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ashintheairlikesnow · 3 years

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Enough, Always: Izzy

CW: Newly adult child of whumper and whumpee, whumper in prison, references to romantic/intimate whump, referenced child emotional abuse, verbal abuse, brief gendered appearance insults with single line of brief homophobia at end, plus final crowning moment of badass for Izzy.

Izzy’s mother Savannah Marcoset has been locked in prison on a life sentence without parole for eleven years for abducting Izzy’s father Jax, keeping him captive, and forcing him into a horrifying facsimile of domestic bliss - and Izzy last saw her in person fourteen years ago, when her father escaped with her and her infant brother in one desperate final bid for freedom.

Newly eighteen and feeling the need for some kind of closure in one of the foundational aspects of her identity, Izzy decides to visit America - and pay a visit to her incarcerated mother.

During the visit, she learns that Savvie Marcoset, in the end, couldn’t change - but Izzy fucking Gallagher did.

For the first time with her mother, Izzy finds her voice.

Jax Gallagher (referenced) belongs to @comfy-whumpee and is used with permission.

---

“Is this how you dress now?” Her mother’s voice is sharp-edged and still familiar, even fourteen years since Izzy last spoke to her face to face. It’s funny, how she barely remembered it, but as soon as she hears it, her heart starts to race, and it’s the feeling of her heart beating wings inside her chest. It’s the way other people might remember the sense of a warm hand to forehead, checking for illness, or laughter, or praise.

It’s a voice like a fever, a rush of chill down her spine and through her arms and thighs. Is it familiar from real memories, or because Izzy has heard it in interviews and documentaries and recordings, during her nights spent researching the woman who makes up half her genetics and absolutely none of her life?

She almost gets up and leaves right then.

Almost.

But Izzy Gallagher fought for this trip, had declared herself able and willing to do this, had more importantly convinced her father she needed to do this. She can’t just give up because it didn’t start well.

Even if he wouldn’t judge her, or at least he wouldn’t show it, Izzy Gallagher sets her shoulders and declares herself her father’s stubborn strong daughter, and not her mother’s weak and frightened one.

She steels herself against the instinctive uncertainty, the rush of anxious shouldn’t have done this, shouldn’t have tried. Instead, she gives her mother a faint smile as a plastic-and-metal chair is pulled out and she sits down across the small round table, just enough space there isn’t any danger of accidental - or, hopefully, purposeful - touch.

The walls are beige, the top of the table is a wood so pale it might as well be. There are bars on the window that lets in a pale and faded winter sun. There are some others, nearby, people younger or older than she sitting at other round tables, seeing mothers, wives, aunts, sisters. Izzy wonders if all of them are scared, or if none of them are. If it’s only her who has to remember how to breathe, in her mother’s presence.

She can do this. She told him she could do this.

“Um.” Izzy looks down at herself - just a band shirt and faded jeans worn with holes, her still-knobby knees showing through, the boots a birthday gift from Nana she’d thought would help her crunch through the grayish snow in the parking lot, a light hooded sweater over it all - and then up again. Her mother’s eyes are still wide-set in her face, which is less rounded as time has passed.

Those eyes are still overbright, and very blue.

It’s been so long since Savannah Marcoset saw her eldest child, and Izzy can’t ever remember having been the focus of her mother’s all-consuming interest before. It feels like standing in the eye of a storm, where everything is still but the air carries weight, electricity, and threat.

“Mostly,” Izzy says, finally. “Mostly this is how I dress. I mean, I couldn’t wear gray, could I? They wouldn’t let me leave.” She tries to sound lighthearted, then winces. Bad joke.

Her mother, in what looks almost like flat gray scrubs, with a high-cut V-neck and a waist without a drawstring, smiles back, apparently unoffended. There’s a shift - subtle as a cat moving onto its back paws in grass, eyes focused on a nearby bird. Izzy has always been sensitive to changes in the tension of a room, and her own eyes - hazel leaning towards brown, her father’s eyes through and through - move to a nearby guard, reassuring herself with his presence.

Savannah Marcoset is firmly locked in prison for life, with handcuffs and ankle-cuffs that ensure she can’t make herself a threat here, and still the soft nearly-buzzed hair at the back of Izzy’s neck stands up, and she feels like she is being inspected, a bit of bacteria in some scientist’s microscope.

“I had hoped for a little more color, is all,” Her mother says, tilting her head to the side, giving an impish little smile. “As you can imagine, there isn’t exactly a surplus of art here. You look lovely, Isabella.”

Izzy swallows against a lump in her throat. Absurdly, she feels outnumbered, one-to-one. “I, yeah. Thanks.” She tries for a responding smile, maybe half-successful at it. “You have-... you have art classes here, I read.”

“You read up on me.” Her mother’s expression changes a little, opens up. She sits up a little straighter, then, and there’s a flash of still-white teeth in her smile, now. “You know about me. I would have thought you wouldn’t be allowed to know a thing.”

“I’m, um.” Izzy’s hands fold in her lap, and she rubs over the shredded white threads along a hole that’s worn over one thigh, the softness of a patch of fabric she’d sewn herself beneath. “I’m eighteen now, so. I get to pick what I know, more or less.”

“You’re eighteen?” Her mother’s surprise is genuine, and she glances sideways at the clock as though it will become a calendar, back to Izzy. “When did that happen?”

Why that question hurts, she doesn’t know - but it does. It’s not like Savannah Marcoset has anything to do here but remember, and yet-... she didn’t.

“About three weeks ago, actually,” Izzy says, and hears herself sounding embarrassed, like she should have not grown up at all, if that wasn’t what Savvie wanted, or expected. Like the turn of the Earth is her fault, something she did on purpose just to spite Savvie by stealing time.

“Oh. Well.” Savvie folds her hands with a soft rattle as the cuffs knock into the shiny, sealed tabletop. She leans over, and Izzy can see the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, now, the hint of them around her lips. Her jawline seems stronger, more carved, she is a statue version of a parent that Izzy remembers as a kind of terrifying whirlwind. Her hair is less overwhelming, the deep brown graying at the temples, pulled back simply against the nape of her neck. It isn’t so long, as it once was. Savvie pauses, waits for Izzy to look her in the eyes. “Happy birthday, Isabella.”

The name is wrong - it’s always been wrong - but Izzy smiles, anyway. “Thanks. Eighteen is a bit weird, it doesn’t feel any different than seventeen did, but-”

“My no-contact orders were signed here, in the US,” Savvie says, interrupting her, thinking this through. “So you, what, had to be eighteen to come see me? Have you wanted to before?” She leans forward, and Izzy leans back, feeling her back press into the chair behind her, letting her right hand drop to rub at the seam of her jeans on the outside of one thigh. Her heart beats harder. “Did he keep you from seeing me?”

He.

“No,” Izzy says, and her voice is thin at first, but she clears her throat and the second try is stronger. “No, he didn’t. He would have, if I’d have wanted to, before. I just didn’t ‘til now. We’re, um-... we’re doing an American holiday, more or less.”

Shit. She shouldn’t have said-

“‘We’?” Savvie’s expression brightens, with real interest now. Her eyes pin Izzy like a butterfly to a display case, jam tiny needles through her wings, hold her fast. “He’s here? Jax is here?”

“He’s not,” Izzy lies, smooth as silk, without hesitating. She’d planned for this question, prepared for this. She’d sat up til two in the morning prepping for the ways her mother might try to talk about her father, and more importantly, the ways that Izzy wouldn’t give her what she wanted. She’d just been hoping to hide it better for longer. “He didn’t come with m-me here. It’s just me, Mom, and some friends.”

Savvie clicks her tongue against her teeth. “He didn’t think I was too dangerous, for you to speak to?”

She can’t help her slight, sardonic laugh at that. “You’re in prison, Mom.” It feels weird, to hear herself say Mom out loud, as though that was ever what Savvie had been. She was four the last time she said Mommy to Savvie’s face, and even then it had been an apology Izzy can barely remember now, her own sense of a small voice saying, I’m sorry, Mommy, I won’t do it anymore, but she can’t remember what she’d done to get in trouble.

Breathe, probably.

“You’re in prison,” She repeats, and her heartbeat settles a little, reassuring herself with the words spoken out loud, made real. “You’re the least dangerous you’ve ever been, to us.”

Savvie sits back, less pleased now. “I was never dangerous. Did he tell you I was dangerous to you? I never was. That was a lie he made up, so they would help take you and your brother away from me. I only ever wanted us to be a family, Isabella.”

“Mom.” Izzy’s voice wavers, and Savvie might smile a little at the sound, but if she does, it’s because she sees the wrong reason for the waver, or… maybe she enjoys the annoyance, the anger, as much as she would fear. “We both know that’s not true, none of that is true.”

“I wanted a family,” Savvie says, in a low voice, not quite a whisper. Regretful, mournful. She trails a fingernail along the top of the table, and Izzy tenses at the scrape of it. Barely audible but it grates on her nerves nonetheless. She swallows, presses her lips together, tries not to watch it move.

Fails.

Savvie’s nails aren’t painted - in Izzy’s blurry remaining memories of her, Savvie’s nails are always painted colors - but they shine, perfectly filed edges moving, catching a hint of light.

“Your dad,” Savvie says, in that same mournful, grieving tone, “didn’t want you at all. Did you know that? He never did. He hated the very idea of you, and your brother. He thinks I don't know that he cried over the concept of you. No… you were never wanted by anyone but me, until he realized he could steal you to hurt me. He could always be cold that way. He took you and hoped I would-”

“Stop.” Izzy struggles to say it. Even now, with therapy a constant foundation of her life and a stronger one than her mother’s terrifying rage, it’s hard to make herself say the word. She has to fight to make it audible, but it’s still clearly surprising - Savvie goes silent, watching her with those unnerving wide blue eyes. “Please-... stop. I, I know how he felt. You can’t-... you can’t rewrite history, Mom. I know… I know how it was, or I know enough.”

“It’s the truth, Isabella.” Her mother’s expression is so earnestly sincere. Izzy licks at her lips, suddenly dry and chapped, and thinks that if there were a lie-detector test, her mother would pass it, stone-cold. No way to tell she didn’t believe her own words. She might, actually, believe the story as it leaves her mouth, believe it so utterly she can lie without even knowing she’s doing it. “That’s all I ever wanted to do, is have the chance to tell you the truth. But he got that no-contact order and made sure you would only ever know how he saw it.” Savvie smiles with wistful regret, every inch the mother mourning her lost children.

Izzy knows better.

Jamie, her little brother, fifteen and with no memory of his mother at all, might fall for this. She's a stranger to him. But Izzy remembers the hours locked alone in the dark, and the sound of her father screaming in pain.

She swallows trying not to think too much about that memory. “It’s not about-... there aren’t two sides, Mom. This isn't like any other divorce. You held him prisoner.” She’s falling into a trap, and she can feel it but she can’t stop herself. Her mother hasn’t tried to so much as reach for her - it wouldn’t be allowed, the guard would step forward if she did - but Izzy still feels like she has been pinned, claws sliding into her shoulders and a heavy weight holding her to her seat. A bird that didn’t see the threat in time to take flight. "You-... held us all-"

“Well, now he’s made sure I’m a prisoner, hasn’t he? Must be nice, to pin all your problems on the Big Bad Witch in prison who can no longer defend herself. But, of course, everything is always my fault.” Savvie shrugs as she cuts Izzy off, almost idly.

"Mom, he has-..." Izzy feels unmoored. Drifting, like this can't be real, this conversation. This can't be real. "You abducted him, you-"

"Everyone has problems, sweetie." Savvie's head tilts a little more, eyes moving over Izzy’s face with an awful, palpable weight. “Don't try to make it a competition." Something gentles, then. The hard planes of her mother's face soften. "You know, you look like him.”

Izzy warms, a little, at that. She shouldn't and she knows it, but still, she does. She smiles, slightly lopsided, and raises one hand to touch the silver rings in the shell of her left ear, two of them right next to each other, one for Jax and one for her brother Jamie. “I hope so,” she admits. “I’ve always wanted to.”

The moment of gentleness in her mother’s expression slips away, replaced by a brittle frigid chill that washes over Izzy, a wave that breaks against her.

Oh, no. I cared more about him than her. Even now, fourteen years on, she still shivers in an old fear.

“He is handsome,” Savvie says, tapping her fingernails again, scraping them along the table. The sound is starting to grate on Izzy’s nerves. “He always was, even in the earliest days. He never knew it, I don’t think. I tried to tell him.”

He didn’t want to hear it from you.

“He hears it enough now,” Izzy says, and her heart goes cold with dread as she realizes she’s nearly given away something much, much worse to say than accidentally admitting her dad came on the trip with her.

Damn it, Izzy, don't let her know about Kieran.

Savvie doesn’t seem to notice the clue. She just keeps tapping. “Do you play music, Isabella? I wondered if either of you would have talent, in the end.”

It’s an abrupt change of subject, and Izzy doesn’t see it for the trap it is.

“I play-... um. I can play some things,” Izzy hedges, shifting uncomfortably from the simple truth that she can play almost anything, if she hears it a couple of times, remembers note-for-note the songs on the radio or the forbidden ones she still hides in playlists buried in playlists, the soft strains of violin that draw her but she would never admit to. “I’m-... in a band, actually.”

Savvie’s eyes are back on hers, then, that unnerving total focus. “What do you play in that band? Is it a real band, or just noise?”

Izzy rubs at the back of her neck, flushing in embarrassment. “Um. I guess it’s about fifty-fifty noise and real. I play bass guitar, actually.”

She’d read somewhere that bass guitar was easy, and figured if she played that, no one would realize the music was inherent in her, demanding expression. She could say she wanted to be in the band because of her father, who had been in one once upon a time, too. She wouldn’t have to admit that the music didn’t come from Jax, but from Savvie’s blood in her veins. She could pretend, with the bass guitar, to be worse at it than she really was without ruining the songs.

Her mother snorts, derisive. “Anyone can play that,” She says, waving one hand in dismissal - but the other has to come with it, and it’s a reminder that, no matter how Izzy feels in the moment, there is no real danger here. “That hardly counts. Can you play a real instrument?”

“It is a real instrument.”

“Hardly.” Savvie looks disappointed, and it’s weird - she hasn’t seen her face-to-face since she was four, and she hasn’t said a word to her in that time, and still… the disappointment hurts, a little. “You weren’t allowed to do music, were you? He forbade you, because of me.”

“No, he absolutely didn’t.” It’s Izzy’s turn to lean forward, her hands closing into fists in her lap now, an old habit from childhood she’s mostly broken but it comes back, now, as her irritation rises in eternal defense of Jax. “He’s always supported whatever I wanted to do-”

“Because he doesn’t care enough to make sure you’re doing something worthwhile.” Her mother’s sigh cracks open a dark door inside her, it’s familiar even to her fading memories. It’s a sigh she knows from birth. Before Izzy can respond again, she changes the subject, deft as a dancer. “What are you doing for school, then? Are you going to go to college?”

Izzy blinks, thrown off track. “Um. Yes, I do plan on it, I’ll be going to university next autumn-”

“You’ve got the accent, too. Guess they’ve painted over everything they didn’t like, didn’t they?”

“Wh-what?” Her heart stops as her mother’s voice is sharp again. Her fists tighten, pressing down into her thighs until they nearly ache. “What’d you-”

“You look like him, dress like the dime-store version of him - honestly, Isabella, look at you, you look… grimy. You even talk like him. What is this, trying to look like the daughter he might have actually wanted? Is that it?”

Izzy swallows, sitting back again, thumping into the back of the chair. Someone nearby is crying, soft, muffled sobs. Someone else is whispering, in vicious intensity, in fury. The guards are impassive. There’s no sign they even hear Savvie speaking at all. “It’s just who I am-”

“No, it isn’t. I saw your name, Isabella Gallagher. You were born a Marcoset, but he was happy when he changed it, wasn’t he?” Savvie’s eyes won’t let her look away. She feels completely captured, the center of Savannah Marcoset’s world, the most terrifying place on Earth, somewhere Izzy has never once been. “I asked you a question, Isabella. He was happy to have you change your name, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She’s not sure why she answers. The anxious shivering inside of her is stronger than it should be. Her voice is a whisper, a rush of air with only a hint of sound. “But it was-... my idea-”

“I’m sure he let you think that. I feel sorry for you, you know. I really do. He must care for James so much more than he does you, don’t you think? My beautiful son wasn’t old enough to even speak to me, but you… you’re a reminder, aren’t you? Oh…" Savvie's lips purse, in a sort of smug smile. "Oh, you are. God, what torture it must be for him to be around you."

She’s supposed to be stupid. Izzy has watched all the documentaries that mention the case, she read an awful unauthorized true crime book she found in a thrift shop once that just had a little teensy chapter on Savvie buried between other femme fatales. She’s done her research, to understand the woman she was going to meet as best she could.

Savannah Marcoset is supposed to be… well, stupid.

Izzy wasn’t prepared for cunning not being the same thing as smart. And she didn’t think through what eleven years in prison, with almost nothing to do but think, and no chance of leaving ever for the rest of her life, might do to hone her mother’s ability to wound. That Savvie might have taken a blunt instrument and whittled it into a blade.

“I-I’m not-”

“You are.” Savvie hums, and the tapping of her nails is going to drive Izzy up the fucking wall. “Even just being alive, you are. And your hair, well…” Savvie’s eyes go up to Izzy’s hair, the same deep chocolate brown as Savannah’s own, a shock of curly brown that falls over her forehead and against one side, nearly shaved on the other side and along the back. “You can cut it, but it’s still my hair. You walk around a living reminder of what he stole from me, just to hurt me, what he didn’t even want. You were never wanted, Isabella. That’s why your birth is part of my crimes, don’t you think? You and James both. You’re a crime I committed against him, right?”

“A crime-” Her voice cracks, but if she sounds uncertain, it’s only her nerves, her inability to stand up for herself sometimes. It’s not fear. She is not afraid of this woman, and she doesn’t believe her.

Okay, a little afraid.

But she doesn’t believe her, she doesn’t. She knows better, because she knows how hard her father has worked to build the life around her, the one she’s living now. She knows how many times he has held her after nightmares - hers and his both. She knows he could have left her and James behind, but he didn’t.

