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cowboyshit · 3 years

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Only for the Holidays (pt 3)

Ship: Adam “Hangman” Page and Ivy (OFC) Summary: Adam and Ivy cross paths at a mutual friend’s holiday party and hit it off, both admitting they’ve grown tired of constantly being asked about having a partner at the various holiday events they have to attend. They come to an agreement to pretend to date for the holidays to get their friends and family off their backs, but neither of them admit that they’ve had an attraction to each other from the beginning. Will these feelings come to a head? Or will the pair be able to stick to their original plan and only get through the holidays together? Rating: general/fluff Length: 5,484 words part THREE of THREE (part one, part two), the fic can also be read in it’s entirety on ao3 (here)

author’s note: and alas! the final installment of this little fake-dating series I wrote for viv’s @12daysofchristmas challenge! I hope you guys enjoy the finale to this sweet little story, it was nice to write something so warm and fluffy for the holidays even if I was writing it all by the seat of my pants and didn’t have anything planned LOL

Ivy’s phone chimed, indicating a new text message had come through. Pausing in wrapping the last of the gifts she had left, she leaned over and grabbed it to look at the screen. There was a new text message from Adam. A smile immediately turned the corners of her mouth and she quickly opened their text conversation.

How’s your voice doing?

She laughed and immediately tapped out a reply. Better. I actually have one today!

She had lost her voice while screaming at the live Dynamite show his friends invited her to a couple days ago. She’d never been one of the kids who watched wrestling growing up and knew only vaguely what it was about, but she’d had an even better time than she expected. The show they’d put on was fast and full of stunts and surprises Ivy would have never expected. They’d also been absolutely right about it being fun to watch ringside, though she’d had to fight through nerves any time the camera men pointed those large cameras her way. She’d screamed so much by the time she woke up the next morning she’d all but lost her voice.

Watching Adam perform in the ring had been something else entirely. The things he was able to do astonished her. He had to explain what all the moves were called after the match as she excitedly babbled backstage, but he’d seemed like he was glowing when he had. Her favorite had been the “flippy thing he did in the middle” (the shooting star press) and the “flippy thing he did off the pole” (the moonsault off the ring post). She liked the way his blond curls fluffed out and floated, catching the white lights that lit the ring as he maintained control and soared through the air. The athleticism and strength he possessed was amazing. She remembered her delighted surprise when he caught his opponent mid-leap, carried him to the center of the ring, tossed him over and popped up in a smooth kip up that had her eyes gone wide. She’d seen his muscles when she caught herself admiring him, but she hadn’t realized just how strong he was.

Her phone chimed again and distracted her from daydreaming about watching him shirtless and sweaty, getting riled up in the ring. She felt suddenly warm and blushed, looking down at his message.

What are you up to tonight?

They’d been doing this a lot lately. Just texting idly throughout their days, even though her family party wasn’t until tomorrow night. It had started with her asking questions about what to wear to a wrestling show and him giving her details for where she’d need to go, but they always sort of fell into carrying the conversation beyond that. He was just… easy to talk to.

Easy on the eyes, too.

Ivy shook her head at herself and sent him a reply. Wrapping up the last of the gifts to take over tomorrow night.

Oh shoot, was I supposed to get something for your mom?

Ivy couldn’t help but smile. You’re a brand new “boyfriend” she’s never met before, remember? She doesn’t even know about your existence, you don’t have to get her anything. Besides, the family does a big gift exchange cause there’s too many people to individually buy for, and you and I have a joint gift I already bought.

What did we get for the gift exchange? Another quick reply. The notifications were popping up that he read her message as soon as she sent it, which meant he had their conversation actively open.

Ivy opened her camera app and snapped a picture of the still-to-be-wrapped box set full of all the tools necessary to make delicious hot cocoa, as well as peppermint bark, a little bottle of peppermint schnapps and one of chocolate liqueur. She sent the picture to him and typed: A giftset to make spiked hot cocoa!

What are the rules on getting your own gift in the gift exchange? That sounds good. Never spiked my cocoa with peppermint before.

Ivy’s fingers jumped quick to type her message: Really? I don’t do it often since I just like cocoa by itself, but it’s pretty tasty! I’ll have to make it for you some time. She clicked send before reading it back over, then looked at the message and felt her eyes go wide. She should make it for him sometime? When? When they were at her family’s big gettogether, pretending to date so her family wouldn’t make her feel bad for being single? Or when they supposedly “broke up” a few weeks later?

His reply didn’t come back as immediately as the others did. Worry twisted in her stomach.

That would be nice, I’d like that. His reply chimed back. He was just being polite, obviously. She sent a little smiling emoji in reply and closed their conversation, setting her phone aside as she decided to distract herself by finishing wrapping up gifts. After, she could pick what she’d be wearing tomorrow night to the party. Of course she’d been silly to think she could avoid catching some sort of feelings, even a passing infatuation for a cute, sweet, blond-haired cowboy. He clearly hadn’t (she remembered his playful promise that they wouldn’t fall for each other) and she wasn’t going to make him uncomfortable by pursuing something he clearly didn’t feel.

When her phone stayed dark and no further messages came through to carry on their conversation, Ivy knew she was right.

**********

He’d already been nervous the whole day leading up to when he was going to pick Ivy up at her place, but seeing her coming out of the house in her pretty red holiday dress made his mouth go dry. He was a step behind climbing out of the cab to go around and pop the door open for her like a gentleman ought to, too caught up with staring at her walk down the steps of her porch. His fingers curled around the handle as she waited by the passenger side of his truck, rocking a little in her heels. Her smile picked up as she thanked him for opening her door. Adam smiled, but still had to look away from her for a moment.

She was so damn pretty… but it wasn’t just physical. Something had changed for him that night she came out to see him wrestle. He’d felt different in the ring. More energized. He hadn’t been able to stop grinning as he watched her excitedly talk about everything she’d liked afterwards. He’d asked her question after question just to keep her talking. Adam made her tell him everything she liked and didn’t like about the entire night and had laughed as he explained what the different lingo meant. They’d ordered late night food to Daily’s Place and stayed up talking with each other and sometimes with the other wrestlers who were still lingering about.

The next morning he woke up and he missed her. None of this was fake, not any more. Not for him, anyways. Her promise to make him spiked hot cocoa sometime had sat on his mind all night, and it popped up again as he climbed back into the cab and pulled away from the curb. Was it a joke he wasn’t supposed to look too far into? Was she just being nice? Or was that her way of telling him she thought they should keep seeing one another?

This night, her family’s party, was meant to be the last time they were technically together. Every minute that ticked by was one more they wouldn’t have… unless she liked him the way he liked her. Adam just needed to find the right time to ask her. Maybe he’d wait until after the party, he thought, glancing over at her and smiling as she checked her lipstick in the visor mirror. Yeah, that sounded fair. They’d have a good time tonight and in a week or so, he’d reach out and see how she was and find some way to bring it up, even if every time he thought about how much he liked her he got butterflies in his stomach and felt like his tongue swelled up.

She gave him the last of the directions and he slowed his truck as they pulled up to a country home set on at least a good acre of land. The large two-story home was glowing warm out its many windows and was strung up in pretty, twinkling lights. When he parked, he noticed just how many cars were around them.

“Your family really doesn’t mess around, huh?” She’d warned him that her family went all out for the holidays, all the generations rotating households for hosting each year. This year just so happened to be the year her parents were hosting.

“They really don’t,” she said with a laugh as they walked side-by-side up the walkway leading to the porch. Automatic, Adam’s hand reached and curled around hers. She slid her eyes toward him and then smiled and looked at all the cars they were passing, starting to mutter to herself who all had already showed up.

“These are all your relatives?” Adam wasn’t unfamiliar with big family gatherings - his entire upbringing had been Sunday lunches at his grandma’s with all the family in attendance - but he hadn’t anticipated this many people.

“Yeah,” she laughed. “Grandma and Grandpa had eleven kids and each of those kids has gotten married and has kids and every one of their kids except for one have had their own kids. Hell, there’s even a new great-grandbaby this year.”

“Wow,” Adam laughed and shook his head, walking up the porch steps and feeling his nerves rise inside.

“The only one who hasn’t had grandkids?” She asked as they stopped in front of the door, her brow arching. “My mom. Because I haven’t had any, and neither has my brother. So… just be ready in case she decides the first time meeting you is the right moment to start slipping baby name ideas to you.”

Adam chuckled. “Thank you for the warning.”

“Alright, brace yourself.” She smiled and turned the knob to open the large wood door with its pretty glass-front window design.

Immediately there was warmth and laughter and underneath the mix of chatter was the soft sounds of low-volume classic Christmas music. String lights hung around the home offered lovely soft yellow lighting, with red ribbons and garland all around. It was beautiful enough to be seen on television, or so Adam thought. As he looked around the living area he tried to picture it without the holiday decorations, the home Ivy grew up in. What kind of kid had she been? Was she bold and adventurous or careful and shy? He looked over at her profile and realized their hands were still clasped.

The nearest people greeted Ivy as she passed and she only took her hand from his to give hugs, catching up with quick questions of how everyone was doing and introducing Adam as they went. By the time he met the sixth or seventh person he realized he was already getting names mixed up. Adam cursed himself and glanced back from where they’d came, squinting as he looked at the faces he’d seen and trying to remember what had been said when they’d been introduced to him not even a minute ago.

“There you are sweetheart! Come here!” A jovial looking woman, short with round hips and waves of gold-blond hair came toward Ivy with open arms. She grabbed her up in a hug and squeezed her tight, even though Ivy groaned.

“Mom! You act like you haven’t seen me in years!” She complained.

“Oh like your mom can’t shower you in love every time you see her.” Her mother shook her head as she pulled away, only then seeming to notice Adam. Her eyes went wide. “Who’s this?” She looked back at Ivy for an explanation.

“My name’s Adam, ma’am.” Adam knew when and how to lay on the charm and he’d promised Ivy he’d be the perfect so-called boyfriend to keep her mother off her back. He extended a hand for a polite shake.

“Mom, this is my…” Ivy and Adam’s eyes met. Her expression softened. “My boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Her mom echoed, still holding on to Adam’s hand as she looked from her daughter back to him. “Well! Has he met everyone yet? Did you get him something to drink? What do you want sweetheart? We have eggnog, homemade!” And, still holding on to his hand, Ivy’s mom started to drag him away, ignoring Ivy’s protests that she was introducing him slowly to the family and they’d make their way to the kitchen eventually.

Ivy hadn’t been kidding when she said her family - and her mother - could be a little overwhelming. Although rather than leaving him anxious and strung tight, it was that good kind of overwhelming that instead had him dizzy with warmth and love. Adam was dragged around the house, introduced to everyone he hadn’t met yet (and even those he had) as Ivy followed and kept trying to get her mother to relinquish her hold on him in between apologizing for her mother’s behavior. Truthfully, Adam was struggling to hold back a smile. She was cute, concerned and fussing over him like that, putting those big, pleading eyes on his as she begged him to just hold out a little bit longer.

Finally their trip rounded them back in a circle where her mother was beckoned from the kitchen to help set up more snack trays. Adam and Ivy were left alone (relatively, of course, he noticed there were people grouped throughout the living area) and as they met one another’s eyes he widened his and exhaled an exhausted breath.

“Wow.”

“I know!” Her brows dipped inward, creating little wrinkle lines on her forehead. She reached out and put a hand on his forearm and he felt the muscle tense, electricity up his skin from her touch. “I’m so sorry Adam. I told you she’s relentless and was going to want everyone to meet my boyfriend.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, I felt like a well-bred stud being marched around and shown off.”

“Oh my god!” Ivy snickered and then groaned. Her hand slipped off his arm and he wished he could reach out and put a hand on her hip just to keep them touching. “It was exactly like that. Once she knew you were on t.v. it was all over.” She shook her head, sighing. “I’m sorry, your friends weren’t nearly as much as my mom has been. And this is only the first half hour of the night.”

Adam laughed and as cute as she was worried over him, he decided he’d calm those fears of hers. He started to lift his hand, wanting to push his palm against her cheek and gently hold her face, then remembered himself and let it drop to his side. He cleared his throat and shrugged.

“Nah, I honestly don’t mind it at all. It’s done wonders for my confidence.” His grin stretched playfully into his bearded cheeks.

“You’re a saint,” Ivy laughed and he was happy to see she was happy.

“What about you?” He asked, “I know we’ve only been here a little bit but is it helping?” He hoped it was.

“It is!” She said without hesitation. “That whole time my mom was dragging you around to show you off would have been spent with her reliving my exes to me, asking me where they’re at now, or telling me about women she knows who have single sons my age, or this cute young man my age she met at the grocery store and struck up a conversation with and got his number for me.”

Adam blew another breath out of his mouth. “I’m glad I can help.” But a frown worked its way across his brow. Ivy was a smart, successful, capable woman all on her own. It wasn’t fair that her mother only considered her relationship something to discuss and didn’t pay attention to everything else her daughter was. “You okay?” She asked, and he realized she’d been watching him and seen his change in expression.

“Oh, sorry. Yeah.” But she still peered at him and he knew this wasn’t the place to broach a serious topic like that. “When are you going to tell her about the promotion?”

“Honestly I was so busy trying to keep her from smothering you I completely forgot.” She laughed. “I guess I’ll tell her after the gifts are over. Anyways, come on-” she grabbed his hand, tingles again “-let’s go load up our plates with finger foods. It’s the best part of the whole night.”

Adam grinned, following after her as she held his hand, twining his fingers around hers and thinking about how whole he felt.

*********

The entire evening was better than Ivy could have anticipated. She knew it was mostly due to having Adam as her near-constant company, and feeling warmly closer to him than they probably had any right to be. During the gift exchange they’d claimed a spot on one of the couches and like it was natural, Ivy had leaned into him, Adam had lifted his arm and wrapped it snug around her shoulders. They’d shared a little smile then both looked away, staying cuddled up throughout the entirety of the exchange.

It had come to an end as the last gift was opened and she still didn’t move to get up from leaning on Adam’s soft yet somehow firm body. He didn’t try to lift his arm to separate them, either. Their supposedly shared gift sat at their feet in front of the couch, a large fluffy blanket that she’d had to have the moment she felt it and a Starbucks gift card. Absolutely perfect.

Conversation flowed happily around the room. Ivy and Adam were listening as her father retold his favorite Christmas story - the night Ivy was six and they’d had to come to a sudden stop on snowy roads, after the car righted itself there was a little gathering of stags that’d run out of the woods. Ivy had started to cry, worried that they were Santa’s reindeer and had gotten lost, meaning Santa wouldn’t be able to deliver presents that evening.

“I had to sit there and explain all about the differences between reindeer and white-tails and promise her the whole way home that Santa was going to be able to come that night.” Her father was grinning near ear-to-ear as he chuckled.

Ivy rolled her eyes, but smiled. She was tired of hearing the story every year but it was clearly endearing to her father. Adam, hearing it for the first time, had seemed to enjoy listening to it too.

“She was so cute kicking up a fuss like that.” Her father said warmly.

“I’ll bet she was.” Adam said. Ivy glanced quickly up at him only to see his eyes were locked on hers. Her stomach felt as if it erupted in a wild fluttering of butterflies and she swallowed, feeling a little hot in her cheeks. This was more… wasn’t it? They were being more coupley, weren’t they? Even more than they’d been at his company holiday party. Was their being together, their touching and holding hands becoming more natural to him, too? Or was she going crazy, projecting and seeing the things she wanted to see to justify how she felt about him now?

The questions would drive her insane, she needed to change the topic.

Ivy cleared her throat and looked back at her parents. “I’m getting a promotion at work.”

“Are you?” Her mother gasped.

“That’s wonderful sweetheart,” her father praised with a smile. “When did you find out?”

“A few weeks ago,” Ivy smiled, suddenly feeling almost shy with Adam’s proud gaze on her, his hand gently rubbing up and down her arm. The skimming of his fingertips on her skin was almost distracting.

“Why did you wait so long to tell us?!” Her mother admonished. “Sweetheart, that’s amazing! You’ve been working so hard, it’s about time they recognized it.”

“Thank you mom,” Ivy laughed.

“How’s the pay increase?” Her dad asked.

Ivy shook her head. “It’s actually pretty impressive if I’m being honest.” She’d already started to daydream about all the things in her life she was going to invest in and upgrade. “I’ve been working my ass off to get this promotion.”

“Well!” Her mother was beaming and her eyes slid to Adam and back to Ivy, her smile getting a mischievous little twist. Oh no, thought Ivy. “With more money you’d be able to support a child.” She winked as though they shared an inside secret, then gave that same wink to Adam. “I happen to think I’d make the perfect grandmother.”

Ivy’s heart sank, even with Adam at her side, she was still incomplete. She was sure her mother didn’t mean it, but it still stung. Before she could say something wrong and upset her mother or change the subject entirely, Adam was speaking up.

“With all due respect, ma’am, Ivy and I just started dating; we’re a little far off from seeing how compatible we are or if children are even something either of us want.”

“Oh, of course,” her mother looked taken aback. Ivy gaped at Adam and wasn’t sure if she should pinch him or kiss him for speaking up to her mother.

Adam looked at her, seemed to hesitate, then started talking again. “I know you’re proud of your daughter,” he glanced back toward her parents, who were now watching him with slightly guarded expressions, “but when you jump straight to talking about her lack of children or who she’s dating, it makes it seem like that’s all you care about. I know it’s not my place to say, but I also know it bothers her, and she shouldn’t have to feel like she’s anything less than the amazing woman I’ve come to see she is.”

The small group was quiet. Ivy didn’t know what to say or do. Adam had talked calmly, never raising his voice, but he’d effectively checked her mother’s habit to overlook Ivy’s accomplishments. It was a bold move for a real boyfriend, even bolder for a fake one. Or, hell, maybe he figured he wouldn’t be seeing her parents again and was free to stick up for her even under their own house.

The more she thought about it, the more she wanted to grab his face and kiss him. No one had ever stood up for her like that. Still, Ivy worried over her mother’s reaction and looked back at her.

“Do I really do it that often?”

“Mom,” Ivy sighed and glanced down at her hands. She made herself look back up. “Yeah. You do. It’s why I waited so long to tell you about the promotion. I don’t know if you’re doing it on purpose, but it feels like it is. It makes me feel like…” Their voices were low enough the conversation was truly just among the four of them, but Ivy still paused to make sure no family members were listening in that she didn’t want to overhear. “Mom, you just make me feel like I’m not doing enough if I’m not seeing someone or giving you a grandchild.” Emboldened by the honesty coming out, she looked over at Adam and shook her head, realizing how ridiculous the whole thing had been to start with. “I mean, Adam and I aren’t even-”

“Aren’t even that serious yet.” He jumped in, talking over her. Ivy tilted her head, eyes on his. Why didn’t he want her to tell her parents that they weren’t actually dating?

“I’m sorry, baby,” her mother said, and when Ivy looked back saw a sheen of tears in her eyes. “I didn’t realize I’d been so awful about it to you.”

“Mom, no,” Ivy shook her head, shoulders dropping. “Don’t cry. I should have told you how much it bothered me instead of just grinning and bearing it.”

Getting up from the couch, Ivy’s mother stood up too. Immediately Ivy wrapped her arms around her mother and cuddled tight into her as her mother held her, too. “I’m sorry sweetie,” she whispered again in Ivy’s ear, squeezing her a little tighter for a moment before they let go.

“I really am proud of you, you know that? My little Ivy put herself through college, got her dream job, is living independently, and achieving all her dreams. I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of you! I brag about you all the time. I just, well, I’m your mom. I worry about you being all alone. And yes, maybe I am a bit baby crazy and I’ve started pushing that off on you.” She shook her head. “You can have no kids, have ten kids, marry once, marry never, I don’t care sweetie. I’m always going to be proud of you.”

“Thank you, mom.” Ivy said, now feeling her own tears rising. She reached to wipe at her eyes, careful of her make-up.

“Hey! No crying on Christmas!” A cousin shouted, looking over and seeing her and her mother having their close, emotional talk. Ivy shook her head as laughter rippled around the room.

“It’s not Christmas, it’s December 19th!” Her mother scolded back. “We can cry all we want to.”

“I think I’m good on the crying,” Ivy laughed and looked back at her mom, softening. “Thank you, mom.”

“You don’t have to thank me for coming to my senses.”

“Well, I think it was more like you were forced to come to your senses.” Her father spoke up and slapped his thighs as he lifted off the couch to stand up with them. Adam stood up as well.

Rubbing his hand at the back of his neck, Adam spoke up. “I’m sorry, I know that wasn’t polite of me-”

“You don’t need to apologize.” Her mother hushed him almost immediately. “I was a little shocked at first, but clearly this was something we needed to talk about.” “I think I would have preferred a less crowded house,” Ivy admitted, looking around. Most of the family was still deep in their own conversations, but she had to have imagined some of them had overheard.

“Any man who stands up for my little girl, to her own mother no less, the first time he’s meeting the family… well, that’s a man I definitely approve of for my daughter.” Ivy’s father chuckled and patted Adam on the back. “I like this one, sweetheart. He’s a good one.”

Ivy smiled as their eyes met. “Yeah, he is.”

The party carried on for a couple more hours of happy chatter until one by one the families started to slowly trickle out. Ivy and Adam were the last to leave, helping tidy up around the house despite her mother’s assurance they shouldn’t bother themselves by cleaning. It really wasn’t a bother. Ivy thought of it as a sort of sweet domesticity, picking up plates and putting leftover food away, cleaning up trash and righting the house again side-by-side with Adam. She kept sneaking glances over at him as he smiled back at her; a few times they’d reached for the same things and brushed their hands against each other. Their touches continued to linger a little longer and a little longer each time, her cheeks warm as their eyes held contact. By the end her gaze kept finding its way to his lips; she just couldn’t help herself. She couldn’t stop wondering what’d be like to kiss him.

Adam sucked in a breath as they stepped back, having finished putting the last of the food up. “I guess we should get on home?” He asked.

It was rather late, though Ivy felt hesitation she knew was due to this being their possible last moments together. If she said yes, they would walk out of the door, get in his truck, he would drive her home and drop her off and they supposedly would never see one another again. Or, well, they’d maybe see one another, but nothing like this. Nothing like tonight had been. Nothing like the past few weeks had been.

“Yeah,” she said, trying not to let any regret seep into her tone. “We probably should.”

They went to say their goodbyes to her parents, gathering their gift and the leftovers her mother pushed off on her before they finally stepped out of the house. Ivy exhaled into the cool late-night winter air as Adam closed the front door and they stood on the porch.

“Thank you,” she said, not yet descending the steps to go to his truck.

“For?” He frowned, tilting his head as he looked down at her.

“For... standing up for me? For being...you? I don’t know. I just had such a good time tonight I feel like I need to thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me, darlin’.” He smiled. “I had just as good a time tonight as you, promise. Although, I do still feel like I should apologize. That wasn’t my place to talk to your mom like that.”

“Adam, it’s okay. I was a little taken aback but, honestly like my mom said, that conversation needed to happen.”

“I’m glad you’re not mad at me,” he said, his voice a little hushed. They were still lingering on the porch. Ivy felt like she could stand there all night in spite of the chill, but knew they shouldn’t. She took one last longing glance at his lips and smiled. “I doubt I could ever really be mad at you.”

Maybe little things, tiny annoyances on nerve-frazzled days or the common day-to-day things you argue and work through and overcome to come back stronger than ever. Nothing that would ever make her really resent him, though. She could tell herself until she was blue in the face they’d only been talking a month and she probably didn’t know him as well as she thought she did, but something was telling her everything with Adam would just make sense.

She honestly never felt like this with anyone before. How could she feel so connected to him when they were still essentially strangers? When they hadn’t even really been dating to begin with?

“Come on,” she turned away, the gift bag and tote bag of leftover goodies in tow. “We should probably get off my parent’s porch.”

“Wait,” he said as she turned to walk away, “we almost forgot...”

“Forgot what?” Ivy looked back at him and saw he’d taken a step to close their distance. She had to tilt her head to look up into his eyes where she saw he was holding a little piece of garland.

“It’s tradition to kiss under mistletoe.” He said.

“Adam…” It was hard to keep herself from giggling. The grin spread and pushed up into her cheeks. “That’s not mistletoe, that’s a piece of fake pine-needle garland I think you stole from my mom’s house.”

“Tomato, tom-ah-to. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to do this...” He leaned down, brushing his lips softly against hers.

Immediately she warmed to his touch, melting against the contact. He took the invitation to sink deeper into their kiss. His hand dropped and found its place on her hip, pulling her tighter against him. The garland had been dropped to the ground, happily forgotten as he ran his tongue between the split of her lips and then sank inside her mouth as she opened with invitation.

