile of snow. The tranquility of the scene at odds with your racing heart.

Carefully Loki separated from you, earning a shudder due to the cool air on your exposed sex. After hiking up his own jeans, Loki gathers your clothes together. Expertly, he began setting you to rights, helping with your socks. Buttoning your shirt. Tying your boots.

When you’re bundled up again, snug in your downy jacket, you sigh. "I love it here.”

Laughing softly, Loki swings into his shirt, “I know. It’s so calm… so quiet”

Watching him slip back into his jacket, back into his softer self, you reach for his hand. “This… this is our tree.”

Lifting your knuckles for a glancing kiss, “Yes. Our own Yggdrasil.”

Looking up at Loki, “I like that.”

With a crunch, you both step into the blinding whiteness of a November snow, ducking under the heavy branches weighted with snow. “Alright, Loki. We’re tied, one to one. And now…” Loki’s eyebrows lift in anticipation, “Tag! you’re it!"

You shove him, hard. Recovering quickly, chasing after you with a barking laugh that rings out in the still of a snowy dusk, "Oh pet… you better run!”

Tags: @archy3001 @iamverity @jamielea81 @jessiejunebug @brokenthelovely @nonsensicalobsessions @thefallenbibliophilequote @mizfit2 @alexakeyloveloki

#loki x reader #loki smut #loki x you #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #mcu fic #mcu smut #loki

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angelsfalling16 · 4 years

Text

Into the Fire

A 20 First Kisses Fic

Read on ao3

Summary: Baz always said that this would end in flames, but Simon thought he was just being dramatic. When he gets a glimpse of what Baz dreams about, Simon sees that Baz truly believes it’s true, and he has to find a way to change his mind.

Word Count: 2640

A/N: This fic was inspired by the song Bruises by Lewis Capaldi, but the title is from the song Into the Fire by Thirteen Senses.

***

Simon

As I lie in bed, my eyes heavy with sleep, I fill the spell start to take effect, lulling me into a deep sleep.

It’s a spell that is supposed to allow you to see into someone else’s dreams while you’re sleeping. I’m hoping that it does as I want it to and allows me to jump into Baz’s dreams so that I can finally figure out what it is that he has been plotting.

I didn’t trust myself to cast the spell, so I bothered Penny until she agreed to cast it for me.

If only to prove to you that he isn’t plotting anything, she said before reminding me for the fifth time of all of the things that could go horribly wrong. You could get stuck in the dream. You could end up in someone else’s dream. You could never wake up. You could die in the dream and not come back. Baz could find out and kill you for going into his dream.

Aha! I interrupted. So, you agree that he wants to kill me.

That’s not what I said. But I waved her off and told her to say the spell.

I didn’t feel any different after it was cast, but that was fine because I wasn’t supposed to until I was falling asleep, so I hurried up the stairs in Mummer’s House and waited quite impatiently for Baz to fall asleep that I could sleep myself. I only hoped that our close proximity would ensure that it was his dream I ended up in.

I don’t know how long it takes between the time that I fall asleep and the time I find myself in Baz’s dream.

I find myself still in our room, but it’s different. All of the furniture is gone, and there is a fire blazing, filling up the room. It’s a couple of feet away from where I stand at the door.

At first, it seems as though the room is filled with flames, and it must mean that Baz is dreaming about setting the room on fire with me in it, killing me while I sleep.

After a few moments, though, it starts to become more apparent that the flames create a circle, the edges of it mere inches from the walls, only arching away from where I am still standing.

A harder look shows that there is a figure huddled in the middle of the flames. I can’t see any features from here, but it’s obvious who it is.

Baz.

The flames are a sight to behold.

You imagine what it would be like to watch something go up in flames, but you will never truly understand what it’s like until it happens to you.

The fire is bright swirls of red and orange that seem to be drawing me closer. The only odd thing about it is that it should be sweltering in here. My shirt should be stuck to my skin with sweat, and my throat and lungs should be filling with soot, choking me until I can’t breathe.

None of that is true. It’s quite the opposite actually. The air around me is cold, and I shiver as I take a step closer to the flames.

Is this what hell is like? Being surrounded by flames, yet unable to get warm?

I reach out, and the fire flairs up for a moment before settling back down again. I take a deep breath to steady myself, but I don’t pull back.

A distant voice in my head reminds me of Penny’s warnings, but I barely here them over the roar of the flames. It sounds like they’re calling to me, and I don’t want to fight it. I want to be a part of them, to see what would happen.

The flames reach out like hands, beckoning me closer, and I can’t resist the pull. I imagine letting it grab hold of me and pulling me in until it’s too late.