Every chance he had to set them down, he chose to hold them instead.

Most of all, she knows the way her father has carefully, day by day and year by year, taught her that love is not the same thing as danger.

Her shoulders square, and her back straightens. “You keep saying that, b-but… there’s a difference between not wanting someone who will be hurt to, to be there to be hurt, and caring about someone. There’s-... you can’t see the difference, is all, but I can. I know-” She swallows. “I know how it looks like when he loves someone, and you don’t.”

“Hm.” Savvie’s fascination flags, a little, at that. Her stare is unnerving, unblinking, but Izzy feels the anger coming off of her, hidden and still plain as day. “Changing the subject, I see. So much of you is just a walking reminder. You’re just a tragedy on two legs, aren’t you, Isabella?”

Part of Izzy thinks wryly, how long ago did you think of that and how long have you been waiting for someone to say it to? but the rest of her can’t find the breath to say it out loud. “You can’t make my life worse than it is, Mom. Not anymore. I didn’t come h-here for this, I came here for-”

I came here to see if you could see me, even now, or only a reflection of what you can’t have. I guess I have my answer.

Savvie hasn’t stopped talking. “What of you is even yourself, Isabella? Are you just… trying not to be me? Do you not want him to think of me?” Her smile widens. Flash of teeth. For a second, just one brief second, Izzy sees fangs. “Oh, sweetie. You can’t ever change that, no matter what you do. I was important. I ruined his life, remember? There was a whole court case about it. Two, really. It’s why I’m here. Because I’m the Big Bad Wolf, or so I’m told.” She snorts. “You should have worn red, Isabella. Or something.”

“Or something,” Izzy whispers, looking down at her hands, at her knuckles gone white, her fists. The round clock is ticking on the wall, and it’s only an hour. She told herself she could last for an hour, when she walked in here. She told herself she could make it, and she would.

“Isabella-”

“You didn’t, by the way.” Where the words come from, she’s not sure. But they come out sure, and strong. "You didn't ruin his life. It’s better, it’s good.”

“Oh? Is it?” Savvie feigns disinterest, but she’s so bright and sparkling, pulling Izzy in. “What about it is so good, Isabella? What does my husband do, in his whole new life without me? What can he do? Show me how I’m wrong.” Savvie’s presence is heavy, it takes up too much space, feels like Izzy is pressed against the wall, suffocating. How did they live like this, surrounded by her on all sides, all the time? How had Jax ever survived so long alone with her?

Her voice trembles more than she wants it to when she speaks. “What?”

“You say I’m wrong - about him, about you.” Savvie is a shark, and Izzy is blood in the water. She seems bigger, suddenly, or maybe Izzy is smaller. Younger. Has too much hair for her age and a frilly dress she hates and she has to be good, and so quiet, and do exactly what she is told or her father will be hurt, and it will be her fault, because it’s always, always her fault-

Savvie’s voice is not quite a whisper. “Tell me, Isabella, all these things I am so wrong about. Even if you believe his side of the story, he’s all I thought about, the only thing that mattered, right? So I know him better than anyone else, don’t I? And you’re mine. I know everything about you, without even trying."

“You don’t-... know anything about me.” Izzy knows she’s getting quieter, and knows as she retreats, her mother presses forward, thrilled to play a game she hasn’t played in… in eleven years, more or less. “And you don’t know a single thing about him.”

“I know every fucking scar on his body.” Izzy’s stomach flips, but Savvie is leaning forward again, and the blue of her eyes is overtaking everything else around them. Plain beige walls and plain table and plain bars over plain windows can’t compete. The gray of everyone’s prison outfits, her own black-and-slightly-less-black, none of it is a good enough distraction, enough to tear her away. “That’s what I know. You’re sweet, Isabella, and it’s lovely of you to try and be the dutiful little daughter all over again. But I know things you don’t, I always have. I know I still do. He hasn’t told you half of it, and he won’t.”

It’s a strike, a feint and then a jab, and if this were a real fight Izzy would be ready for it, but words are so much harder to defend against. “I was a little kid, I didn’t need to know it, I didn’t want to. I don’t need to know-”

“You had colic, for a month or so.” Savvie cuts her off, raising her voice a little. One of the guards behind her shifts, might look at them from behind the dark of his glasses at the volume. “When you were little. Cried like a banshee, day and night, no reason. I could hear you in my practice room. Still think you know everything?”

“This isn’t-... I don’t know why you’re telling me this."

“I had my responsibilities, sweetie. I mean, I was a new mother, but I was still a person. I didn’t need to change all that much, really. Jax spent half his time trying to keep me away from you, your own mother, and the other half trying to shut you up.”

“You could be-... he said you were up-upset, sometimes, um, you c-could be-”

“Violent? Never. I was tired, maybe - we both were. Jax has never slept well."

Because of you.

"Oh, here we go. One of my favorites of his little insults… does he say I was unstable? I’m sure I’ve heard it all. Probably in court, no less, he very much enjoyed getting on stage to put on his little show. Taking the jury around and around in circles acting like I never did anything kind for you.” Her eyes move back to Izzy’s hair, shaking her head slightly, one lip curling upward in a sneer. “I certainly would have been kind enough not to let you make yourself look like that.”

“Mom-”

“Shut up, Isabella. I am talking to you, and I am not done yet.”

Izzy’s mouth snaps shut, teeth clicking together, her nails digging into her palms. Her eyes flicker to the guard, trying to catch him, but no, she’s going to last the whole hour, she promised herself she could do it, she promised.

Besides, it's… sort of harder than she thought, to look away when Savvie is talking.

“We ended up getting my, well, Isaac’s servant Hannah to help with you. Because of the colic. He asked for her, really. I was prepared to bring in someone else, but Jax had his demands, and when he really wanted something, well.” She shrugs, calmly, casually. She is talking about a reality that never existed, moving all the pieces around until the past suits her and not the court documents. Until her story is the one circling Izzy’s head, and not the story she knows has to actually be true. “How could I refuse?”

“He asked-... but when he wanted-”

“What did I just say?”

“Mom, I need to-”

“Let. Me. Finish.”

“N-No, I don’t want to hear this-”

“You know what he started to do? Once we had Hannah around, a few days a week? When the steward began to come as well? Do you know what the number one change your father made to his life was, once that happened?”

“Mom, please. Please don’t do this.” Her voice is nearly gone, and Savvie leaps.

“He started getting the hell away from you.” Savvie throws her head back and laughs, loud enough to make people look over at them. Izzy wonders, face burning in embarrassment, what they see. Do they know who Savvie is? Is she really famous, here, like Izzy thinks she is? Does everyone know they’re watching Savannah Marcoset push her daughter under the water and watch her struggle to breathe?

But… the words hurt. He got the hell away from you. “He did-... he did what?”

“Fucking escaped you. He thinks I didn’t notice. Everyone always thinks I don’t notice, didn’t know things. Your father - my Jax - thinks I’m a fucking idiot, I get that now. But I saw that, him handing you off to Hannah or the steward and get as far away from you as he could without-” Savvie lifts her hands to tap at the side of her neck with a slight, almost dreamy smile. “Everyone says I’m the bad mom, the bad parent, but I’m not the only one who shoved you aside every chance I got.” Savvie hums, almost idly. She’s playing, Izzy thinks dimly. Cat with a ball of yarn. Somehow the words hurt a little less when the realization comes. “That’s the thing, though, isn’t it, Bella-”

“Izzy,” She whispers, but her mother doesn’t hear her, or doesn’t care.

“You know you are, fundamentally, his fucking nightmare. Your father sat up there before judge and jury and told everyone that I only had you so I could control him just a little bit more. Did you see that, in the documentaries you watched? Did you hear about it? Did he tell you that you only existed to be a weapon, that you're just a pretty little tool in my toolbox?"

She doesn’t want to answer any of those questions, and keeps her eyes down, focuses on the knuckles of her hands. How they sit over her lap so nicely, if you ignore that they are fists. Her face still burns bright red, and her eyes are hot with tears she blinks rapidly away before her mother can see them fall.

“He’ll say I didn’t love you.” Savvie’s expression is chilled, disdainful. “But your father had whole days he could barely stand to touch you. He had days he couldn’t even look at you. You ran around after him begging for, what, for someone to pat you on the head and say you were good just as you are? No wonder he couldn’t give you that.”

“He did give me that, over and over-... how you’re saying it isn’t how it happened, you’re not remembering what actually happened, Mom-”

“I think, deep down, you know it’s because no matter what you do with your hair, or your clothes, he is always going to look at you and see me. That’s the fear, isn’t it? That you're me, or you will be. That’s why you’re here, why you flew all the way across the fucking Atlantic to pay Mommy a visit. You wanted to see how much of you is me. How much of me is in you. How much of a fuck he can even give, in the end, for my daughter." She laughs again, and Izzy flinches. "He must hate you, deep down, and part of you knows it. Am I right?”

Izzy can’t answer at first, and her mother clicks her tongue, falsely sympathetic.

“Oh, sweetie. It’s okay. I can’t do a fucking thing to you, or him, or anyone now. But I’m glad you came to see me. I'm glad to see that you're just the same, easy to break as ever. You'll end up with exactly the love you deserve, Bella. Won't you?"

Izzy's eyes are blurred, struggling to focus. What rises in her isn’t fear, or doubt, or even sadness. It’s anger, the same simmering slow burn that that comes whenever someone tries to push her and her father down, when they have to force their way back up. "N-no-"

"Yes. You'll get what you were born for, one way or another. Don't worry, sweetie. You're not like me at all. You're just… a mirror, and the reflection isn't even a good one." Savvie laughs, cold and cruel, delighting in the pain on her daughter's face. "Here I was worried you’d be angry, but I don’t think you can be. Is that too much like me, too?”

“No, I’m… I get a-angry sometimes, I can… it’s not like that-”

“Not like what? Speak up, Bella. Stop mumbling, you were always a mumbler. Most children shout, you know.”

“Most children don’t get locked in closets if they do.” Izzy is still whispering at the start, but the words come more strongly as she works her way through them, eyelashes heavy with tears she tries to pretend don’t exist. “Most-... most kids can throw a fit without their dad getting hurt, and most kids get to leave the h-house sometimes, and if I-... if he couldn’t-... it was because of you, not because of m-me.”

“Tell yourself that.”

“I do. I do tell myself that. I only have to tell myself that because of you, and you-... you just wanted to be his whole life and the only thing in it and you’re n-not, and this isn’t even about hurting me, is it? All of this-... telling me about, about him-...”

She can remember it, can’t she? Faint traces remain, of asking for Jax and being told by her Aunt Hannah that he needed some time, of asking and having her Papa Stewart give her a hug instead, of asking and asking and then learning not to ask…

“You aren’t telling me this to hurt me. You’re telling me this to hurt him.” Izzy raises her eyes, aware of the bright red blotches on her cheeks, aware of the tear tracks, aware of her hands in fists and the zinging anger in her that simmers underneath her fear. “You want me to take this out into the-... into the world, back to Dad, and tell him what you said because it’ll hurt him to hear that you said it, and you’ve been in prison for eleven years and missed most of my life and nearly all of my little brother’s - who you haven’t asked me a single fucking question about, by the w-way - and all you can think about, even now, is the… the one who got away from you.”

The balance shifts, some of the glittering brightness fades from Savvie’s eyes, the fascinated sadism seeps out of her expression. “Isabella-”

“Izzy. I’m called Izzy. And you know that, because you’ve known it ever since the trial. And maybe I was-... was hard, for him, when I was a baby and I can’t fix that or make it any better, it’s all already happened and I’ve had to learn not to feel guilty about it since I was four years old, but of the two of you, only one has ever bothered to give any solitary fucks about who I am! I came here to see if you could-... if you could change, or rethink, or even just, just feel something about me, and all you can feel is the parts of me that are him!”

“Isabella-”

“You shut up! You do it, now, and you listen to what I have to say! I was sc-scared, all the time, because of you, not him. He was the one who came to let me out, and he was the one who held me when I was scared, and even if he didn’t want to be near me, he still tried! You don’t-... you don’t get to change the story and make it not what it was, Mom, I know what it was.”

“You know what he told you it was.”

“No. I know what it actually really was. There is no other alternative world where you’re the good guy, or better than he was! Maybe I was a hard baby to l-love, because of whose baby I am, and I-I carry that forever… that I'm not the kid he would've wanted to have... but he tried, and if he didn’t love me at first, at least he tried until he learned how! But… but I know he did. I know he loved me, and Jamie, so much that he did the scariest thing he could imagine by running with us and having to hope we could make it to Grandpa before you could catch us again. I think you don’t know him at all, and you’re going to die in prison still not knowing, and that’s why you’re doing this now. It is killing you that you could lock us up and put that thing on his neck and keep us trapped and you still don’t know any of us at all.”

“I made every single scar-”

“Scars aren’t who someone is! They’re just marks of you being shitty to him! They don’t say who he is now, or how his mind works, or how fucking brilliant he is at being a dad! You know some marks on his skin, but I know who he is when he’s safe, and strong, and happy, and you will never know that man. You won’t ever know what he looks like really in love, and I do, and it is absolutely nothing like he looked around you!"

Her eyes flare. “Bella, what are you talking about, in love? With who? Who would-”

“I came here to see if-... if any part of me really is you, and it’s not, because all the parts of me that matter are from him and Grandpa and Papa Stewart and Nana and my aunties and none of the important bits are yours at all! No one loves you, because you can’t love anyone, but I can, and he can, and Jamie can. You are never ever going to see him again… and I’m going to walk out that door and give him a fucking hug."

She shoves her chair back, making a metallic screech along the floor that makes her mother wince, adrenaline pumping through her veins. It’s a kind of fight, this, she’d been pinned to the mat and fought her way back to standing in the end.

“I am proud of him, for all he’s done to make an even better life for Jamie and me, and I am proud of him for finding Kieran, after you - and Kie’s a better bonus dad by a million years than you ever were a mom - and… and he’s proud of me. He’s proud of the person I am and not just the person he thought I was supposed to be. That’s more important than, than anything, is that he and I-... we can be proud of each other, and you can’t be proud of anything but yourself.”

Savvie looks startled, now, struggling to regain the surety she’d felt before. She can’t stand or the guard will come, and so she stays seated, and looks up at Izzy, no taller than her father but wiry still. “I think we’re done here,” Savvie says coldly. “You’re clearly too swept up in your father to be worth talking to.”

“Maybe,” Izzy shrugs, shoves her hands in her hoodie pockets, finds the comfortable weight of her phone, switched off for during the visit like the guards had asked. Wonders if her dad, sitting in the rental in the parking lot, has started pacing yet. If he’s watching the clock, waiting for her text to come through, bouncing his foot like he does sometimes. If he’s pretending to read or texting Kieran or if he’s just staring at the squat building that stretches wide on either side, waiting for her to come out. “Did I disappoint you, then? How I am, just me?”

“Oh, sweetie.” Savvie shakes her head, ruefully. Her expression shifts into mournfulness, just a few seconds too late for it to be convincing. “I had high hopes for you. But he ruined you, in the end. Absolutely ruined you.”

“That’s… that’s probably good. I don’t think I’ll come back, Mom. But I might-... I might write a letter.” Why she throws the offer out, she doesn’t know, only… only some part of her will always, always want to keep hoping that this will change.

Savvie’s eyebrows raise. “I might answer it. Can you fix your hair, if you ever come again? And wear something… nicer than this?”

Izzy blinks, rolling her eyes back to look up at her hairline, down to look at her shirt and jeans, and then back to her mother. “Why? Because it’s shorter than you want it to be? Because you don’t like my clothes?”

“Because you look like a lesbian, Isabella.”

Izzy blinks, too thrown to find the words at first, and then she shrugs, rubbing her thumb along the side of her phone in her pocket, her palms aching where her nails had dug in so deeply, over very old scars. She can’t quite help her smile. “Oh. Well, fuck, Mom, my girlfriend will be shocked when she hears you feel that way.”

“Your what?”

Izzy turns and walks away, past the other tables with crying or hurting people, or people who look like they want very badly to hug and can’t, and she doesn’t look back.

The door clangs open and slams shut behind her, the hallway stretching out ahead, and she walks down two sets of stairs and around a corner before she sees the big heavy doors that lead out into the world, the huge parking lot warmed by sunlight with no trees to break the glare of it. She gives the guards manning the checkpoint a little wave of one hand, pushing the door open, and moves into the glaring, brilliant light, turning to face the corner where her father has been waiting by the rental.

He’s definitely been pacing.

She smiles and heads towards him, giving him a big wave. He’s moving towards her before her hand is even fully in the air.

If her mother’s words are designed to shatter, her father’s love - starting with his desperate attempts to protect her, his whispered be brave for me, Izzy as they boarded a train, written across every single day of her life - is a foundation too strong to be broken.

Her mother, Izzy thinks, can’t understand love like that.

But Izzy does.

And it's more than enough.

Always.

---

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @moose-teeth @orchidscript @sableflynn @pretty-face-breaker @raigash @vickytokio @eatyourdamnpears

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hashtagdex · 3 years

Note

aaaaa you reblogged the thing!!! could you write misc 7. “If I die, I’m haunting you first.” 💕

thank you so much for sending me one, jo!! i hope you like this <3

There is a reason Dex gets his hair cut once a month.

if it gets too long, it brushes his ears in a way he’s always painfully aware of and he can’t help but fidget with it if his hands aren’t busy. It’s a terrible distraction that he really can’t afford this close to finals. And yet, here he fucking is.

He’s tugging at it again, at the back of his head this time, when Nursey speaks up. “Dude, are you okay?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.

Dex drops his hand onto his class notes and looks up at him. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m just so busy studying that I don’t have time to get my haircut while the shop is open, but it’s growing out and getting so fucking annoying.” He tugs at his hair again once, like that will prove his point to Nursey.

Nursey looks at him for a moment, hand still curled around his pen as he scans Dex’s head, then shrugs. “I can cut your hair for you if you want,” he offers simply, “I saw clippers in the upstairs bathroom. How hard can it be?”