The bags fell with a rustle and a thump by her feet and her arms came up quickly around his shoulders, wrapping tightly and pulling him down on her. Their heads moved, matching the shape of their lips better. His fingers squeezed into her hips, the passion mounting further and further the longer their lips touched and tongues stroked.

They broke apart, chests rising and falling quick as they exhaled large, foggy white breaths in the small space between them. All Ivy could taste was him. She felt deliriously dizzy.

“I have been wanting to do that for a long damn time,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I broke our rule,” she confessed. They were still holding each other, going nowhere but lost in one another’s eyes.

“Our rule?”

“We weren’t supposed to fall for each other, remember? I’m afraid I might be falling, cowboy.”

A warm smile melted across his face.

“I think I’ve already beat you there.” He bent and, just before his lips touched hers, exhaled his promise across her mouth, “I’ll be ready to catch you, darlin’.”

#fanfiction #aew fanfiction #hangman adam page fanfiction #hangman page fanfiction #adam page fanfiction #hangman adam page #adam page #hangman page #aew #all elite wrestling #mine: fanfiction #my fics: hangman adam page #12daysofchristmas #HAHA! i posted it at 10pm im not late and i didn't just spend the last three hours panic writing this to make sure i finished it no sir

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rosethornewrites · 3 years

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Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break, ch. 14

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth, Self-Esteem Issues, Regret, It was supposed to be a one-shot, Fix-It, Eventual Relationships, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, wwx needs a hug, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Filial Piety, Handfasting, Phobias, Sleeping Together, Fear, Panic Attacks, Love Confessions, Getting Together, First Kiss, Kissing, Boys Kissing, Family, and they were married, Bathing/Washing, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Feels, Sex Education, Implied Sexual Content, First Time, Aftercare, Morning After, Afterglow, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Hand Jobs, Chronic Pain, Biting, Conversations

Summary: With Wei Wuxian on the mend, Wen Qing sends him into town with A-Yuan, Lan Wangji, and Wen Ning to keep him out of trouble. They run into someone unexpectedly.

Notes: See end.

AO3 link | FFN link (no smut)

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13

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Wei Ying seems happy to be in town for the first time since his near-possession, cleared after nearly a week by Wen Qing. Lan Wangji is of the opinion that the surplus of radishes and need to sell them was more the reason for her clearance, along with the fact a bored Wei Ying was dangerous.

The musical acupuncture helped him heal rapidly for someone without a golden core, according to Wen Qing. And Wei Ying had started to theorize about ways this could potentially be adapted to help Wen Ning—apparently one of the concerns was whether spiritual energy used in such a way would hurt him, or if using resentful energy could damage Wen Ning’s control. He didn’t feel ready to experiment just yet.

There was only so much Lan Wangji could do to keep Wei Ying distracted once he was recovering, though the tidy rewritten notes thrilled his husband. After the third small explosion while he worked on the Compass of Evil, Wen Qing decided he’d do less damage selling radishes with Wen Ning in town, and insisted they take A-Yuan with them so Granny could rest.

Damage is a perhaps relative idea, when a fake Yiling Laozu disciple sets up shop next to them to hawk his counterfeit wares.

Lan Wangji is surprised when Wei Ying finds the whole thing amusing, and says nothing when he steals the charlatan’s Compass of Evil, replacing it with a radish. Truthfully, the theft satisfies him; it grates on him to hear the lies gossips spew, to see people slander his zhiji for their own gain.

The day is otherwise long, with Wen Ning too shy to effectively call attention to their radishes. Adorably, A-Yuan is a bit of a help there, enthusiastically calling the attention of young women who find him adorable (but at least purchased radishes), but he grows bored easily and needs redirection.

It doesn’t help that Wei Ying keeps rubbing his hand over his collar with a dreamy expression, which more than once leads Lan Wangji to recite the Lan precepts mentally lest he act inappropriately in public—Wei Ying is wearing his ribbon at his crown, so that restraint is absent.

Under his collar is the evidence of his lack of restraint—a bruise in the shape of Lan Wangji’s teeth.

He is careful, on the whole, given Wei Ying bruises easily in his unhealthy state, bruises that take too long to fade for Wangji’s comfort. But with Wei Ying straddling his lap and moaning obscenities in his ear, moving his hips just so, as he was tasting the sweat on his collar, his control had broken.

At the bite, Wei Ying had come with an exultant “yes!” Their stomachs slick with it between them, his nails scraping at Lan Wangji’s back, clenching so hard around him his vision whited out with the force of his own orgasm. He can’t think about the bruise without remembering.

Wei Ying likes the bruise, to Lan Wangji’s mortification. Likes being marked by him, little reminders of their every day.

“I know you’d never really hurt me, Lan Zhan,” he’d said, his voice filled with a trust Lan Wangji didn’t feel he deserved. “And I liked it, in case you couldn’t tell.”

Watching Wei Ying rub it here in town is a special kind of hell, him at arm’s length and too far from their bed.

It becomes worse when Wei Ying glances his way and catches him looking, immediately reddening as though he knows exactly what he is thinking, which makes restraint all the more difficult. He looks beautiful, blushing. But he has always looked beautiful, and Lan Wangji had previously managed restraint—that was, however, before he had acknowledged their relationship, before they had consummated. Somehow the longing, the dreams and fantasies, had been much more manageable before he knew how Wei Ying’s sweat-slick skin tasted, how he felt coming apart.

The sale of the last of the radishes is a relief, but they still need to purchase items on Wen Qing’s list before returning to Burial Mounds. He lets Wei Ying focus on A-Yuan, who insists on being carried, and walks alongside him without touching him. A-Yuan is practically hanging backward from Wei Ying’s arms, giggling at silly faces he’s making. Wen Ning takes up the rear with the cart, where he’ll have Wei Ying sit if his strength fails him.

He is so focused on Wei Ying beside him that he doesn’t notice Jiang Wanyin in front of them until he halts, the smile on his face freezing, his stream of nonsense conversation with A-Yuan trailing into silence.

Jiang Wanyin does not look happy.

But, then, he rarely does.

Lan Wangji has to steel himself, doing his best not to look at the lower dantian where Wei Ying’s core now rests. Instead he bows politely.

“Sect Leader Jiang.”

Beside him, Wei Ying bows as best he can with A-Yuan in his arms, and he can sense movement behind him that tells him Wen Ning has followed suit.

Jiang Wanyin’s lip curls, but he just silently tosses his head in a beckoning gesture.

He can hear the way Wei Ying’s breath quickens, the bit of perspiration on his upper lip. Can sense his nervousness over what is to come, what he has decided to reveal. Lan Wangji takes a breath to calm himself. His husband needs him steady now.

The moment Jiang Wanyin turns to lead the way to wherever he intends them to speak, Lan Wangji puts a steadying hand on Wei Ying’s elbow as they follow and receives a wan smile in response.

Lan Wangji is relieved he is wearing the clothing the aunties sewed for him today, wearing a simpler guan Wei Ying had carved for him personally after he had expressed reluctance to continue wearing the one he had worn to befit and show his station. Wei Ying had carved two rabbits on the guan, one wearing a forehead ribbon and the other stained a darker color with leftover dye from the dock root. The craftwork had distracted him nicely for a while.

The clothing is of a heavier weave than he is used to, but he doesn’t mind it. If the plainer clothing has distracted Jiang Wanyin from noticing Lan Wangji is not wearing his forehead ribbon, that it is woven around Wei Ying’s crown and plaited with his red ribbon down his back, it is a relief. Jiang Wanyin is not known for an even temper, and his inattention has staved off what might be an argument until they are out of public.

Wei Ying will find the coming conversations stressful enough in private. He doesn’t need it to start publicly and draw attention from the locals.

Despite all the rumors about Wei Ying floating around Yiling, none of the regular citizens seem to know what he looks like. Any rumors imported speak of him as a demon or monster, and so any talismans purporting to show his features show him as such—talismans Wei Ying had decorated his cave with, and which Lan Wangji has successfully convinced him to allow him to remove. As infamous and reviled as Wei Ying is, he has managed to stay anonymous outside the gentry, anonymity that affords him some safety, and Lan Wangji would rather it not be shattered by one of Jiang Wanyin’s temper tantrums.

They are led to a courtyard, and though Jiang Wanyin first tries to close the door to keep Lan Wangji and Wen Ning out, he is able to stop this by blocking the shutting door with his sheathed sword. The Jiang sect heir must see something in the narrowing of Lan Wangji’s eyes, because he doesn’t attempt it again, instead closing and locking the door behind them.

Aside from a single figure in a long black cloak, they are alone, and Lan Wangji is unsurprised but pleased when it turns out to be Jiang Yanli in her wedding robes and headdress, come to show Wei Ying so he is not completely left out—he has seen his husband’s pain over this, how much he misses the sister who raised him, knows she is as close to his blood as can be, and he hopes this eases it somewhat.

Lan Wangji can feel Wei Ying’s arms drooping under the weight of A-Yuan, so he carefully takes the boy from him so he can greet his sister.

“A-Xian,” she calls him, untying the cloak and letting it fall. “What do you think?”

He’s close enough to hear Wei Ying’s breath catch, and is taken back to his disappointment over being excluded from the wedding. He himself is reminded of seeing Wei Ying in red following the Sunshot Campaign, in his underrobes after waking for a coma, the only time he has seen him in only in red. He realizes with a pang he will never see his husband in wedding robes.

“What, she’s not marrying you.”

Jiang Wanyin’s snide tone grates on Lan Wangji, but Wei Ying responds in kind, and he recalls watching them snipe verbally at each other during the lecture in Cloud Recesses, back before the world fell apart.

Jiang Yanli calms them, and he marvels at her ability to bring them together as they try to convince her she looks lovely in her wedding garb.

“You’ll only believe it if he says it,” Wei Ying says, faking petulance. “Lan Zhan, what do you think?”

He had been trying to avert his eyes politely, but even Jiang Wanyin seems to be watching for his reaction, so he studies them, the delicate stitching, the fall of the layers.

Lan Wangji wishes he could see Wei Ying in wedding robes.

“Elegant,” he says with a nod.

“Zhan-gege, who’s Pretty-jiejie?” A-Yuan asks, twisting in his hold.

Wei Ying smiles at the boy, taking him back.

“Even A-Yuan knows you’re pretty, shijie, so you don’t need to worry.”

Jiang Yanli folds the cloak and gestures to the nearby table.

“Come now, I’ve made soup.”

When Wei Ying sits, Jiang Yanli’s expression shifts to surprise, and he notices her looking at his forehead ribbon in his hair. She looks to him, a question in her expression, and he simply nods. Her responding smile is filled with relief, but also regret.

He is surprised when she doesn’t address it immediately, instead gesturing to him to sit and opening the basket. He takes a seat beside Wei Ying. The smell of the soup fills the air, a scent unfamiliar to Lan Wangji, but one that reminds him of his husband. This, he realizes, must be the lotus root and pork rib soup he has heard him talk about.

“I apologize. I only have three bowls,” she says, sounding truly disappointed. “I did not expect…”

Lan Wangji is about to demur and insist he does not intend to eat when Jiang Wanyin, surprisingly, pulls out a pouch of money.

“We can purchase a couple from the market, A-jie.”

Wen Ning bows.

“Jiang-zongzhu, Jiang-guniang, I can g-go for you.”

Jiang Wanyin frowns at Wen Ning with thinly veiled hostility that baffles Lan Wangji, but hands him some silver.

As Wen Ning flees, he wonders if it is to avoid Jiang Wanyin, or to avoid being present for at least part of the conversation to come.

He knows Wei Ying would prefer to flee, and he strokes his arm briefly with his thumb. The smile he receives from his husband is tremulous, but he can see his determination.

Jiang Yanli smiles at A-Yuan, her attention drawn by the movement.

“Who is this little one?” she asks, crouching slightly so she’s at the child’s height.

“A-Yuan is A-Yuan, Pretty-jiejie!”

Wei Ying shifts, catching his hand briefly and squeezing it; Lan Wangji realizes he’s decided to start here, with A-Yuan, in the multitude of revelations that are to be made.

“A-Yuan, this is my shijie,” he says softly. “You can call her guma.”

Jiang Yanli gasps in delight when A-Yuan dutifully calls her guma.

“A-Xian, is he yours?”

She is obviously unable to take him into her arms, wearing her wedding robes as she is, but she reaches out to take A-Yuan’s hand.

“Not by blood, but he started calling me a-die.”

He offers a wan smile to both his siblings.

“Meet Wei Yuan. Or he will be, once I’ve introduced him properly to my parents.”

“He’s a Wen,” Jiang Wanyin states.

Lan Wangji levels him with a stare, though it’s unclear in his tone how he feels.

“He’s an orphan and he’s three years old,” Wei Ying shoots back.

Jiang Wanyin’s face softens, but Jiang Yanli looks alarmed.

“A-Xian, he was at the work camp? At Qiongqi Path?”

Her face hardens when he nods.

“The children, the civilians, all were supposed to be let go. How could they…?”

Lan Wangji stays silent, knowing Wei Ying would prefer to shield her from some of the uglier realities of the war, but is reminded of coming upon Jin Zixun shooting unarmed civilians in chains, and his lie that it was sanctioned by the Lan and Nie clans.

“I couldn’t leave them there, shijie,” he whispers. “Wen Ning and Wen Qing sheltered us, and the others were held as Wen Ruohan’s hostages against her during the war.”

A-Yuan is watching Wei Ying quietly, with the same air of concern he had at the restaurant in Yiling not so many days ago. Lan Wangji shifts again to put the child on Wei Ying’s lap, watching as the boy hugs him.

Wei Ying manages a smile for him, then leans his head close to him and points to Jiang Wanyin.

“And the fussy gege is your shushu,” he says conspiratorially.

“You—!”

Jiang Yanli silences Jiang Wanyin with a look.

“Like Ning-shushu?” A-Yuan asks. “Do I call him nao-shushu?”

“That’s your Jiang-shushu,” Wei Ying clarifies before Jiang Cheng can take offense, but nearly chokes on the title and falls quiet.

Lan Wangji remembers abruptly that Wei Ying had once referred to Jiang Fengmian by that very name, and he watches his husband in concern. He has expressed feeling as though the attack on Lotus Pier was his fault, and he can see the guilt and grief Wei Ying is struggling to hold back.

“Yes,” Jiang Wanyin says, his voice strained as though he is fighting his own emotional turmoil, ending an awkward silence. “You can call me Jiang-shushu.”

When A-Yuan does, it is perhaps the closest Lan Wangji has ever seen Jiang Wanyin come to smiling.

Wen Ning returns with several bowls and soup spoons, an inexpensive wooden variety they have at the Burial Mounds. He tries to give Jiang Wanyin his change and is waved off.

“You can use it to get something sweet for… for my zhizi,” he says, his tone brusque. “Or a toy or something.”

Wei Ying smiles, his posture relaxing just slightly—A-Yuan’s acceptance by his siblings as their nephew has eased his nerves somewhat. But this is only the first of three difficult revelations that must be made, and arguably the easiest of them.

Jiang Yanli serves each of them, putting a generous portion of meat in A-Yuan’s bowl, and takes a seat. She herself is not eating, likely concerned about staining her wedding robes. Instead she seems content to watch them eat.

Wei Ying alternates between himself and A-Yuan, one spoon each.

“Be sure to chew the lotus root,” Wen Ning tells the boy softly.

A-Yuan nods enthusiastically, clearly enamored of the flavors; Lan Wangji can’t blame him. Though there is more spice than he is accustomed to, as is the norm in Yunmeng cuisine, the flavor is somehow warm and comforting. He completely understands how this soup is his husband’s favorite.

“You’re not eating,” Jiang Yanli says.

Wen Ning jerks in surprise.

“Oh… I was going to save this for jiejie so she could try it.”

Jiang Yanli smiles warmly.

“We will be coming to Burial Mounds, once I change at the inn. I brought enough ingredients to make some for everyone.”

Wei Ying nearly chokes on a bite of soup. She pats his back until he’s recovered.

“Wen Qing sent me a letter. We have things to discuss.”

Jiang Wanyin looks sour about this.

“Speaking of, Zewu-Jun sent an interesting letter. Said you have news to share. I’m assuming it has to do with why Hanguang-Jun is here?”

Wei Ying puts his soup spoon down and hands A-Yuan off to Wen Ning with his bowl. Wen Ning doesn’t seem surprised by this and takes over feeding him.

He tries not to be nervous over his husband getting the boy out of the potential line of fire. He rather hopes it is unnecessary, but he has seen Jiang Wanyin’s temper.

“About that,” Wei Ying says, then pauses, glancing at Lan Wangji. “Um, well… We’re married.”

For a moment, there is stunned hurt on Jiang Wanyin’s features, but it’s quickly replaced by wrath, powerful enough that zidian sparks.

“You couldn’t even invite us?!”

Lan Wangji will not have him blame Wei Ying for that. He knows there will be enough of that when they get to the next revelation. He would rather the focus be on him.

“He did not know we were married until recently.”

Jiang Wanyin’s eyes snap to him, and he carefully keeps his gaze cool in response to what is almost a volcano. He sputters, almost too angry to speak, zidian sparking even more dangerously, leaving the scent of ozone in the air.

“You— Without his consent?! This, from the honorable Hanguang-Jun?!”

“Jiang Wanyin!”

Wei Ying’s voice is low and cutting, startlingly powerful despite the lack of volume. It’s enough to startle his brother out of his anger, at least momentarily.

“He handfasted me in the Cold Spring cave,” he explains. “Lan Yi’s guqin was attacking me because I wasn’t Lan.”

Jiang Yanli stands and levels a look at Jiang Wanyin that somehow makes him quail; Lan Wangji only understands why when she levels it at him—the fury of a mother figure.

“Please explain, Lan-er-gongzi.”

Her voice is clipped in the same manner it was when she chastised Jin Zixun at the Phoenix Mountain hunt, and leaves no doubt that she will find a way to harm him if his explanation is deemed unsatisfactory. She is mildly terrifying.

“Wei Ying was being attacked with Chord Assassination,” he says. “The headband would afford him protection. I did not expect Lan Yi’s appearance. Or that we would bow. Regardless, I did not regret it.”

“You married him by accident?” Jiang Wanyin mutters, the rage gone and replaced with confusion.

“Lan Yi did not disapprove.”

“And you never told A-Xian?” Jiang Yanli asks.

She also seems more confused than angry now.

Wei Ying sighs tiredly.

“Aiya, Jiang Cheng, shijie… When would he have had time? When we were searching for the yin iron? Indoctrination? The Xuanwu cave? After—”

He breaks off. His siblings look pained, remembering the fate of Lotus Pier, though they don’t know what came after for Wei Ying. Yet.

“There was never time,” Lan Wangji agrees. “I did not expect my regard for him to be reciprocated. But now, with the danger to Wei Ying… even were it solely political, I could help protect him.”

“It’s not solely political,” Wei Ying chirps, his tone almost smug. “It’s very reciprocated—and can’t be annulled now!”

Lan Wangji can feel his ears heating. Just under Wei Ying’s collar lurks the proof of that, as he’s been acutely aware all day. He has to avoid looking at him for a moment—not out of embarrassment, but because if he does, if he sees the heat in Wei Ying’s gaze, he might lose control and kiss him in front of his siblings.

As much as his husband might prefer the distraction, he doubts it will help much.

“I didn’t need to know that, ever,” Jiang Wanyin grouses, making a face.

Jiang Yanli takes her seat again, her face serious.

“A-Xian is in danger?”

Lan Wangji nods.

“The rumors make him out to be a monster raising an army of Wen cultivators, as though he is an enemy. The truth is quite different. The lies Jin Guangshan has spread to imply he disrespects Jiang Wanyin were meant to isolate him. They want the amulet.”

“Wait, what’s this about me not respecting Jiang Cheng?” Wei Ying demands, clearly affronted.

“One of the claims made after Qiongqi Path,” Lan Wangji tells him. “That you were speaking ill of Jiang Wanyin at the Phoenix Mountain hunt.”

Wei Ying looks stunned, and his gaze darts to his brother. He evidently doesn’t like what he sees, his expression shuttering.

“I see,” he says, the words heavy in the air. “And you believed them.”

Jiang Wanyin has the decency to look ashamed.

Jiang Yanli seems at a loss. Lan Wangji suspects she has heard none of this. Had she been aware, he has no doubt the offenders would have regretted speaking ill of Wei Ying.

“Maybe you’re right not to trust me,” Wei Ying murmurs finally. “I’ve lied to both of you.”

The admission startles a flinch from his siblings. Lan Wangji can feel the tension in Wei Ying, like a guqin string stretched too taut, ready to snap at the slightest touch. He reaches for Wei Ying’s hand under the table and places his on top of it. He is relieved when his husband relaxes slightly, a slight tremor running through him.

Wei Ying’s hand, when he laces theirs together, is clammy and cold, his grip tighter than normal. As much as Lan Wangji wishes he could do more, the best he can do is be here for him.

The quiet stretches, seeming to freeze them in time, broken only when A-Yuan asks Wen Ning for another bite of soup.

Jiang Yanli reaches forward, touches Wei Ying’s arm.

“About what, A-Xian?”

She looks concerned and a little afraid, and the same look lurks on Jiang Wanyin’s features. They know, Lan Wangji realizes that Wei Ying has been hiding something, maybe even suspect how terrible it is. Whatever they might imagine, he knows the truth will be much worse.

Wei Ying swallows hard, his fingers tightening. He seems to be trying to find the words, deciding how to say it in a way that might soften the blow.

But there is no way to soften it.

“I didn’t know how to find Baoshan Sanren,” he admits finally.

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The conversation is a lot longer than I expected it to be, and this is a good stopping point, even if it is a bit of a cliffhanger. This went in directions I didn’t always expect, in part because Jiang Yanli is terrifying.

Lan Wangji has feelings about Jiang Cheng. They’re not always the nicest feelings, but he has them regardless. It’s ok, because Jiang Cheng has similar feelings in return.

It might take me a bit to pick this up again. I’m participating in the WangXian Lunar New Year gift exchange, so I’m working on my piece for that and putting my other fics on hold for a little while. Also, the new semester just started, and I’ve probably fielded about 50 emails from panicked students today alone.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years

Text

Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth

Warnings: noncon sex (oral, m&f, intercourse)

This is dark!Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is a fic writer and her number one fan can’t get enough.

Note: This is probably the most meta shit I’ve written but for all the fic writers out there, this one if for you. Hope y’all get the good d you deserve but until then, here’s this!

Please let me know what you think in a reblog/reply! <3 please and thank you.

You let out a sigh of relief and hit ‘post’. It was almost pathetic but it was the best part of your day, or most days. Having something to share with others was nice. The fact that they enjoyed your work and your boredom-induced work made it worth the frustration.

It wasn’t real writing. You knew that. Fanfiction was a genre to be laughed at. You didn’t admit it to anyone but there was a sense of pride to go along with the shame.

That part of you was kept online. The darker parts; the lust, the angst, the fear. It all went hand in hand and no one would guess that the bookshop assistant was stevies-doll. It felt almost scandalous to have a virtual alter ego.

You closed your laptop and checked the time. More than enough to get ready for work. Plain blouse, grey pants, mary jane flats. You were the typical bookish girl with dreams that would never come true.

The bus was late. Oh well. You’d still be there in time you’d just have to forego your usual espresso. Afternoons were draining and you often needed the boost to keep from nodding off in the last hour. You really weren’t sure why the shop stayed open so late; not many came out after five for books but traffic was relatively steady in the hipster village.

Nina met you with a frown. She preferred you at least ten minutes earlier. Tardiness had seen several other clerks fired and you had been the only to make it more than a year in the shop. Three in fact. This place was like a second home. A garden of ideas to plant the seeds of your mind.

When Nina left, you rearranged the desk. You moved aside her ledger and replaced it with your notebook, two pens to the right of it. In between the chime of the door and the rare customer queries you did most of your writing. When you reached a block you’d read, but today you felt particularly inspired.

The world was saved again. The news reports had shown footage of the daring rescue. As grim as the situation was, you couldn’t help but fantasize. The first avenger with his golden hair and sharp jawline was every woman’s Adonis. At least, you thought he was the very picture of perfection.

It wasn’t obsession. That was your mantra. You often argued with yourself. As much as you thought of the great Steve Rogers, it was only admiration. It wasn’t the possessive infatuation often found on social media. It was a hobby. An escape from the world.

You bent over the notebook. The shop was empty. The dulcet tones of indie folk floated along the shelves. You set pen to paper and waited for the ring to draw you away from the world behind your eyes.