In fact, I let it do just that. I stretch my arm out farther, letting the flames lick at my skin and surround my arm with a vice-like grip. I don’t have time to panic before it yanks hard and pulls me in.

But rather than going up in flames, I am able to pass through it, unscathed.

It’s eerily quiet on this side of the fire. On the outside, I could hear its threatening roars, but in here, there is only silence.

The boy in the center of the flames doesn’t notice me, but it is definitely Baz.

“Baz?” I whisper, taking a careful step towards where he sits on the floor, head pressed to his knees, which his arms are wrapped around like he’s holding on for dear life.

It takes a moment for him to lift his head, and when he does, there are tears tracking down his face, which he doesn’t even attempt to try to hide from me.

“What are you doing here?”

His voice sounds almost childlike compare to the way he usually speaks to me. He sounds uncertain and frightened.

“I—.” I’m not sure how to respond to that.

I can’t tell him that I hopped into his dream. I only wanted to see if I could figure out what he’s been plotting, but I never could have imagined seeing something like this. He must be having a nightmare.

Rather than responding to him, I take another step forward but stop when he flinches.

“Stay away from me.” His voice shakes when he speaks, but his tone is harsh.

“Baz,” I say quietly. “I just want to help you.”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t. You want to kill me.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Because you hate me. And because I’m a m-monster.” His voice breaks on the last word, and a fresh wave of tears overtakes him.

I wish that there was something I could do. I hate to see him in pain like this.

I know that we don’t get along and that I’m constantly trying to catch him in the midst of his evil acts, but I never wanted to end up like this: scared and alone.

“You’re not a monster,” I whisper.

He scoffs, turning a familiar glare on me, unsoftened by his sobs.

“You of all people should know that that’s not true. For three years, you have been going around telling anyone who would listen that I’m a vampire.”

“That doesn’t make you a monster.”

“Then, what does it make me?”

I don’t know, I realize. I see Baz as my enemy, have since the day we met, but I have never once thought of him as a monster.

He’s not a monster. He’s just a boy.

And that’s what I tell him.

“You’re a boy,” I say, moving towards him slowly, afraid that I’ll scare him off even though he has nowhere to go. “You’re my roommate. The person who drives me mad on a daily basis. You are a lot of things, but a monster is not one of them.”

He turns away from me, and I can tell that he doesn’t believe me. I have to find a way to make him believe.

I walk the last few steps to get to him before kneeling in front of him.

He still doesn’t look at me.

“Baz,” I say quietly. “You are not a monster.”

His hands clench into fists before relaxing again, and the flames flare up brighter around us.

They must be caused by his mood. If I can get him to calm down or distract him, they fire might die out.

I have to try something. Anything.

“Baz,” I say again.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Talking isn’t going to get us anywhere. I have to try something else and fast, because the circle feels like it is tightening around us.

I reach out to him, placing my hand against his cheek and lightly pushing it until he’s facing me.

He opens his mouth, probably to protest or tell me to get lost, but before he can say anything, I lean forward and press my lips against his.

I start out soft, then kiss him more firmly when he doesn’t pull away.

It takes a moment – a moment where I feel like I’ve made the wrong decision and have only succeeded in making things worse – but then he starts to kiss me back, pushing back against me with a quiet desperation.

Too soon, he pulls away from me, and when his hand reaches for my neck, I begin to panic, thinking that he plans to throttle me. But then his fingers wrap around the chain around my neck, and he yanks hard, snapping it. He grabs my cross and tosses it across the room. It passes through the flames that are slowly beginning to recede.

The corners of his mouth turn up in a facsimile of a smile. Then, he kisses me.

When I open my eyes again, I’m back in my bed.

The flames have disappeared, and the room seems to be the way it was before I fell asleep.

I turn to look at Baz’s bed and am relieved that he appears to be sleeping soundly. I hope that his nightmare ended when I left.

I feel like I haven’t gotten any sleep, but I don’t think I can go back to sleep now. I quietly check the time and find that it’s reaching the time that I would normally get up to get ready for the day. I must have been asleep longer than I thought.

I let myself lie in bed for a while longer before I decide that I can’t keep imagining that kiss any longer.

It felt so real, and for some reason, I want to try it again. Even though that would be really stupid.

I just want to feel Baz’s lips against mine again and know that he is safe. To let him know that he is safe with me and that I don’t think he’s a monster.

I shake the thoughts from my head and slip quietly out of bed, grabbing some clothes in the dark before heading into the en suite.