Dex hesitates. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Nursey, but Nursey is no professional, obviously, and he’s clumsy on a good day. His hair is important to him, Dex can admit that to himself, and the last thing he needs is to look like an absolute clown when he has places to be. And especially around Nursey.

But the hair is tickling his ears and it’s driving him insane, so he sighs and nods. “That would be great actually.”

_/ \_

Dex feels oddly exposed, sitting shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror on the stool they dragged upstairs from the kitchen, as Nursey clicks on the clipper’s guard. He knows he doesn’t need to. Nursey sees this—and more—almost every day in the dressing room, but this is more… intimate. There is no boisterous team around, no bro code to adhere to. It’s just them and whatever has been blooming between them for the past few months.

“Ready?” Nursey asks and holds up the clippers in a much more menacing way than Dex thinks he really needs to. At least Nursey put on his glasses for this. As much as it makes Dex’s heart flutter to see him in them, it also calms his nerves to know he’s taking this seriously.

“If I die, I’m haunting you first,” Dex warns half-heartedly. He sees Nursey’s little eye roll in the mirror.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Nursey replies as turns the clippers on and gets started.

Dex finds it easy to get lost in the low buzz. Nursey’s free hand comes up to tilt his head where he needs it every now and then, and Dex lets his eyes fall shut. He hasn’t been this relaxed since before he started studying for finals two weeks ago and he’s going to soak up every second of this.

He only manages to drag his eyes back open once Nursey declares he’s done and turns the clippers off. It does look pretty good. Almost as if he’d actually managed to make it to the barber shop during opening hours instead of getting an impromptu haircut at home from Nursey at nine p.m. in their bathroom.

“Nice,” Dex tells him. He catches Nursey’s soft smile in the mirror and it goes straight to his heart.

Without warning, Nursey starts to dust stray little hairs off Dex’s neck and naked shoulders. His hands are warm and his touch is so light Dex can’t fight the goosebumps. Not that he really wants to. Nursey’s hands on skin feel good. Really good. Great, even.

Nursey doesn’t stop there, though. He pushes his hands up into Dex’s freshly buzzed hair, tracing along his sides and the back of his head. Dex can’t help but grin, probably embarrassingly lovestruck, when Nursey just keeps at it, going back and forth gently. The goosebumps make their way up Dex’s neck and, after noticing Nursey’s soft expression in the mirror, Dex allows himself to close his eyes again.

God knows when he gets to have this again, if ever, so he’s going to enjoy whatever Nursey’s willing to give him tonight.

Dex is sinking back into that relaxed state from earlier as Nursey leaves the shaved parts he worked on behind and threads his fingers through the longer parts on top of Dex’s head. His brain turns off for the moment and Dex is blissful and calm, finals and hockey and life outside this bathroom all but forgotten.

“You like that?” Nursey whispers eventually, voice quiet and soft with an audible smile.

Dex hums, low and deep, and doesn’t turn his brain back on. “Like you.”

Nursey’s hand stills right where it is at the crown of his head as Dex’s brain catches up with his mouth. Before he can start to panic and try to backpedal, though, Nursey asks, just as quiet as before but a lot more hopeful, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Dex confirms, breathing a sigh of relief.

Then Nursey is pressing an unbearably soft kiss into the side of Dex’s neck and his heart lurches into his throat. “Me too,” Nursey says against his skin before he leaves another kiss on top of Dex’s shoulder, the smile clear as day.

Nursey’s hand falls from his head as Dex turns around on his stool and finally opens his eyes. The sight of Nursey there, with his soft smile and softer eyes behind smudgy glasses, is almost too much. He’s so beautiful Dex can hardly breathe.

“Thank you,” Dex says into the space between them as he reaches up to cup Nursey’s cheek. He strokes it once, a simple back and forth of his thumb, and then pulls Nursey down into a kiss that’s long overdue.

#nurseydex #dexnursey #derek nurse #william poindexter #omgcheckplease #remember when you said. Then What.#here's the answer for you jo :~)#i hope it's satisfying #this ficlet is brought to you by the fact that i just needed to write one cutting the other's hair #and we all know nursey won't let a white boy near his hair #and also i got my own undercut touched up two days ago so <3 #terribly sorry it took a week tho... i am a snail #im working on the other prompts as we speak!!!!#marybolkonskys #my writing

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thecleverdame · 4 years

Text

Control and Release - 32

Series Masterlist

TEDTalk!Sam x Reader

Summary: After the rest of the staff is caught in a snowstorm, you find yourself acting as a personal assistant to the notorious Sam Winchester. As the arrangement becomes more defined, you and Sam begin a sexual adventure with dangerous consequences.

Warnings: Dom/Sub, humiliation, embarrassment, sexual objectification, mutual masturbation, spanking, cum play, fingering, anal play, orgasm control, nipple clamps, dub-con, breath play.

Beta: @ilikaicalie

Parts 1-41 are currently available on Patreon for a monthly pledge of $2.50. This includes early access to all my stories, including Patreon exclusive content. >> CLICK HERE <<

Without fail, Sam used to wake up early and go to the gym. He’d be up before the crack of dawn, sweating out all his frustrations and pushing himself harder than he probably should. That was before. Things have changed. It’s no longer as easy for him to jump out of bed and start the day. Life has shifted. It didn’t happen all at once, it was little by little, his obsession with work waning as you become a focal point in his life.

It’s before five. The streets are quiet, most of the world still asleep as Sam lies on his side watching you. He’s been awake for an hour, silently watching your back rise and fall. It’s dark save a tiny bit of ambient light filtering through the curtains, but it’s enough.

This isn’t a new thing. Lately, he wakes up early and uses these moments to think, to wrap his head around the constant chaos that’s his life. And his favorite early morning pastime is watching you sleep.

This morning you’re belly down on the bed, a hand shoved underneath your pillow. The side of your breast is soft and round and warm. He thinks about how warm and soft your skin is. He gets lost in the middle of meetings wishing he could touch you, feel you pressed against him.

The blanket is pulled just over your ass, leaving your naked back exposed. There’s a subtle rise and fall as you breathe deep and even, lost somewhere in dreamland. You’re perfect and you don’t have a clue.

He stares at the curve of your hip, that slope of your waist that he likes to grab on to. You’ve told him you’re self-conscious of that part of your body but he can’t imagine why. Everything you fuss over he finds flawless. You were beautiful when he first met you, it’s part of why he pursued you. But the more he gets to know you,the more breathtaking you become. Every day he notices some new little area he wants to touch and kiss and watch while he fucks you.

Time in London is coming to an end. It’s been eight weeks of nonstop work but he’s confident in the expansion of his business. Toni will run things here, and she’s good at her job. He’ll be able to go home without worries about the day to day.

He should feel satisfied, but he finds himself unsettled.

In these quiet moments, he thinks about himself. Who he is, the man he’s become. He’s honest. He knows returning home will mean a shift. No more sharing a hotel room, back to the grind of the work week. He’s enjoyed this time with you, become accustomed to your constant presence in his bed and in his life. He doesn’t want to go back to how it was. You with the shitty apartment that you insist on staying in. Weeknights alone.

He should just tell you what he’s feeling but he doesn’t even like to admit it to himself.

You shift, cheek rubbing over the pillow, mouth falling open as you settle back in. Jesus, he’s done for and he knows it. This is as good as life will ever get. He’s fully aware that he doesn’t deserve you, doesn’t deserve to be this happy. And he doesn’t trust it. In his experience, the next misfortune is always waiting right around the corner. Adversity is always hiding in the shadows, one moment away from total catastrophe. He’s balanced on a house of cards hoping a stiff breeze doesn’t blow him over.

“Sam,” you whisper, eyes blinking open and closing just as quickly. You’re still asleep. This is Sam’s favorite.

“Hmmm?” he hums, stroking a hand up your back, grazing over a shoulder blade.

“I like you so much,” you mumble, stretching out long. You’re dreaming and he wonders what goes on your head. Your inner thoughts are the thing he wants most but will never have access to.

He grins, watching your face fall lax again as you slip back into the deep.

“I like you so much too.”

He fell back asleep without realizing it and when he wakes up for the second time he’s not sure where he is. There’s an overwhelming pleasurable sensation and when his eyes pop open he realizes why.

The covers are pulled back and you’re on your knees between his thighs with his cock in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he rasps, hands going to the crown of your head. Your mouth is unbelievable, hot and wet, always perfect around his cock. And the way you suck him like you’re getting off on it is enough to make his balls go tight.

“Good morning.” You smile as your mouth pops off his dick. Wet lips pulled back over pearly teeth as you grin like the Cheshire cat.

“Shit,” he chuckles, forcing himself awake as he looks down at you. You caress him, palm curled around him and stroking over the head of his cock and back down to the root. Slow and steady as you dip back down and take the tip into your mouth.

When he’s in charge you’re gagging on him, mouth drooling, eyes watering with him shoved into the back of your throat. But there’s something just as appealing about this, you happily sucking his cock, tonguing around the crown before taking him into the back of your mouth.

Your other hand cups his balls and he thinks he might blow his load right here and now. You’ve gotten good at reading his body. You’ve been studying him the same as he’s been memorizing you.

“Get up here,” he huffs, tugging at your hair. You respond immediately, almost always obedient to his orders.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you knee your way up, straddling his waist. You lean down to kiss him, a wet, happy kiss that makes his belly flip. He simultaneously loves and hates the way it feels to be this affected by anyone.

“I thought I’d wake you up.” Grinning against his mouth your pussy rubs along the underside of his cock where it’s curled up against his stomach. You rub yourself on him up and down, letting the crown rub over your clit until he’s coated in your slick. “God, you’re so hard.”

“I woke up with my dick in your mouth.” He gives your ass a squeeze, both hands cupping your backside as you slide up and down his length. Jesus, he could watch this all day. The way you take his cock between your folds, teasing the head only to slide back for another pass.

He’s close already, he normally holds out longer than this but you’ve caught him in a vulnerable state.

“Shit, I’m gonna cum.” His teeth click together, head pressing back into the pillow. He opens his eyes just in time to watch the first spurt of cum shoot over his belly. You make a wonderful little sound, grabbing his cock and quickly sinking down on him as he finishes his orgasm inside your pussy.

“I like it better inside me,” you quip, raising yourself up and down on his cock, fucking him through it as he jerks and bucks from the release.

You kill him when you say things like that. He’s the one with the filthy mouth but sometimes you whisper things that make his cheeks red.

“You want me to fuck you?” he offers, sitting up, holding your hips in place. You smile, both hands threading through the hair at the back of his head.

“You’re still hard?”

“That was some blowjob.” You giggle as he flips you onto your back, mouth falling open, thighs squeezing around his hips as he slides back inside in a slow thrust.

“Better hurry, you’re going to be late.”

7:30am

He has a budget review meeting that’s dull as dirt despite Mick’s colorful personality. It’s his money and reputation on the line. There was a time when that alone was enough to keep him hanging on every word but not anymore.

8:30am

Pepper delays his skype call with a financier in Tokyo to deal with a minor crisis back home in Boston. He’s been away too long and apparently, people have forgotten what the expectations are. There’s been a mix up with documents for a legal case in New York. A courier handed off the wrong folder. They’re looking at a delay and possible reprimand for compromising a client’s personal data. There’s also a leak in the men’s bathroom on the eighth floor that requires a total overhaul. That means a construction crew and several dozen employees temporarily relocated.

10:47am

Sam’s forty-seven minutes late for the weekly wrap up led by Toni and Mick. True to her style, she didn’t wait for him. She’s in the middle of dressing down a guy in middle management when he enters and all eyes shift to him. He glances at Toni and then around the room at the sea of semi-familiar faces before he lands on you.

There’s not enough room, so chairs have been added against the sidewalls. You’re sitting behind Cole, notepad open. God, he’s happy you're here. Not that he’ll be able to talk to you, but just being in the same room is something. You flash him a smile that’s a far cry from every other somber face in the room. There are sixty W & S employees who are scared shitless of him and then your wonderful face lights up when you see him.

He returns a hint of a smile but it’s enough acknowledgment for you go back to your notes. Millie who’s sitting beside you looks away the second he makes eye contact with her.

12:30pm

Pepper has sushi delivered and you arrive at his office right on time. He’s got a video conference with the board. You silently take a seat on the other side of his desk, eating and watching him get into over market fluctuations.

Twenty minutes later he’s off to his next appointment. He gives your hand a squeeze as you turn to leave.

“Sorry we didn't have a chance to talk.”

“It’s okay,” you smile giving him a wink. “I know how busy you are.”

Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss his cheek. It’s soft and quick and far too sweet for anything he deserves. You could make a big deal out of this if you wanted to. You could demand more of his time and God help him, he’d find a way to make it work because he won’t lose you. But you never make him choose. Occasionally you swoop in with a gentle reminder to attend to your relationship, but other than that you respect his dedication to the business. He’s forever grateful for that.

Pepper comes in with his jacket, ready to whisk him away to a waiting car.

“I love you,” you whisper at the shell of his ear, so quiet he scarcely hears it.

He’ll never get used to anyone saying those words to him, least of all you.

He sits through his meeting getting lost in his own thoughts. He wonders if his mother used to whisper those three little words to him when she laid him in his crib. If he tries hard he thinks maybe his dad said it once or twice.

Sam had successfully categorized himself as unloveable long ago. He’s an asshole. His reputation hinges on his ability to be level headed and utterly ruthless. Love was something for men who weren’t permanently damaged.

And yet here he is.

When he gets back to the office, his schedule is jam-packed. He never used to mind it, running from one meeting to the next. He got a high from it, an adrenaline rush from the breakneck pace. Work filled every waking moment and that was how he preferred it. He didn’t have to think about anything else, every waking moment was filled with strategies and budgets and concepts ripe for the picking. He was all in.

Today he finds himself between meetings, locked in a private bathroom on the second floor just to have five minutes of peace. He’s already late for a follow up with Mick and there’s a laundry list of information he should be reviewing. But instead, he’s sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at the wall.

Maybe he’s getting old. That must be it. Time waits for no man and age is finally catching up to him. He needs to talk to his nutritionist and get back to a normal routine. Watching you sleep is an indulgence that he’ll have to let go of. He needs sleep and the gym. He needs self-control.

He doesn’t get back to the hotel room until just after eight. He wants to stay in, he’d prefer nothing more than to order room service and lay in bed but that’s not his life.

“Hey!” you call out from the bathroom. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks,” he glances around the room at several dresses hanging from various perches. “Are you going out?”

“Yeah, I was gonna tell you.” You wander into the main room in a bra and panties. Sam swallows hard. “I can’t decide what to wear. What do you think?”

“What’s the occasion?” he asks.

“Mick invited us all to this bar for drinks. It’s a going-away thing. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.” He needs to tell you. “In fact, I have plans as well. Toni and I are going to dinner. One final review before I leave.”

“Oh,” you return quietly.

You’re facing the bed and he watches your whole back go tense.

“I can’t avoid these kind of situations simply because I have a past with her.”

“I never ask you to.” You turn toward him, eyes meeting. You’re pissed. Or maybe it’s just jealousy.

“I know and I appreciate that.”

“She thinks she’s better than me. She looks down on me as if I’m some little girl. A comical annoyance that she’d prefer to squash if she could. She makes me feel small.”

“I don’t want anyone to make you feel that way.” He’s not sure what to say. Does he reassure you? He’s not sure if you’re looking for a response or simply sharing your feelings. “Will Cole be there?”

“I’m sure he will. Along with twenty other people.”

“Then don’t wear the black dress, it’s too much for a work function. The red one is better.”

He loves the way you look in that little black dress. It’s not revealing but it hugs every curve and there’s something about the length of it, the amount of thigh it shows. He can’t stomach the thought of Cole sizing you up in his favorite dress.

“I’ll probably be out late,” you explain, pulling the red dress on and turning around for him to zip you up. “See you later.”

Sam’s half done with his meal listening to Toni talk at length about her last vacation in the south of France. He might be there in body, but his mind is elsewhere.

He’s been thinking about Jess lately. She used to only pop up on quiet, lonely nights. Blurry images of her face flashing before she slipped away. But this last year she’s been in the forefront of his mind.

For years he could hardly remember her face. The details faded with time and she was like a distant memory. A story from somewhere else’s past. But over the last few months she’s flooded back to him.

He can remember the way she smelled. Sweet and fruity, a body wash she used to buy that gave her skin this faint scent of strawberries. He can taste the chocolate chip cookies, feel them in his hand, still warm from the oven.

Their apartment was a small one-bedroom with creaky wood floors and low water pressure, but nothing ever felt more like home. Her stuff was everywhere, she bought her entire life with her, a household of belongings. He brought a duffel bag of clothes and a single family photo.

She gave Sam little pep talks. Anytime he expressed even a hint of self-doubt she’d crawl into his lap and tell him a hundred reasons why he was wonderful and capable and meant for greatness.

The memory shifts and he can feel her skin. He used to stay up late studying, crawling into bed well after midnight. She’d peel her pajamas off, kissing him as he did the same. That soft strawberry skin was like silk under his hands, every inch of her pressed against every inch of him. She’d whisper in his ear when they fucked. Sometimes sweet, sometimes filthy. But it was always about love; the way she loved his touch, his cock, his heart.

And then, just as life was better than he ever could have hoped for, Jess was dead.

All that warmth and love, the home, the life, it was gone like it never existed.

“Are you even listening to me?” Toni sits back in her chair, crossing her arms.

“No,” Sam admits, setting the cloth napkin on the table next to his plate. “Today was brutal. Just going over it in my head. Pulling a game plan together.”

“Well, I’m ready for a nightcap.” She raises her arm to get the attention of the server. “Why don’t we go back to your place and review the projections one last time. Get a headstart on tomorrow.”

“Sure.” He nods. “Sounds good.

Sam and Toni head back to his room, and he pours himself a glass of water, opening his laptop and waiting for her to finish in the bathroom. She’s been in there for ten minutes and he’s starting to wonder if something is wrong when she finally emerges.

She’s in her underwear, white lace panties, and nothing else. Her breasts are small and perky, hard nipples already at attention. Her body doesn’t look much different than when she was younger.