You leaned on the counter and scribbled the first line in ink. That was always the hardest part. Then again, the beginning was always more exciting than the end.

‘The day the earth went dark, there was but one beacon left to shine…’

It was amusing at first. The thought of another person spending so much time writing about him. That someone would fabricate an entire universe in which he was entirely different. Somewhere out there was a woman who wore the pseudonym ‘stevies-doll’.

Steve knew he should have been perturbed by the fact. The idea of another so consumed by him that they would post almost every other day about him. He couldn’t remember how he stumbled on the small blog. A decent following but nothing close to viral.

The first story he read was cute. It even made him feel warm. The second was very much the same. He clicked through to another, this one more serious. Grey and daunting. A few more and he stumbled upon one he found most interesting, the letters NSFW emblazoned across the top. He googled the acronym and clicked back to the tab. Excited almost.

When he finished, he was warm in another way. Hot, almost. The things he read, the idea of him doing them, was almost arousing. Of course, he had never done any of it. Had never been more than the perfect gentlemen. Sweet and doting. That was how love should be. But that wasn’t love, no, that story was sex. Pure, unadulterated fucking.

He forced himself away from the computer after that. He needed to sleep. He had intended to browse his email quickly but he often found himself in the oddest rabbit-holes. That was definitely the deepest. He shook his head and chuckled. It was funny.

The next morning he awoke and went about his usual routine. He was out the door by seven. Off to save the world. Or wait around for it to need saving. At Stark Tower, he listened to Tony with his eyes on his phone. It wasn’t anything important. Some recounting about how he had scared Pepper with a nano-spider.

Steve gave a half-hearted chuckle and Tony went back to his screen. “Tough audience,” He muttered to Bruce who merely shook his head.

Steve leaned against a stool and squinted at his phone. He stared at the google search. Why had he typed it in? Somewhere in the tedium of Tony’s chatter, he had keyed in the name. He hit the first link and his phone loaded slowly.

His own face stared back at him. The banner was a press photo he had taken over a year ago. His bright eyes were staunch beneath the mask as he stared off into the distance. She had posted again. His thumb hovered over ‘read more’. Did he dare?

He looked up to make sure he was not being observed. The two scientists were too distracted to care about his online activity. He stood straight and cleared his throat. “I’m gonna hit the gym,” He lied. A grumble from both scientists as they squinted at the floating screens. “Right, have fun.” Steve said dryly as he left them to their work.

He stepped out in the hall and pressed his thumb to the screen. He bent his head over the phone as he walked blindly down the halls. Neither Tony or Bruce noticed through the window that he had gone entirely the wrong way. Steve didn’t either as his eyes flitted over the screen.

‘The day the earth went dark, there was but one beacon left to shine…’

You couldn’t believe how much your blog had grown in the last few months. You didn’t know if it betrayed your unexciting life or your one-track mind. Both, maybe. But it made your everyday responsibilities a little less tedious.

And the messages were even better than the hit count. Several had messaged to say they loved your work and went so far as to call you an inspiration. It was flattering but it was easy to remember who you were. No Stephen King or JK Rowling. You wrote silly one shots with limited development.

Today your inbox had been steady. Every time you found yourself bored at work, you opened the app and you had another message. Most of them short or even just emojis but nice nonetheless. And there was one you were waiting to answer

So long and in depth you had to give it more than just a thanks. You opened it several times and reread it.

‘Your story is really interesting. I think the way your portray Steve is believable. In this type of writing you rarely find anything realistic but your writing feels genuine if not entirely accurate. I would say you capture the essence of Steve perfectly and his actions at least make sense.

I always enjoy your updates and even look forward to them...especially the NSFW ones. ;)’

It was one of the few users who didn't use the anonymous feature and also left a complete comment. It was refreshing and you had come to look forward to their commentary. They went by CapUSA. Another Steve fangirl who was surprisingly inactive outside your blog. Her page was almost a clone of your own. They liked every post, reblogged, and commented. What more could a writer ask for?

Original characters maybe and not just fantasies of someone who’d never know of her existence. You closed your laptop and sighed. It felt like time. You could feel the block at the back of your head. The little thrill you got was wearing off and it felt like a phase better left to fade with your emo days in high school and that month in university when you dyed your hair purple.

You readied for work. Back on days that week. Opening was always easier. It didn’t feel so drawn out. Nina would be in at one and you’d keep her company until four. It meant little time for writing. Maybe that was for the better. You needed to start planning. For the future. For something truly your own. A fantasy so detached from reality that it would make market and maybe even a dime.

That was your dream. You didn’t want to be the listless fangirl forever. Ugh, how you hated to even call yourself a fangirl. No post today, you resigned. Maybe none tomorrow. You’d have to work up the courage to announce your hiatus. Life was calling and for once a sliver of genuine inspiration.

And the bookstore. It was Shakespeare’s birthday, which conveniently was also his death day. This meant two for one on all of his works. Nina also hired actors to stand outside the shop and re-enact famous scene from the playwright’s repertoire. They wouldn’t arrive till noon but you had a lot of set-up to do. Enough to keep you from thinking of the disappointed messages that would fill your inbox.

Steve scrolled through the pale pink blog for the dozenth time that morning. It had been two weeks since stevies-doll posted. The longest two weeks of his life. He wasn’t sure when it had become a staple in his life. A ritual almost. He’d read her latest fic as he laid down and try to clear his head of blood and grime. Lose himself in the person she dreamed he was. The man he had come to envy. Fictional but all too real in his head.

But there was nothing. At first he re-read and read again. But that grew old. He knew almost every story by heart at this point. He could recite the intro line to most and he fell asleep as his imagination reconstructed the things he had never done.

Her banner flashed across his sight when he woke, the image of his blue eyes staring beyond him. He’d come to think of her Steve as an altar ego. The beast buried deep inside of him. He was tired of being the nation’s golden child. Their unwavering moral beacon. He wanted to be him and she had helped him figure out who he truly was.

But she was gone. No green dot above her name in the chat window, her last post dated fourteen days ago, her blog like a time capsule. The ice that had preserved him for seventy years. Where was she?

Then a thought struck him. A devious one. He had been on enough missions to know his way around a computer. He considered himself quite savvy after living nearly a decade ahead of his time. It was simple enough. He tracked down many a drug pin this way and they were often concealed behind walls of encryption. He doubted she had more than a store-bought antivirus, if that.

He climbed out of bed and booted his computer. His leg shook impatiently and he tossed his phone just beneath the corner of the monitor. He rubbed his palms together as the home screen loaded and he clicked on the browser.

Her IP was simple enough to find. Right-click, inspect. When he found it, he felt his heart jump. This was a line. A very clear one. If he did this, there was no going back. He let go of the mouse and leaned his chin in his hands. He stared at her page, split by the window of code, and his jaw ticked.

He hit back and went to the messenger. He clicked on her name and his fingertips ran over the space bar. He didn’t know what to say. He’d send her little asks about her fics but he never messaged her directly. Would she respond?

‘Hey,’ He typed slowly, his fingers sped up with each key, ‘I’m a fan of your work. I think it’s excellent. I just wanted to check in and see if you were still writing for this blog.’

He hit enter and waited. He focused on the grey dot beside her name. If she saw this, it likely wouldn’t be until morning. He checked the time and sighed. It was late. He had an early briefing with Tony and he should try to sleep.

He hovered the cursor over the x but the dot turned green and he paused. The little ‘...’ blipped in the bottom of the chat box and the ding of her reply was music to his ears.

‘Hey, sorry. I know I’ve been quiet lately. I’ve just been so busy with work. I’m a bit behind at the moment. Thank you though for following me. I always enjoy your comments :)’ He read it several times before he could reply. Before he could even think of the words to.

‘It’s okay. We all have responsibilities. Take your time.’ He wanted to tell her to hurry up but who knew? She might be someone important, like a lawyer or teacher. He could wait. As long as there was hope.

‘Thanks. I appreciate that. Really.’ That response was quicker. Curt, almost.

‘I don’t want to overstep but are you okay?’ His cheeks were hot.

‘Ah, you know, life.’

He scratched his chin as he leaned back in his chair. Slowly he sat forward and typed. It took him three tries to get it right. Concerned but not pushy. ‘Anything you wanna talk about?’ He waited. The three dots appeared then faded. Several times before her answer blipped up.

‘I don’t wanna trouble you but I appreciate you asking. Nothing I won’t get over.’

‘Ok, no problem. Just know that if you need it, I could listen. It’s could to talk about stress.’ He laughed at himself. He should take his own advice. He had a horrible habit of letting things pile up until he burst at the seams.

‘Thanks again. I’ll ttyl. I gotta get some sleep. Have a good one.’

‘You, too,’ He replied a bit too quickly. ‘Talk to you then.’

You were ready to post again. It had been almost a month since your last fic and you had been reluctant to return. You couldn’t help checking in daily to see your notifications and scroll mindlessly through your own content. And your offline writing had come to a halt. You were stuck and you didn’t know how else to cope but fall back on what you knew.

Your new friend had helped too. CapUSA had quickly become a stalwart of your blog. She, or he, you still weren’t sure, spoke to you almost everyday. They encouraged you to try one more fic as you mulled over a certain prompt. Why not? It would be like a writing exercise. Maybe it would help you with your original writing. Take some of the pressure off.

And you didn’t just talk about writing. You talked about the bookstore and Nina’s incessant complaints. You talked about the stresses of your lives. Friends, or lack thereof. Cap seemed a popular person and recounted stories of the latest drama. A close knit group of friends who acted more like adversaries. It was amusing and made your forget that your life was rather empty.

You hit post and smiled. That familiar rush rolled over you and you snapped closed your laptop. You were already dressed and ready for work. You crammed in the quick editing session before the bus was due and now you’d have to run for it.

Back on afternoons. It was rainy and you were soaked by the time you got to the shop. The weather always helped traffic and you ducked behind the counter where Nina was tending to the line with Cara, a new addition. The curly-haired blonde reminded you of old Hollywood. Her high cheekbones and rose lips rivaled Monroe’s.

“Do you want me to start early?” You asked as you tucked your bag under the counter between them.

“You better. I’m gone in ten and Cara’s only on til three.” Nina muttered. “We got a new shipment. Boxes are at the end of the aisles. We’ve not had a chance to touch ‘em.”

“Okay, I’ll get right on it,” You pin your name tag on and stepped back around the counter. She was in one of her moods and all the better that you avoid her until she left. You went to the end of the history aisle and opened the box against the wall.

‘You working?’ The vibration drew your attention from re-arranging the non-fiction section. The message floated in a bubble on your lock screen. You smiled. This faceless stranger felt like more. Of course, virtual friendships were often fleeting.

You glanced down the aisle, both Nina and Cara were squinting at the computer as a customer waited patiently for them to figure out their conundrum. You swiped away the lock and typed swiftly with your phone hidden behind your leg.

‘Closing. Here all night.’

‘Oh :( you got company at least?’

‘For a couple more hours. But no shortage of work. :/’

‘Damn. Should I leave you alone?’

‘Up to you. My responses might be sporadic. Boss isn’t very pleasant today.’

‘Cool. I just read your new fic.’

‘Yeah? Sorry I haven’t checked my notifications just yet.’

‘No problem. I left a comment is all.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘Taking a break from driving. I should actually get back to it. It’s a long trip.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘To see a friend.’

‘Ah, ok. Well, drive safe.’

‘I will ;) See ya later.’

‘ttyl :)’

‘Nina’s Nook’. Steve read the crooked moniker several times over. He couldn’t believe he was actually there. That she was inside. He made good time on the road. An eight hour trip in six. Of course, he hadn’t exactly abided the speed limit. His impatience had turned to recklessness. So unlike him.

The sky was dim. The summer nights came later and later. She’d be done in an hour. The streets were dying down and the door hadn’t chimed in almost as long. He felt nervous all of a sudden. He tried to shrug of his anxiety and took a breath.

She wouldn’t know it was him. Well, she might recognize him but she wouldn’t know he was CapUSA. He couldn’t wait to see her reaction. Steve Rogers in her bookshop. In this town. It would be a story she would recount for the rest of her life. An encounter she would never forget.

Oh, he’d make sure she remembered it.

He crossed the street. A single car passed as he stepped up on the curb. It was much quieter than New York. No honking, no shouts, no hissing sewers. He liked it. It was quaint. He stood before the door and peeked through the glass. There was no one behind the desk. But the sign read open and the lights shone in welcome.

He pushed down the handle and slowly opened the door. The bell announced his entrance and a small voice called from the corner of the shop. “One moment, please.” He heard the shuffle of books and light footsteps. She emerged from the far shelves and his lips parted at the sight of her.

He had seen her before. Her few photos on Facebook and Instagram. He had found those shortly after he ferreted out her IP. He couldn’t see much but her privacy settings allowed him a glimpse into her real life. Her smile was nicer than in her pictures.

“Sorry, I was--” She stopped short as she saw him. She blinked. He closed his mouth as hers fell open. Her voice was higher when she spoke next. “I was just sorting some stuff out. I--How can I help you?”

“Um, a friend recommended a book to me and I was passing by, I thought maybe by chance… you might have it.” He kept his voice even. The same one he used for his press conferences.

“Do you have a title?” She asked. He could see her fingers tremble. The guilt as her eyes rounded. She was thinking of all the things she had wrote about him. He was thinking of those too.

“Jeez, you know, I’ve totally forgotten but the author was, uh…” He pretended to think and his eyes drifted down her body. Her flowered blouse was boxy but her pants hugged the curves of her hips and legs. She clasped her hands together and the gesture pushed her chest together between her arms. “Margaret Archer--er, Atwood.”

“Hmm, she’s done a lot. Do you know what it’s about?” She pulled her hands apart and wiped her palms on her dark pants. His eyes followed the movement. He wanted his hands there. Wanted to feel her thighs against him.

“Something about an apocalypse...um, a character named...Snow--Snow something.” He acted like he coudn’t remember. Couldn’t recall that it was stevies-doll who had recommended the very book.

“Oh, Oryx and Crake, I think it is. It’s an interesting one.” She smiled, proud to have figured out the riddle. “If you will, it should be with our most popular books.”

She hesitated as she passed him. He followed her as she went to the shelf just beside the counter. She hovered her finger before the titles as she read them. She bent as she got lower. He admired her ass as she did. He tucked his hands in his pocket before he could reach out.

“Yeah, I think it’s in sci-fi.” She stood and peeked over her shoulder. “It’s just over here.” She led him down the narrow aisle to the end. “Starts just here so Atwood…” She scanned the shelf, “Here.” She pulled out the book and held it out to him. “We have it in hardcover too.”

He took it and felt the raised letters on the cover. “Thanks.” He didn’t even acknowledge the book in his hand. The aisle was so tight she was trapped between him and the wall. She gave a sheepish smile and he turned to press his back to the shelf. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

She nodded and squeezed past him. Her chest brushed against his torso and she pretended not to notice. Once past him, she cleared her throat. “If you need any help, I’ll be up front.” She turned before he could respond and her watched her go. He never would’ve guessed the mousy shop assistant would have such a lurid imagination.

You were in disbelief. It couldn’t be. Steve Rogers in your book shop? No, you were dreaming. Or was it a nightmare? Oh god, why had you written all that stuff? You needed to delete. Now. You could hear him. The floor creaked as he moved slowly down the aisle. You hoped he would’ve taken the book and gone. The longer he stayed, the worse you felt. Your cheeks were on fire.

Your phone vibrated. You swiped the screen and found a new message from CapUSA. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. You should just pretend you didn’t see it. You unlocked the phone and read the message.

‘Hey, how’s work?’

‘It’s fine.’ You answered. What could you say? Who would believe that Steve Rogers had walked in your door?

‘I just was thinking about your last fic.’

‘Oh yeah?’ You peeked over at the far aisle. The floor no longer whined with his weight.

‘Yeah, I’d love to re-enact the last scene.’

‘Sorry?’ You sent the message and it went unanswered. ‘I don’t get it. What do you mean?’

‘The one with the girl on her knees. Begging to be fucked.’

‘Okay? I still don’t understand.’ Your heart jumped. This was really weird.

‘Or maybe and I could fuck you on that counter you’re standing behind.’

You hit close and locked the phone. You dropped it and looked around the shop. You rushed out from behind the counter and glanced out the window. You turned the latch and the floorboards groaned. You turned and pressed yourself to the door. You forgot he was there.

How could you forget something like that?

“Sorry, uh, we’re closing up,” You felt around for the lock, “I was just--”

“That’s okay. I think I’m just about done.” He slapped the book against his palm and placed it on the corner of the counter. He set his phone on top of it with a flourish. “Why don’t you flip the sign and we can get started.”

“What are you--”

“Do you prefer I call you by your real name or stevies-doll?” He leaned against the counter and smirked. “Or I can just call you doll. I know you like that.”

“No,” You exhaled shakily, “Y-you can’t be…”

“You’re not happy to see me?” He asked. He didn’t sound like the hero you saw on the news. Barely looked like him now. His pupils dilated to darken his blue eyes and the shadows of the shop cast his face in sinister tones. “You can call me Stevie if you like.”

“I...What I wrote, it was just...” You spluttered. “I’m s-sorry.”

“You don’t have to be.” He pushed himself away from the counter. “I’m not mad. Intrigued really.”

He stepped closer and your ears pounded as the adrenaline coursed through your veins. You turned and fumbled with the lock. The door opened an inch before his hand slammed it shut again. He easily flipped the lock back into place and spun the sign with a flick of his thumb.

“You can close early and we can have some fun...maybe inspire a new fic.” His arm was around your waist and you grabbed onto his thick wrist.

“They’re just stories.” You kicked as he pulled you away from the door. He tugged the blind down over the window. “Stupid fantasies.”

“Well, consider this a dream come true, doll,” He spun and let you go. You collided with the desk and gasped as the air was knocked from your lungs. “I think you remember this scene.”

“What do you want?” You clung to the desk as you turned to him.

“You know, I’m everything people think I am. Straight-laced, valiant, boring.” He planted his feet and stared you down. “Or was...until I found your blog.” His tongue ran across his bottom lip. “It gets lonely on the road. At first, your blog was like a secret companion. It gave me something to look forward to but then it made me think. So many things I never even knew I was missing out on.”

“Please, I don’t know what you want from me,” Your voice cracked. Your fear surged and left you shaking against the counter.

“I want…” He tilted his head and his eyes flashed, “You.” He paused and pushed his shoulders back. “On your knees.” Your eyes rounded, “Oh yes,” He raised a finger, “Naked.”

You stared at him. You were frozen in place. The counter your only support from melting into a puddle. His nostrils flared as he exhaled; long and drawn out.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” He snarled and his hand balled into a fist.

You gulped and held yourself with one hand against the counter as you bent to unlace your oxfords. You kicked them off with your socks and mustered your strength. You stood on your own and unbuttoned your shirt. You kept your eyes on the aged carpet stretched across the hardwood.

You dropped the blouse onto your shoes and unzipped your fly. The wool trousers slid halfway down without help and you untangled your legs from them. You added them to the heap and stood straight.

“Look at me,” Steve ordered. Your eyes snapped over to him. “Good.” You reached back and he raised a hand. “Stop...I wanna do it.”

He waved you forward and slowly you stepped away from the counter. He bared his palm in a gesture for you to halt and you hung your head. “Eyes up.” He corrected as he came closer. He walked around you and stopped just behind you.

His thick fingers touched the band of your bra and ran along it until they met at the hooks. He carefully unclasped it and the cups fell loose. He tickled your arms as he pushed the straps down them. He took it and flung it away from him. His hands came up to cup your tits and he pushed himself flush to your back.

“You always wrote so vividly of me but...I never knew how beautiful you truly were...how good you feel.” He squeezed and slowly lowered his hands. He dragged them to the side of your panties and slipped his fingers beneath the elastic. He bent as he guided the panties down your legs. “God, that ass.”

You shivered and his hands cradled your ass. He ran his rough palms along your cheeks and up your back. They settled on your shoulders and he pushed down firmly. “On your knees.”

He stepped back and you unsteadily got to your knees. He walked another circle around you. You could hear his dusky breaths. Glimpsed how his hand ran over the front of his jeans.

“Now ask, like a good girl,” He stopped before you and stared down with a smirk. “Go on, doll, I know you want it.”

You closed your eyes and swallowed. You grit your teeth and gather what was left of your wits. A story. That’s all this was. The letters could be backspaced and no one would know better of it.

“Please,” You recalled the last scene you had posted. The tingle which had flowed through you as you hit the button. What had she said? You opened your eyes. “Please, I want to...I want to make you happy.” You shuddered as the words whisked from you. “Can I?”

“Can you...what?” He taunted.

“Can I suck your dick?” It was barely a whisper.

“Oh, well, since you asked so nicely,” His hands were on his belt as he spoke. “But I have a different scene in mind for tonight. A new one.” He unbuckled his belt and cracked his neck. “I want you on the counter. On your back.”

You made to stand and his hand went to your head. He held you down.

“Crawl.”

You weakly dropped forward and turned. You crawled on hands and knees as he followed, stopping just in front of the desk as you followed his pointed finger to the other side. You stood and lifted yourself onto the counter and laid on your back. He guided your head over the side as he pulled you close and his hands found your tits again. He tweaked your hard nipples and you bit your lip.

He rescinded his hands and finished unzipping his pants. You tried not to watch as he pushed his pants down, his briefs too. The blur focused and you gaped at the size of him. He gripped himself and you snapped your mouth shut. He grabbed your chin and squeezed.

“Now, now, don’t act like this isn’t what you wanted,” He pressed his cock to your mouth and you were forced to open as his fingers threatened to crush your jaw.

He slid inside and your gasp was stifled as he met the back of your throat. He forced himself further and you threw your arms out. A clatter of books and papers as you swept them off the counter. He lingered at his limit and wiggled his hips. You arched your back as you choked and he grabbed your tit, kneading it as he slowly pulled out.

He pushed back in just as you gulped down air and you writhed atop the desk. He thrust in and out of your mouth. You gagged and groaned. The noises only fueled his fervour and he sunk in over and over until your head pulsed. The spit smeared around your lips and his balls.

He pulled back and slammed back in suddenly. His motion slowed as he came. He grunted, his breaths stuttered by the staggered rock of his pelvis. You clawed at the counter top and kicked until you could breathe again.

He slipped his cock from between your lips and his cum leaked from your mouth. You sat up and coughed. His hands were on your shoulders again. His fingers danced along your throat as if to ease your struggles.

“Come on, that’s just the first act,” He drew away and you glanced over your shoulder. “Turn around.”

You turned on the desk and he pulled your legs over the edge. He pushed your knees apart and stepped back to admire the view. You dug your nails into the lip of the counter to keep yourself from closing your legs.

“I know you’ve been dying to see this,” He grinned and pulled his shirt over his head.

His cock hung out of his pants. It twitched as he tossed his shirt at you. You caught it. It smelled like him. He shoved his pants down without pause and he hardened again. You dropped his shirt and looked away guiltily.

Had you not written this scene a dozen times over?

He was completely naked when you looked again. He came close, his hands on your knees as he knelt before you. You tried to pull your legs together but he held them apart. He shook his head and tutted.

“Just sit back and enjoy,” He licked his lips. “Trust me, it’s better than you could ever imagine.”

Your shock took over completely. You watched as he bowed his head and you felt his hot breath on your thighs. When his tongue met your pussy you gasped. He delved between your folds and swirled around your clit. Your nails went deeper into the wood and your thighs shook. It felt good. It shouldn’t, though.

He buried his face deeper and you watched his golden locks from above. He reached over blindly, his large hand found yours, and he guided it to the back of his head. He held it there a moment before letting go. You clung to him as he hands glided up your thighs and he framed your vee with thumb and index.

You arched your back and moaned. It was your declaration of surrender. You couldn’t resist it any longer. The heat stirred inside of you, the flames licking at your thighs and back. You urged Steve closer though he couldn’t possibly go any deeper.

His hands slipped down to the outside of your thighs. Your legs closed around his head and held him there. He tipped you slightly and you curled around him as he continued to lap. Your breaths mixed with throaty hums and you fell back.

You had one hand still on his head and the other in your hair as you cried out in a mighty climax. He didn’t stop until you were shaking across the counter. When at last his mouth left you, you shivered. A sudden coolness washed over your body. He stood and you looked at him through the haze.

He grabbed your waist and pulled you to your feet. You wavered and he spun you quickly. You caught yourself on the desk and he slapped your ass. “That’s it,” He purred. “You’re getting it now.”