I start to get dressed, and I realize that I forgot to grab a clean shirt. Rather than put the other one back on, I decide that it will be okay to just step back out into the room to get one since Baz is still sleeping.

Only, when I step out of the en suite, the lights in our room are all on, and Baz is making his bed.

He turns at the noise, and when he catches sight of me, his eyes narrow.

“You look like crap,” he sneers.

I ignore him and rush over to my wardrobe to grab a shirt, hastily putting it on. I miss one of the buttons and end up having to redo it, all while feeling the heat of Baz’s gaze on me.

I can’t tell if he remembers the dream, and if he does, he probably chalked it up to an even worse nightmare than usual, one where he was forced to kiss me.

My hands shake as I run a hair through my hair, hoping to somewhat tame it but not expecting any real results.

“Where’s your cross?” Baz asks suddenly.

I reach for my neck, but I can already feel that it’s gone.

“I-I’m not sure.” I know that it had it on last night, but I don’t remember taking it off.

I think back to the dream to when Baz tore it off of me. When he tossed it, it landed in front of his wardrobe.

Obviously, the dream wasn’t real, but maybe because I was…

I step around Baz to get a better look, and sure enough, my cross lies discarded on the floor, right where it landed in his dream.

I move to pick it up, and Baz watches me.

“What is it doing over there?” He asks, a hint of surprise coloring his tone.

“You threw it there,” I murmur, leaning down to pick it up.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you did. In your dream.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t remember it?” I ask, peering up at him. I’m not sure which answer I’m hoping for.

“Remember what?”

“Your dream.”

“What are you on about, Snow?”

I swallow hard, knowing that he’ll likely kill me when he finds out, but there’s no going back now.

“I went into your dream last night, and you pulled off my cross.” I don’t tell him why he did that. It’s probably best to keep the details to minimum.

“Why were you in my dream?” He hisses.

“I-I wanted to know what you were plotting.”

“And you thought my dreams would tell you that?”

“I don’t know,” I say in a small voice, only now realizing that it was an absurd idea. “I thought that maybe even in your dreams, you would be thinking up ways to kill me.”

“That is still a horrible breach of privacy.”

He lunges for me, and I back into the wall.

“Anathema!” I shout, just in time. Though, by the look on his face, I probably should have let him hit me. That way, he would be unable to hurt me again.

“Tell me what you saw,” Baz says quietly, not backing away from me.

“You, surrounded by flames. And y-you were crying. But then I—.” I cut myself off. I can’t tell him that I kissed him. He might change his mind and hit me anyway.

“You what?” He asks. Or really demands.

“I k-kissed you.” I brace myself for his fist. I don’t expect what he does next, though.

He laughs. He actually laughs at that.

It’s a harsh mocking laugh that I’ve heard a thousand times, but this time, it digs into me.

“What’s so funny?” I growl, not seeing any humor in this situation.

“First, you think that I would be plotting in my dream. Then, you think that you can kiss me like I’m Sleeping Beauty and a kiss will awaken me.”

“It’s not like you were complaining,” I grumble.

“It was a dream,” he shouts, laughing harder.

The sound rings throughout the room, making me feel hot with anger and making the edges go a little hazy.

I need to calm down, but I can’t. Not when he keeps laughing.

He’s lying. That kiss was not just a dream. It was real. It felt real.

I want to hit him but can’t for the same reason he couldn’t hit me.

I need to do something, though.

So, because I’m an idiot and apparently have a death wish, I take the step forward that will close the distance between us and kiss him, wiping the smirk off his face.

I expect him to push me off immediately, but after a moment where he freezes, he begins to relax and kisses me back.

The kiss is at once familiar and like something wholly new.

The memory of the dream-kiss is there in my head, but it pales in comparison to the real thing.

Baz’s lips are soft against mine, and he’s surprisingly gentle as he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer. I tilt my head to kiss him deeper, and he sighs against my lips, a soft little sound that I hope to hear again sometime.

When we pull back for a moment to catch our breath, I realize that I’m still holding the cross in my hand, so I quickly toss it across the room before kissing him again.

This is what we should have been doing all alone. We should have been kissing instead of fighting because this is so much better.

#snowbaz #snowbaz fic #simon snow #tyrannus basilton grimm pitch #baz pitch #carry on #wayward son #rainbow rowell #snowbaz fanfiction #my writing #20fk #i'm weirdly proud of this fic #tho the summary sounds a lot better than what I actually wrote #but i don't want to change it #i also could have done a better job of editing #but i hate editing my own writing #and hate asking people to beta #so i'm sorry for any mistakes!

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