Shit.

“Toni,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is not…”

His words leave as she slinks toward him, practically crawling onto the couch.

He momentarily wonders if he’s become detached. Reading people has always been his forte but this but takes him so off guard that he’s stunned, a deer in the headlights as the moment unfolds.

There are a thousand thoughts at once. She’s a beautiful woman, a beautiful naked woman and yet he finds himself indifferent. He needs to make this as painless as possible, needs to find a way to turn her down without making things so awkward that they can’t work together. Sam needs Toni to run the London arm of his company, he can’t alienate her. You’d be so mad if you knew this happened. Does he tell you? He’ll worry about that later. He’s not done anything wrong. You’ll understand, you always do.

“Stop,” he hisses, pushing against the back of the couch.

“Come on, Sam.” She flashes a confident grin, then yanks his shirt from where it’s tucked into his pants. “For old time’s sake.”

“I said stop,” he says again, watching in wonderment as she doubles down. One hand slides into his hair, the other at his belt, getting him half unbuckled before he gets his wits about him. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she purrs. “Come on, you have to want something more exciting than getting your dick sucked by a glorified secretary. Judging from all the pent up tension I’d say you’re in need of a little more satisfaction.”

She’s making it exponentially worse.

He draws in a breath and hesitates. Is this happening? Of all the things he’s got going on this is the last thing he needs. She takes his silence as encouragement and leans forward, pressing her lips against his mouth.

“That’s enough,” he grabs her wrists, pushing her backward. “I’m not sure what about our interaction has led you to believe this is something I want, but I don’t.”

“You have to be kidding me.” Sitting back on her heels, she examines him, eyes narrowing.

Sam knows her. She wants him because she can’t have him. Because of his status and the power he wields. More than anything he’s willing to bet the appeal comes from the fact that she’s competitive. She doesn’t like that you have something she wants.

Toni likes to be at the top of the food chain.

“Get dressed.” Sam scooches back, clearing his throat. “We’ll pretend this never happened.”

“You’re turning me down?” She holds her head held high. “Seriously?”

“This isn’t going to happen. Let’s just-”

There’s the familiar electronic beep of the keycard being slid in the lock and the door opens.

You stop dead in your tracks, a happy-go-lucky smile melting away from your face as you come upon the scene of the crime. Looking back and forth from Sam to Toni your mouth falls open, eyes going wide.

Fuck. Fuck.

Sam’s frozen, looking in horror at you standing in the doorway. You’re dumbfounded, the reality of what’s happening taking time to sink in.

“Good evening, Y/N.” Toni sits up straight, proud little smile with her tits on full display. “We didn’t think you’d be home so soon.”

Your mouth snaps shut, eyes darting from her to Sam and he wants to punch the wall. Wordlessly you turn and walk out of the room.

“Goddamn it!” Sam shouts. He grabs Toni’s wrists, giving her a yank. “Get dressed and get the fuck out of my room.”

By the time he makes it to the hallway, you’re halfway to the elevator.

“Y/N!”

“What?!” When you turn back you’re wild-eyed, fighting back tears. Your mouth contorts in repulsion. “Jesus Christ Sam! I can’t stand to look at you right now.”

“Don’t overreact.” Fuckfuckfuck. He knows it’s the wrong thing to say, even before you recoil. He can’t think fast enough, the words are just tumbling out of his mouth.

He can’t remember the last time he panicked like this.

“Don’t overreact?!” you sputter, taking several steps away from him. “Fuck you! I trusted you. I must be so stupid. It never even crossed my mind that you would do something like this.”

“Nothing happened,” he counters, holding up both hands with palms out.

“Don’t lie to me. Something sure as fuck happened.” You look him over from head to toe, so disgusted that your mouth sours and you have to look away yet again. “For a guy who’s all about the details you’re not covering your tracks very well. You’ve got her lipstick on your mouth and your fly is still down.”

“What?” Sam feels at his crotch and sure enough, he’s unzipped. He’s not sure when that happened. “Look, she tried and I-”

“And you what? Let her take her clothes off? Did you fuck her?”

“No, of course not.” This is bad. He can see the escalation, the hundred ways this situation can get even worse.

“I don’t get it.” Your voice breaks as tears slip down both cheeks. His heart falls into his stomach. He’s hurt you a million different ways, both intentional and unintentional, but this might be the worst. “I thought we were in a good place. I try everything you want. I gave you a blowjob this morning. What could you possibly want from her that I’m not giving you?”

“Nothing,” he reaches out, moving toward you and you step back in tandem. “Nothing happened. I know this looks bad, I get that. But nothing happened. You came back at the worst possible time, but nothing was going to happen. That’s the truth.”

“Oh, this is my fault?” you yell. “I need to get out of here. I have to think.”

You’re tipsy, he can see it now. The wobble in your step, the way you tilt your head.

“Don’t leave.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to look at him. “If you leave it automatically makes things worse than they are. You can stay here and be pissed at me. We can talk. I’ll sleep on the couch. Just don’t leave, please don’t leave.”

Your face softens, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you consider his plea.

He knows how desperate he sounds and it makes him sick. Despite the love he has for you it’s painful for him to beg anyone for anything.

Crossing your arms over your chest you look toward the door. “She’s still in there.”

“She’s leaving.” He gets close enough to put his hands on your shoulders and nearly breathes a sigh of relief when you let him. “Just let me get her out of there. Don’t go anywhere.”

#sam winchester x reader #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester au #sam winchester smut

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honeytae · 4 years

Text

I adore you.

!!!!namjoon comfort ahead!!!!

alright, this is my first attempt at writing with prompts!! it’s an angst fluff just about you having a rough time and joonie helping you through it, because, surprise! he loves you. this is extremely based on my own life and i really wish namjoon could comfort me, as everyone on the planet probably does, as well.

genre: angst, fluff fluff fluff

warnings: depressing thoughts, nothing too heavy, just some self doubt. i’m also relatively new at writing so this could suck.

1.9k words (whew)

“I’m worried about you.” and “I think I’m in love with you.”

As Namjoon walked up to your apartment building, he felt the worry bubble up in his throat. After getting a distressed text message from you earlier in the day, something about your friends being assholes, he couldn’t get any more information out of you. You’d started to not respond to his texts or calls, sending him into a fit of panic.

Yoongi had noticed the anxious pinch of Namjoon’s eyebrows hours ago. When he inquired about what his younger friend was thinking about, Namjoon blurted out some lame excuse about being tired to his older friend, Yoongi waving him off and dismissing him with a mumbled “see you tomorrow” hearing the click of the door shut before he could even finish his words.

As he headed over to your apartment, guilt, worry, sadness, and fear invaded him. You and Namjoon had been dating for only a month, and he’d never been ignored by you before. It was strange and unlike you. He knew how sensitive you were deep down, despite you always brushing off your emotions. You always seemed strong to him but he often wondered just how much you hid your feelings from him. He’d seen touches of your sensitive side, so he knew it was there. You just preferred not to get too vulnerable.

Now as he turned the handle of your apartment complex door, he just wanted to get to you as soon as possible and make sure you were okay.

As he unlocked the door to your apartment with the key in the mail box you had pointed out to him for “emergencies”, he opened the door and swiftly shut it behind him.

Alerting you to his presence, he called out a timid “Baby? I’m here, where are you?”

hearing a weak “Bedroom” from you, he sprinted down the hall to your bedroom.

Walking through the doorway of your room, his eyes fell on the most devastating sight he had ever seen. It was you. With your knees curled into your chest, your arms locked around them. Your hair was disheveled, cheeks wet with tears and eyes red and swollen. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth and you looked down in shame as soon as you felt Namjoon’s presence in the room. You didn’t want him seeing you like this.

Namjoon took long strides to walk over to your place on the floor. He sat down next to you and in a silent understanding, placed the palm of his hand on your hair, gently pushing to guide your face to his shoulder. Quickly following his lead, you crawled into his lap, shoving your face into his neck as you felt his arms envelope you, connecting at your spine.

He pressed gentle kisses to your head, craning his head at an entirely awkward angle that was probably very uncomfortable for him, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to be there for you and help you with whatever you were dealing with.

“What’s wrong, my sweet girl? Huh? Who’s ass do I have to kick?” he said softly into the crown of your head, feeling you lightly chuckle at the thought of your snuggly warm boyfriend even attempting to do such a thing as that.

He smiled as you came out of the crook of his neck, hoping you would open up and let him into your thoughts.

“It’s stupid, Joon..”he hears you whisper, as he strokes your cheeks in a way to soothe the tears off your face.

He exhales, brushing your hair back behind your ears as he offers a gentle touch to your nose, booping it in an attempt to make the curve of your lips go up again.

“It’s never stupid if it upsets you, Baby. Can you tell me what’s wrong so I can make it better? Please? I’m worried about you.” He’s pouting now, practically begging for you to break that wall down.

You opt for reaching your fingers up to his soft tendrils of dark hair, twisting it around your fingers and threading your hands through it in a desperate attempt to get your mind off of your thoughts. He let you; encouraged it, actually. He let out soft hums, knowing that in this silence, you were mulling over the thoughts in your head and getting what you wanted to say prepared before you actually opened up. He’d wait. He’d wait forever if he had to. But luckily, after about five minutes, you were ready.

“I trust you, you know that? it’s not that I don’t trust you enough to open up to you. It’s just instinctual, I guess. I’d do it with anyone..but I shouldn’t keep you in the dark, and I know that.” you inhaled a shuttered breath, Namjoon bringing one of your hands down from his hair to intertwine his fingers with yours, placing soft kisses to your knuckles as he stared into your eyes, wanting to give you a soft affirmation that he was hanging onto every word and to keep going.

“I think too much. I go into these spaces where I don’t have anything else to distract myself with, so I start thinking about anything. Everything.” Another tear drops from your eye, Namjoon quickly swiping it with his thumb of the hand that wasn’t rubbing circles into the back of your hand and leaning forward, pressing a soft kiss to your eyelid. The endearing action made your face scrunch up in tears again, breaking out into a soft sob that absolutely broke Namjoon’s heart. A deep frown and crinkle between his eyebrows set onto his face, hating seeing you so upset. He felt helpless. He squeezed your hand in his, pressing tender kisses to your wet temple as he nuzzled his cheek against yours.

He heard a crackled “I’m so sorry. I don’t deserve you, Joonie” that had his heart stopping, quickly leaning back and ducking down to look you in the eye.

“Hey, none of that now. You’re everything to me, I just wanna make sure you’re okay. And it’s okay if you’re not okay right now, I just want to help make you feel better. You’re my girl..I’m always gonna stand with my girl.”

His words soothed you as your breath evened out. You looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but genuine care and concern for you.

“I feel hated by everyone sometimes. Some days I just feel tolerated. I know people would prefer if I just went away, so I try to stay cooped up here so I don’t have to bother anyone with my presence. Certain things people say or do trigger this big emotional breakdown that you’ve experienced..I’m really sorry, I’m usually so good about keeping this to myself and not bothering others with it. It’s my shit, I can deal with it, I-“

Your rant was cut off as your boyfriend slotted his lips to yours, soothing the raw teeth marks on yours with his soft warm lips in a desperate attempt to let you know what he was feeling.

Breaking apart from you with soft pants escaping his lips, you stared back at him with incredulous wide eyes. His face was 100% serious as he maintained eye contact with you, hands clutching your shoulders to steady you as your body was weak from the tears it had exuded.

“My love, my sweet girl. You’re such a light in every room you walk into. I hate that you feel this way. You’re the funniest, smartest, most beautiful and caring person I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting, much less dating. It’s a privilege to be in your life. You’re my entire world, you’re my rock, I adore you. And to see you so upset, it’s breaking my heart. And to know it’s over something so..so wrong..you could never be a bother to anyone. And if other people are making you feel that way, maybe they just don’t deserve to be in your life. Baby, have I ever made you feel that way?” his words hang off in a question, fear in his eyes at the mere thought of ever making you feel insignificant in his life. You eagerly shook your head no, muttering out a “You’re perfect, Joonie.” At your reassurance, he kisses the knit between your eyebrows.

“I can’t stand to see you so sad, but I love that you opened up to me and I appreciate it, Baby. I really do.” He wanted to make his appreciation clear, in hopes that you’d keep your wall down with him in the future.

He shifted you off of his lap, instead tugging your hand to make you stand up and leading you over toward your bed. He gently laid you down, laying down next to you himself, before pulling you on top of him so you were straddling his waist. He guided your back down to lay your chest against his.

He reached for your hand, placing it on his chest so that you could feel his heart beat. “You feel that?” he looked at you fondly as you nodded, seeing a slight upturn of your mouth as you felt his heart pulse below your hand.

“That’s just for you.” He strokes the back of your head, lightly massaging your scalp in an attempt to further calm you down.

After a few moments of silence, you lifted your head up from his chest to meet his eyes; they had never left you. As you continued studying his features with your still slightly swollen eyes jumping around his face, Joon inquisitively raised an eyebrow.

“What are you thinking about, my love?” he said softly, reaching his hand up to cup your chin and affectionately squish your cheek in his palm.

You hesitated before uttering a slow and firm “I think I’m in love with you.”

Namjoon broke out into a bashful smile, eyes turning to crescents and trying to hide his shy expression behind his hand. Recovering after a slight falter, he quirked his eyebrow, bringing his hand from his face to your back, lightly trailing up and down your spine with his fingers.

“Well, you wanna know something? I know I’m in love with you.”

Your cheeks broke out in a fiery blush, heat almost unbearable on your cheeks as you processed his words.

Namjoon chuckled as he pulled you further up his body so that your face was centimeters away from his own, brushing his nose against yours as he watched you flustered over him and his words.

You sighed out an “oh, Joonie. You always know how to get me, huh?” he pressed sweet kisses onto your lips, one, two, three, four, before peppering soft pecks all over your face.

You giggled and his heart fluttered as he heard you state soft, “I love you”s in response to his kisses.

“And I love you, sweet pea. I just want to make you feel loved.”

You pressed him against the mattress as you straddled his waist, melding your lips with his as you deeply kissed him, getting intoxicated off the taste of each other.

You pulled away for a moment, Namjoon attempting to chase after your lips in a desperate attempt to reconnect them, blushing when he realized that you’d seen him do something so needy.

“Thank you for loving me.” you said softly, wanting him to know how much you appreciated him being there with you. Namjoon’s doe eyes softened even more, lips forming a tiny pout and he sat up and placed his forehead to yours. “And thank you for loving me. I wouldn’t want to love anyone else, Baby.” he lightly brushed the tip of his nose with yours.

After all, Namjoon just wanted you to feel loved.

#namjoon fluff #namjoon #namjoon fic #bts writing #namjoon writing #namjoon angst #fluff #angst with a happy ending #comfort #bts angst #bts fluff #bts

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willa-marino · 4 years

Text

So this is what Damon has been up to.

Willa knows she shouldn’t be surprised. And part of her isn’t, not really, not when Damon hands her the keys to the apartment in the same neighborhood that turns out to be directly across the street from Faris’s, not when he tells her he’d like her to take over from him this weekend doing surveillance because he has a contract that will take him out of the country, not when he asks her to aid him in tracking her movements, where she goes, who she sees. She’s surprised, but then she’s not. Damon is private, even more so than she herself is. He only lets her - everyone, really - see what he wants them to.

But Willa doesn’t like this. And she understands almost immediately why he’s been keeping this, her, the woman, this reporter, Faris, a secret.

She’s beautiful, that much is obvious. Willa catches a glimpse of long, shining dark hair that nearly falls to her waist the Saturday morning she lets herself into the apartment. High cheekbones, skin like satin. She can understand Damon’s…. Fascination, perhaps? She knows how men covet beauty, and he’s no exception to this, assassin or no. But there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach, and she settles into the high-backed swivel leather chair at the desk near the window, logs into the sleek desktop computer with the password he’d given to her.

Willa taps her fingers against the glass desk, her gaze on the windows, out across the street, into Faris’s apartment. The other woman is home, and it looks like she’s cooking a meal for herself. She makes a sound under her breath, Willa, and she crosses her bare legs underneath the table, her gaze flickering down to the gold stiletto heel of her designer pumps before she glances out of the window again.

“Christ, Damon,” she says softly to herself, and leans over to rummage through the file of information he’d collected, her thin hands deftly maneuvering through sheets of loose-leaf paper containing Damon’s handwriting. She catches glimpses of things that don’t immediately make sense to her: Chanel perfume, titles of books, foods, even several different coffee orders. Her mind trips over itself and Willa realizes what it is: it’s a list, threaded through the notes he’s gathered over Faris, a list of her favorite things, her hobbies, her interests.

A cold feeling worms its way into her belly and stays there. Willa feels almost breathless with the knowledge, knowledge he’s given her. She wonders if he really trusts her enough to let her see; because of course she would go through this case file, of course she would see his painstakingly handwritten notes, his set-up in this apartment, so close to Faris’s.

Nothing is a coincidence, Willa tells herself grimly. She runs a finger lightly across Damon’s handwriting, over where he’d written Chanel No. 5. She looks out of the windows again. The sun is shining brightly through the glass, warming her skin despite the internal chill she feels.

Doesn’t he know how dangerous this is?

Her bag is sitting on the floor by her chair. Willa reaches for it almost out of instinct, pulling it up onto her lap, undoing the intricate metal catch, reaching for her cellphone, and - after a second thought - some lip balm. Fuck it, her lips are dry.

She reapplies first, and then unlocks her phone with a swipe of her thumb, clicking into the FaceTime app and scrolling for a second through her contacts before she taps the name she needs.

Sutton picks up on the fourth ring.

Willa grins at the other girl, leaning herself forward slightly in the chair and propping her chin up in her palm. She peeks at herself in the little square on the screen before her eyes go back to Sutton, who seems to be having a conversation with someone out of frame.

“One sec,” Sutton mouths to her, lifting a single finger, and she sets her phone down.

Willa counts in her head, One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three….

“Okay,” Sutton grabs up her phone again and her face fills her screen. “What’s up?”