He nudged your shoulder until you were bent entirely over the counter, your toes barely met the floor. He rubbed your ass and pulled your cheeks apart. His cock poked you as his hand slipped lower and he tickled just below your ass. You squirmed and he chuckled.

He felt around and his cock slipped lower as he bent his knees. He dragged his tip along your folds before prodding at your entrance. He shoved his hand between your legs and forced them apart.

He pushed inside and slowly stretched you around him. Your head shot up at the strain. A mix of pain and pleasure as he got deeper and deeper.

You whined as he bottomed out and his hips bucked almost instinctively. He hit your cervix and you cried out. He eased out and pushed back in. He repeated this again and again, his motion careful. Deliberate. He brought his pelvis flush to your ass and groaned.

“Fuck,” He slapped your ass again.

He drew back and slammed into you all at once. All restraint was lost and he thrust mercilessly. His pace was wild. You reached out to grab at the edge of the counter, your hips hitting the other painfully. The spark had caught and you felt the flame about to burst.

Your orgasm was surprising. More agony than pleasure. You whimpered and pushed your head into the counter as you heaved. You could barely breath as Steve never wavered. He fucked until you until your walls ached. Until they turned numb and you were nothing but a mewling fool before him.

He bent over your, his muscled torso against your sweaty back. He rutted atop you frantically. His hips jerked as his grunts deepened. His breath caught and he swore. He lifted himself off you and you felt the warmth spill down your ass and thigh.

You laid breathless as he panted behind you. He rubbed his cum into your skin with two fingers and you shook. You tried to push yourself up from the desk. He caught your hip and shoved you back down.

“Oh, we’re not even close to the finale,” He pinched your ass and you squeaked. “Not to mention the epilogue.”

tags to be added in reblog

#steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #fic #steve rogers fic #au #marvel #mcu #captain america #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers #steve rogers #dark!fic #dark fic #dark!verse #darkverse

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we-live-in-a--society · 4 years

Text

El Nacimiento del un Hombre Nuevo

The Downfall of Humanity – obtusely poetic phrase, prolixity, without a direct meaning, without a place, without a purpose, only a forage for youth, blatant lies; in other words – not fitting his taste. Each time someone pours it onto his lithe frame, a flame is ignited, a flash of disgust running down his body, since he believes that being an idealist gets you nowhere, at least nowhere significant, only to the Place of Eternal Disappointment.

Where you suffer.

Making sure you shatter.

And then begin your slaughter.

As the years go by, the circle completes itself, from the Dawn of Humanity and the Killing Monkeys to the Absolute Disorder and the Rise of Rats, filthy, sinewy rats that pop out of their hideouts just to rip you apart, piece by piece. Rip or be ripped – a motto of the New Order – and those who are unable to comprehend it are meant to extinct – natural selection in its most advanced form, leaving only the strongest specimens.

The Survivors.

The ones that are left to roam the earth in search for hell knows what, with endurance being their main principle, their drive towards inevitable, towards the place of unknown. Years ago it would terrify him, but today he doubts whether this world has anything grisly for him to offer, anything that would shatter him once more.

He was born in the first year of Clinton’s presidency, death of Audrey Hepburn, soaked in his mother’s tears, and that Buddha album, full title lost within the depths of his mind. It seems so far away now, not because of the twelvemonths but the variety of events following his graduation – a new, foolishly hopeful, beginning, and oh, what a fierce one in his case, carrying an incomprehensible disaster that has shaped the post-apocalyptic world. All it took was a ridiculously minuscule creature, cause of the outbreak – a single word, carrying such a powerful meaning – albeit leading to more than half of the population biting dust within the first few years.

Unbelievable, huh?

However, as the time went by, so did the slaughters, with people taking matters into their own hands, and now, depraved from any actual data, he can only assume the number of deceased, not that it bothers him much anymore, since according to one famous dictator’s words: “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.”

When has he become this bitter?

Or more importantly, what is the point of asking a question if you already know the answer?

* * *

She feels numb, aching, detached from her body, yet present within, floating on a passage where she is capable of sustaining every single sensation, though unable to move, caught in a trap, too stunned and terrified to attempt any escape. At the very beginning she has made the following promise: I will not fall on my knees and beg, but the reliability of said assumption is not so zero-one anymore as she eyes her oppressors, standing tall and broad, with all the inglorious possibilities flashing through their minds, staring at her with full-blown pupils. The intensity of their gazes has her wanting to curl into a ball, hide somewhere deep within her soul, hoping it would ensure her safeness, take her back to a place where she would be floating free, deprived of all the unpleasant notions: trepidation, cruelty, and misery.

There were times when she did nothing else but wonder what it feels like to lose control over one’s body, forget how to fight, instead give in and accept one’s fate. She used to consider it as absurd, absolutely and utterly nonsensical

(“what if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense”),

wafting on a whimsical cloud called Faith, like a thoroughbred hypocrite would, pretending that choosing to believe in certain absolutes is not, by any means, a form of enslavement, a prison with silk-upholstered walls.

And so, she has become the thrall of her own convictions – another hopeless idealist within this cruel world, idealists that are meant to extinct.

“Will you cry for me, sweet girl?” One of them asks all of sudden – the person she used to call Clay back in the better days – with a mocking laughter that sends a jarring shiver down her spine. Instead of bothering to form a verbal reply, she keeps staring at the dusty concrete, the tiny patches of grass now ridiculously absorbing; everything to not look him in the eye.

“Answer him, bitch!” Jarring voice that has her flinching in disgust, or fear maybe, frame shaking like a leaf in the dusty fall breeze. The ability to form words has abandoned her long ago, presumably at the time when they tugged her away in the alley, hence the lack of ideas what she is supposed to say under such circumstances.

He, however, is pretty far from deciding that it would be a way more sensible to let it go, and so grasps her by the neck, pushing her up against the brick wall. She chokes on her breath, head bumping into the hard surface with a loud thud that sends a reverberating ache through her body, dark spots marking her vision. With an innate reflex, she grips his wrist, trying to yank him away, but he appears to be stronger as he slams her head back, this time on purpose, to stun the girl and so put a halt to her pitiful escape attempts.

“Just don’t fucking kill her, dude,” Clay warns, his voice breaking at the end, as if his consciousness managed to spoke through the thick barrier of borne animalism. Her eyes prick with tears threatening to run down her cheeks, awoken by the icy cold tone of his voice, cumulating with the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“Relax,” he chides, although lets her go, so she is able to stand back at her feet instead of the tippy-toes, “I’ve got it all under control. Won’t be any use of her if she is dead.”

“You’re right, it won’t,” he nods, as if attempting to convince himself, which is at least how she wants to perceive the whole situation, to think that Clay has been forced to participate in it, that all he is doing consists of blatant, sharp-edged lies, that he already regrets even considering it in the first place.

(I sincerely doubt he does).

“Fucking told you so,” he huffs – a mannerism of yet another expert in the infamous field of manhandling people – however still quick to dart attention back to her – tensed, albeit passive. His gaze remains focused solely on the girl in front of him as if he possessed an ability to drill into her soul, and so uncover all the layers of horror and hatred, break her down and scatter the pieces on the dusty concrete for the benefit of all the watchers.

To be honest, she would rather die than let it happen.

(You are wasting time, Fabienne.)

And so, accordingly to guidance of her inner consciousness, she aims for the only spot she could think of in such a state – crotch, obviously – not very ingenious, either way efficiently enough. As if on some comical command, he lets her go, groaning in pain as he curls into a ball

(oh how the tables have turned),

and she is left with nothing else than make a run for desired freedom, her rip from the pavement surprisingly graceful, deprived of any unfavorable tripping. However, Clay is quick to steady that matter with a harsh tug of her leg that knocks the girl over onto the ground, forcing a scream out of her throat, a never-ending cry of Banshee, in hopes that it will alert someone who cares enough to help her.

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

She attempts to wriggle away from his grip, crawling on the dirty ground akin to some grotesque snake, with a tunnel vision that allows it to strive only for the ally’s intel, gravel pricking the exposed parts of its skin. For a brief moment, she does nothing else but wail, like some wounded animal, as if she went completely mad, kicking anything within her reach, but actually aiming for Clay, or rather for sweeping him off his feet. Although it all appears as success-oriented pursuit, her attempts are soon to be rectified with a sharp jerk and crushing weight brought upon her shoulders, stealing another breath from the terrified lass who is now forced to face the predators as one of them flips her onto the back as if she was nothing more than a dainty ragdoll.

(Just close your eyes and you will be alright.)

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

* * *

Through his life, he has gotten a chance to discover that certain things never change, which might as well be yet another lie that has been made up to protect the weakest among from the crushing weight of truth. Either way, he has noticed that forming habits somehow helps us in the darkest times, when we are unable to focus on anything but the negatives: grief, longing, and abandonment; allowing us to complete essential activities, even if caught in some sinister trance where we are barely able to acknowledge what is happening around us. He has always considered it as some unconventional form of a blessing, a route to headway, an acquiescence for pursuit, and much, much more but unfortunately he has never been good with words, and accordingly so – incapable of verbal expression.

Aside from habits, he has discovered the existence of routines, something that helps him to lead a day to day life in spite of unfavorable environment, and so keep himself attached to reality – a factor that becomes rather important during survival struggles. One of them appears to be a peaceful meal consumption, picked up from home and still relevant today despite all eventual threats, something that brings back memories of the better past and faces that somehow manage to hunt him even these days.

Nonetheless, as the years pass by, he finds it harder and harder to look at himself in the mirror, knowing that he is getting older, that death is creeping closer and closer until it captures him with its icy claws, draining any remains of life out of him. If he believed in any holy spirits, it would feel relieving to think of it as a reunion with everyone that had been left behind, but he sincerely doubts it, expecting nothing but the End, la Grande Finale as his mother would say, the Downfall of His Existence – a peace-bringing denouement.

But what is it worth?

Certainly more than an interrupted meal, whereas the harshness of such severance still leaves a caustic taste upon his tongue, the one that will not last long, albeit enough to be acknowledged, and so remembered.

His ears prick up at the tearing noise: a scream, a wail, a whine of a wounded animal; loud enough to awoke a will to come up to the source and silence the person himself, but instead he wonders whether such altruistic jeopardy is indeed necessary in this case. These are not even coherent words, just a croaky, unrelenting shriek that cumulates with the pile of growing irritation, but also wakes up some contradictory inkling that he should come down and help.

Therefore, he is quick to raise from the seat, soon stepping through the doorway and down the staircase, cautious steps echoing through the empty space. Having casted an eye on the street, he walks out of the building, heading towards the now dulling sound in face of all inhuman amount of screeching, eyes following every of a few turns, immediate to reach his destination.

Peeping from around the corner, he witnesses an odd scene playing in front of him, as if meant to be regarded – two chaps, even if of relatively average build, failing to subdue no one else than a dainty girl. While waiting for her to quiet down, he wonders what would be the most beneficial way to handle the oppressors, since of course shooting them would do the trick, but the real question is whether they are worth wasting any bullets.

Ergo, he picks up a brick, testing its weight in his hand with a few careless tosses, before he hides inside the nearest building, and throws it somewhere aside, hoping that the sound itself would be enough to alert them, nevertheless remaining in doubt about its efficiency. However, and much to his surprise, their movements halt while taking a moment to inspect the surroundings, as if trying to determine whether they simply misheard something, or whether the noise was real, eyes meeting in the end.

“The fuck was that?” The taller one curses angrily, not quite managing to hide the hint of trepidation within his voice.

“Infected?” His friend dwells with a tensed frown marking his forehead, a word that never fails to settle an ominous notion in the pit of his stomach, even despite all those years.

“Fuck infected!” He exclaims in exasperation, backing up a couple of steps. “And fuck this, man! You convinced me to do all of it, and if I get to die because of you I swear I’ll-”

“Hush,” he silences the unstable lad, the one that appears as more confident and trenchant, maybe also the one that will get to live longer, who knows, “I’m trying to fucking listen, okay?”

“Fuck you, man!” He bawls, keeping up with the irresponsible person attire, much to the watcher’s interest, “I’m outta here and outta this. If you wanna take her, be my fucking guest but I don’t fancy getting eaten by any of those fucking beasts.”

His friend just shakes his head with ironic disbelief, hissing a bunch of incoherent words to the girl below him, before he lets her go and calls out to the already retreating one. “Wait!” He whisper-shouts, quite an odd speech manner if he was being honest, and springs up from the ground, quick to follow the taller one’s traces, and so disappear around the final corner.

Having waited for their voices to mold into silence, he jumps through the empty window frame, landing on the concrete with a loud thud that alerts the confused lass. In an attempt to get up and most likely run away, she somehow manages to drag her body up, but regardless of the effort trips once more and falls down on her knees, an act that is accompanied by a pained moan. He watches her with an odd concoction of pity and amusement playing upon his face until she looks up to him, scared and perplexed, eyeing him with a mistrustful gaze.

The initial notion that hits her in time with the first glance is simple – he looks older, probably on the cusp between thirties and forties, exactly like a rugged survivor would, with toned forearms and prickly beard. But what eventually captures her attentions is a jarring straight-shaped scar across his eyebrow and cheek, which gives her the impression that the past assaulter must have failed to slash his eye for less than an inch or so. Under any other circumstances it would whip up certain uneasiness within her, however this time she is swept away with a relief towards this stranger, fighting the innate urge to express her gratitude in a more intimate way, a hug maybe, since that would be rather irresponsible and quite childish if she was being honest.

“Thank you,” she croaks instead, barely managing to get the words out of her constricted windpipe, either way accepts the offering hand that he holds for her to help the young woman rise from dusty ground. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine due to the close contact, his pleasantly warm in contrast with the frigid coldness of her flesh, callous texture scraping over her skin – a notion that she finds oddly distracting.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice all gravel and sandpaper, letting go of her hand as soon as she stands up on her feet again, watching her wipe the dust from her clothes.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she chuckles nervously, refusing to look him in the eye now, her gaze sweeping over the surrounding in an annoyingly swift manner, before she finally meets his browns, much to his relief.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, not a relatively nice phrase, but either way he has got a point and she feels obligated to bear with it. Being honest here, he appears to be one of those harsh, unpleasant people to spend time with, but she, in turn, seems to be deprived of any decent alternative, certain that she has to convince the stranger into taking her in, at least for a couple of weeks until they reach another city where new opportunities will drop, allowing her to depart eventually.

“Um, okay,” she hums in agreement, still visibly tensed around him, which does not manage to slip past his attention. “Can we at least go somewhere less exposed?”

“We?” His eyebrow perks up – a display of partial incredulity. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m going back alone.”

“What? Why?” She utters, anxious as ever, since he must be overreacting at least for a tiny bit. “I won’t bother you, I promise. It’s just- I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow if you leave me here, and it all would be for nothing.”

“No,” he refuses with blatant simplicity, another ugly, harsh word that almost causes her to burst into tears due to all the pent-up emotions.

“Even if I promised I would leave you alone in the morning?” She tries once again, barely managing to swallow the thick lump down her throat – a telling sign of an approaching cry.

(She won’t.)

“No,” he repeats, already annoyed and anticipating their separation.

“But-” she begins – a fact that remains seemingly unnoticed by the harsh man as he walks past her, aiming for the ally’s intel. “Oh, great.”

He leaves her no other choice than follow him, despite his surly attitude and moderate approach, in face of the inevitable death that awaits her somewhere in the creeping night’s shadows. She is well-aware of the fact that he was the one who threw the brick, and the action itself wakes up something within her – an emotion so intoxicating that it feels crushing upon her chest – unable to be named

(calm down),

but worryingly influencing.

Throughout all these years, spent in strangling solitude, she has felt some foreign urge to mate with someone, and thus create at least a makeshift substitute for so-called family, unable to resist another opportunity – genesis of her personal damnation, nail in the coffin, but oh so terribly desired. In certain moments she finds herself unable to resist the sudden temptations, driven by a distinct, innate urge to carry on, in search for the necessary fulfilment, safety, and peace, while other times she is swept away with a lancing wave of anxiousness, an inkling that it would be foolish to pursuit, harmful even, that she would regret it later on, albeit not today.

Today she wishes to make it all happen.

Therefore, she follows him, jogging by his side to match the strides, seemingly exaggerated in length but either way bearable, despite his unpleasant tendencies to ignore her, as if pretending he has gone for a pondering, lonesome walk. Being honest here, the assumption fits him perfectly – a forlorn wolf amongst many, the one that rarely bothers to utter a decent sentence, not to mention his disability to see her as a human being, a sensitive creature, instead of a harmful nemesis.

According to her observations, people these days seem numb, depraved of any actual feelings, focused and alert for any dangers awaiting in the dark, or just around the corner, hid in the depths of their weeping souls, begging for redemption, for mercy. Many times before, she has heard that world is a cruel, empty place, lacking in the aforementioned qualities, and so offering damnation only – a burden that comes with blood stains on their hands, with sleepless nights, delirious wandering, no purpose, no place.

And what for?

Lost in her own thoughts, she barely notices that he has halted in front of one of abandoned buildings, slightly lower than the rest, entrance unblocked, as if inviting the passerby with a promise of a satisfactory loot

(am I one of them?),

or right the opposite – yet another threat lurking in the shadows, waiting for its prey. A dreadful shiver runs down her spine at the sinister thought, an inkling existing only to be confirmed or denied, whereas the ingenuous parts of her are putting emphasis on the former – a trait that is determined to abandon her somewhere in the future.

“We depart now, kid,” he announces bluntly, pointing in the opposite direction. “If you head west, you’ll leave the city and reach the nearby woods. Analogically, if you go opposite, it’ll lead you to the center area, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“And why is that?” She inquires, frowning in confusion.

“The area is already occupied,” he explains, quick to add a brief, “not negotiable,” as if to clarify her visible doubts.

“Who lives there?” Another question leaves her lips, as if to prolong their hopefully brief encounter.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he spats involuntary, another bitter manner to catch her off guard, not attentive enough to care about possible misunderstandings.

“I still don’t get it,” she shrugs, staring at him with silent anticipation, as if she indeed expected an answer, like it would astonish him.

“It’s from the Old World,” he attempts to cuts the matter short, but she is not yet to disappoint him even this time, another query following his lack of explanation.

“What does it mean then?”

“It means that in certain situations inquisitiveness might lead to a scrape,” he sighs in defeat, but bestows her with the simplest gloss either way.

“If you say so,” she huffs, clearly annoyed with his lacking answers, but is immediate to pursuit with the plot that has been left hanging for a brief moment. “Can’t spend a night here, though? Not negotiable too? Just keep in mind that by forcing me to leave you’re practically digging up my grave.”

Manipulating is a filthy practice, according to what his mother used to tell him on multiple occasions, that he is supposed to be a decent man, living a candid life of a meticulous and conscientious person, amongst other lies, with moral behavior on the very peak of her own Pyramid of Absurd. The rules might have applied to the Old World, but the New Order most certainly does not allow any nostalgia to blossom, a penchant for recreation, for rebirth, nipping it all in the bud, drowning their wicked souls in the tears of those who were perished.

Ironic.

“You think I’m some fucking charity, don’t you?” He chuckles bitterly, a nasty manner that sends a shiver down her spine in time with the newfound realization – of course he would want her to pay, what was she even thinking?

“What kind of payment are you interested in?” She gulps, instinctively backing a few step away from him, ready to run in case it will be necessary. “Sex?”

“Your dignity must have abandoned you long ago if that’s the first offer you pop out with,” he comments harshly, a hint of a mocking smirk playing upon his lips, which might as well be only a matter of her perception.

“Does it mean I can stay then?” She ascertains, not quite managing to hide the tremor within her voice, resolves running thin in face of his judgmental attitude.

“I guess so,” he nods, as if finally willing to admit that she is rather improbable to ditch said matter, “but conditions first,” he shushes her with a dismissive gesture. “I’m rather meticulous when it comes to my stuff, which means no touching, no snooping. What’s mine is mine, don’t forget that. If I catch you breaking the rules, you’re out. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she confirms, opting for the simplest possible answer, since it appears as the most sensible too, a technique that would most likely talk some reason into him.

“We’ll see about that,” he remarks at last, and without waiting for her answer, he disappears inside the building, steps echoing in the empty space, which leaves her with no other choice than to follow him. She matches his pace, although remains a few stairs behind him, running her hand past the railing, as she climbs up to face the inevitable, with bits of dust covering her fingertips.

Moments later, they march through the door, only to be greeted by the sight of something that must have been an office installation back in the days, with a row of desks and a coach by the window, a furniture that is already occupied as if to line up with her expectations that concern the matter of being forced to spend the following night on the floor. In the meantime, he manages to barricade the door with a book shelf, now lacking in the better parts of its prior contents– void and deplorable – a flawless fit for the New World, waking up that peculiar longing for something she has never got a chance to experience but either way misses it – another exemplary paradox. She perches on the sofa, her spine awkwardly straightened as her eyes remain glued to him, a notion that he does not fail to notice, but ignores it either way, satisfied with the result of put effort.

They stick to the silence for quite a while, a time needed for her to relax on the seat, and him to eat in the corner, back supported by the wall – an action that does not slip past her attention, smell of food redirecting her focus to own discomfort. Nevertheless, she feels like it would be off top to come up and ask for a share, considering that he is more likely to refuse, not that she finds it hard to believe, but on the other hand at some point filling up her stomach would become an obligation rather than just an option.

“Hungry?” He asks, creeping in between her thoughts, much to her relief actually, in face of undisputable lack of ideas when it comes to figuring out the most efficient approach.

“Starving,” she affirms with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips – a sign of nonverbal alleviation.

“C’mere,” he motions her towards with a universal wrist flick, and despite the innate uneasiness, she obeys, stomach acting as the eventual decision maker. She plops down on the empty space in front of him, good few feet away in case he might want to touch her for no actual reason, leaving him with no other choice than throw whatever he is having at her, partly impressed that she manages to catch it.

“Enjoy your meal,” he adds, a promise of something darker that is yet to come, “it might be the last.”

* * *

Over the course of time, he has managed to notice something distinctive about her personality, something that he is incapable of addressing, frustrating but ever present in the least convenient form possible, itching akin to an insect bite that calls for a scratch ever so often. In addition, the aspect itself is considered as something he was not fully aware of in the following years, but the Change has brought yet another conspicuous realization upon him.

He might be not as talented at reading people as he perceived himself to be.

At first, it appeared as a rather galling factor, a bookish example of noting more than a splendid mistake, but then it transferred into something else, something of entirely different nature – an awakening, utterly clarifying in its simple form. Swept with augmenting realizations, as sensible as any other person would be in a middle of a mental turmoil, he felt obligated to switch his lifestyle for obvious reasons.

Having someone else around is unerring to shift someone’s perspective, forcing him to adjust – a primeval tactic that comes with evolution, or natural selection, call it however you want. Nonetheless, in his case the whole process has formed some bizarre juxtaposition of two almost opposite factors – company and serenity, depraving each from the other, clawing until the bone peaks through the paper-thin epithelium. In one hand he can barely stand her presence, the fact that she is lurking behind him like a shadow, capable of remaining dead silent throughout the day, while in other hand she keeps asking questions, sometimes completely out of context, but he suspects each of them might lead to a greater goal.

Tonight has also been chosen for the former purpose, and while they are hidden safely

(more or less)

under the roof, the storm is raging around the motel, heavy droplets beating out a rhythm on the tiles – a melody of primordiality. It brings him certain solitude, a pensive longing for what he left behind – demons of the past that hunt him no matter where he is harboring, no matter where he is hiking, no matter where he is heading; always beset, caught in a trap. There are times when he craves for nothing else than hush their excruciating wails, strangle and watch them suffer for a change, switch the strict roles – a prelude for another thought to occur – if so, it would all be for nothing, all he has gone through, all he has done just to stand here today, bathed in the metaphorical sun.

All as simple as that.

“You’re quiet today,” he notes out of thin air, nevertheless drawing her attention, eyes flicking up to glance at him. She does not bother to answer, instead her gaze adverts to the side, focusing on the peeling wallpaper that for some reasons seems more bearable than the sight of him. “Are you even listening?” He repeats, a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, shaped by the blatant lack of reaction. “Fabienne!”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, eyes meeting his for a brief moment, “I was just… you know, thinking.”

“About anything particular?” He asks as if only to carry on with the conversation – a meaningless pursuit, a silly trace picked up from society. For a brief moment, she dares to consider that he might, indeed, be interested in her pointless babbling, pursuit to reveal the answers, reasons why she is still here.

“Am I supposed to think about anything particular?” She retorts, voice distant and dreamy, detached from reality – a trait that is certain to get her killed one day. “I found some notes here while you were out, scavenging the store, and I… I can’t believe it. It all seems so absurd, like some tale that parents would tell their children, naïve and artless, unable to find a different meaning.”

“You can always just tell me what was in the notes,” he sighs, somehow fed up with her far-fetched responses as the one who rather stands for retrieving less complicated solutions, or simply forming an essential statement.

“Just a poem, but it’s so beautifully expressive,” she sighs, smiling to herself – probably without realizing it – an otherworldly, evanescent visage, “and some diary writing. Maybe it’s silly, but browsing through the Old World stuff always makes me better, like I’m capable of somehow sharing my life with them, transferring to their reality, and so become the person that I’ve always wanted to.”

“And why is that? Why become another person?” He queries bluntly, and even though she had a decent amount of time to get used to his mannerisms, he is still capable of throwing her off guard in certain moments.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it,” she admits, accompanied by a nervous chuckle. “To be honest, each time it makes me feel so empty, as if my whole life was lacking in something essential.”

Without a clue what to say, he only hums in response, a notion that he is all too familiar with, unable to depart, leave it somewhere behind, and gain that fluent speech manners that prompt suitable words when needed. He is partly aware that it is, indeed, the cause why she perceives him as a rude person, the one who does not give a fig about what she is willing to communicate, which might as well mean that her judgment is not as flawless as it appears to be in her eyes.

Why does it have to amuse him so much?

While they were talking, the heavy drumming of rain – a signature of the fall season – seemed to subside a bit, and now he can only imagine the fresh scent of concrete – one of few life’s aspects that he has always found quite pleasing. However, his attention is quick to switch back to her, now facing the opposite wall, back turned to him, curled into a ball, as it helps her to fall asleep – probably some sort of innate wont, or maybe trust issues that deter her from taking more comfortable position.

(You would want that, wouldn’t you?)

Maybe laying down next to her will be inappropriate, but in all honesty he has grown fed up with sleeping on the floor or armchairs anytime they doss in a place with only one bed, and since his doubts considering whether she will oppose are rather strong, he settles next to her, mattress dipping due to extra weight. She flinches as soon as she senses the shift, subconsciously dragging her body away from his arm range, but does not bother to object, right according to his suspicions. While his head is resting on the pillow, eyes close on their own, enjoying the serenity of late evening, along with the subtle moonlight peeking through the thin gap between the heavy curtains, oddly unprepared for what is about to come.

“How did you get these scars?” She asks out of nowhere, a question that hangs in the air for a longer while, as if waiting to be consumed, thick akin to a morning mist.

“Fell down the stairs once,” he evades, flashing her a brief glance, attracted by the sideways movement, which allows her to face him.

“You didn’t,” she chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“I did,” he counters somehow impishly, such an unusual occurrence when it comes to him, considering he has never struck her as a particularly easygoing man.

“I’m sorry if that was too interfering,” she elucidates, apologetic smile lacing her lips. “I didn’t mean to sound rude or anything. I was just curious, that’s it, and I perfectly understand if you don’t want to tell me the whole story, it’s just-”

“I think I was around sixteen when I got it,” he interrupts, rectifying her rushed explanation that, for some reasons, was considered as adequate in such case. “The thing is, at that time I used to ride a bike quite a lot, and by saying ‘a lot’ I mean every day on the route to high school and back. It was all peachy keen, until I got drunk one day.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve always wondered what it means to get drunk in the first place,” she admits, a shy smile, finely subtle, blossoming upon her face. “Actually I think it’s a perfect example of one of those things that you hear someone mentioning from time to time, but at the same time have no idea how it’s supposed to feel like.”

“Dizzy but in a fine way, and as you might know, people’s responses tend to differ,” he explains, a clarification that she surely does not find neither detailed nor specific enough. “I don’t think I have the capacity to expound it well, since-”

“Yeah, I know,” she shrugs it off, seemingly tired with his habit of developing quite a decent amount of exaggerated explications, “it’s one of those things you have to experience to know for sure.”

“Something like that,” he agrees, nevertheless immediate to get back on the formerly abandoned track. “Anyway, while I was trying to somehow make it back home, I… let’s say… crashed into a bus stop, the glass part to be specific, and as you might already surmise, some of the fragments cut my face, while others pricked other parts of my skin, forearms for instance.”

“What happened with you afterwards?” She asks, voice laced with some odd kind of compassion, the one that she is not supposed to feel towards him, as her gaze remains glued to his profile, while he, in turn, opts for the celling.

“Well, they patched me up, that’s all,” he shrugs, casting Fabienne a brief glance that has her own elude to the side, cheeks flushed with embarrassment each time he catches her stare by accident. He would be lying if he said it never amused him to see her in such a state – caught hand in a cookie jar – while the real question is how deep she has managed to dive, whether it is still enough to retreat or not really.

He will never truly know.

“I’m sorry,” she indicates, a worried frown making an appearance upon her face.

“For what? That I was a stupid kid who did nothing else than bring it down on himself?” He huffs, sometimes caught in doubt whether it is only a matter of compassion, or whether she seeks some gain within it. “I don’t think there is anything to feel sorry for.”

“Why do you always have to such a jerk?” She accuses, a little too blatant for his own taste, nevertheless immediate to catch his attention, especially when she shoots up straight, maybe in order to get the height predominance.

“Calling me names won’t be beneficial,” he states, so matter-of-factly and much to her upset, “considering I could walk away any time.”

“You’re-”

“Yeah, do go on,” he encourages, voice completely flat, deprived of anything that might be labelled as an emotional layer, something that never failed to amaze, or rather unsettle her. She sometimes doubts he is a human after all. “I ain’t stopping you.”

“What are you so afraid of?” She practically cries out, a turmoil of contradict emotions raging inside her, only to be fueled by his lack of answer – nothing more than a constraint to make her blunder more, dig up her own grave. “That you’d let someone too close and lose him afterwards? So it all would be for nothing?” Not a word. “Everything happens for a reason, why can’t you see it? Why do you have to be so blind?”

“Less effort means more effort,” he adds, a sentence that she has heard him utter on multiple occasions in the past, something that never fails to agitate her, and so desert of the possibility to comprehend its virtual meaning.

“So that’s all you have to say?” She spats, bitter venom lingering on the tip of her tongue, nevertheless not meant to surpass his.

Silence speaks a thousand words.

She feels like it might as well be his motto, words of wisdom that he keeps telling himself instead of forming a decent, verbal reply that would please the interlocutor – yet another futile pursuit in the eyes of this odd man lying next to her. She often dwells upon what life factors he actually perceives as important, meaningful, more or less significant, the ones that are probable to make a real difference, not a mere shift like removing a stain from a fabric. Therefore, at some point of their relationship she has managed to realize that the odd savior complex, combined with his reconditeness entices her more than she cares to admit.

Shame.

Since his eyelids remain shut, she gains a chance to watch him, at least briefly, caught in such a vulnerable state – not a day-to-day occurrence by any means – a single forearm draped over his face, blocking every mere gleam of moonlight – the guide of those who got lost within the dusky depths of night. His chest is raising and falling in time with each steady inhale, making her wonder whether it is nothing more than a false façade, a serenity that is meant to hide the turmoil inside, raging storm just below the surface.

Probably not.

She sighs heavily, a sound that is loud enough to draw his attention, one hazel eye falling open to meet her gaze once more that night. He keeps them locked for a brief moment, until she involuntarily adverts, escaping the privilege to maintain the contact for a little longer, and he only snorts in response – nasal substitute for a proper laugh. He is partly aware of the thoughts hidden underneath, but has never taken a chance to absorb them in any way, rather than pretend that they are non-existent, whereas this time seems different.

This time he decides to acknowledge that the girl is, indeed, ‘in love’ with him.

(Well, that’s too bad.)

Ironically, even a person like him – unable to comprehend the diversity of emotions, considering they do not classify as anything interesting

(we see what we wat to see) –

has managed to notice the variety of her acts, including the subtle ones, from the occasional, bashful glances to the unusual concoctions of words that carry one and one association only. Somehow, he pities her, although there is nothing to be done here, despite so many aspects that are scattered around until fixed, rather than wait for it to subside, or leave her hanging one day – an action that would lead to bilateral loneliness, something that he is not quite certain he is willing to restore. Maybe traveling with someone else is nothing more than yet another developing habit, paired with an urge to spend time with certain person, seemingly unable to switch back to the Life Before.

(People get used to everything.)

“I’m going to sleep,” the exclamation that slices through the mist of silence, thick, and laced with something that he cannot quite place, a hint of expectance maybe, so he remains speechless, allowing her to continue.

But it never comes, so instead he opts for the simplest, old-fashioned, “sleep tight,” immediate to turn around on the side, curling into a ball, more or less, since it helps to maintain body heat – something that he had a questionable pleasure of testing on the course of multiple freezing nights – eyes closing on their own.

(You know what they say, Craig...)

Silence speaks a thousand words.

* * *

A mere brush upon his shoulder, a faint shuffling sound, dim moonlight shining through the thin gap, or rather the concoction of three factors is what appears to be the cause of his abrupt awakening. He springs up in alarm – another habit developed throughout all these years – eyes scanning the room with meticulous precision, at least as much as the circumstances allow him to, in search for a factor that appears to exist apart of usual room components.

Unable to perceive anything significant, his gaze eventually lands on a silhouette beside him - a girl lying on her side, hand tossed carelessly on the spot previously occupied by him. He sighs in relief as soon as the newfound realization sweeps upon him, the one that brings final denouement – her accidental slap had to be the cause of said awakening.

With cleared out mind, he focuses more distinctly on Fabienne, lying on the side, face turned towards him - an unmissable opportunity to study her visage, since such behavior would not be tolerated on daily bases. At the current blink, she appears as otherworldly, lost within the depths of her own mind, somewhere far, far away, not that he finds it hard to believe, since it forms quite a common association – dreaming equals traveling.

Ironic.

At first, he considers, quite strongly, waking her up, but then another thought occurs, an inkling, driven by intuition, or rather opportunistic nature, that he might, in fact, abandon her now if he really wanted. She will not even notice his departure, remaining asleep, safe in her on dreamscape, left to uncover the truth in the morning as light paints her face, taking away all false beliefs.

Why does it have to be so tough then?

Stepping out if the door is almost effortless in physical matter, walking down the stairs also, heading down the streets joins the gathering, now of three. It is almost absurd, how incapable of admitting certain actualities he is, a grown-up man and still afraid of words – lines of letters on the newsprint. He is a blind man, a liar, lost within his own illusion, simplifications, an expert in covering up the verity, but what for?

Suffering?

No.

A feeling that is foreign, without a proper word to address it, impossible to be described, but ever present in his life, marking him like the glass once did.

(I don't want to die without any scars.)

(Sardonic, cynical, caustic…)

Ironic.

As if with a mind of its own, his hand hovers over her body, muscles twitching with anticipative tension, clueless about what he is willing to do, without a plan for a change. After a few haywire moments, filled with offbeat anticipation, his fingers twirl through her hair, carefully brushing out a few stray tangles. She flinches in response to the touch, and for one fatal moment he is certain she is just about to wake up, frozen on the spot, hand still in between her strands, nevertheless she is quick to relax, which prompts him to resume.

Truth to be told, he has always found her enticing – petite girl with delicate nose and nimble fingers – so innocent and even prettier, oddly fitting in his tastes. Over the course of time, he has learned to admire her as a woman, or rather not silence the encouraging whispers, whereas the desire to perceive himself in terms of a decent man, full of unspoken virtues, righteous and worthy, never made it less challenging. ‘Twisted morality’ is what some people like to call it – remaining pure yet flawed, endless attempts, frustrating pursuits, sleepless nights – and while it might be considered interesting, he has never been able to comprehend why. It carries the truth about him – he has failed and he has failed spectacularly, squandering many years of self-improvement and abnegations just to look twice at the wrong person that has never supposed to attract his attention in the first place.

Who would have told she would be the one to drag him down?

“First time?” A voice that slices through silence, exclamation in a quiet room, in the gloomy night, uttered for him and him only, and as any sane man in his place would, he almost jumps out of his skin, caught hand in a cookie jar. Without a clue about what he is supposed to say, he only stares at her as if he could not believe she was real, awake, and speaking – a passerby from a parallel reality.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” ah yes, back on track and as believable as always.

“Whatever, Craig,” she tosses him a careless glance, “you might as well keep lying to yourself, as you presumably have done your whole life, or admit what’s been on your mind all this time so we could have the ‘adult’s talk’.”

“Is that what you want?” He huffs, voice laced with a blossoming hint of impatience. “Are you even aware of what does it mean?”

“What means what?” She raises to his level, eyes locked, not the one to look away for a change.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs heavily, all of sudden reminding her of an old man, tired with temporal life, too yellow to end it albeit too exhausted to keep it up.

“No,” she shakes her head in disbelief, an ugly furrow marking her forehead; for some reasons he has never liked when girls frown, “it does, believe me.”

“That’s not a determinant,” he retorts drily, voice flat akin to his judgments, “since apparently everything matters to you. But if you-”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence, her lips are on his, kissing him with some unplaceable, fierce passion, all while he is too stunned to react, caught in delirious unawareness. Time seems to halt for a moment – parallel lines that collide – where impossible becomes possible, where everything melts together just to come into being as a formless… pulp.

Sounds lovely.

However, in reality it takes nothing more than a few brief seconds for her to pull away, leaving him in bewilderment , mouth agape as if he forgot shutting it lies within his abilities. He stares at her in disbelief, and she cannot help but look away, flushed in embarrassment

(what have I done?)

hands folded on her lap, akin to a child waiting for a reprimand. Whatever that display was, it is already gone, the confidence, the exasperation, the vehemence, and she is back to her old self – the rapid downfall following every climax.

“Why did you kiss me?” He manages to utter after a few longer moments of silence, no accusation, no vexation, just plain, old formlessness.

She gulps.

“No reason?” He reiterates, this time with a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, unusually expecting more than yet another evasive answer.

(We desire what we cannot provide.)

“What is it?” He repeats, bitter, impatient, awaiting. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, glancing at him as if to ascertain that he is still eyeing her with the same displeased expression, “I shouldn’t have. It was kinda inappropriate to say the least, and I’m just… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he holds her gaze for a brief moment, a hint of what might as well be a smile lacing his lips, “you probably won’t like it, but we can always pretend like it never happened.”

“You’re right,” she agrees, “I won’t like it.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it instead?” He inquires – a question with determined answer – locking eyes with her, and this time she does not attempt an escape. There is something offbeat hidden within her gaze, something that he has never seen on her, feminine but fatale in consequences, and part of him lives for it, soaks it up like a sponge. Thirst and longing is what speaks through him, takes control over his mind – the steering wheel – in order to crash the car if given half a chance – regret-bringing attempts, vain abnegations.

“I want you to…” she halts, as if pondering her next words, picky and never meant to be satisfied, “to, um… consummate our relationship.”

Euphemisms are useless.

“Foolish girl,” he jeers, but she opts for ignoring it, aiming for the long-awaited denouement rather than yet another argument, “you have no idea what you’re asking for, do you.”

Not a question by any means.

“Let’s just give it a try and see where it’ll take us, ‘kay?” She proposes, scooting a little closer to him, knees touching – the simplest of contacts that sends a subtle shiver down his spine. “Say something, please.”

“Okay,” he agrees carefully, slowly uttering the given word, “but I ain’t gonna fuck you, and you won’t ask for that.” Being honest here, she is not sure whether she likes the authoritarian order. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she nods, throat parched and mind foggy all of sudden – unable to come up with a more descriptive answer.

“Come here then,” he bids, patting his thigh – a non-verbal encouragement that might be required sooner than later – as he leans back to rest comfortably against the wall. She follows his command, inching closer and closer towards him until he is able to direct her the rest of the way, settling her on his lap with a bit of help from the girl.

He troubles with recalling the last time he had someone in such position, months maybe, her body heat prominent despite two layers of clothing, fueling him up more than he cares to admit. He should not have even considered it in the first place, agreeing to her proposition, laying down on the bed, letting her join his voyage – mistakes and misjudgments, piling up until he is incapable of seeing the very top one.

(You won’t see anything afterwards, we’ll take care of it.)

“How far are you willing to go?”

(Ha! How diplomatic.)

“I don’t know, really,” she chuckles quietly, or rather nervously, her gaze adverting to the side, “and honestly, I have no idea what ‘far’ means.”

“Fine then,” he brushes off, voice distant, as if the information was yet to reach his comprehension, while his fingers seem preoccupied with her hair again, combing it gently to the side. “Let’s try it differently. Will taking off your clothes be an issue for you?”

“Partly yes,” she admits, nevertheless immediate to rectify her words, just as he suspected, “but not entirely. You know what I mean, right?”

“Perfectly,” he ascertains, with a barely noticeable smirk playing upon his lips – a factor that changes everything about his visage, almost everything to be exact, the glint in his eye that she is unable to place, seemingly mere nuance, yet perspective-shifting. At this point Fabienne is positive she will never forget said countenance – a hunter within a dream, prayer of the night, craver of oblivion, wayfarer without a guide, guide of a wayfarer – one and one man only.

Craig.

The man that currently takes away her privilege to respond, kissing her once again, tasting her lips with cautious precision, as if he had every intention to memorize all those unfamiliar

(not for long)

parts of her, yet to be discovered. As the caress is deepening, his hands slide lower until they settle on her waist, squeezing the soft flesh with enough pressure to receive a breathless, feminine gasp that awakes something within him, a part that has been meticulously buried down, not meant to be dug out, at least not by her.

Despite being barely able to perceive what is happening around him, he still manages to sense how her hands glide smoothly through his longish hair, tugging at the strands for the slightest bit, most likely fueled by carnal frustrations, eliciting a muffled groan from him. The gesture, even if innate and quite hackneyed, is the cause of his abrupt lounge backwards, leaving her in bewilderment, caught off guard, as she keeps their gazes locked, ignoring the fiery blush marking her cheeks.

“Can I touch you?” he rasps, voice huskier than usual, a mundane change that appears to be enough for an almost foreign sensation to blossom in the pit of her stomach, something that rarely invades her body. At this peculiar moment he looks akin to a lunatic – delirious and mind-swept – with restless eyes, heavy breaths, mussed hair – a personification of lust-ridden instabilities that billow in the confinement of his soul, retreating his ability to think straight, to perceive the reality in the way he once used to.

He is a broken man.

(Was, is, and will be.)

She only nods her head, considering the ability of forming words to have abandoned her lately, to which he responds, or rather his body does, as if having a mind on its own, with one of his hands slipping underneath the beige sweater, eliciting a wave of goosebumps, as the pads of his fingers tease the bare flesh. He traces the protruding lines of her ribs, entranced with how they expand in time with each shallow pant, following the path up until he meets with one if her breasts, dragging the very pad of his fingers over the pert nub. She flinches at the contact, attempting to scoot away from him in the first reflex, but he holds her steady with a firm grip of her hip, drawing a breathy gasp from the lass that is immediate to transmute into a quiet, feminine moan.

“Do that again,” she begs softly, her voice small in the empty room, echoing through the long-lived walls akin to a promise of something fresh to perceive, something from the Old Days. ”Please.”

Mere word, breathless promise, bashful request – minuscule nuances that transfigure the whole concept, a potency of mysterious and misunderstood, never meant to be explained – something that remarks certain aspects of his life. She seems to agree with him on this one, idealism be damned, and in face of his lacking responses, she opts for taking the matter in her own hands, covering his own and squeezing afterwards, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Much to her relief, he decides to go along with her, showering her with variety of contradictory sensations, from gentle brushes to harsh tugs that have her squirming in his lap, as her hands ball into fists, clutching on his t-shirt.

She appears as desperate, beyond such to be exact, doe eyes staring at him, now filled with carnal admixtures, foreign in its salacious nature, irking him to pursuit, to break the promise, to take her as soon as possible, before she turns to dust; to relish the moment, and so finally be able to achieve the long-craved gratification. It takes a shorter amount of time than ever implied or expected for all inhibitions to leave his mind, to slip away through the thin gap that separates the door from dusty floor, float into the night.

(She is the devil.)

Gradually, he lifts up her sweater, exposing the sliver of flat stomach, pale skin contrasting with dim moonlight, while the other hands still teases the plush flesh of her breasts. She arches towards his touch, as if in an attempt to minimalize the distance, insatiable and aching for more – mercy that he is willing to deliver.

In accordance with the prior assumptions, he tugs the garment up, coaxing her to remove it the rest of the way, to which she complies, unusually so, tossing it aside on the mattress briefly afterwards. In a reflex that outruns anything else within the dazed man’s mind, his had traces the creamy skin, painting it with invisible strokes that only increase the burning in her core. Truth to be told, she is still a bit too skinny, nevertheless appearing healthier than at the very beginning of their

(damnation)

journey, with more flesh than bones to hold onto. She remains silent throughout the process, with mouth slightly agape and eyes half-closed, until his lips attach to the tender skin below her ear and suck, not enough to leave marks

(yet)

but to redirect her attention, to the point where she utters a soft gasp, tangling her fingers within his hair as if urging him to do pursue.

“I’ve always dreamed of something like this,” she admits, her voice distant, lost between the traces of past, somewhere far away yet ever present. Maybe she is expecting an actual answer this time, however he feels like it would be crude to break the silence, to wash away the calmness, to disrupt the night’s creatures, so he only hums in response, acknowledging that he is, indeed, paying attention. “Craig?”

(He’s not much attentive, isn’t he?)

“Any particular requests you have in mind?” He purrs against her skin, gruff, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she nods, retreating a dash from him to meet his eyes, foreheads bumping as she leans into him, free and unrestrained, nipples brushing against his t-shirt distinctly enough to fuel the restless throbbing between his legs.

“Such as…?” He almost groans, all of sudden finding it harder to focus, caught off guard by a mere scrape – details that shift the whole perception.

“Fuck me,” she purrs against his lips, tongue darting out to taste the plush flesh – an act that he would consider ostentatiously vulgar under any other circumstances, however this time he catches himself wishing to experience it once again.

“No,” he counters despite the aforementioned impulse, left to watch how the alluring expression drain from her face, making a place for newfound frustrations and disappointments to blossom.

“Why?” She snorts, not bothering to hide the blunt disappointment as she departs from him, albeit remains settled on his lap for obvious reasons. “Because all of sudden you have some moral values?” No answer. “You think I’m some tart without a taste and self-respect that would jump into any opportunity to fuck someone?”

“That’s not the case and I think we both know that,” he evades, as smoothly as always, his hand brushing her hip in a manner that might be almost considered as gentle, or even sweet, distracting her for a brief moment.

“Then what’s the case?” She inquires, a hint of desperation lacing her voice, carrying all of her inhibitions, all resentments – the evidence of her frailness.

“I think it’s too soon for you,” he explains, all while his thumb is rubbing tiny circles on her skin, leaving a tingling trait behind that somehow manages to break the train of thoughts once more. “I’m not trying to say we can’t fool around from time to time, only that you should wait for someone else, someone more… meaningful to you.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” she huffs in annoyance, swatting his hands away as she speaks. “Do you even believe in any of it? Honestly.”

“My beliefs aren’t important,” he sighs, suddenly giving her the same impression as before – tired and old, rugged and seasoned, already on his way to reach the inevitable.

“Then why you-”

Depraving her of any chances to finish the sentence, he joins their lips for what was supposed to be nothing more than a chaste kiss, but she manages to break his resolve once again that night, tongue darting out to get a proper taste. It is electrifying, rich, dazing, combined with the manner that she flicks her tongue over his, branding his mind more efficiently than any incandescent rod, a memory never to be wiped. He almost groans in relief when she throws herself into his arms once more, molding her body into his, breasts pressed against his chest in a way that must be painful for such a petite, tender girl, with only the thin cotton of his tee separating their heated skins.

Neither of them exchange a word

(they can only do harm)

after they break apart, and instead, his arms fly up to remove the troublesome barrier that is his t-shirt, exposing his flesh to the judgmental moonlight that only emphasizes the firm physique. Surely not the sublime built man, albeit slim, with nicely shaped muscles, enough to appear as fit and masculine in her eyes, creating an image of something that is certain to hunt her in the few following nights.

She wants to lick him all over.

But yet, she opts for running her hand down the freshly exposed flesh, enjoying the simplicity of said gesture, the smoothness of his skin, sparse hair slipping through her fingers as she rakes them down, scratching his skin as she goes. What bothers her more is the linear pattern of various scars, paining him like an inferior artist would, their texture coarse beneath her fingertips. She cannot help but wonder what kind of story they hold, laced with obnoxious dramatism, or maybe unobtrusive suffering – an answer that he is unable to provide.