“Operation: Stake Out is a go,” Willa says, using her pinky finger to fix the edge of her lip balm. “And it’s worse than I thought. He’s keeping detailed notes of this woman, like where she goes when she’s not working, her fucking hobbies…. ”

Sutton has stepped into the bathroom of what looks like a hotel suite. Her voice echoes when she speaks again. Her nose wrinkles delicately at Willa’s words. “Okay, gross. I still say what I said before. You should just kill her. She sounds like a liability.”

“Sutton,” Willa says, rolling her eyes heavenward, but she knows the other girl has a very salient point. On the one hand, yes, it would be better for Faris to die. Damon was in deeper than Willa thinks he even realizes. If The Eye, if Konstantin, finds out what he’s been doing, it’ll be trouble for him, and trouble for herself. Despite their sometimes tense relationship, Willa cares for Damon in a way she has not let herself care about anyone in years. And certainly not another man. But he’s being selfish. And she knows that selfishness could quickly become carelessness.

Don’t make it personal, he always told her, knowing that where she came from, she never would. Never even wanted to. But this, this is personal. She looks at his handwriting again, blowing out air through her lips. She shakes her head, the blonde strands floating around her face, catching onto the sunlight. Her vision flares gold for a second.

On the other hand, Faris can’t die. Or, rather, Willa won’t be the one to kill her. Faris is innocent. Maybe not of digging into Damon’s past and present, maybe not about The Eye, but she’s innocent of any actual crime. Willa does not see the need for murder if it is pointless. It will not be her hand on the gun. And Damon would never forgive her if she killed Faris. What strands of trust exist between her and Damon now would burn, and she would have no one. She scratches away something at the back of her neck -- the idea of loneliness, perhaps. No, Faris will live. For now, anyway.

But this game Damon is playing - and now, Willa supposes, herself as well - could very well get them all killed. She owes him, though, owes Damon. More than he probably knows.

“I’m just saying,” Sutton replies, her tone a little dry, though her gaze is intense even via FaceTime. Willa shares her look for a moment, and then nods tightly.

“No, I know. It’s just not that easy. I’ll call you later.”

After another minute or so of conversation, both Willa and Sutton hang up. Willa places her phone down gently onto the desk and pushes the chair back, standing. She smooths her silk skirt down against her thighs with her palms, walks around the desk to stand at the window, her hands skimming her hips. Faris is still cooking, her back to Willa, distracted by a saucepan she has going on the stove.

From the back of her skirt, Willa pulls out her small hand gun, a Sig P365, and lifts it, her hands steady. She cocks her head to the side as she trains the gun on the apartment across the street, through the windows of the other woman’s apartment, right against her crown of shining brown hair. Willa narrows her eyes, fingering the trigger, expelling the knot of anxious energy in her spine with one low exhalation of air.

Just as quickly, Willa lowers the gun. Sets it down on the desk. She turns from the windows, the view of Faris, her apartment, all of it, and walks back to her seat, claiming it once again.

No, Faris will not die today, and certainly not by her hand. But Willa thinks it will only be a matter of time. Faris’s has already begun to run out, whether the other woman realizes it or not. Whether Damon realizes it or not.

#[ willa x narrative ]#[ once again apologies for the length!!! ] [ this was supposed to go up on Saturday but the weekend got away from me ]

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 4 years

Text

Kingdom Collisions II

I've just finished a book and it made me cry so happily I thought I'd post a fanfic to commemorate it. Also I'm probably going to start an AWAE/AoGG account soon because I cannot fathom living my life without a space dedicated to my darling loves. Anyway that isn't relevant to the post. This is just a fun little fic I've been writing on the side to try incorporate more descriptions into my writing (I'm a known dialogue whore). I see fit to write it whenever I feel like, so updates may be far and few between, however I do hope you enjoy whatever does come out. I adore this moody ansgty side to jercy. It's been fun to explore.

Masterlist, cat-eye aquamarine

Leave me alone.

[we have known loneliness forever]

Why did I ever agree to this?

[so we do not quite know what it is like]

I never asked you to say yes!

[to want]

Fuck you.

[one another]

-lonliness is a two-sided conversation//badpoetry

Percy doesn't even look at his husband. Doesn't acknowledge his perfect hair, or blazing eyes, or how close they're sitting. He just stares directly out the car window, arms folded across his chest. The rolling hills and wild lavender dance past his vision as the car bounces along the gravel road. They are almost to their destination, to solid ground and quiet, peace. Despite the circumstances he is excited to be back at the cabin his family has owned for so many years. He relishes in the fact that he can escape somewhere that is untainted by the rest of his life. Throngs of people, and public demand, and never ending scrutiny.

He is nothing short of pissed that he has to share his safe place with someone he despises so sweetly it is honey on his tongue to talk to them. But his mother had insisted if they were to act like a married couple they would have to go on a honeymoon and he had only agreed if he could choose the place. She wanted to send them to some private beach in Spain where they could pretend to be alone, oblivious to the paparazzi that were sure to follow, and the people who wanted to meet not one but two crown princes. It was his final stance that if he were being forced to spend time with his husband, it would at least be where he could enjoy it.

"Prince," A crackling voice says through the speakers.

Percy clicks a button on the arm rest, "Yes Mr James?"

"The security team has secured the area, would you like us to drop the bags off before you head inside or after?"

"Whenever suits you Mr James, I'm going for a walk."

Jason who had since then, fallen asleep, jolts awake as they go over a particularly bumpy area.

"And your husband Prince?"

"Ask him yourself, I'm sure he has much to say on the matter." Percy huffs, turning away.

"Prince Grace,"

Jason glares at Percy unimpressed with his dismissal and his rudeness towards the driver.

"Yes James sir?"

"Would you like your bags dropped off before or after you enter the area?"

"Before please, I feel it will help me settle in much easier if everything is already there."

Percy wants to scoff, who talks like that? This pretentious, stuck-up, goodie two-shoes is who. He wants to stick his tongue out, settle their rivalry like five year olds battling to see who can scowl for longer. Mostly, desperately he just wants to get out of this damn car. His leg bounces in time with the bumps, and his hands fidget in his lap. For all his princely training nobody ever managed to get him to sit perfectly still. His mother had finally given up and started carrying drawing pads and pencils wherever she went.

"Can you stop moving!" Jason growls.

"If it bothers you so much get out and walk." He spits back.

An eye roll is the reply but by then the car finally rumbles to a stop and a security detail is opening their doors.

"Princes,"

"Thank you Madison, Arlo." He manages to grit before he stomps off down the path and disappears into the woods.

"Where are you going?" He hears his husband yell. He doesn't bother to reply, someone will tell the Prince.

He kicks at the dark soil and pulls breath after breath into his lungs. He needs to calm down. Just then his ears catch the soft bubbling of a stream and he heads in the direction of the noise. The woods are quiet and cool. A soft breeze flutters between velvety leaves and needled pines, stirring the undergrowth. He wants to become one with the trees, become a branch that sways in greeting and grows friends, and feels the wind wrapping around it every evening. He just wants to stop being human for a little while.

And then the stream is underneath him, soaking his fancy shoes and fine thread socks. He laughs, tugs them off and sits down in the middle of the cold, flowing water. He can feel it run into him like ice in his veins. He dips a finger in, then another, his whole hand and shudders at the smooth caress. It has been so long since he just got to be. Here in this little stream, pants soaking, hands turning blue he has never felt so faraway, out of his body. The world narrows to his fingertips, to the bead of water running down his ankle and joining its family once more. His brain is far and long forgotten, simply taking up space in his skull. He decides right then and there that if he ever comes back to this world he'll come back as a rock in the stream. To live in this beautiful, ever-moving world, where the cold is a kiss and you can never meet the same drop of water twice seems a good life indeed.

Just then he hears a rustle behind him. In an instant he’s on his feet, pulling a dagger from his suit jacket, a white-knuckled grip on the hilt.

"Whoever you are come out right now. I am not in the mood."

"Relax," A deep smooth voice says, "It's just me."

"Oh," He pulls his lips up in half disappointment, half relief it wasn't danger. "What do you want?"

"Mr James wants to know if you want five or ten of the guards here for the remainder of the time here."

"I want zero." He frowned, "I just want to be left in peace for the next few days."

"Well it's not an option so choose." Practical, always so practical.

"Leave five here, there's three other cabins about half a mile out on either side of ours that should be enough space. Everyone else can go home."

"Of course, I'll leave you to it then." Jason nods, stands there awkwardly for a moment longer and then disappears into the greenery once more.

Percy doesn't know what to do, doesn't know whether he should scream or cry or laugh.

He hadn't let himself think too hard about the events of the last few weeks. He had shoved every feeling but contempt and general dislike deep deep down into his cage and threw the key into the deepest parts of his ocean of thoughts. He wasn't sure he had the strength to unpack everything that had happened. When his mother had came to him all those weeks ago a heartbroken look in her eyes he knew whatever had happened would be nothing short of a disaster. Within the week he was promised to Crown Prince Jason Grace of Caelum and had been shoved into endless, meetings in which wedding arrangements and economic agreements had to be made.

He didn't even meet the Prince till the night before they were to be wed but by then Percy had despised the whole ordeal so intensely he hadn't any happiness or hope left in him to be kind to the Prince. And even if he did gave some it would have vanished completely upon their introduction. Jason looked at him with such calculating authority he had reminded Percy of an old tutor who thought children should be seen and not heard, and learn whatever was given to them without question. Jason had been stiff, and unyielding, and looked just as unhappy or even unhappier to be meeting him. At dinner Jason only spoke when spoken too, he didn't fidget even once, and worst of all he somehow still managed to charm his mother in about five seconds. One dimpled smile, and a cute story about his first time riding a horse and Queen Sally Jackson had accepted him as one of their own. Percy on the other hand was ignored the entire dinner, and on the walk in the gardens, at the insistence of his advisor, they hardly said two words to each other. Whether it was because Jason was lost in his own world or letting his displeasure for the whole ordeal simmer and burn into their company as Percy was he would never know. Either way the walk ended with a gruff, formal goodbye before they headed to their rooms.

Percy shuts out the politics of the arrangement and how his life has turned into this unrecognizable hurricane of chaos. He cups some of water in his hands and drops it over his curls. Letting it drip down his temples and catch on his collarbones. The coolness soothes him, as water has always done. Finally when his blood is no longer boiling with hidden anger he steps out of the stream, picking up his discarded shoes and socks and sinks into the earth with each step.

The cabin has a soft orange glow in the windows, and the many cars that escorted them have disappeared. He throws his belongings by the door, shucks his pants off and steps inside. The interior is just as he remembers it. Where the castle was dripping with opulence and royalty, the cabin was simple and stripped to the bare essentials. He had always loved the place. Even when he was little and his mom would whisk him away for a secret weekend. She would pack hoards of cookies and ice-cream and light the fire immediately. They would sit on the soft, fleece rug, her with a book and him with his sketchpad, sipping cocoa and spooning ice cream straight from the tub. Then he didn't have to be the prince one day inheriting the crown and she didn't have to be the Queen dealing with every problem under the sun. They hadn't been back in a good few years and he misses everything about the space. He is silently grateful that Jason has lit the fire. Something familiar to hold onto.

"You're back." The Golden Prince says.

"Astute observation." He rolls his eyes but the blonde doesn't look up from whatever he's doing.

Percy walks into the space, shrugging his suit jacket off and unbuttoning his wrinkled white shirt. He hears a sharp inhale and glances up to see a red cheeked Jason staring at him.

"Why aren't you wearing any pants?"

"Oh," He laughs softly, "Yea they were wet so I took them off before I came in."

He sputters and blushes, glancing down and then peaking back up again.

"You alright there Prince?"

Jason clears his throat, and Percy watches that golden Adam's apple bob. His skin prickles with heat and he knows its time to go.

"I'm going to shower. I'll give you a tour afterwards if you want."

"That would be great."

With a nod in which they both avoid eye contact and general pleasantry he disappears into one of the three rooms of the cabin.

His shower is scorching, water pummeling against tired muscles. His mother always says a good shower and steaming cup of tea can fix more problems than a board of professionals. So far she hasn't been wrong.

"Hey," He walks back into the lounge sometime later, looking down as he ties the string on his pants, "You ready?"

The house is dead quiet, save for the crackle of the fire and the soft wind that whispers in the grooves of the floor.

"Jason?" He frowns, moving to stand in front of him.

The Prince is fast asleep, head lolling forward, book still clasped in his hands. Percy takes in his husband for the first time. Unobstructed by either of their waking emotions, or the general hustling that had shrouded their lives. Jason, he grudgingly admits, is beautiful. His hair looks soft and golden, and when it catches the light of the fire he's sure it's made from sunshine itself. And his skin is such a startling contrast to Percy's rich brown colour. The Prince's body, now folded into an awkward bent angle as he lay across the velvet-cushioned chair, is lithe and graceful. Corded with muscle but somehow still smooth in a way only an uptight Prince with a personal trainer may ever achieve. At least, he thinks sordidly, if I'm forced to marry someone he is as darling as Jason.

The blonde stirs softly, hand twitching, before he settles back into his position. As awkward and unhappy the two are with each other Percy can't leave him here. He's sure the Prince will bend into a chair himself if he slept like that all night long. So he gently taps his husband's shoulder, waking him almost immediately. Jason has never been a particularly heavy sleeper, and it is worse when he finds himself in a place he doesn't know. He blinks up at the world, blue eyes bright. They reminds Percy of the cat-eye aquamarine, the gemstone sat at the base of every crown ever made for his kingdom. He wonders what it says that the colour of his husband's eyes are also the colour he most associates with home. Just as quickly he expels those thoughts, content to bask in his clear dispassion and irritation for as long as this should last.

Jason scrubs a hand over his face, "Sorry you wanted to take me on a tour?"

"No, no there's time for that tomorrow. Why don't you head up to bed."

"Oh, okay. Goodnight then,"

"Goodnight Prince," He says stiffly.

"Sleep easy."

A nod in return and they both retire to their rooms, content to put the last week far behind them. Bury it under dreams, and hopes, and the promise of a tomorrow where nothing has tarnished it yet.

Percy left his window open, watched the tree outside it sway gently. Maybe tomorrow he would climb it and become acquainted with the birds in the nest.

He falls asleep, finally, to the chirp of crickets and the soft rustle of whispering leaves.

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fistsoflightning · 4 years

Text

9: confidence boost

prompt: lush || masterpost || other fills || ao3 mirror

word count: 2256

It’s all fun and games until they all get invited to an Ishgardian ball. (Or; Lumelle has never liked anything to do with the high society of her hometown. A’dewah tries to help his friend out.)

Contains canon-divergence bits and bobs, notably pertaining to the Vault, because why not?

“Mel,” Auphine calls from the doorway, fiddling with her boots, maybe—A’dewah can’t quite see her fully from where he stands in front of Lumelle’s (extremely dusty, clearly unused) vanity, more focused on clearing up the mirror than anything. “What are you going to do about your face?”

“Do not repeat this back to Mama, but I,” Lumelle huffs, and if she weren’t standing incredibly still so that Valdis and Lunya can finish taking adjustment measurements for her dress A’dewah thinks her arms would be crossed firmly across her chest. “have no swiving clue what you mean by ‘what am I going to do about my face’, Auphie.”

Duscha raises an amused eyebrow over the brim of his book while Elwin giggles into his palm. No one really expected her to know—at least, among that of the Scions and her usual friends—but Auphine makes an exaggerated sighing motion with her shoulders as she stands straight.

“You know Mama’s going to want you ‘dolled up’, or what have you,” she explains. “And the other nobles—”

“If they give a damn, they can talk to the business end of Fragarach,” Lumelle grumbles as Valdis softly pushes her arms back down. Auphine sighs louder, and A’dewah didn’t think the little conjurer had that large of lungs on her; clearly he’s mistaken, by how her exhale carries.

“Do not tell me I did not warn you!” Auphine waves to Elwin as she leaves the room, the heels of her boots clicking against the wooden floor of the manor. Lumelle groans loud enough to wake Tehra’ir up from his slump against Zaya’s shoulder momentarily, eventually resting his forehead carefully back onto their shoulder, making sure not to press his eyes into the white of their dress shirt.

For his own merit, he does his best to ignore it while he carefully swipes the tube of lipstick across his lips, pausing when Syhrwyda leans over to pick up her hairpin from the vanity. She catches his gloss, too, when it falls on its side and starts to roll away; he could probably hug her for that. Damned glass vials and all.

“Mel,” Elwin says, his swinging feet tapping against the settee. “I think Auphie might be right.”

“...I know, but I—it’s not like I know how to use any of—of that stuff Mama dumped onto me when I came back. Most of it’s probably dried up, by now.”

A’dewah, for the curious bit of him that is right next to all the old cosmetics, opens up a pot of what likely used to be a scented lotion that smelled strongly of sandalwood.

What he finds is nearly rock hard. Well then.

“Dress’s done,” Valdis says quietly, Lunya snipping the last bit of thread hanging from Lumelle’s sleeve. The high house dress… looks incredibly uncomfortable for her, he thinks, compared to the normal surcoats and cuirasses she’d normally prefer.

“You all should get going,” Lumelle says, looking up at the chronometer. Nearly the seventh bell. “I… guess I’ll be here for a while yet.”

“Here,” he says, scooting over on the bench to leave enough space for Lumelle to sit. He waves the closed tube of lipstick in the air when Zaya tilts their head in confusion. “I can stay behind and help her.”

Lumelle, for her merit, gives him a wary glance that might as well be screeching this better not end with me in a face of powders, but she trudges her way over anyhow as everybody else leaves Lumelle’s room. Zaya gives him a small wink before they turn the corner, pointing to the two corsages sitting at the end of Lumelle’s old bed.

“Why do you know so much about cosmetics, anyhow?” She sits with all the grace of a lion stumbling through a minefield, really, shaking the bench as she falls back onto it.

“I have three sisters,” he murmurs as he fumbles with the containers and pots he’s laid out before him, opening to check the colors and closing when he looks back over to Lumelle’s skin. He should have asked someone else—surely Lumelle’s mother, but Lumelle herself would not appreciate her mother fussing about. Perhaps someone from House Fortemps would have known of some cosmetics common to Ishgard, and a merchant. Aymeric, maybe; he looks like he would know his way around a few brushes. If he’d the willpower, Hanami would have worked, too, having lived in Ishgard long enough to count as one of them... even if he’d probably get his head taken off in the process. “My youngest brother likes to, er, contour, too. Hard to avoid cosmetic talks when most of your siblings, who’ve been very much restrained in their pastimes since forever, enjoy it? And…”

He taps the top of his cosmetics box; small enough to fit into the bottom of his satchel, beneath all the books and draughts he lugs around when he’s traveling by foot, all the pots and brushes neatly tucked away. He’d needed to buy newer paints and cremes when he’d gotten back from the First—a pain, seeing as he’d been without for long enough, but if the urge struck and he didn’t have his box refilled he’d probably see his anxiety spike—but none of them would match Lumelle’s darker skin either way.

“I, uhm, might have a bit of fun with this, from time to time?” The urge to wring his hands together is incredibly strong, but he fiddles with the latch on his cosmetics box. He hadn’t even really shown Haruki, now that he thinks about it—more a private pleasure than anything, now out to his friends.

Character development, he thinks wryly. You will be fine.

Maybe he should have waited to put on the lip paint, he thinks as he helps wrangle the rest of Lumelle’s hair into a nice crown braid. All straightened out, strange compared to the very wavy-haired Lumelle he’d passed by not a few mornings ago, and the coarse texture of her hair rubs oddly against the pads of his fingers.

Now…

“Could you turn to face me?” He carefully opens his cosmetics box to pull out a few small brushes—making sure to set them apart from the brush he’d already used, a new pot of cool red paint, and a small jar of dark powder. “Promise I won’t, er, go overboard.”

“I trust you,” she says, even though it doesn’t look like she believes it, and she closes her eyes.

The quiet click and clatter of closing and opening containers fills the comfortable quiet as A’dewah brushes powders and paints onto Lumelle’s face. He has to remind her with a quiet tap on her knuckles not to scrunch her face, sometimes, but he can’t quite blame her when he’s trying not to sneeze the whole time from the dust that flutters about in motes, the sunset fading through the window making them gleam.

“You’ll keep these after I’m done,” he says while he finishes up the edges of Lumelle’s lip paint, the bright red perhaps a tad too bright for how much he’s put on; maybe he can wipe a bit of it off? “Sanitary things, is all. I—I don’t expect you to keep using them!”

Lumelle doesn’t say anything, not even a quiet protest, instead turning her head to look at herself in the mirror.

“This is weird,” she finally decides, after a few moments of staring intensely at the mirror. “Not used to my lips being… red.”

“Is it bad?”

He pulls out another tube of gloss—thank the Matron he’d decided to get a spare tube from that merchant in Ul’dah—and Lumelle sighs. “Not as bad as I thought it might, no. It’s just…”

Her brow furrows again.

“Here,” he mumbles, a bit awkwardly. “Put that on, and I’ll grab your earring.”

It takes a bit of fishing around in the drawers, unorganized as they are; he sneezes, once, when he opens it too fast and the dust goes flying into the air, but eventually he finds the slightly tarnished House Fortemps earring among the wreck that is Lumelle’s vanity. It gleams, still, in the fading sunlight, the red unicorn standing out among the dark grey metal around it.

“Done,” Lumelle says. He turns, and it’s… not as neat as he’d hoped, but it’s miles better than anything Vahno could have done, at any rate, so he presses the earring into her upturned palm among the light scars and smiles.

“There we go,” he murmurs, gently swiping his thumb to clean off some of the out-of-place gloss. “Grab the corsages for me, and I think we’re done.”

Lumelle nearly tumbles off the seat when she leans back to grab the two corsages, barely catching herself as A’dewah cleans up what he can—part of him nearly sets to cleaning the rest of Lumelle’s vanity, messy as it is, but he manages to hold back. For now.

He pins the (rather extravagant) brightlily corsage into his own hair, the light blue kind of blending into his hair, and hands Lumelle the white one to place in her own. Once she’s got it all pinned down—well, he has to brush a few leaves away from her face; Valdis must have taken the other smaller one he’d made—he stands, and waits for Lumelle to follow suit before he carefully grabs her wrist, ignoring the chill of the thin rose gold bracelets Auphine had shoved onto her sister’s wrist.

“Now,” he says, lightly pulling Lumelle closer to the mirror and stepping next to her. “Try striking a pose, or—or, uh, doing something that feels just a tad exaggerated.” He nearly leaves off there, looking a bit at himself and the light smudge in his lipstick before realizing what might happen. “WITHOUT getting your sword or shield. Please.”

“Killjoy,” Lumelle grumbles, but she takes one look at the two of them in the mirror, and her brow furrows deep enough that A’dewah feels a slight panic rising that the creme and powder on her forehead might crack. “Why with the poses, though. What’s the point?”

He has to think about, well, why he does the silly poses in the mirror before he can answer. “C-confidence? I—mm, actually,” he mumbles, spinning in a small circle and watching the skirt of his dress shimmer, fabric glimmering. Maybe he was right to let Zaya help Lunya design… this. “It’s… nice?”

“Nice?”

“Yes,” he says, a bit braver now. “Something that has nothing to do with being ‘heroic’ or ‘strong’, maybe. Just… plain and silly. Normal-ish.”

Lumelle hums just before she moves quick, pumping her fist into the air with her stance widened enough that A’dewah can see she’s still wearing her normal boots just beneath the hem of her skirt. She’s plastered a goofy sort of grin onto her face, brightened by the bright red lip paint and the light bouncing off the mirror onto her.

“There you go!” He sways about again, planting one hand on his hip and swinging his other arm out with the swish of his dress, nervously grinning as Lumelle’s eyebrows raise under her bangs. There’s a few moments of quiet, almost like time is frozen while they stand in their silly poses; a bit awkwardly, seeing how his tail has swung out from behind him and Lumelle had managed to throw her braid over her shoulder.

It hardly takes a moment for them to both be laughing, A’dewah nearly doubled over because oh gods did he just do that and Lumelle’s hyena-like laughter isn’t helping, either. Something so preciously silly about that exact moment sticks in the aether, singing of first snows and brilliant sunlight as A’dewah tries his best not to wipe at his eyes. He lets his hands adjust the hems of his sleeves instead while Lumelle falls back into her blustery nervousness, cautiously wiping tears from her eyes before it grows quiet again.

“I am… not sure I feel any better about this.” Lumelle’s hands bunch in her skirt, eyes looking downward. “Part of the reason I left, instead of taking another trial by combat, I suppose. Never liked it all.”

That’s… about what he suspected.

“That’s alright,” he soothes, smoothing out his own dress. He’s likely going to regret the heels in a few bells, but oh well. At least he won’t have to crane his head as much if someone does decide to talk to him. “Everyone will probably be, uh, a bit tipsy anyhow. They won’t notice you too much, either.” He looks to Lumelle through the mirror, watching as she tilts her head back up, the corners of his mouth tugging at a nervous smile. He’s… not sure if he’s assuring her more than himself, really. “If you get nervous, you can come find me, probably hiding behind a—a planter, or something. The lilies the Ishgardians like to use are, uh, big enough to hide the two of us. Failing that—”

“We find Haurchefant and let his enthusiasm distract everyone so we can escape. Got it,” Lumelle says assuredly, nodding to herself in the mirror and finally standing straight.

A’dewah bites the inside of his lip to keep from bursting into laughter. “Right.”

With one last little motion—one he’s seen her do to pump herself up before a mission—-Lumelle strides out to the doorway with a certain bounce in her step that she didn’t have earlier, stomping as she did to Lunya and Valdis’ measuring tapes, the corset on her dress keeping her from moving around as she wished. A’dewah smiles.

They would be alright.

#ffxiv #my writing #tales from the blue #ffxivwrite #ffxivwrite2020 #elie's ffxivwrite2020 #a'dewah tia #duscha vesnasch #elwin de lipine #lumelle de lipine #tehra'ir naphto #syhrwyda maetityrbwyn #valdis otoel #zaya qestir #auphine de lipine #fun times!#considering i know absolutely Nothing about makeup or beauty i sure went bonkers #im just jammin in my corner thinking about lush baff boms.....

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lemoynes-blog · 5 years

Text

Rabbits in a Snowstorm • Arthur Morgan ♡

SUMMARY: You and Arthur get creative in combatting the cold of the Grizzly Mountains. TAGS: f!reader, dirty talk, praise kink, gagging, unprotected sex, mentioned exhibitionism, sub!arthur and dom!reader WORD COUNT: 3.2k

You’re digging through a crate that Lenny had pulled from the wagons, ice-kissed and nearly frozen shut, when Ms. Grimshaw pulls you aside and ushers you out into the blizzard. The gang had arrived in Colter only an hour ago, but the woman already has three fires going and a bed ready for everyone. One of the more private rooms has apparently been designated for you and Arthur, a perk of your boyfriend being one of Dutch’s favourites.

“The men shouldn’t be much longer,” Grimshaw tells you, loudly over a gust of wind and snow.

It’s a brief scurry from one cabin to the one across the way, but the relentless howling of the wind and low visibility makes it seem like a trek. Even with your lantern, you can see maybe 5-feet in front of you. You try not to think about how bad the storm is further into the mountains, wherever Arthur is.

Warm, flickering light emits from the frosted windows you’re headed towards, and when you slip through the door, you’re pleased to find it’s the roaring fireplace. The only other light source is a lamp in the corner that Hosea sits by, diligently cleaning the rifle laid across his lap.

“Your room’s on the right,” Grimshaw informs you.

She leaves as quickly as she’d arrived, the door shutting firmly behind her, abruptly leaving you and the two other people in the room to your own devices. The lack of crowding means it’s not as warm as the other cabin, but you’d gladly take personal space over heat, especially after being cramped in the back of a wagon with Jack on your lap for the past few days.

From the stool closest to the fire, Molly gives you a nod, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She’d vanished when Abigail had started delegating tasks to unpack and gather as much food and medicine as possible. Part of you is bitter, but the stiffness in your fingers and the ache in your shoulders makes you wish you’d done the same.

“Arthur and Dutch should be back with the boys soon,” Hosea says.

“Hopefully,” You reply.

Molly casts a dark look at you.

“They’ll be okay,” Hosea chimes, trying to defuse an argument you’re too tired to have before it even starts.

You don’t respond, instead wandering from the living area to the bedroom on the right, clicking the door closed behind you. It’s cooler in there and a single bed for the both of you isn’t ideal, but you’ve shared worse. Placing your lantern on the dresser to give the room enough light, you get ready to go to sleep.

Your coat, shoes and scarf are the only pieces of clothing you manage to get off before crawling under the covers. You’re exhausted on all fronts, emotionally and physically. Nonetheless, drifting off is harder than anticipated.

The creaks and whistles of the wooden walls aren’t the only things keeping you up. The boys are plotting a spot for Davey in a nearby graveyard, Mac probably won’t be making a comeback and you had hammered down Jenny’s tombstone yourself. The idea of Arthur being the next person you bury chases sleep away like a sick game of cat and mouse.

The commotion outside gets louder and you think the weather is worsening, until you hear voices and footsteps in the next room. You don’t have enough time to get out of bed to greet them, because the door swings open suddenly and a backlit figure enters. Your own lantern’s flame has long gone out, so you squint at the intruding light for a moment, before the hat and bulk gives him away.

“Arthur.” Your voice is a sigh of relief.

He gently closes the door behind him and makes his way further into the room, placing his lit lantern next to yours, followed by his satchel and hat.

“There you are,” He says, “Thought you’d run off on me when you weren’t with Abigail.”

“No,” You reply, “‘Waiting ‘til we get out of the snow to do that.”

Arthur chuckles, leaning down and placing a kiss on your temple. You don’t let him get far, sitting up to meet him in the middle for a real kiss, cradling his jaw for good measure.

“Miss me, huh?” He teases when you finally let him go.

“Thought you were dead,” You say quietly.

Arthur shakes his head, “Wouldn’t do that to you.”

He sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed by your thigh and starts undoing his boots.

“Go back to sleep,” He says, “‘Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘Wasn’t sleeping much,” You reply honestly, shuffling to sit up. “Everything go okay?”

“Found Micah.”

"Thank God." Your indignation is vivid in your tone.

Arthur smiles to himself, before continuing, “No John though.”

“Abigail can’t be pleased.”

“He’ll turn up,” Arthur says, “Always does.”

You nod. John’s dumb luck was uncanny like that. Arthur’s not so much.

“Found a girl too,” He adds. “A woman. House was overrun by O'Driscolls, killed her husband.”

“Shit.” You make a note to check in on that situation in the morning.

After lugging his coat off, Arthur turns and places a kiss on your cheekbone, hand on your chin. He holds you like that for a second, chilled face against your warm one.

“You’re freezing,” You say.

“I’ll be alright,” He reassures you, his drawl rumbling through you, “‘Gonna go sit by the fire for a bit.”

You shake your head. “Come here.”

Getting out from under the covers and hiking up your skirt, you manoeuvre your way into his lap. Arthur doesn’t love having you pressed up against his cold, damp self, but he’s under no impression that he could ever deny you anything, instead he loops his arms around your hips and rests his face in your neck. You notice a tinge of blood in his hair that makes you hold him tighter.

You pull back after another moment and lean down. Noses bumping, you meld into an eager kiss. His beard is a welcome sensation against your skin, as is your hot mouth against his cool lips. You’re forced to shuffle forward to get a better angle, using his hair as a grip. In response, Arthur moans into your lips and you nearly laugh.

He breaks away to look at you. “Shut up, you, it’s been a while.”

“It’s been four days,” You tease.

He goes to say something, but you stop him with another kiss which he happily reciprocates. Hooking an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips into his. It’s tricky with your skirts bunched between the two of you, but Arthur manages to find your ass, giving you a firm squeeze in encouragement, making you squeal into his mouth. Not a minute of dry humping later, you’re growing tired of the layers between the two of you. Grasping through the flurry of material, your fingers expertly undo his belt.

“I have a more efficient and entertaining way of warming you up.”

He pauses. “Are you sure?”

“Shy now, huh?” You hum, palming him through his pants. “‘The cold having other effects on you, Morgan?”

“I’m just fine, darlin’,” He says, “If I knew a snowstorm was going to have you like this, I would’ve taken you into the mountains ages ago.”

“Shut up,” You purr, “And take off your clothes.”

“Yes, maim,” He teases, giving your thigh a playful tap as you carefully untangle yourself from him.

Arthur doesn't need further prompting as he diligently starts unbuttoning his shirt before you’re even standing upright. You take to undoing your own top, then dropping your skirt to the ground. Arthur is kicking his pants off his ankles and is down to his last layer, his union suit, when he gets a good look at you. He’s just in time to catch you reaching under your own final layer and pulling your drawers off, his eyes track after them as you make a show of dropping them to the floor, leaving you in nothing but a wispy underdress.

You step between his legs and thread your fingers back into his hair. He runs a hand up your thigh, fingers catching in the delicate material of your dress, looking you over with a soft gaze.

He’s got that look again, like he can’t quite believe you’re there and that you’re his. “You’re beautiful.”

You hook a finger under his chin and lean down to peck him on the crown of his head. “So are you.”

He smiles as if he doesn’t quite believe that either, but you don’t let him dwell on it.

Prodding at his red union suit, you tell him, “Take this off too.”

He makes quick work of getting completely naked, eyes barely leaving yours as he does. Your plan to give him a hand job and be done with it flies out the window on seeing him in all his glory. Broad shoulders, light eyes and firm muscle have you wanting to draw this out. It’s not like this was truly about getting him warm in the first place. His cock is halfway hard, pink and leaking against his thigh, and you desperately want it between your legs.

You give him another kiss, before nudging him back slightly and kneeling between his legs.

“Keep it down, Morgan,” You warn.

Arthur hums in reply and falls back onto his elbows easily, eyes not leaving your face.

You start slowly but suddenly, leaning forward with a hand on his inner thigh to place a few open-mouthed kisses on his shaft, which Arthur responds enthusiastically to. Next, kitten licks on his tip, and then barely-there stripes from top to bottom. Arthur huffs and sighs as you work him up to your satisfaction.

“Can you get on your back properly please?” You politely ask.

Arthur shuffles diagonally and you guide his hips to the edge of the bed, an odd angle on a single bed, but it gives you infinitely better access to him. He’s completely hard now, cock heavy and flushed. Bracing one arm against his hip, you curl your fingers around his base and take the other half of him in your mouth. Arthur groans and tangles his hands in the blankets as you start bobbing.

His noises and the sight of how badly he wants you has you wet enough to slip a finger into your cunt with ease. You scissor yourself open in anticipation, moaning around his tip, your other hand stroking his cock in place.

The sound of you getting him as slick and messy as possible echoes through the room in symphony with his deep grunts. You receive a particularly colourful remark when you gag on him, your eyes watering as you do. It’s a few more minutes before you slow down, a good call as Arthur is struggling to keep his noises muffled. You pull your mouth off of him and your hand out from between your thighs, an achy hollowness replacing your fingers.

Arthur blinks at you as you stand. “Do you want me to—” He motions vaguely to your lower half.

“Forget it,” You say, bending over to him and stealing a kiss, “Just want your cock in me.”

“Christ, woman,” He says, but doesn’t resist as you coax him into a more comfortable position on his back.

You slink your dress over your head and onto the floor, closely followed by your bra. Arthur’s eyes track over you, taking in every inch of skin you have to offer, but his attention darts to your cunt when you throw a leg over his hips to straddle him. His hands instinctively go to your ass, keeping you balanced until your hand finds the wall and your other finds his cock, wet with precum and your mouth.

He hisses when you sweep his tip against your folds. You take your time, buttering him up, hips moving leniently as you tease his tip, over your folds, then in them for a second, then back out. His hold on your ass gets stronger the more you tease his cock, which is getting an angrier red the longer you go on.