(“Better keep our histories to ourselves.”)

Preoccupied with exploring what he has to offer, she fails to notice how his hands shift from the innocent place around her waist to the crease between her thighs, undoing the zipper of her trousers with a graceful flick of his wrist. Without giving her a chance to realize what is happening, as if caught in some lustful trance, he pushes past the fabric barrier, and she jerks at the contact, even if not direct, nevertheless not protesting.

Instead her arms fly up to grip his shoulders for more stable position, her hips raising up – a wordless command for him to push her jeans down the rest of the way. He complies without a word of protest, quick to toss the garment on the mattress, eyes glued to the smooth skin, the contrast it creates in comparison with the dark material of his pants.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” she interrupts herself with a flurried chuckle, “but I’ve never been this nervous.”

“Not much surprising, isn’t it?” He mutters into her hair, holding the trembling body in his arms, fingers grazing her sides in a leisure manner, until she departs from him on her own, doe eyes staring right into his own as if in an attempt to gaze into his soul, to uncover all the impure thoughts he had about her. “But we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing,” she giggles – a reminiscence of all those silly, unstable girls he had a dubious pleasure to interact with multiple times in the past, “and I also think you know what my answer will be.”

“Should I take it as ‘yes’ then?” Nod. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gulps, invaded with a notion that her declarations appears overly terminal for her own tastes, arising a wave of sudden uneasiness that never fails to sweep Fabienne of her feet.

“Then roll over,” he prompts with a subtle bow – an implication for her to move in a right direction, an inkling that she will feel more comfortable without looking directly into his eyes.

“What?” She shakes her head for the slightest, probably to meet with reality once again, to wipe out the hazy smile currently lacing her lips, unusually confused.

“Just face the wall,” he reiterates, to which she complies, following the path he has set from her, finally laying back to rest against his chest. His arms raise to encircle her waist, one hand settling on her hip, tips of his fingers dipping just below the waistband to tease the sensitive skin there, while she ignores the urge to jerk away from his grip.

She has never been this aware of her body, in a fragmental sense of course, perceiving each part individually, as if her skeleton was not a construction of two hundred and six bones, but instead each one of them was a separate organism. Probably the last aspect that sex is referred to on daily basis, but she has grown to embrace the occasional weirdness that is carried within her thoughts, pushing the unpleasantness in the back of her mind, burring it among other displeasures.

(Reality is a prison.)

While she is maneuvering between the cogitations, his fingers skim past the fabric until they reach the soft crease between her thighs, warm wetness that covers the very tips. She gasps at the alien sensation, fighting the foreign urge to jerk her hips, and instead opts for gripping his forearm, unnecessary tight, but the notion is yet to reach any of their minds, occupied with the Things of Greater Matter.

He is the one to come to senses first, woken up by an irritant stab of pain, caused by her nails, beginning with the simplest of touches, a mere brush over her clit that sends a jolt of electricity up her spine, a tingling sensation that spreads all the way to her toes. A quiet moan slips past her lips in addition, hips raising on their own, already asking for more, more that he is willing to deliver, evident in a way his strokes become firmer, albeit not much yet, since overwhelming her from the very first shot is not his intension by any means.

It feels odd to say the least, considering her lack of experience in said department, excluding those few incidents when she was lying late at night, devoting into aspects she barely had an insight into, out of plain curiosity, not to mention that they were nothing more than a child’s play comparing to this in so, so many aspects.

Begging with the reference towards his fingertips, or rather how much rougher, much more calloused they are than hers, providing a pleasant friction that surprisingly manages to surpass the disturbing embarrassment that blossoms somewhere within her mind. Then her focus shifts to the leisure pace that he has chosen for some reasons, a factor that is rather quick to appear as frustrating, meant to be rewritten – an idea he seems opposed to as soon as her hips begin to grind experimentally against his hand, smearing the wetness over the palm, something that he is supposed to find disgusting, at least according to common decency.

But not this time.

She, in turn, finds herself in a desperate need to speak, to verbalize her cravings, and so speed up the process, yet for some reasons troubles with doing so, throat too tight to let out any words. While he can undoubtedly sense the need, he decides against giving her the relief that comes with acknowledging it, much to her despair, lust-filled frustrations that lace her being into some grotesque knot, impossible to unravel. Not even once before she has felt something in such an intense way, resonating all the way to her toes, abounded in carnalities – the incontestable cause of said concentration issues.

While neither of them is willing to exchange a word, he allows himself to focus more on the girl atop him: her breathy sighs, quiet mewls, and urgent moans – attention that she does not seem to mind at the moment – a factor not as surprising as it may seem. Over the course of various sexual encounters, he has come to one, rather distinctive, conclusion: every woman driven past the very specific point is meant to forget all those make-believe assumptions, along with all of the shame, all of the worry that is carried within.

All in due course, of course.

(Patience is a virtue.)

“Craig,” she gaps in such a wanton manner, his name rolling out of her tongue, as if she was barely capable of uttering a different word, with a tunnel vision that shifts her entire perspective, “I need more.”

“Addictive, isn’t it?” He rasps into her ear, warm breath tickling the tender skin, as his fingers simultaneously pick up the pace, along with the pressure, hips pushing up on their own to meet his movements. “Christ, you’re so wet.”

For what has to be nothing more than just a split second, his exclamation reverberates underneath her skull, resonating all the way to her soul,

(bold to assume you have one)

painting it with wicked, sinful things that block the way back, never again meant to remain unchanged, pure, without flaws – yet another part of the ever-decaying matter. It may sound depressing if put this way, and yet appears as such a perfect match for this world – empty, morose, and dusty.

What has she become?

Apart from the sidetrack of thoughts, she can tell something is just about to happen, teetering on the edge, while bracing for a jump that is yet to come, presumably sooner than expected, insides coiling in anticipation. Vaguely aware of what is awaiting for her at the end of the rainbow, she arches into his touch, willing to speed up the process – innate trait that is carried within every carnal creature, rooted deep within the simplest of structures.

And then it comes, rapid rainfall, tidal wave that hits the shore, arching her back to the point where it becomes truly painful, and yet she is unable to care at the moment, her attention shifted solely to the burning between her legs. Nevertheless, the foreign feeling, impressive in its intensity, is quick to subside, so quick that for a split second she is invaded by an inkling that it was not even real, another creation of a person’s questionable mind, whereas the leftover tingling proves it wrong.

Lost in the delirious aftermath, she shifts in his embrace, locking his hand between her legs, as if to keep him connected, reassuring that he will not be able to leave her hanging there, caught in one of the most vulnerable states possible. Her mouth falls agape a couple of times, before she actually manages to utter a word, still high in the clouds, while the downfall is rather gradual for a change.

“That was,” she murmurs under her breath, barely distinctly enough for him to catch, “quite something.”

(No, it wasn’t. You just fingered a seventeen year old girl until she came. There’s nothing impressive about it.)

(Such a pathetic excuse for a male pride.)

“Wanna do it again?” He purrs, the hoarseness of his voice sending a rapid shiver down her spine, depraving her of any leftover sagacity, but she seems too delirious to care, or even realize.

Either way, she nods her head, spreading her legs again to give him a decent motion range, and as if on a command, he picks up where he left, fingers back to gliding over the swollen folds. This time, however, he reaches past the familiar area, the very tips getting introduced with the clenched entrance. She spasms promptly with the teasing touch, legs shifting in evident impatience, eyes glued to the peeling wallpaper, as if she was afraid to look at what he seems so preoccupied with.

Men are so predictable.

Truth to be told, as her height is gradually subsiding, she experiences some odd composition of contradict emotions that cascades down her, parallel lines that break the law, life-defining paradox. Deprived of any sensible analysis, she faces yet another profound challenge that requires creating at least a reconnection, something that will decrease the sharp juxtaposition, that will smooth out the edges, knock down the wall that separates all disturbing shame from the carnal craving.

Impossible?

Well, maybe.

“Wait,” she interrupts, hand flying to grip his wrist as a simplest move prevention, a tingle of urgency lacing her voice.

“What is it?” He asks, fingers stroking her inner thigh in a tender manner that is so unlike him, as if in an attempt to soothe her ragging nerves.

“I don’t know. I just… I feel so dirty, but at the same want more,” she sighs, her gaze dropping to the hand on her leg, observing how it glides smoothly over her skin. “Honestly, I had no idea it’d be this complicated.”

“Told you so,” he signifies, a dash insensitively, but it would be a lie to deny that over the course of time she has managed to grow accustom with more-than-occasional harsh manners. “But more importantly, do you want me to stop?”

“That’s not the case,” she counters, quick to roll over – a movement that catches him off guard for a split second, jade green meeting hazel. In order to gain some necessary stability, her hands settle atop his shoulders once again, while his, in turn take a steady grasp on her hips. As their eyes remain locked, a realization sweeps upon her, blunt implication that she has been aware of seemingly since ever, hidden in the depths of her soul.

“I like when you touch me,” she admits, her gaze dropping to his chest for a mere second, preoccupied with its rhythmical raises and falls.

“Do you now,” he replies teasingly, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips – such an unusual sight to behold. “And what are you willing to do with it?”

“Bold to assume I have the slightest idea,” she murmurs against his lips, foreheads bumping into one another as she leans in, brushing his chest almost unnoticeably, and yet the skin-to-skin contact sets his core on fire. Depraved of an ability to speak, as her nipples graze his flesh – dance of death, sinful, macabre image, branded within his mind – a promise of something yet to come – he is only left to watch as she departs from him, longing burning deep within his soul, unusually quick to shred the remaining layer of clothing, tossing it aside carelessly.

Thud.

Although the noise is relatively silent, it snaps something within him – a frail reed – something that forces him to rearrange the grip around her hips to a more convenient one, reversing their positions, her back now pressed to the mattress. She squeals in response to the unexpected shift, then giggles – a girlish sound that he hates so badly, but somehow manages to tolerate under these circumstances.

(You are such a pathetic liar.)

“What are you doing?” She asks, amusement dancing behind her gaze, as she presses a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his lips, knowing well enough what it does to him, and most likely enjoying seeing him in such a state – hair tousled, breathing heavy, so hard it physically hurts. “Thought you said that you ain’t gonna fuck me.”

“Mmm… fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder in some display of teenage-related helplessness, a heavy sigh billowing upon her flushed skin.

“Please,” she whines, wriggling below him in an attempt to grind against him. A heavy sigh slips past her lips as her clit catches the rough denim of his jeans, uneven nails digging into his shoulder blades in response to the intense stimulation. “Don’t you feel how wet I am?”

(I do, perfectly.)

“I’m sorry, honey, but the answer is no,” he demurs, with intents to sound apologetic rather than hypocritical, nevertheless managing to fail on every front possible. In face of a clear ability to sense his inner turmoil, her hands slips into his hair, dragging him down until their lips collide, hips grinding in slow, sensual circles, moaning into his mouth, as he responds to the kiss, tongue flicking against hers. Blushing at the thought that concerns what she is about to do, her hand reaches between her legs, tapping his hip on a way to redirect his attention, until her fingers glide over the swollen folds, eliciting a breathless sigh as an innate response to the gentle stroke.

Distracted enough, he breaks away, gaze adverting down, only to be greeted by the sight of her subtle caresses, something that sends a violent shiver down his spine, nevertheless subsided as soon as another thought occurs.

Cheap eroticism is what she indicates.

And he loathes cheap eroticism.

(Such a pathetic liar…)

She whimpers softly as his eyes skim over her form in a scrutinizing manner that she finds oddly arousing, ticking her nerves akin to grass while strolling through a lush lea, evoking an ephemeral shiver – dubious in its existence. What eventually forms an unsolvable conundrum is the expression marking his face – a countenance of contradictories – whereas his eyes burn with something that is supposed to be called ‘lust’ – a word that lays quite far from how she perceives it, hopeless idealist within her decaying habitat.

“Fuck,” he groans, a disclamation of fatigue that is gradually untying the strings of his being, “stop it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She teases, vibrating with unusual confidence, most likely fueled by youthful greed that has every fiber of her body screaming for completion – a crack within his resolve.

“Won’t drop it, will you?” he huffs, lacing it with a hint of exasperation – an obvious attempt to sound steady and terminal, nonetheless entirely futile, considering the betrayal of his own voice: rough like a sandpaper, breathy at the end. “Fine then. I’ll give you what you’ve been bargaining for oh so desperately, but under one condition,” no answer, “You won’t pull that shit on me ever again. I’m genuinely fed up with your manipulative tendencies.”

“Anything, Craig,”

(Who is lying now, huh?)

she sighs, hands dropping on her stomach akin to some limp ragdoll, eyes piercing through his in a manner that almost causes him to snap back, considering all the entertaining features of the wall above.

Not wasting any more time, his hands reach the belt, fumbling with the tricky buckle for a few longer moments, until it falls apart with a soft click, soon to be abandoned on the floor. He has always considered such an act in terms of something terminal , how the clothes fall on said surface with a dull thud – transition between two phases.

Then come the jeans, all while he is standing up, especially for aforementioned act, watching her like a predator would observe his prey, gaze dark and heavy, burning into her flesh. She squirms slightly, in need to release some of the tension that he has brought upon her, as her legs close on their own, all of sudden bashful in face of inevitable. Lured by the shift, he glances at her figure, now propped on the elbows, quick to remove the remaining barrier, baring his body for her eyes to peek.

In the past he would considered exposure as a line-up for vulnerability, two equal functions, overlapping on the coordinate system, joined for eternity. However, due to the un-going process of so called growing up, or aging as some people might call it, he discovered that as every truth, it holds a subliminal lie.

(Exception proves the rule.)

Undoubtedly, some situations require a different way of thinking, specific approach, at times working out for one and one instance only – a factor that becomes a flawless example, not leaving any space for hesitancies that blossom within the insecure minds, invading them akin to excess weed on the rye field.

Whereas he is too old to hesitate.

“Spread your legs, Fabienne,” he prompts, hands resting on bended knees, the trembling of her frame now palpable on his fingertips. He gives her flesh a brief squeeze – an attempt of reassurance to which she complies, limbs tilting to the sides, inviting him in – a proposition that he gladly accepts, settling between the outstretched limbs. Her calves wrap around his waist, since she feels like keeping herself spread in such way is both awkward and rather inconvenient, the subtle flex of his muscles palpable upon her skin from now on, as he leans in more, nudging her folds in process. She is oddly afraid to look down, considering it is safe to assume that the sight alone is more than probable to scare her away – an opponent for the need to change something in her life, something significant, special even

(every snowflake consists of its unique pattern),

which might as well be yet another example of what the word ‘exaggerate’ really means.

“Don’t look so scared,” he adds, a ghost of a soothing smile passing his countenance, or maybe the result of yet another make-believed creation of her mind. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“But it is going to hurt anyway, right?” She ascertains, her lips sewed in a thin line, cheeks flushed, nails digging into his sides in anticipation.

“It varies how much,” an explanation that clouds her brain with even more unsolved matters, rather than satisfy her, but she takes it anyway, deprived of a better alternative.

One last glance is thrown over her, one eyebrow perked up in query – all it takes for her to give a brief nod of reaffirmation, followed by an even softer “yes,” slipped past her trembling lips. To say she felt nervous would be a mere euphemism, her stomach doing somersaults, anticipating the inevitable – yet another paradox, to be afraid of what one wants.

Absurd.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his hips snap up, forcing a choked cry out of her throat, nails clutching at his sides, hips withdrawing from his in a reflexive reaction to the sudden intrusion, nevertheless the sting appears as not quite willing to subside, at least as willing as she would like it to be.

“’M sorry,” he groans, gravel and sandpaper, rough and guttural. “Too fast?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, troubling to catch her breath, lungs seemingly unable to fit all the required air inside, so she gladly accepts the merciful halt – an opportunity to enjoy the moment, or rather examine all the merest sensations that come along: a scrape over her inner walls, fluttering pain that follows, and the pulsing fulfillment, so foreign in its nature.

To say she wants more would be a mere euphemism.

“Craig,” she gasps, engraving his name in a manner that sends yet another electrifying shiver down his spine, caught in a breathless anticipation, “do something, please.”

And who is he to deny her anything?

His hips rock forward, experimentally still, intending to check her reaction, to ascertain she is, indeed, ready to pursuit, to which she responds with a movement so innate, flawless in its borne simplicity – a push towards his body. The whole act seems so surreal to him – a throwback to the teenage years – as if he could not believe it was real, as if it was yet another dream, supposed to end up in no time – sharp, blinding finale – while he is wishing for right the opposite. Nevertheless, the conclusion is evident, maybe off-top but still obvious: the damned lass has a vice tight grip, so unfitting to the fragile exterior – a threat to blow it all up embarrassingly quickly, something that he is determined not to let happen.

“You gotta relax, darling,” he hisses through the gritted teeth, failing to contain the trembling of his own muscles – an evidence of his efforts.

(Easier said than done.)

She only manages to utter a soft hum in response, eyes shutting tight, as if it was supposed to help her focus, ribcage rhythmically expanding with each cautious exhale. Briefly afterwards, she regains the partial control over her own body, dubious in its effectiveness, however lacking in a better alternative. Still and all, her muscles relax around him, as if coaxing him to move, and he complies without further objections, hips snapping forward with a relieved groan, forcing a feminine squeal from the woman below.

The sensation is odd to say the least, revoking contradict reactions; in one hand her body welcomes it, relieved and thankful for the long-craved stimulation, while in the other she cannot help but wonder how close is the correlation between this and being ripped in half – the neighboring house or just the room? In spite of that she somehow grows accustomed with the unusual stretch, still in genuine hope that what now is just a dubiously comfortable fullness will transform into the so-called pleasure sooner than later, or more straightforward – that her suppositions are meant to be confirmed.

One thing for certain – Craig seems to enjoy it more than she does, in fact his countenance speaks for itself: eyes half-closed, not quite meeting hers, mouth slightly agape, labored breaths audible in the empty room. Nevertheless, he utters almost no sound as he rocks into her, not that she finds his manner surprising, rather predictable, that he will not outstand the day-to-day lack of words, if not for the occasional grunts she would suspect the deafness. The previously so-called ‘soft baritone’ has managed to transform into something gravelly, guttural – a change that is gradual, yet evident with every following groan, scratching her ears in one of the most pleasant way.

However, as the time passes and her focus shift more towards the commencements of something that might as well be the pristine bliss, so fussed-about, her insides coiling in a telling way, relish flicking over her nerves. She arches toward him now, determined for an increase, whether in pace, or depth – a gesture that he takes for granted, relieved to hear her subconscious purr.

“Mmm… give me more, I want more, please,” she chants, voice betraying her akin to a pack of cigarettes hidden insides teenager’s wardrobe, tremulous and desperate. Urging him to react, her nails dig into his sides, drawing a pained hiss from the man above, who is quick to grasp her by the calf and drape one of her legs over his shoulder, forcing a surprised cry from the brunette below.

As if on some grotesque command, all of the purpose air leaves her lungs, refusing to get back inside, insides clenching around him uncontrollably, to the point where he suspects he might have overestimated her for quite a bit – a matter that she is quick to rectify with the simplest of acknowledgments – a kiss, a slow, sensual kiss. Another mellow, feminine mewl slips past her lips, as if meant for him to swallow, something that still lies beyond her self-control field, and being honest here, she has been wishing to make it happen for quite a while – allow herself to be vulnerable.

The last liberty that this world tolerates.

While with him it all seems possible, at hand, licit when accompanied by him – foolish, silly lies, a factor that remains unnoticed for her own good. By any means, it is not sub rosa that she often find herself stuck within a constant dream, dream that considers aspect beyond her reach, aspects that do not fit the New Order by any means, but lead an ever-present life rooted deep within her consciousness.

Someone to love.

(Long live the idealists!)

Back in the temporal world, his lips detach from hers softly, drawing her back from the alien reverie, as they linger for a bit longer, brushing the plush bottom lip with such tenderness that it catches her off-guard for a brief moment. However, he is immediate to strive for the contrast, picking up the pace seemingly out of nowhere, eliciting a reedy whine from her that, in turn, makes him twitch in anticipation for more – a craving not willing to subside just yet.

While she writhes below him, attempting to match his pace, he takes his time to eye her once more that night, gaze fixated on the subtle swings of her breasts, desire-awoken flush covering her neck, all the way up to the glassy eyes, staring right at him. He maintains the contact, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips – a gesture that she subliminally repeats – as his grip around her thigh perceptibly tightens, fingers digging into the flesh, muscles flexing with effort.

She is able to sense the change lingering in the air – a prove that something is lurking in the shadows, just around the corner, waiting to be discovered, prearranged for her and her only – a notion that has never supposed to be awoken in the first place. Another shiver runs down her spine, as his pupils dilate even further – two pools of pitch black, surrounded by the thin rim of hazel – mesmerizing, yet malevolent – crossed by the protruding scar that has never appeared as more ominous before.

His vicious tendencies has always been quite obvious to her – nothing more than survivor’s traits that are incrementally developing as they descend further into madness, or as some prefer to address it – pursue with life. Nevertheless, the raging ardor, shadowing his gaze, evokes a wave of goosebumps upon her skin, to the point when she barely manages to fight the urge to look away, and it creeps her more than she cares to admit. The thought itself sends an excessive shiver down her spine, and while she is expecting the shift sooner than later, she sincerely doubts he is meaning to hurt her in a severe way, although is well aware that whatever is slinking within the deeps his soul lies beyond her comprehension.

However, the aspect itself might as well be labeled as two-faced, consisting of twain seemingly contradict components: trepidation that has never supposed to be a turn-on. It is ironic, indeed, but at the same time factual, more than she cares to admit, partly wishing it have never occurred in the first place.

(Some things are better left unsaid.)

(Craig?)

She would have to be blind to miss it – the glimmer hidden behind his gaze, sinister, ominous, maybe also be the closest to his true form she will ever get, the intimidating, dark, and mysterious alter-ego that might be just another prove of her dramatic tendencies.

She almost screams when he pushes her leg away and his hands settle on the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, more than certain that he is just about to crash her windpipe, and yet nothing like this happens. Instead, his mouth falls open, incoherent words rolling down his tongue, some barely audible, outshadowed with delirious passion, one of a kind and only for her to catch, to irk her ears in the most sinful way – a promise of what is just about to come.

He wishes he would be able to determine for how long he has been wanting to make it happen – another immoral craving within this rotten world – and truth to be told, he is barely capable of containing his rapacity, not only in the physical sense but also spiritual, excitement evident within his movements. Aside from that, he can sense how close she is, clenching around him rhythmically, hips raising on their own to meet his thrusts, and when their mouths collide, she utters a relieved moan, her insides spasming for the second time that night, seemingly more violently than before, which might as well be yet another exaggeration. Sadly, this is not the right moment to get lost in the sensation, since impregnating

(such a loathsome word)

her is the last thing he aims for, and accordingly so, he pulls out, painting her chest with a splash of whitish liquid.

Still lost in the delirious, post-orgasmic bliss, she barely acknowledges the change, lying boneless and spent on the old mattress, mind numb for the first time in quite a while, which might be the real reason why people are so attracted to anything sex-related – a moment of obliviousness – willing to pay even the most ridiculous, sky-high price for the shortest of intervals.

“Pretty auspicious bargain, isn’t it honey?”

* * *

A letter is all she left, a promise of a better world, carried within a fragile sheet of paper, last promise she wanted to verbalize – harsh words for such a tender lass. Ironically, she seemed secure for the first time in her life, blunt edges of defined characters burning into his skull, whispers of life that she had left behind.

They held no pain.

No, they were soaked in it, ‘hold’ is a mere euphemism.

For years he thought he could felt nothing, not a mere scrape of sorrow, fear, desperation, but also some distant felicity, distant calmness – something that she has brought upon him, priceless gift for all their years together. Still in the Old World, she used to claim ice-cream truck music was her favorite sound, always the one to stand first in the queue, while he never had that particular fondness towards the cooling treat, nevertheless accompanied her every single time in case she would hurt herself.

She was always so clumsy.

Not a fit for this world.

So similar – an explanation point,

Reason why he is fond of Fabienne.

Melodic voice, jade green eyes.

“What are you thinking about, Craig?”

The Downfall of Humanity.

Created: 07/26/20

Completed: 11/01/20

Edited: 11/03/20

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adenei · 4 years

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Waiting in the Wings

Wrote this lovely one-shot after being inspired by another tumblr post about the similarities between Ron and Cassandra from the Tangled series. Waiting in the Wings is a song that Cassandra sings in the series.