Eventually, you let his cock slap back against his stomach and get comfortable, brushing off his grasp and planting your hands in the middle of his chest. Lowering yourself until your folds rest on the underside of his shaft, Arthur's jaw drops in a crude breath and his hips buck forward helplessly. You can’t keep your eyes off him, but he misses it, his eyes glued to the ceiling as you skim your hips back and forth, cunt catching on every vein and ridge of his cock with every stroke.

Arthur starts repeating your name like a prayer and that does it for you. The wetness between the two of you is more than enough and you don’t think you can hold out on sinking down onto his cock much longer.

You reach down and get his cock into an upright position and don’t hesitate to take him until there’s nothing left to take. It’s a pleasant stretch, the type of pain you’ve grown to chase, which is a good thing with a man of Arthur’s size. Arthur lets out a loud, cursed moan, hands moving from where they’re fisted in the sheets to guiding your waist.

“Hush, Morgan,” You remind him, your own voice a little wrecked.

You start with a deep but slow pace, cunt dragging up and down his cock, supporting yourself with a hand on either side of Arthur’s head.

Managing your volume is a skill you had learned quickly when you joined the gang, the near constant close proximity to others making it a necessity. However, the bed is squeaking horrifically with every jolt and the sound of slapping skin is a dead giveaway.

Not to mention, Arthur isn’t faring well, your tits are in his with every thrust and his hands are restlessly moving from your back to your waist to your hips to your ass.��His touch is light as he lets you take what you want from him, but his groans are growing erratic.

You’re too aware that Molly’s a screamer, and, after a few drinks, Dutch is a little too forthcoming with his afflictions, so you can live with them hearing this. But, the look Hosea would give you is something you can’t stomach.

Arthur lets out a particularly guttural moan, followed by a confused one when you slow to pause and snatch the scarf from the bedside table.

“Open,” You command.

Arthur blinks up at you.

“Sorry, honey, but you’re going to wake the whole place up if we don’t,” You say.

A blush flares across his face, but he opens his lips, letting you place the material in his mouth.

“Okay?” You ask.

Arthur nods, gagged and eyes bleary. You commit the image to memory.

Leaning in close and placing a peck on his nose, you waste no time getting back to business, forearms resting either side of his head and hips going at a faster pace this time.

“But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You whisper, lips grazing his ear, “Having everyone hear us fucking. ‘Want to let Micah know how good you are for me, huh?”

Using his distaste towards Micah is dirty, but you’re not sure how much more you two will be able to get away with before someone hears, if they haven’t already. It’s an effective taunt too as Arthur’s breathing gets sharper and his thighs noticeably tremble under you.

You grab one of his hands from your ass and slide it around to your chest. He knows what you like and starts switching between cupping your breasts and pinching at your nipples, an acute pain that goes straight to your cunt. Knowing your close, you move one arm to rub at your clit, careful to keep steady.

Your climax is messy, underestimating both how soon and how powerful it would be, you mistime biting down on something and instead gasp and whine loudly.

The bed frame cries in protest as your bounces get fitful, but, at this point, if anyone’s awake, they know what’s happening, and you’re over it.

You tug the scarf from Arthur’s mouth and kiss him feverishly, something that tends to get him off quicker as you’ve come to learn. His hands abandon your ass to go to your shoulders, bringing you closer. Without him supporting your sides and in light of your recent orgasm, your thrusts turn sloppy, quick and shallow, his favourite.

Arthur hastily leaves the kiss. “I’m—”

He’s thrusting up into you and you know he's about to cum. “Hold on.”

You pull off his cock, receiving a groan in response. Your hand wraps around him, replacing your cunt as quickly as it had left. You jack him off until he’s back on the edge. His moans are open-mouthed and sharp and you cover his mouth with your other hand to muffle him, but hot, shallow whines continue to escape his nose. You mouth and nip at his jawline, stroking his cock between the two of you.

“Go on,” You say, your voice little more than a low, broken whine.

Like clockwork, cum splatters across your stomachs. A long groan vibrates through your palm, loud enough to be suspicious. You’re too captivated by his features in ecstasy to really acre. You milk him for all he’s got, some of his cum shooting higher and drooling into his chest hair. You don’t break eye contact or stop fondling him until he’s completely slack.

His eyes are worn and dewy, fingers tracing patterns on your thigh as he comes down as you mop the cum off the two of you with your ruined scarf.

“You’re amazing,” Arthur says, voice gruffer than usual.

“Are you sweet on me, Morgan?” You ask as you drop the cum-drenched scarf to the floor.

He grabs your waist, tugging you in for a kiss that’s too tender for what just happened. “Go to sleep, woman.”

You just smile and get under the blankets beside him. He scoops you closer, strong arms encasing you against his chest. His chin rests on top of your head and his heartbeat is clear as a bell under your ear.

You both drift off warm and easy after that, thoughts of survival not returning until daylight.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan imagine #rdr2 imagine #red dead redemption 2 imagine #writing*#*

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pinkanonwrites · 5 years

Note

First I wanna say, the way you write Mirio is *chefs kiss* perfect. Second, if you're still taking requests, could I request a scenario after the hideout raid where the reader visits Mirio in the hospital and in the process, confesses their feelings to him on accident because they were so worried about him?

oof. OOF. I LOVE THIS PROMPT GET READY FOR THE HONEY NUT FEELIOS

You were running to the hospital before they could even finish telling you what had happened.

Your brain had gone into tunnel vision the moment you heard the words ‘Mirio’ “hospital’ and ‘injured’ strung together in the same miserable sentence, practically flying out the door in your haste. Who cared if you were wearing two different flip flops? Who cared if your sweater was inside-out? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Only Mirio and his big stupid smile and his unwavering optimism and the way he laughed that made you go a bit weak in the knees mattered, and for all you knew you’d never hear that laugh again.

You were nearly in tears as the nurse led you through the corridors of the hospital, clinging to what little remained of your composure by a fraying thread. He could be in surgery, or bleeding out, or dying of organ failure or-

Or sitting cross-legged on his bed, looking over his shoulder and giving you the biggest grin.

You choked out a wail, tears pouring freely down your cheeks now. You stumbled to his bedside and practically collapsed into him, gripping his shirt so hard you could feel your fingers shaking.

“Whoa!” His arms reached to meet you, pulling you into an embrace. He patted your back as you sobbed, murmuring softly where his face was pressed into the top of your hair. “Hey, hey. It’s okay! It’s okay, I’m still here.”

“I thought you died!” You choked out.

“But I didn’t, did I?”

“But you could’ve!” He scooted over on the bed to give you some space to sit, and you did, still clinging like he would slip through your fingers the moment you let go. The emotions that you had kept tucked away for so, so long came crashing over you in endless waves, sending you into a tiring string of babble.

“I love you. I love you so much and I never told you. You could’ve died today and I never would’ve gotten the chance. You’d be gone and you’d never come back and I don’t want to be stuck in a world without you in it. You can’t go yet. You can’t.”

Mirio was dumbfounded as you continued to ramble into the fabric of his shirt. He never noticed. How did he never notice? It felt like a thousand little puzzle pieces clicking onto place at once in his brain; Times that Nejire insisted you train together more, times where he’d crack a smile and you’d turn red and he just couldn’t figure out why.

And Mirio was struck with the sudden and all-encompassing realization that he wouldn’t want to live in a world without you either.

“I’m sorry,” He murmured, unexpectedly serious pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “You must have been so scared.”

You whimpered, nodding gently. You were probably getting tears and snot all over his hospital clothes. You didn’t really care.

“But I’m still here! And you’re still here. And we’ve got each other.” You tried to shrink back as he cupped your tear-streaked face but he held you firm, pressing featherlight kisses to your cheeks and eyelids and mouth until you felt yourself fluster. He pulled back and gave you a beaming smile, pressing his forehead against yours.

“And we’re not going anywhere.”

#my hero academia #bnha imagines #mirio togata #scenarios #about time i posted something #it's been too long

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queenscrownpompts · 5 years

Note

Hi! Saw your link via itch- requesting please. :D I'll probably start spamming you, ahah. Noah's response to entering the bathchamber and finds his wife, the queen, busy doing up her hair in the mirror? Just some lovely domestic fluff. :3

Thank you for the prompt!! 8) Spam away my friend, I’m ready for duty!

Noah lets the chamber door slide to a quiet click behind him. The drapes still shielded the windows, leaving the shadows across the parquet intact. Sometime at the beginning, he’d had the dogged request that this room would be left to them alone before the day’s begin. No maids totting silver trays of tea, no ladies flinging the windows wide. Just the pair of them in the quiet of each other. And the non-quiet. On the happy occasion.

Soft humming floated across the empty mess of blankets on the bed from the bathchamber.

Noah dropped into a velvet chair and peeled off his boots. Flakes of dried morning mud fell onto the floor. He knew he drove not a few maids and courtiers and guards nutty, though most were too polite or too wary of the queen’s foreign prince consort to say anything. But it was hard to completely lose habits of his old life. His body still needed movement at dawn; his hands still needed the heft of some weapon.

He padded across the room, and the humming continued uninterrupted. She should train more. He told her so often, to which she smiled and gave him the same response that never failed to turn his stomach and flip his heart. Why? I’ll always have you here.

And she would. There was nothing in this world or the next that would keep him from her side.

Noah leaned in the bathchamber doorway. She sat before her little inlaid vanity, combing through her hair. On important court days, a flock of maids would hover about with oils and pins and perfumes, and their deft fingers would make a statuesque crown of the queen’s locks. He liked these days. They were rare, and he liked to see all the forms she held within her. Queen, daughter, wife. It was a never-ending puzzle to see her ebb and flow between different expressions, different identities. All contained in this own person.

Her hair was a particular creature of interest for him. From those elaborate courtly styles, to the sweaty tangles across their pillows. To the quiet mornings as she slipped an ivory comb through her hair, and her fingers plaited a simple arrangement for the day’s work before her.

She hummed idly. Unaware of him, her face revealed her wandering thoughts. Her mind arranged the tasks before her and all the people who would occupy her time. She hummed as an afterthought– and he surprised himself. It was a common thing these days, but it always, always caught him unaware. He ached deep in his chest, deep in the darkest and quietest part of himself. The part he kept concealed and safe but for a few.

Noah went to her. She saw him now, in the reflection of her mirror. She smiled. His stockings felt the warmth of the floorboards as he stood behind her stool. She leaned back into him, the lines of her back fitting into his chest like a beloved habit. He took the comb from her fingers and laid it down.

“I happen to need that,” she said, a thread of warm coiling in her voice.

He said nothing, and pressed a kiss into the top of her head. Her scent enveloped him. Another of those innumerable little things that occupied him constantly– every moment of every day.

His fingers– large and thick to the delicacy of her ears and jaw– swept her hair away, and he bent further down to rest his lips into the curve of her neck. She sighed, and he understood. It was a relief always to feel their skin touch. They were each other’s comfort.

Her fingers found his resting on her shoulder, and she pulled his hand forward. The warm velvet of her cheek pressed against the tangle of the hands and her eyes fluttered closed. They paused there in the silence of their space and the time they held together alone. Sharing in their touch.

She kissed his knuckles. He smiled, and took the comb back. She watched him in the mirror as he gently ran it through her locks.

#queen'scrownvn #noah #fluff #first prompt!!! ayoo i'm so excited #thank you!!

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theharellan · 6 years

Text

Not a Beast at All

repost of a thread written on @theshirallen‘s old blog, the first thread set in ian and solas’s beauty & the beast verse. unfinished, but updates will post in thread tag when they’re written.

solas

He’s armed with naught but a hot bowl of water and a towel, hands shaking as he contemplates what he must do. No, what he should do.

A wiser person might turn tail and flee, leave the wolf to bleed out on the floor of his own castle, but he cannot. Not when the only the beast is the only reason he still stands. His hands tighten around the towel, drops of moisture dripping onto the floor, knuckles going a ghostly white. He forces a breath, catching the sticky scent of blood in the air, and draws a few paltry words to his lips.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice soft. If he closes his eyes and ignores the harsh, staggered breaths he can almost pretend he’s speaking to Teldirthalelan, having caught itself on a bramble on a morning ride. “I can help.” Healing magic has never been his strength, but the herbs tucked under his arm will supplement what his hands cannot heal. They had been left upon a table, otherwise empty, as if waiting for him, but by now he had learned his questions will only be answered by an echo.

His heart hammers against his ribcage, his good sense pleading that he run. He ignores it, and takes a few steps forward to stand at the beast’s side. Fear threatens to blight the atmosphere around him, but he pushes past, maintaining a false sense of security that might keep the creature from taking his hand off. It hums with the familiar, warm fires and hot baths, the feeling of hands threading through his hair– all feelings a wild beast may not be able to relate to, but may lend to a feeling of comfort, so that he may keep his hands.

“I promise.”

the beast

He’s dying.

Or maybe he isn’t, but it feels like he is. He almost hopes that he is.

Breathing comes in labored heaves, each exhale leaves him trembling, disturbs the wounds he has been so careful to protect.

This is not the first time he’s been injured, though it never grows more pleasant. It hurts, and he’s probably going to die. This time, surely. He’s cold all over, all his warmth leaving him to pool against the stone in thick, dark puddles.

He hears the footfalls before the voice, and fear coils in his aching gut, tightening in unbearable urgency as his ears flatten against his skull. Soft words, crooning, gentle. Their intention is understood, even if their exact meaning eludes him. The elf is trying to calm the beast, to sooth the monster so that it does not rise to finish what the forest had begun.

One word lands clearly: help. Said…differently than he has heard it, but he hasheard it before. People screamed it when they caught sight of him, shouted it into the wind before they fled. But this elf speaks it softly, like an offering, and the meaning is understood.

The meaning is understood, but he opens his eyes, wary of the approach. Hesitance slows the elf, though his feet fall in a determined way, and the beast opens his mouth in soundless protest, baring teeth in warning–as though he could ever use them. He can’t, wouldn’t, but no one knows that save for himself. He bares his teeth in warning, heaving his corpse from the floor. His retreat is desperate, agonized and clumsy, ruined leg dragging achingly behind him. Two steps, maybe three, and he has fallen.

The roll of his eyes is wild, fearful, but he cannot lift himself again. The elf’s approach brings with him hands, and hands the beast fears most of all. Hands are heavy, carry weapons, sling stones. But… But hands can fall soft, pushing to tuck hair behind pointed ears, weaving ribbons into braids.

The beast’s breathing eases by a margin, and he remains where he has fallen, and he watches as water drips from the wringing of a towel.

solas

White teeth flash and halt his approach, breath catching in his throat. They are still stained by bear’s blood, bared as if reminding him how small a threat he is.

A chill ghosts up his spine, pricking his skin with gooseflesh, and he contemplates again the prospect of running. Perhaps tell the town his tale, how he had slain the beast– oh, how they would cheer. Somehow, the prospect is less palatable than having his arm snapped off. When he steps forward again, the beast moves, but away from him, limping one, two– by the third its paw slips forward and he crashes to the floor. Haggard breath so loud that Solas cannot hear his own sharp inhales, but a thought hits him louder than the creature’s labored breathing: it fears him, perhaps as keenly as he fears it.

Solas lets out a breath he’s been holding, arm falling to his side. The front of his shirt is dark where he had clutched the towel to his chest, and every errant wind cuts him to the bone. “Moving will only exacerbate your injuries,” he explains, as if it will help.

He closes the distance between them before he has the chance to doubt again, dropping to his knees beside the beast as soft as his trembling allows. The bowl is set aside, clicking against the floor, as his fingers lift to comb through his hairs. Melted snow crowns him, dead leaves still tangled between auburn strands from his attempted flight from the castle. He does not bother to pluck them out as he twists his hair into a bun.

“Please, try not to take off my arm,” he says, lifting the towel from the bowl and wringing it. “It will render your heroics in the woods pointless.”

He places his hand upon the beast, first, brushing his fingers through fur not matted by blood or dirt. When his hand remains firmly attached to his wrist, he braces himself, readying the cloth. “This will sting, but it won’t hurt,” he says in a hushed whisper. The warning is followed by the cloth, damp and warm, pressed firmly against where the bears claws had caught the wolf’s leg.

the beast

The elf kneels, and the beast’s breathing grows shallow, trying to keep the heave of his side from closing the distance between them. He pushes, trying to pull himself up again, to retreat, knowing that even if he manages to drag himself another step, the wall behind him will pin him. He lacks the agility needed to circle back to open space. Even as his weight shifts to his front feet he falls, and where he falls, he lays.

He lays, twisting his head as he watches with wide eyes as the elf ties back tangled hair. His lips curl back as fingers extend.

Don’t touch me.

Don’t–

The touch at his flank is gentle, smoothing fur along its grain, and beneath his skin muscles jump and writhe, instinct pleading with him to try once more at dragging himself away. Streaks of mud and blood along the stone floor mark the path to where he’s fallen, and he knows–the elf seems to know too–that another attempt will worsen his pain. Surrender comes with a sigh, his head falling to land against his front paws. His exhales are marked by soft whimpers–if he cannot frighten himself to safety, perhaps he can beg.

Warm cloth is pressed against his open wound, and his head swivels away, protesting the sharp sensation with a yelp, unwilling and unable to quiet his protests, to still the thrash of his leg as he tries to prevent further discomfort.

Why bother? Why tend to the injury of something so monsterous?

He doesn’t understand.

The elf fears him–he has seen it in his hesitance, in the way he waits for a strike to rebut his advances. Why, then, does he linger, pressing warm cloth against a weeping wound?

solas

The skin beneath his hand twitches, as if his fingers are knives that cut into its skin. Black lips pull back, lupine face twisted fiercely, but the threat doesn’t feel as real. Perhaps it is his head, always in the clouds, too foolish to see the teeth bared at him as a threat. Somehow, he cannot bring himself to see it, pity welling in the places of his heart fear had reined over before.

In his hands the cream-coloured cloth soaks up the weeping wounds, ‘til it almost glows crimson. He dabs at the wound until it will take no more water then dips another in the bowl (he does not even notice that he picked up only one, that a pile of clean cloths sat, as if anticipating his lack of foresight). The beast, to its credit, resigned itself to its fate. It whines like a child, long tail adhering to its back legs, its every angle displaying its discomfort in no uncertain terms.