Takes place a few days after Harry’s name comes out of the Goblet, and Hermione tries to talk to Ron about it.

Ron walked into the library looking for a table that was out of the way. After choosing one that would do, he threw his bag on the ground as he sat in one of the empty chairs. It’d been two days since Harry’s name came out of the goblet. He’d done everything he could to avoid being around Harry. Hermione, too, since she’d just nag him, and he really wasn’t in the mood for that. Ron was also running out of things to do that kept Harry out of his sight. Sure, tagging along with Seamus and Dean had been fine yesterday, but it wasn’t the same. So here he was, sitting in the library of all places, to avoid being around ‘the chosen one.’

He begrudgingly pulled out his work. Since he was here, Ron might as well attempt to get some of his homework done. He figured he’d at least stay until he got hungry, and who knows what he’d do after that. Ron opened one of his textbooks, not paying attention to which one, and arranged the parchment beside it. Looks like he was starting with History of Magic. “This day keeps getting better,” Ron muttered to himself as he attempted to focus on the book.

His focus didn’t last long, as his mind began to wander, as it normally did these past few days, to Harry’s betrayal. The anger and hurt was still simmering beneath his skin. They normally did everything together. He couldn’t believe that Harry would actually go behind his back and do this without him. So much for being best friends. Why keep this whole thing a secret? It didn’t make any sense.

Ron heard movement across the table and looked up. Hermione sat down across from him and began pulling out her work. “I hope you don’t mind if I join you. All the other good tables are taken, and you looked like you could use some company,” she said blithely.

“Not if you’re going to nag me, no,” Ron snapped. They sat in silence for a while, but everytime Ron looked up at Hermione, he could tell she was dying to say something. If he wasn’t so annoyed at what he knew she was going to ask, he would have been impressed she’d held out this long from asking. She wasn’t known for her patience when it came to prying answers out of people.

“Why don’t you just say what you came here to say?” Ron finally said.

“What do you mean? I came here to spend time with my friend who I’ve barely seen or spoken to all weekend.” Hermione retorted.

“That’s a lie and you know it. I’ve known you long enough to know when you have an ulterior motive up your sleeve, and at the rate you’re chewing on your tongue, there won’t be anything left if you don’t come out with it already!” Ron hissed.

“Fine. Why are you so upset with Harry? And how can you not believe he didn’t put his name in there? You know him better than anyone, even me, so you must know how ridiculous this row is.” Hermione’s words flowed uncontrollably out of her mouth.

“That’s rich coming from you. I told you once, and I’ll tell you again. I’m not going to talk to you about it. You wouldn’t understand, anyways. So if you want to go take Harry’s side with this, then be my guest,” Ron said angrily as he slammed his book and shoved it into his bag. As his arm made his way back to the table to grab the parchment, Hermione reached out and grabbed it. Ron’s eyes snapped up to Hermione’s, who looked just as shocked as he did before she pulled away rather quickly. He wasn’t sure what just happened, but the shock he felt from it made all the anger evaporate from his body, albeit briefly.

Hermione recovered from the unexpected shock quickly and said, “Don’t be daft, you know I wouldn’t choose sides. Just as Harry did last year for us, and I’m sure you’d do the same for Harry and me if ever that were to happen..”

“Still wouldn’t be surprised if you chose him,” Ron mumbled, trying to gloss over Hermione’s brief mention of the Crookshanks/Scabbers debacle last year as well as the idea that Harry and Ron would forgive and make up eventually.

“Why would you say that?” Hermione asked him meaningfully.

“It doesn’t matter,” Ron said as he slumped his shoulders and stared at the blank parchment in front of him.

“Yes, it does, “Hermione pushed.

Ron sat there for a long moment. His mum told him once when he was mad at the twins that it was always better to talk about something rather than hold it in. Ron wasn’t one to talk about his negative feelings often. He’d just let them build up inside until he combusted, rather than put his anger and hurt onto someone else. Growing up as the sixth youngest sibling, he didn’t want to come off as whiny and nagging to his older brothers.

“I’m just sick of always being the sidekick. The one who stands by, ready to be there, only to get shoved aside.” He wasn’t sure what led him to lay it all out there for Hermione, but he did it anyways.

Hermione stared at him. “Ron, you know that’s not true.”

“Who says? I’m always the forgotten sibling, and then I had to go become best friends with the bloody Boy who Lived. It doesn’t matter whether I’m there or not because it’s always going to be Harry who saves the day.” He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say it.

“How can you say that?” Hermione asked. “You are just as important as anyone else.” Ron wasn’t sure what Hermione was thinking. She couldn’t possibly think he was more important than this.

“Yeah? To who?” Ron said sarcastically.

“To me!” Hermione paused a moment. “To Harry, too, and your family.”

“Thanks, Hermione. I know you’re trying to help, but it’s not going to change things. It’s just how it is.” Ron wasn’t sure why, but his thoughts floated back to the Mirror of Erised that night first year. He remembered seeing himself holding the Quidditch Cup, as Head Boy, and aside from his brothers; finally noticed as his own person, and not just ‘another Weasley.’ He was pretty sure he’d still see the same thing if he were to look in it today. Nothing had changed.

“Ron, Harry couldn’t have succeeded in half of what he’s done without you beside him, or have you forgotten? Harry and I would have been stuck at the giant chess board if it wasn’t for you first year, or maybe I would have been strangled by the Devil’s Snare because I was too focused on needing firewood for light and forgetting that I could cast magic.” Hermione paused as Ron shrugged.

“You would have found another way around the board, I’m sure.”

“Okay, but what about second year? There’s no way Harry would have managed the Spider’s Lair on his own-”

“Wish he would’ve” Ron interjected under his breath as Hermione rolled his eyes.

“He couldn’t have gotten down to the chamber of secrets without you either!”

“Hermione, he went in alone when I was stuck with Lockhart on the other side of the debris, remember? I didn’t do anything there to help him rescue Ginny from Tom or that diary.”

“But you still went down there with him, and you were ready to go into danger with him. It wasn’t your fault you got separated.”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I got sidelined, so it was Harry saving the day, saving my sister, not me. And, it kind of was my fault. Lockhart used my wand that backfired and caused the rock to fall..”

“Honestly, Ronald! It’s a good thing he did use that wand, otherwise you two would have been obliviated and Ginny would surely be dead!” When Ron didn’t respond, Hermione pressed on. “Okay, but what about last year with Sirius? You told Sirius he’d have to kill you before Harry. Even with a broken leg you were protecting your best friend!”

“Sure, a lot of good that did, yeah? Sirius wasn’t after Harry. He was after Sca- er Pettigrew, and then everything went to hell with Professor Lupin, and you both got to scamper off to save the day, but I had to stay behind because I’d gone and broken my leg.”

“Ron, you’re not giving yourself enough credit-”

“Why would I give myself credit when someone else is more important? I’m not destined to be the hero, so can’t I just have this? Just let me be angry, Hermione. It was one thing for both of us to joke and think about what would happen if we were somehow in the running or chosen as the champion, but he took it too far! Once again, he wins. Harry’s the champion, he gets all the glory and attention.”

“Do you think Harry really wants the attention from this? When has he ever acted like he was basking in any glory? He didn’t get to choose this life, Ron. I thought you’d understand that of all people.” Hermione huffed. “No one can make you believe that Harry didn’t put his name in the goblet, and this is the last time I’ll bring it up. I hope you come to your senses soon because Harry could really use his best friend about now. In case you haven’t noticed, the rest of the school is also pretty peeved about Harry being a champion, too, so he’s not just dealing with Slytherin nonsense as usual. It doesn’t help that his best friend doesn’t even have his back. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to revise this History of Magic paper for tomorrow. You’d do well to take yours back out if you want any help on it.”

Ron sat there processing everything she said and slowly took his book back out. “Er, right, thanks,” he said, for lack of anything else to say.

“Like I said before, I’m not choosing sides. So I’ll split my time as best I can until you two can sort this out, but I won’t get in the middle of it anymore.” Hermione went back to her parchment.

Despite taking his textbook back out, Ron sat there with his arms crossed thinking about what Hermione said. He’d been denying it deep down, but the more Ron thought, the more he realized that Hermione was probably right. Harry wasn’t exactly sharp witted enough to figure out how to get past the age line. Even the twins couldn’t crack that one. Ron had let the initial reaction of jealousy and betrayal get the best of him, and his anger had taken over. It wasn’t one of his best qualities, but he was who he was.

Ron sat up to focus back on his homework as he’d resigned to the fact that Harry was probably an innocent victim, but they’d fought, and Ron was not the best with apologies, his pride always getting the best of him. So he’d wait until Harry came to him. He would, of course, have his back if anyone tried anything in the meantime. Loyalties were more important than pride. After all, it wouldn’t be that long, right?

#Ron Weasley #oneshot #goblet of fire #ron weasley defense squad #ron and hermione #roncentric

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samanthajameswriter · 4 years

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Today’s post will be the tale of a royal exit written by guest poster Simone T. Whitlow from the blog History and Imagination. Whitlow discusses and tells the life story of Princess Sophia Dorothea and her exiting the royal family. The consequences were enormous. it is a story filled with an unhappy marriage and daring escapes.

I have taken a few shots at writing it under the auspices of a whodunit, but I don’t think there’s any doubt who the murderers are. I then had another run – this time as a faux fairytale, an OG soap opera? I had a line from John Wilmott, Earl of Rochester kicking round in my head about his patron Charles II, and thought what about riffing off that; this is an example of what a crazy, swinging place Europe’s courts were in the late 17th Century after all… but I abandoned all of these.

Then Megxit happened; The Sussexes – Harry and Meghan – announced they were leaving ‘the firm’. In some quarters there was shock, and I understand there was an urgent family meeting. Harry didn’t get thrown into a cell in the Tower of London. There was no clandestine dash for the English channel (like the aforementioned Charles II after his defeat at the Battle of Worcester in 1651). No disguising himself as a servant. No hiding in oak trees. Public discourse re-centred on whether you wished them well, or thought them a pair of spoilt brats. This brought me back round to this tale again… Imagine you’re a deeply unhappy royal, but it is 1694. Does Sophxit play out any differently?

This tale begins on the evening of July 1st, 1694. The setting, Hanover – a Germanic Duchy which would eventually be subsumed into a larger German nation, and whose first family would go on to be kind of a big deal. A young man, aided only by moonlight, sails along the Leine river till he reaches the Leineschloss – the palatial riverside home of the duke and his family. He moors his boat, then cautiously enters the property. The man is Phillipp Christoph, Count Konigsmarck – an aristocratic German born Swede from a long line of mercenaries. His father had served King Gustav II Adolph in the 30 Years War, rising through the ranks to Field Marshall. Phillipp himself had fought the Turks for Holy Roman Emperor Leopold I. At this point in the tale however, he was under the employ of the Elector of Saxony. Tonight he’s been summoned to met his paramour – Sophia Dorothea, princess of Celle – the very unhappy wife of Duke George Ludwig.

Count Konigsmarck

Princess Sophia Dorothea

Duke Georg Ludwig

Sophia, though surprised- she never summoned him – is ecstatic over his arrival. They haven’t seen each other for weeks. She is also a little perturbed and angered at ‘that woman’s’ gall. “Well, clearly she’s still spying on us” I imagine one saying “Never mind, in a day we’ll be out of this nightmare” the other may have replied. With rather less poetic license you can imagine the rest of their night – Konigsmarck had not come to play solitaire after all, nor Sophia to play old maid. I like to imagine Sophia enfolding the count in her arms as he left and whispering “keep safe, hell hath no fury and all” but that is a little anachronistic – Congreve would not publish ‘The Mourning Bride’ till 1697. This is the last time Sophia Dorothea would see Count Konigsmarck – in the following hours he would disappear from the face of the Earth, never to be seen again.

Joining ‘The Firm’.

To explain how Sophia Dorothea found herself in an unhappy marriage, I need to take us back a generation. The first fact worth knowing is there was no German nation in the modern sense until January 1871. People could be ethnically Germanic, but Germany was a collection of feudal states for most of it’s history. Until 1806, they were also overseen by a ‘Holy Roman Emperor’. From 1346 the Emperor was elected by a council from the Elector states – This is important to know later. The second fact is marriages of convenience were very much a thing in the 17th Century, particularly among the aristocrats. Third, this tale concerns two duchies, Brunswick- Celle and Brunswick- Luneberg, afterwards known simply as ‘Hanover’. These duchies were ruled over by two brothers. Fourth their leading citizens of the duchies wanted to see the two areas reunited one day. Now that is out of the way…

Sophia Dorothea’s father was a man named Duke Georg Wilhelm of Brunswick- Celle. Georg W had been engaged to a princess from the neighboring duchy of Rhineland Palatinate (her name was also Sophia, though she hardly gets a mention beyond this point), but he was desperate to stay a bachelor a little longer. He cancelled the engagement – passing her on to his brother, Ernst August, Duke of Brunswick Luneberg. The leading figures of Georg W’s duchy were furious, but when Georg signed a legal agreement stating he would never marry – and would pass his duchy to Ernst, (merging the duchies) on his death, all was forgiven. Georg was not exactly out of the firm, but was free to enjoy his newly acquired freedom. The problem was Cupid laid Georg W low after he crossed paths with the beautiful Frenchwoman Eleonore d’Olbreuse.

Georg immediately knew they must marry and start a family. His own duchy and brother Ernst were unimpressed, so Georg W approached Leopold I, Holy Roman Emperor for permission to marry Eleonore. Leopold gave his blessing, but many years after the fact– at this stage Georg and Eleonore had a child, Sophia Dorothea, now 10 years old. There was a caveat to Leopold’s blessing – Georg W had a daughter, Ernst a son (Georg L) – the two cousins would marry, uniting the duchies. This suited all, but the two cousins themselves, who detested each other.

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Georg Wilhelm

Eleonore d’Olbreuse.

Ernst August

Sophia Of Hanover

Complicating matters further, both Georg L and his father Ernst were openly having affairs outside of their marriages. Given what transpires it is worth mentioning Georg L’s double standards with affairs. The key fact to take on however is Ernst, Sophia’s uncle-stepdad, was involved with a lady named Countess Platen.

The Konigsmarck brothers.

We’ll come back to this lot in a second, but first let’s discuss Count Konigsmarck. He has quite a fraught backstory too. Konigsmarck was brought up at court, and knew the rest of this cast well. Both he and his brother, Karl, were sent to England in their mid teens, around 1680. They were sent off to learn courtly skills and mingle, but both brothers soon got into trouble. Phillipp’s trouble involved losing huge sums of money through gambling. Karl’s trouble was on a whole other level.

The two brothers began associating with several high society Britons- including Charles II. Karl had become smitten with Elizabeth Seymour, Duchess of Somerset. Elizabeth was – you guessed it – caught in a loveless, arranged marriage to a wealthy, cheating husband – the wealthy landowner and MP Thomas Thynne. On 12th February 1682, Thynne was travelling in a carriage through Pall Mall, when three men with pistols – Christopher Vratz, John Stern and George Borosky gunned him down. The three men were captured, and named Karl Konigsmarck as the man who hired them to make the hit. The assassins would hang, Karl walked free – but both young men were outcasts in England from this point on. Both returned to Europe and joined Leopold’s army. Karl would be killed in action fighting the Turks in Greece in 1686. As an aside, not long after Thomas Thynne’s murder, a poem circulated through London.

“Here lies Tom Thynne of Longleat Hall Who ne’er would have miscarried; Had he married the woman he slept withal Or slept with the woman he married.”

Let the Dangerous Liaisons begin.

In 1688, after eight years service in the wars with the Turks, Phillipp Konigsmarck returned to the court of what was then Hanover. The ladies of the court fell for this dashing, young soldier. He became a close friend and confidant of Sophia Dorothea – a sympathetic ear who would keep tales of Sophia’s horrible husband, hideous uncle/stepdad, and terrifying mistress of uncle/stepdad – Countess Platen, confidential. Konigsmarck also began an ill advised affair with Countess Platen himself.

The young count soon realized; one, he had fallen in love with princess Sophia – and two, Countess Platen is a dangerous lunatic he should have never become involved with. He took on a new military commission and left Hanover, hoping the countess would forget about him.

On his return to the court in the spring of 1690 he began wooing the princess. The countess, meanwhile resumed her wooing of the count. When left unrequited she hired spies to follow the couple, and intercept their letters. By 1693 Countess Platen stopped even attempting to repair the broken seals on the couple’s love letters. Phillipp resumed his affair with the countess, hoping to placate her; at the very least to stop her from spilling the beans on them. Phillipp and Sophia make the decision to run away together; to start a new life elsewhere- far away from courtly life. This presented a problem for the two. Phillipp was lousy with money, and currently broke – he had not been working, while wooing two ladies. Sophia, upon marrying Georg L, ceded all her possessions to her husband.

Phillipp took a commission with the elector of Saxony, in Dresden in May 1694. Sophia sat tight and waited for Phillipp to make some money. 1st July, at the urging of a counterfeit letter, Phillipp returned to Hanover. Possibly aware it was a trap, Phillipp had saved a month’s worth of wages. Most of the court were away at their summer house at the time – Georg. L included. Tomorrow morning they would run away – and begin a new, happier life together. The following day Count Konigsmarck was nowhere to be found. A distraught Sophia Dorothea eventually hears the scuttlebutt from the markets “the witches of Dresden…” lured Phillipp away.

So…. what happened?

Let’s work through the facts – and suppositions – of the case. There are at least five possibilities. It’s generally accepted the counterfeit letter came from the countess. She had spies watching the couple, who reported to her that the couple were planning to abscond the following day. It is established fact also that Countess Platen informed her other lover, the uncle/stepdad Ernst, of the two lovers’ plan. Ernst ordered four cavaliers to arrest Count Konigsmarck immediately. The four men caught him outside the palace, swords were drawn. When the men eventually faced trial they claimed the count had drawn his sword, a fight broke out, and the count got stabbed to death in the melee.

What happened to the body? Who the hell knows? That is the real mystery. The four suspects were never on record on this matter. One theory has his body thrown into the Leine river, or immolated, or buried on the property. There was excitement in 2016 when bones were dug up on the site, but DNA proved the bones belonged to five separate men (none Phillipp) and a selection of animals.

Possibility one is simple as this, manslaughter. Count Konigsmarck, the battle hardened soldier of fortune thought he could fight his way out of an awkward situation and the four men got the better of him. It was, at most, a case of manslaughter.

Two, when Ernst August sent the cavaliers out to stop Konigsmarck, did he give the order to murder him before the elopement uncovered his dalliances, causing him embarrassment? He may have wanted him out of the way for this reason. Besides personal embarrassment, Hanover had only just been appointed an elector state, who help choose the Holy Roman Emperor. A scandal involving their royals may have jeopardized that position.

Three, well that ‘hell hath no fury’ motive is also out there. Countess Platen was jealous, and involved in high level stalking behaviour. She had laid this trap for the couple, does it not make sense to go that one step further. Did she kill Count Konigsmarck, solipsisticly to say ‘if I can’t have him, no-one can’?

Four, did Georg Ludwig know of the affair, and order the assassination? An elopement certainly would have left him a cuckold. Working counter to this, Georg L seemed unaware of the affair till after the affair was exposed. As soon as he heard, he divorced Sophia Dorothea. He exiled her to house arrest in Ahlden Castle, another family possession. She was kept prisoner until her death 32 years later. Here’s my reason to doubt Georg as the mastermind – he divorced and imprisoned her six months after Count Konigsmarck disappeared. Perhaps Georg was an endlessly patient man? I doubt it.

Now, I want to put a fifth suspect on the table – I said I would not mention her again – but I need to in order to tie this to the Sussexes at the very least. Ernst August’s wife, Sophia the elder, scorned by Georg W, and in what one would imagine as unhappy a marriage as anyone else in this tale – Her husband was cheating on her with Countess Platen after all – well she had a dream.

Discontent with her lot in life, married to a petty duke of a tiny duchy, she daydreamed of a time when herself, or her son would run the larger archipelago to the north-west. This did not seem such a crazy daydream. Her grandfather had been James I of England. In 1685 Charles II died leaving 14 illegitimate children, but no heirs. The crown passed to his brother James II, who was deposed in the ‘Glorious Rebellion’ of 1688. This saw a joint rule by James II’s daughter Mary, and the Dutch Import William of Orange. The line of succession had gotten a little complicated of late, and Sophia the elder’s daydream was seeming less and less blue sky thinking, more a genuine possibility – just so long as a giant scandal didn’t break out about her cheating husband, cheating daughter in law, and surrounding rogues gallery. I can’t count her in, but I certainly can’t ignore she too has a motive.

By 1702 both Mary and William of Orange had died. The crown passed to Mary’s sister – Anne. Anne fell pregnant 18 times – and suffered six miscarriages, five stillbirths, and none of her remaining children lived beyond two years of age. When Anne died on August 1st 1714, the crown passed to one Georg Ludwig, of an obscure German duchy, henceforth known as George I of England, whose family sit on the throne of England to this day.

How do I feel about the Sussexes and Megxit? Well, I am glad for the couple that it is 2020, not 1694 – and I wish them well.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Simone T. Whitlow is a musician, history blogger, and occasionally a squeaky wheel, working for well oiled corporate machines. Simone is based in Auckland, New Zealand and writes most weeks for Tales of History and Imagination.Tales of History and Imagination is a collection of strange and eccentric stories from our collective past. From Victorian Boogeymen to forgotten wars in far flung nations, mysterious super-weapons to people who simply took a path less traveled – Tales of History and Imagination is a compendium of the stories never told in history class.

FOLLOW SIMON T. WHITLOW:

WEBSITE: https://historyandimagination.com/

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The Deadly Sophxit of Count Konigsmarck and Princess Sophia Dorothea Today's post will be the tale of a royal exit written by guest poster Simone T. Whitlow from the blog…

#biographies #BOOKS #history #ROYAL HISTORY #tales #world history

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you-andthebottlemen · 5 years

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55 - AU request: Peasant Van part 2

Hi everyone!! New day, new post and it’s a fun one! My first AU in a while. Now today I am frantic as I am flying back home (yaaay love 24hr long haul flights rip) and will be crazy over the next little while with Life Things and getting used to normality after so long away (is this what Van feels like?) so I hope you enjoy this one and that it will tide you over until my next post. For anyone who has sent a request recently: I promise I have gotten them and started working on them. Love you all, hope you’re doing okay xxx

Based off this request:

i’ve got no clue if this has been asked before but... is peasant van/princess reader part 2 a possibility? where she gets out of that tower and gets her cottage and her kids and her love-filled marriage and everything she’s dreamed of? because to be honest, that’s exactly the kind of story i need right now (your writing is class by the way, and your harry potter au’s might just be the greatest thing aside from this) xx

It is a part two of my medieval ‘peasant Van’ AU I wrote ages ago so definitely read that first if you haven’t, I will link it below. I am so happy someone requested this. The fic is weird and cute and I love it, glad to return to these characters! (Disclaimer: it is also not historically accurate or anything like that, it’s not very logical either or realistic. But it is CUTE so enjoy).

Part 1 can be found here: https://you-andthebottlemen.tumblr.com/post/163965383698/43-au

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Month’s had rolled by since the night that Van, the scruffy but sweet boy who lived outside the wall, had climbed up the tower and found himself in your bedroom. You weren’t able to see each other much in fear he would get caught. But you found a way to exchange letters; one of the servant boys in the kitchen, Johnny, knew him and would pass them between you for a small reward in return. Van’s letters were poorly written, and you could tell that he probably had trouble reading. It didn’t matter though; the letters became your prized possessions.

You spent your time as always, doing your duties sitting in court by your parents, attending feasts and whatever else. Your ‘spare’ time was filled with embroidery and endless day dreaming. The same routine, day in and day out. Sometimes you were able to visit the town but never alone, always with your silver clad entourage. This made things tedious anyway and even more difficult with Van in the picture now. You’d usually only have stolen glances, maybe the odd conversation where you pretended not to know each other. Regardless, you found ways to make it fun with your secret language made of riddles that only you and he understood.

“Will you be attending the opening of the gardens this week?” you asked him, your tone formal as to not alert the knights to anything suspicious.

“My lady, ‘course I will be. Love them roses,” he smiled, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Your heart felt warm and fuzzy, making you bite your lip to hide a smile. “They’re my favourite,” you replied.

“Specially them peach coloured ones,” Van commented and winked. You blushed wildly and he smirked triumphantly.

“Move along Princess,” one of the knights grunted, staring down at Van menacingly, perhaps remembering him from The Incident a while back.