His other hand continues to smooth its fur. The feeling is far from pleasant, its coat damp from the snow, as riddled with dirt as his is with leaves. He muses that if any soul were brave enough to bathe it, it might look quite handsome. When the fur parts he catches sight of a red undercoat, colours he thought not to see in this castle. Another towel is set aside, not so stained as the last, as the wound ceases its bleeding.

In the air he can feel the sound of questions without answers, and assumes they are his own. Even in his fright, he felt them. When there was nothing stood between him and death but it, he wondered. If not hunger, then what? The questions are borne anew as he works, never quite passing his lips, but shaping his shape. He presses the questions into the beast’s wounds, the sounds in his head urging the wolf’s body to quicken the process it had already been fighting to begin. Beneath his palms he can feel the skin come together, the edges hardening to a crystalline-like edge.

Memories it cannot hope to understand are poured into the gash, of hands pressed against a skinned knee, and the wonder in the eyes of someone who had not realised yet how small his world was. And questions, so many questions: about this castle, about this beast, about himself, questions that hurry to heal the wound so that he might find answers.

the beast?

His surrender washes over him, and he lays in the heap he had fallen into. Keening creeps past his teeth, plaintive pleas to be left alone, before the hands that are so gentle at his thigh change their intention into something more sinister while he lies helpless.

But the fear he tastes is more his own than anything, and that is years of unfamiliar. He’s so used to choking on the fear he inspires, the fear that freezes the hearts of those who see him. When was the last time someone dared to come so close? His own heart drums in his ears, discordant with the sound of another heartbeat–running apace even in the absence of sharp-tasting fear. Soft touches push through his mud-matted pelt and serve to distract him from the stinging dabs at his wounds. His injured leg jolts and quivers, aching through the attentions. He shuts his eyes, disliking the sight of piling towels, saturated with his own blood.

The touch at his gashed thigh changes, and magic sparks the air. The stinging of his wound lessens, flesh drawing together, and his tail thumps in the narrow range it might, curled tight yet against his knees. Distraction deepens, the world around him heavy with queries he cannot quite parse, and memories of tender attentions blur in the haze of his thoughts. Memories that are not his own, but carry with them familiar tones, soft comforts.

Don’t cry, child. It’s only a splinter. I get them, too. I know it hurts. I know they aren’t fun. Let me see it. Let me help. Give me your hand.

It had been the truth–pain, and then relief, lips pressed to a shallow pit in the heel of his thumb, murmured reassurances closing the gap as he had watched with tear-blurred eyes.

The magic at his wound works swiftly, muscle and skin knitting back together in a tight, knotted way.

His eyes open, head and torso twisting around, movement restricted, stiff, pushing his nose closer to his wound. Hands pin his injured leg, but he only wants to see–magic like this is different, but he remembers a mother kissing healing into tattered skin, and what should have taken weeks to mend might be set right in a matter of moments.

solas

A nervous smile cracks his lips, the high-pitched whines are those of an animal, but he feels a familiar kinship in them. The same kinship he might feel with his hart when its antlers tangled in his mother’s laundry. This is a more serious situation, the bears claws had raked deep, though with the blood cleared it does not look nearly so daunting. “I know it hurts,” he hums. “But it won’t forever.”

What does a beat know of forever, he wonders? The animals they keep at home live one moment to the next, always concerned with the immediate, which he supposed is a forever in its own right. Still, he burns with questions, questions a sharp-toothed mouth can never hope to answer. “Why did you save me?” he voices it anyway, the magic in his hands glowing brighter at the sound. Possibilities harden the wound that wept moments ago, the distant hope of finding answers healing broken skin.

A thought that isn’t his own strikes him, soft and yet shocking, as if someone had slapped him with a pillow. He breathes in sharply, straightening to glance over his shoulder at an empty room. On the mantle a porcelain cat that he’s sure wasn’t there before sits, empty eyes glinting at him, but no person. Only himself, and the creature before him. A chill skims his spine, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that they are being observed.

The beast’s twisting distracts him, and in his surprise his hands jerk away from the wound. Where his palms had been a thin scab has formed, not quite what it should be, and when no teeth sink into his wrist, he returns to his work. “Fascinated, are we?” he asks, a tremor wavering what otherwise would have sounded like teasing.

Shock ebbs from his being, melting onto the floor with the snow that they had both dragged in. Where it ebbs, curiosity flows, and the questions come quicker than they did before. Through the small wonders and idle fancies, one sings stronger than the rest, too persistent to pour into his spells and leave it be, but too foolish to speak aloud.

The question is asked in memories half-formed, an answer suggested rather than demanded, as a woman crouches over an unseen child, hair spilling down her back. His mother, but also a stranger’s, her features hidden, awaiting another’s impression to fill in details deliberately withheld, as elvhen minds are wont to do.

the beast?

The question of why hangs heavy in the air, humming through the same soft, soothing tones one might use to calm a fretful steed, or a frightened infant. He knows that tone, the one used when words are not expected to be understood and the speaking is meant only to mitigate the sharp taste of fear that overwhelms the atmosphere.

He knows it from long, long ago.

And he has an answer, hovering in the haze beneath his own fears, his pain. He has an answer, and he shifts his attentions to it with great concentration, pushing his thoughts beyond his discomforts, knowing he will not be heard. How can he be, when the elf recoils from his shift, from the sight of blood-streaked teeth moving closer to his hands?

He had only meant to see. To follow. The forest is full of dangers, dangers he has had time to learn as he makes his home within this ruined castle. And the elf had fled in such fear, worrying more about the beast at his heel than the forest he risked in his flight. And he had followed, knowing. The beast fears bears, fears most things. It had been terrifying, to leap between the bear and the elf, but he knows his size, had hoped…had hoped the bear might fear him the way that most things do. He had hoped that fear would be enough, had not realized that in fear bears respond much the way that everyone does.

Another keen passes his lips, and he rolls his face away, eyes closing as his form shudders, the memory of blows as present and real as though he has only just been struck. The elf’s words wobble, trying to hold their lightness as his fears creep back into the cadence of his speech.

Curiosity rises like a wave, splashing over cold fear in insistent, repetitive pulses until the fear is worn like a stone upon a shore. Smaller, less sharp. Present, but mundane. A question rises, different than the first. Probing and hesitant, as though the elf finds its consideration foolish. He doesn’t know, doesn’t really suspect, but he wonders, and while his hands return to their task–another sting, a quiet yelp–he summons the thought of a concept. Something familiar to him, but…

An empty canvas, a blank page. Recognizable in emotion, in scene–but not something a beast might see. To a beast, what is a mother? To this beast, she is not so unlike this empty form, this question waiting to be filled.

Not so unlike, but then…

He doesn’t remember her hair ever loosed from its knots. But no, he’d pulled it once. He remembers that, so it must have been down before she took to tying it far from his reach. He remembers too, the way she knelt so that their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet if he could look up, and when she smiled it changed the shape of her face. Her whole face was her smile, creases folding at her eyes until they almost vanished, her lips pulled wide to bare her teeth. Not the way his teeth bare now, but soft, kind. Trying.

Something in his stomach twists. Guilt, sorrow. Aching. He cries again, a different sound for a different pain.

solas

What Solas sees is as plain as day: a beast with teeth the length of his palms, who knows nothing of people, save for the taste of their blood. What he senses, however, is… not so simply explained.

He feels the expected, to an extent. The fear and apprehension, both his own and the wolf’s, still lingers. The threat of harm persists, bitter in the air, even if they seem to have reached an armistice. Solas has seen its fear before in dogs that flee from thunder that shakes the heaven, or in his own steed when he had laid eyes upon the beast. But there is more in the atmosphere than this fear and his own questions, thoughts that do not quite solidify, impressions of memories. His own shape, stumbling through knee-deep snow, and the taste of cold air upon his gums as his lips draw back to bare white fangs.

His heart jumps, and he almost pulls one hand to his mouth before he sees the blood that coats his fingers. His tongue darts out, instead, tasting his own cut where the ice had split his lip open– but no sharp teeth.

Cold creeps up his spine, his heart coming to realisations his mind is not yet ready to define.

But the thought he had pushed forward without detail, the disguised question too foolish to ask aloud, is grasped as though by unseen eyes. Colour drains from the picture, like rain against a windowpane, the hair that spills down the woman’s back turning pale. Paler than his mother’s, even now that it has gone white. The face that turns to smile at him is foreign, even if the emotions she evokes are familiar. As Solas wraps his mind around the thought, his patient shrinks beneath his palms. The sound that tears from its throat is not borne of pain or fear, but something less base. A raw shame that comes from within.

Solas pulls his hands from its skin, his breath caught in his throat. The question drums louder now, still foolish, but stronger. Suddenly the word “beast” does not settle so easily in his mind, and he cannot say how he should refer to what– who– lies before him.

“You…” He stops, swallowing his own words, not speaking again until he can string together a coherent question. “You are no true beast, are you?”

the beast

Hands withdraw from his shaking flank, and the beast heaves with the sound of his aching. The question posed lingers in the air, and he feels its intent more clearly than he hears it–the words are lost in a foggy murk, a language he does not yet possess mastery of obscuring his understanding.

He feels the question, feels the intent penetrate his bones and spark something within their marrow. It feels like hope, if he were so inclined to trust it.

He does not answer the question, merely heaves himself away. Away, back to three feet and a dragging flank, circling away from the elf with what little dignity he might muster. The knuckles of his paw scrape against the stone floor, each grooved dip sending spasms through his wounded thigh, and he can feel the fresh-formed scab crack and falter when movement forces it to yield. He drags himself away, until space exists between himself and the elf, until his bulk blocks the heat of a sudden-roaring fire in an unattended pit. His head hangs low, nose swaying between his forepaws as his tail thumps plaintively against his ankles.

He’s afraid to look up. He fears looking up, when their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet, and that would answer the question that has so charged the atmosphere. It might–except…except.

His eyes are still those of a beast. His tail against his ankles. His nose between his paws. Their eyes might meet, and his might betray him, and the hope that sparks within his marrow might be smothered as quickly as it had been birthed. He has had enough pain, tonight. He does not think that he could shoulder this, too. Hope, destroyed, will be more agonizing than had it never existed. Another whine, soft and plaintive, sneaks past his teeth.

He gives no answer, merely places space between them. He is too afraid to offer more.

But they are not alone, and where he fails to offer confirmation, the castle rises to do so in his stead. Atop the mantle behind him, he hears the soft, chiming steps of porcelain paws as the cat begins to pace. She does not speak–she is no more inclined to words than he is, now–but she moves, and in moving, she makes herself known.

Across the room, brass sings in the doorway. Sings as the rabbit shifts, paws retreating from where they had braced against the heavy oak.

“There, now. What did I tell you?” They hum, with no effort to hide their delight. It reverberates through his chest, and he lifts his head to watch as they shift, stretching their paws ahead of them before their hind end catches up in a lopsided bounce. As they step away from the door, it begins a slow swing inward, ready to rest against its latch without their weight to prop it open. They hop forward again, more balanced now, before turning to look over their shoulder.

“Excuse you.” The door freezes in its swing, half-open in a sheepish sort of way. The brass rabbit thumps one foot, and their nose wiggles in an aggravated sort of way, but the door yields no further than this. They sigh past their teeth and surrender, seemingly satisfied with half a victory. “I told you he was a clever one, didn’t I? Settle back down, Rosebud. You’re bleeding, again.”

Their words are lost in the same foggy muddle, but their intention is woven clearly into the air around him, and they gesture with both their front paws, in clear instruction. He yields, ears tossed back a little resentfully as he carefully lowers himself to the stones–glad of the warmth at his back as he curls to examine the cracked scab of his injury.

“He isn’t trying to be obtuse.” The rabbit hops closer again, drawing level with the stained water bowl, pawing through the saturated towels in search of a clean one. “I think he’s from very far away. We aren’t speaking a language he knows well–except for what people yell when they chase him off. I’ve been teaching him some, but you’ll have to be patient.”

solas

Solas doesn’t expect a verbal response. He seeks a nod of the head, a wag of its tail, or nothing, even that would help him make sense of the questions swirling in his head. It– they– shrink from him, however, curling pathetically just beyond his reach. The memory that had begun to form dissipates in an instant, and he is left in a torrent of his own thoughts. Unseen walls rise between them, windows shuttered against a storm, and he leans forward on his hands, trying to see past the paws that obscure their face.

“I’m trying to understand,” he presses, frustration sharpening his plea. “I know the face of every woman in my life.” Day in and day out, the same faces, the same people, the same tasks. Today was the first day in his life he had truly felt alive. “Iknow it was not I who thought of her, and if not me…” Then who? Who else but them?

His doubt ebbs, and he remembers questions not his own perched upon his lips. They are not asked with the same curiosity, but sound like weapons. He tries to answer them, pick words out of the pain, but they turn to high-pitched whines in his head. Lips part with intent to answer, only to be cut off by the tinkling of porcelain against stone. His eyes flit up, and painted eyes catch his gaze, then hold it. “I–” Rather than answers, he finds only more questions. They stick in his throat, hoarsely wondering if he was still outside, passed out in the snow. The fire that roars to life, heat licking his cheeks, suggests otherwise.

Ears flick back, and he tears his eyes from the cat to turn towards the door. Another creature stands in the door, made of brass rather than porcelain. Its every movement creaks, elongated ears turning every which way. Solas’s mouth hangs open, and can only watch as it approaches his patient, its very form humming with affection. The sound of metal wings flutter fast behind, as a glass peacock enters, wings spread in hopes of catching a pocket of air. “I thought we had agreed to wait.” It spreads its tail, shapes swirling in meditative twirls that distract from its terse tone. “Give him a moment to answer.”

Solas chokes on his words, even as the rabbit turns to address him with black-bright eyes. Finally, he manages a single word, the least of his questions, but it will do: “Rosebud?”

“A nickname, their idea,” the peacock hums, and the air trills with the sound of its own ideas (names that had not quite stuck). “He is as much a mystery to us as you are.” A comment that comes with meaning deeper than its words, images of a stranger trespassing into safe haven, disrupting the balance it had struggled to bring to this derelict castle.

He. The word strikes Solas suddenly, and he looks back at the wolf-shaped person collapsed by the fire. “So he is no beast.” Though who he is remains to be seen. Whatever he is, whoever he is, one thing is certain. “I would be dead, were it not for you,” he says in a low tone, addressing him and him alone. “Thank you, for saving me.”

the beast

“I did wait.” The rabbit protests, amusement clear as they continue to paw through the soiled rags. They produce one that is almost clean, and they move to push the towel into the elf’s hands, making some attempt at an encouraging expression–no easy feat, with bucked brass teeth. “Here. Try again.”

The beast’s ears cant back, flat against his skull as his legs fold and he lowers himself to the stone floor. It’s cold against his belly, but the fire at his back sends splashes of warmth across his fur. When he trembles now, it has less to do with the snow that drips from damp-clumped fur and more to do with the fear that tightens his gut.

The brass rabbit bounces past, metallic music following in the wake of their paws, and the beast curls, whimpering as the movement tugs half-mended muscles. His nose brushes against the thin scab of his injury, and the scent of blood is harsh against a shallow inhale.

The air in the room takes on a different atmosphere, warmer in ways the fire has not touched. The brass rabbit brings a sense of safety, and the cat that paces on the mantle exudes honesty. From the doorway, calm washes in waves alongside the glass peacock. It settles the beast, who breathes easier–still ragged, still shallow, but easier–and who pulls back from the gash upon his thigh to lay his head against his front feet.

The elf is left to react as well as he might to realizing that a lonely, darkened room has grown suddenly quite crowded and bright. The beast can hear him stumbling over confusion, can feel his questions and incredulities rise and scatter as one certainty takes hold. The atmosphere changes again with his surety, fear losing footholds from his heart. The beast watches him, muzzle pressed against the back of his paws, with ears perked attentively. Gratitude–sincere enough to be felt, to stir affectionate purrs from the porcelain cat–shapes his words. The beast responds with a sigh, pushed slowly through his nose as his tail stirs dust where it thuds against the floor.

He looks up without lifting his face, hesitant in his hope, and allows their eyes to meet.

solas

“Whoever claimed love is patience has clearly never met you,” the peacock says, whistling through a glass beak, its voice somehow fond and frustrated. Fire casts light upon an unfurled tail, moving the coloured shapes like water in sunlight. Solas’s eyes snap to the rabbit, whose lifeless eyes seem to soften under his gaze. he takes the rag in-hand, twisting it between them, the ornament’s suggestion seeming like advice for how to lose a hand. “He means no harm,” hums the peacock, though Solas cannot tell if he speaks of his saviour– or him.

“I don’t suppose you speak,” he wonders to the wolf-shaped boy. “I would like to know your name.” Something tells him ‘Rosebud’ is not the answer. His name feels like a path ruined by a fallen tree, or a bridge broken by a flood. It comes to Solas like a forgotten memory, nagging at the back of his mind. “My name is Solas.”

It is not the name his mother gave him, but the name he chose when he was old enough to know himself. He speaks it now, proud of its meaning, though not to proud to ask questions. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much he assumed. Glass wings squeak against the peacocks body, and he swears he hears laughter barely contained behind its beak. “With that name, you will fit in well, here,” it says. “I am Peace, and they–” A stiff gesture towards the rabbit, “are Love.”

Rather than give him comfort, their names make him wonder if he will be the next ornament in this castle. The thought does not land with as much panic is it likely should, the sound of glass feet upon a hard floor ring like wind chimes, and his heart settles before it truly quickens.

His saviour’s ears perk, the aggression (fear, it was fear) in his stance giving way to something more approachable. Whatever these people had brought with them, it was doing him good. Solas wets the towel in water, then wrings it, before he tries again. “It may still hurt,” he warns, stronger now that he knows his patient can understand language, even if it isn’t the same he speaks. Gently, he presses against the offending wound, magic doing as it will. Possibilities mend the skin together where movement had cracked it, names common and fanciful that might suit the night’s hero. He pours into the wound the minutes he has lived since he was saved, the moments he will live because of him.

#v; ha'era la melava ( beauty & the beast )#not a beast at all ( thread )#theshirallen

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