Van reached out and delicately took your hand in his, bowing and giving it a quick kiss. You hated being treated this way by people, as if you weren’t just the same as them on the inside. But with Van it was sweet and filled you with excitement knowing that it meant something more than anyone realised, and you were doing it right under their noses. You smiled and held eye contact with him as you were guided away, knowing you’d be seeing each other again soon.

……….

Finally, the day had come for another garden opening. It had always been your favourite event at the castle, you loved being able to give some joy to the townsfolk, a distraction from their day to day lives. But now, it was even more special because it was a time you could slip off and be with Van undisturbed, where you could be yourself.

You were sat down in the soft green grass, shoes off and your face pointing up towards the sky so the sun could soak into your skin. You could feel Van just watching you. He’d been telling you that the roses he’d planted at home were in fact, flourishing. He reckoned he had a green thumb. Though from what he’d told you about his father, you could bet that Bernie had been tending to them without Van’s knowledge. They sounded like the sweetest family and you wished you had a relationship like that with yours. Instead, you did whatever you were told without question and it never felt all that loving.

You fluttered your eyelids open and turned to Van. He was laying back on the ground, propped up on his elbows. He quickly averted his gaze when he saw you catching him in his stare. You giggled and he cracked a sheepish grin.

“Whatcha’ thinking about Peaches?”

Him. Always him.

“What’s the story of that gold necklace?” you asked, your eyes landing on the small pendent that peeked out of his tattered shirt.

Van sat up and shuffled towards you; you now sat cross-legged opposite each other, your knees touching.

“Well, it’s been in my family for a while. Dad gave it to mum when she had me, then when I turned 18, they gave it to me. Then I’ll give it to my wife when she has our first-born son and yeah.”

He finished his clunky story with a shrug and placed a hesitant hand on your knee. You looked up and met his eyes; both of you suddenly nervous. Van probably because he knew that he was overstepping a line, and you because you wanted more than just a hand on the knee.

“I love that,” you said, referring to the story of his necklace. “Your wife will be a lucky woman.”

“Will you be my wife?” Van asked, innocently but with conviction.

The soft smile on your lips fell and your jaw dropped in bewilderment.

“What?!”

“I meant it when I said I’d get you out! That we’d run away. Run away with me?”

Van shuffled closer and moved the hand on your knee to your cheek. You were reminded of the conversation on your bed that night, when Van pleaded with you and proposed ideas of escaping to the life you wanted but couldn’t have. You’d not said no to his idea then and you had clung onto it in your daydreams ever since.

“Van…“

Van leant forward close to your face and you could feel his breath, his nose grazing against yours. Your heart rate spiked and you sat stunned and frozen. Taking your stillness as a sign, Van leant in even closer and pressed his lips to yours.

It was a soft and undemanding kiss. Van was testing the waters; he didn’t want to scare you. You pulled away slightly and looked at him in both shock and wonder. You loved that he was brave and bold enough to just kiss a princess.

“Oh, Peaches, I’m sorry, I- “

“Shhh,” you smiled. You grabbed his face in your hands and pulled him into you again. You felt him smile against your lips as you kissed the second time. You had more confidence now and your heart fluttered. It was messy but that was okay.

When you pulled away, Van was wearing the biggest grin you’d ever seen, and that was saying something. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression; you were feeling giddy and dazed and incredibly happy. Your first kiss. It was perfect and with the perfect person.

After a moment, you both burst into laughter. Neither of you could believe what just happened. Van fell back into the grass and covered his face with his hands, still grinning.

“I kissed a princess!” he exclaimed to himself, his voice turning high pitched. You giggled at him and smiled in awe.

When he moved his hands from his face, you lay down on the grass beside him, resting your head on his chest. Van wrapped an arm around your shoulder and held you close. You’d never felt safer and you’d never felt happier, than right there in his arms.

………………

That evening, you floated about the castle without a care in the world. You were so happy; completely on cloud nine. Your kiss with Van and the afternoon as a whole replayed over and over in your mind, filling you with more excitement each time. You felt as though nothing could wipe the smile from your face or the joy from your heart.

However, you were wrong.

“What do you mean I’m getting married?!” you exclaimed, in both rage and shock.

“We’ve found you a suiter y/n!” you mother squeaked excitedly, clasping her hands to her cheeks.

You glared at both your parents who sat in their thrones before you.

“No. I don’t accept. I don’t want to marry someone I don’t know and don’t love.”

“What do you mean ‘no?” your father scoffed. “Marry for love? This isn’t a fantasy!”

“I will not marry him!” you cried with tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You will. It’s decided. The Lord arrives in a week for your first meeting. And you will be wed y/n, it will be of great benefit to our land.”

You tore away from the throne room in a run and escaped back to your tower. Once inside the walls of your bedroom, you collapsed down onto your bed and sobbed until your eyes were bloodshot and sore. You didn’t want to marry whoever this lord was, you didn’t want to move away. You didn’t want any of this. You only wanted Van and the babies and life far away from all of this royalty crap.

Once you’d calmed down and could breathe properly again, you went to look out your window. The sun was going down now and the land around you glowed. You looked out into the distance in the direction Van had told you he lived and wondered what he was doing right now. Was he thinking of you too?

You mulled over his words and promises about running away together. You wanted to drop everything and run so, so badly. To leave it all behind and escape this life that wasn’t meant for you.

Without a second thought, you packed a rucksack with some clothes and your most important possessions, the pile of Van’s letters included. Once the sun had set and the sky was black, you devised a plan on how to escape the castle under the cover of darkness while everyone was asleep. Not an easy task but if Van could break in, you could break out. And you’d never been more determined to do anything in your life.

…………

Wearing the plainest clothing you owned, you followed Johnny through the tunnel under the moat. You felt scared and cold but also couldn’t shake the excitement. Turns out that Van had told Johnny everything; so, he wasn’t too hesitant on helping you escape out the servant’s route to the town. He said he’d take you to Van’s house and you promised that you’d make sure no harm would come to him and also gave him a small pouch of coins for the risk.

“You alright?” he asked.

You nodded but clung to his arm as he led you through the dark. You didn’t dare light a torch in case you were spotted.

Once you reached the end and you could finally see the stars again, Johnny gave you his coat to cover your dress in case anyone was out and about who could recognise you. You were beyond grateful for his help and you wished you could do something proper for him in return. You thought it said a lot about Van that he had such wonderful friends.

Soon, Johnny had led you past the market and through rows of small houses, which were more like huts or cottages. Animals made noises as you passed them by and you winced every time in fear the owners would come out and find you. You dreaded the thought of what would happen if you were to be dragged back to your parents at the castle, caught in the act of running away.

“Okay Princess, it’s that one,” Johnny whispered, pointing out a small mud brick place with a wonky looking rose bush at the side. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Thank you, I can never repay you Johnny, truly I am in debt to you.”

“Not at all Princess,” Jonny said sincerely shook his head. “And call me Bondy.”

“Bondy,” you repeated with a smile and small nod. “Call me y/n.”

He stuck his hand out for a shake but instead you pulled him in for a hug and kiss on the cheek. You could almost feel the shock radiating off him. You gave him back his coat and waved one last time before he descended back off into the dark the way you’d came.

You took a final deep breath; it was now or never and you’d already come this far. There was a soft orange glow from one of the windows, probably a candle, so hopefully you wouldn’t be waking anyone up with your shock arrival. You felt bad turning up like this and hoped that Van had truly meant what he said.

After softly knocking at the door, you heard a shuffle of feet. Your heart was racing. When the door opened you were met by an older man with kind eyes. They were like Van’s but aged, though no less bright. He opened his mouth to speak but before he could get a word out, you heard another echo of footsteps and a familiar voice.

“Who is it?”

Suddenly Van peaked out from behind his father’s shoulder trying to get a look at whoever was there. If you weren’t so nervous, you would have laughed at how nosey he was.

“Peaches?!”

Van eagerly pushed poor Bernie out of the way and bundled you into a hug. You felt instantly relieved and melted right into him. When you pulled away, Van ushered you inside without question, his father close behind. The place was small, smaller than any home you’d ever been in. The whole place was probably the size of your bedroom if a little larger. There was a basic stove in one corner with a stone bench to cook on, a shabby looking table and chairs then two small doorways which you assumed led to bedrooms. It was so basic but somehow felt more homely than the castle despite its size and grandeur.

“Dad this is Peach-… the Princess,” Van said to his dad, stumbling over his words.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you Princess,” he smiled warmly.

“You can call me y/n, I’m nothing special,” you replied timidly. “Sorry, for uh, being here Mr McCann,” you said, looking down. Your usual confidence and eloquence escaped you.

You didn’t want to offend the man and you felt really terrible for showing up on his doorstep like this and putting the family in such a position. Hiding you would be considered treason. Treason was punishable by imprisonment or even death.

Bernie’s face softened and he placed a hand on your shoulder. “Van’s told us everything, you’re so welcome here my dear.”

“Thank you. So, so much.”

You looked between Van and Bernie gratefully, some worry lifting off your chest. After a short while Bernie went back to bed where Van’s mother Mary was still sleeping. Van and Bernie both had an inkling she wouldn’t be as happy about this unexpected visit as they were so best to let her have a full night’s sleep. You and Van stayed up longer and talked. You told him everything, about the marriage and the lord arriving in a week. You had to fight off tears just speaking out it.

“I knew things were too good to be true,” you whispered into his chest as he held you tight.

You were upset that this had all happened after the most perfect day together. Your head swam with worries and you didn’t know what on earth you were doing.

“You’re here now and we’ll work it out, yeah?” Van soothed.

He set you up in his bed, insisting on taking the floor. You put up a fight but he was relentless and wouldn’t stop making a fuss until you were laid down and tucked up. The bed was hard and dug into your back, but you didn’t care.

Van kissed you goodnight and then fell asleep quickly despite laying on the cold dirt floor. Everything was uncertain and this was terrifying. But you stared down at the boy with the freckles, bad haircut and blue eyes who would do anything for you and felt a little more at ease. You fell asleep that night calmed with the knowledge that Van McCann, the peasant boy who had taken a bite out of your peach, had also stolen your heart.

…………….

“Van! Close the gate! The goat will get out!” you yelled desperately as you heard him come home.

“Sorry Peaches can’t hear you, the goat got out!” he shouted back.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. You couldn’t help but laugh a little too. Years had passed but Van hadn’t changed at all; you loved it.

Ignoring the ruckus caused by Van trying to herd the goat back into the yard outside, you looked down at the little rosy cheeked baby girl sitting up and smiling at you from her wooden crib. She had Van’s blue eyes and long lashes. Just looking at her made your heart want to burst with love.

“What are we going to do with Daddy?” you asked her, smiling and bending down to her level.

You’d named her Mary after Van’s mother. Little Mary made gurgling sounds at you and stuck her fingers in her mouth. She was the first of what you suspected were many babies to come. You caressed her cheek before getting up to clear the kitchen from breakfast.

You and Van had escaped and eloped. Van’s cousins lived in another village that was in another Kingdom; your parents couldn’t touch you and it was unlikely anyone would recognise you there either. His uncle set him up with a job and he’d worked day in and day out saving up to buy you a wedding ring. As soon as he could afford it, he proposed. After a while, you were able to move from the spare room in one of his cousin’s houses into a tiny cottage of your own. Then before you knew it, Little Mary was on her way. Van’s family had been so kind and supportive; giving you second-hand baby clothes or toys and anything else they could. Life was perfect. You had friends, real friends for the first time in your life. You felt free. No one knew you had escaped the life of royalty and it felt good to be seen for who you were, not the title that hung over your head.

Van was the perfect husband and perfect father. You couldn’t believe that your reality now looked the same as all the things you daydreamed about up in your tower for years. And it was all because of Van. The love of your life. You’d grown up together, his hair cut improved a bit and now you shared a tiny perfect child who so far seemed to be an even combination of the two of you. You wondered what her personality would be like as she grew up. Would she be sweet and mischievous like Van or a level headed dreamer like you?

Van came through the door breathing heavily and his face and clothes smudged in dirt.

“Bloody goat,” he breathed, wiping his forehead.

“Well, I did say not to leave the gate open,” you smirked. “Besides, I like the goat, best not let it escape yeah?”

You walked over and gave Van a kiss, ignoring how bad he smelt. You’d started selling goats milk cheese in the local market, earning your little family some extra money. You’d also started experimenting on making goat milk soaps. That was still a work in progress, though you enjoyed having something of your own to do. Van loved it, thought you were ‘dead smart’.

“Go get washed up,” you instructed as you tried to rub the smudge off his cheek.

Van stopped to give Mary a kiss on top of her head as he walked through to the back where the tub was. She giggled and reached her arms up to him.

“Can’t pick you up love, mum says I need to wash. I smell,” he said to her as if she understood.

Your hand moved unconsciously to the gold chain that now hung on your neck and you fiddled with it as you stared at the two of them, totally besotted.

When Van had finished, he came out to find you and Mary sat out in the garden. You had her sat on your lap and you were showing her the different flowers that had bloomed. Van sat down beside you and reached his arms out for his baby girl. She shrieked when she saw him and was passed over happily. Mary stretched out and touched his face, he just made silly expressions back at her. Van was dirt free and in a clean fabric shirt, his wet hair clung to his forehead and stuck up funnily. He’d lost the baby fat off his cheeks but otherwise looked the same as when you’d first met him really. Though he’d definitely gotten more handsome with age.

“Look how beautiful your mummy is,” he whispered to Mary as he held your gaze, turning her to face you.

You felt a blush rise to your cheeks.

“I got something for you at the market this mornin’,” he said.

He sat Mary down on the grass and raced off. She began to curiously pull blades of grass out of the ground and squish them up between her fingers. When Van came back, he had his hands hidden behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he instructed. You did what he said.

Van placed something in your hands, it was soft and kind of…furry? When you opened your eyes, you couldn’t contain the grin.

“A peach!” he boasted proudly.

Peaches were ridiculously hard to come by where you lived now. In that moment you were thrown back to your first meeting with Van. The old lady and her granddaughter, Van being chased by knights, you keeping the peach on your windowsill for weeks. Who would have thought that you end up running away to start a family with that very peasant boy? Certainly not you. You felt sad for a minute, thinking about your parents who had no idea where you were. You tried not to think about those things too much. You had everything you’d ever dreamed of.

As if sensing your sudden mood change, Van crouched down closer to you and stroked your cheek.

“Thank you, Van,” you smiled and leant in to kiss him. You handed the peach to Little Mary. She looked at it curiously and rubbed the soft peach fuzz against her cheek.

“Do you think she’d like it?” Van asked you.

You shrugged and he reached out to take the peach. Little Mary’s face screwed up and her lip trembled like she was going to cry because daddy had taken her new toy. Van pulled the skin off the peach to make it easier for her toothless little mouth.

“Careful, don’t let daddy take a bite!” you said to her, giving Van a wink. He just smirked back at you, knowing exactly what memory you were referring to.

Van’s hair had started to dry in soft waves under the sunshine and he looked faultless. He handed the fruit back to Mary and her tiny smile returned. She began to suck on the peach, clearly liking the sweet taste.

Van sat and pulled you into his lap. He held you from behind and buried his face in your neck, giving your skin soft kisses. You squeezed his hands tight, wanting to live in this moment forever.

“I love you, Peaches,” he whispered.

“I love you too Van,” you replied, staring at your blue-eyed baby girl who was now covered in peach juice and loving it.

#catfish #catb #Catfish and the Bottlemen #van mccann #johnny bond #larry lau #van mccann fanfiction #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #catfish and the bottlemen fanfiction #van mccann au #catfish au

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thewritewolf · 5 years

Text

Rekindle Chapter 16: Ghosts

The day after their defeat of Hawkmoth.

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

@marichatmay

Enjoy!

Read on Ao3

The morning lights filtered in through the windows, forcing Marinette to accept that the day had begun. Still mostly asleep, she groped blindly toward the other half of the bed, searching for the familiar source of warmth that had helped her sleep so soundly last night. When she didn’t find it, she sat up on her elbows and blew aside an errant lock of hair with an irritated huff. Excluding herself, the bed was empty.

Had it all been a dream? No - his overshirt and shoes were cast aside at the foot of the bed. He’d at least been here. And unless he intended to go walking around in his bare feet, then he was still here. She sniffed the air hopefully, but couldn’t smell any delicious scents, much to her disappointment. Although maybe that was to be expected. She certainly wouldn’t have felt in the mood for cooking if that all had happened to her.

She rolled over to plant her feet on the ground and forced herself out of bed. There was a lot to do in the newly Hawkmoth-less world. She hesitated as she looked down the hall at the guest room. Maybe he had gotten up in the middle of the night to sleep alone? Poking her head in, she saw the bed was still perfectly made and waiting for a guest. So he’d spent the night with her. Her heart fluttered before remembering why he’d had to stay at all.

The living room was as she remembered it last night - restored by the Ladybug Cure, but blankets left astrew from their impromptu movie marathon.

“Adrien?” She softly called his name, not wanting to alert the neighbors. “Are you there?”

“Marinette?” Tikki replied. She turned around to track its source and found her kwami sitting on top of an envelope in the kitchen, working her way through a cookie only slightly smaller than herself. “They left before I woke up. But they left a note!” She floated off of the envelope as Marinette walked over to pick it up.

The message was simple and frustratingly vague: “I’ll be back tonight. Discovered something about Hawkmoth.”

She frowned at that. Hawkmoth. Not dad, or father, or even Gabriel. Hawkmoth. Before she could dwell on it further, her eyes widened and she frantically looked around. The Butterfly miraculous was missing!

Taking a deep breath, Marinette forced herself to calm down and think things through. “Tikki. Can kwami appear if there isn’t a wielder of their miraculous?”

Tikki considered this for a long moment. “Well, yes, but we don’t like to. It is super tiring because it means we have to manifest without a living anchor in this world.” She nibbled a little at her cookie, looking pensive. “Do you think that Nooroo spoke to Adrien?”

“Nooroo? That’s the name of the butterfly kwami?” At Tikki’s nod, Marinette continued. “I don’t see why else Adrien would take the butterfly miraculous. But I don’t understand what Nooroo could’ve told Adrien that would make him leave without saying goodbye.”

Putting a comforting paw on Marinette’s cheek, Tikki replied, “I’m sure he had a good reason. Chat Noir wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.”

Marinette flashed a smile at Tikki’s concern. “I know. But thanks for saying it. It makes me feel a little better. Especially with what we have to do next.” Marinette ran her fingers through her hair and suddenly realized how dirty she felt. Even if the sweat and grim had been cleaned off by the Ladybug Cure, she’d feel better after a shower. “Finish up your cookie. We need to talk with the mayor and call a press meeting.”

And if Adrien wasn’t back after that was over… then she’d let herself start to worry. But for now, she put on a brave face and got cleaned up. Who knows? Maybe she would meet someone new today.

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

Adrien entered his childhood home, just another shadow among many. The mansion’s defenses hadn’t been difficult to weave through. They were like an old friend to him, a hurdle he would have to constantly evade back during his teenage years. Only slightly more arduous to get around was the police sentry posted outside, but even then, the early morning ensured the guard wasn’t exactly at the top of his game.

Maybe they didn’t have a warrant yet, or maybe their lingering fear of Hawkmoth kept them from entering. Either way, only his footfalls echoed in the spacious halls, halls that felt even emptier without Gabriel’s presence looming over everything like an omnipresent shadow. Finding himself in the foyer, he looked up at the giant painting Hawkmoth had commissioned shortly after the disappearance of Emilie Agreste.

Disappearance. Adrien remembered Gabriel’s very careful choice of words, remembered how he had brushed it off at the time as him just being a strange person. Even years later, Adrien just thought that Gabriel hadn’t given up on finding his wife someday. That he was unable to move on.

His claws hands clenched into a fist. He hadn’t been entirely wrong. Gabriel hadn’t been able to move on, but that was partially because he had known something that Adrien didn’t. Something he had kept hidden from Adrien for ten years. Something that Nooroo had told Adrien after forcing himself outside the tainted miraculous. Emilie Agreste, Adrien’s mother and the wife of the person who would become Hawkmoth was alive… at least for now.

Adrien climbed the staircase and entered Gabriel’s study. Just as he remembered it, a painting of his mother hung on the wall at the back of the room. Years ago, he had discovered a safe containing the miraculous book behind it. But there was more to it than that. Pressing the hidden buttons that Nooroo had described, Adrien felt a brief rush of panic as he sunk through the floor and ended up inside an underground facility.

All his questions faded away to background noise when he saw her, resting peacefully inside a sarcophagus of glass and metal. She didn’t look a day older than how he remembered her, wearing her favorite white suit with a vibrant rose attached to her lapel. Her expression was serene, as if she was sleeping. Or was he sleeping and this was just another dream of his, the sort that he had stopped having a few years after she had vanished?

Before he could find a way to pinch himself through the suit, a tiny but ragged voice sounded near his ear. “She doesn’t have long left.”

His head jerked to the side, where he saw Nooroo, looking at him with weary eyes. He hadn’t even considered that kwami could become sick, but those doubts were put aside when he took in how frail Nooroo looked, the way that his big kwami eyes had bags under them, the way he shivered in the chill of the underground. Nooroo was looking even worse than he had before, when he had woken Adrien up in the early hours of the morning.

His words caught up to Adrien. “What do you mean? Isn’t she fine while she is in there?”

Nooroo shook his head sadly and Adrien heart dropped. “The machine is effective, but imperfect. Her sickness has advanced through the years. On the tenth anniversary of her internment, she will succumb to the infection.”

“Sickness? Infection?” He fought to keep his voice from breaking. It was hard to grasp that his mother was still alive, making it all the more painful that she was about to be ripped from him all over again. He was starting to get tired of all the tears.

“Gabriel and her used to run across the rooftops of Paris, using the miraculous not for evil but for simple pleasure.” Nooroo sighed. “But Duusu’s miraculous had been damaged during the Fall. It wasn’t safe to use. We tried to tell them but...” Nooroo looked over at the still form of Emilie. “...They didn’t listen.”

“So… Gabriel somehow built this,” Adrien gestured to the wires and tubes leading into the machine, “and put mom in it. Right?” Nooroo nodded. “Can’t I just get her out now, take her to Master Fu? There is still a week until the anniversary. That should be plenty of time to heal her, right?”

Nooroo watched him with sad eyes. “I’m so sorry, Adrien. She will last a week inside the machine, or maybe an hour or two outside of it. Even if she did live a week, there is nothing Master Fu can do. The infection is beyond mortal power to heal. There is only one thing that could possibly save her now.”

Adrien looked at his ring and frowned, deep in thought.

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

As much as Marinette would love to have Chat Noir by her side right now, it was for the best that he didn’t see the crowd of reporters gathered in front of her. Most were wearing bright smiles and there was an excited energy arcing around the space. And why shouldn’t they be excited? Their long nightmare was finally at an end.

She clamped down on her nervousness, remembering the lessons Chat Noir had given her way back near the beginning of their superhero career. Deep breaths. Stay focused. She had always been curious about how he knew so much about making public appearances. Now she knew.

“Citizens of Paris!” The voice of Ladybug cut through the chatter, silencing conversations immediately. “Hawkmoth, now known to be Gabriel Agreste, has been defeated for good. I am in possession of his miraculous and he is now in police custody.” She allowed them to cheer before she continued. “I will now be answering questions by the press, but keep in mind that some things must remain secret.”

“Was Gabriel Agreste working alone? Do you know if his son or any of his employees were involved?”

Marinette’s heart leapt to her throat before she got her feelings under control. It was a question she had been anticipating, but not so soon. Still, she rolled out the answer she and Tikki had prepared.

“I can only say for certain that Nathalie Sancoeur had some involvement in Hawkmoth’s plans, as evidenced by her willful assistance during last night’s battle. Adrien Agreste, meanwhile, we believe to be completely innocent of his father’s wrongdoings.”

“And where is Adrien Agreste?”

Showtime. “Since we believe he may be in danger, Adrien agreed to be hidden for his own protection. Chat Noir and I believe that this is the ideal solution for the time being. Rest assured that he is being looked after.” Hopefully that would buy time for everything to die down a little before Adrien returned to the public eye. The reporters jotted down her answer, not fully pleased with it, but at least accepting it.

The questions continued to come, but nothing made her react the way that the first one had. Some she had to turn down entirely - where the miraculous would go or how they intended to track down Nathalie, for instance.

All the while, worry gnawed at her in the back of her mind.

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

“Hey, Adrien,” she settled next to where he sat on the stairs in the foyer of his old home, in the shadow of a horribly dour painting of his father and him. His head was in his clawed hands as he stared at the ground.

He seemed startled at the sound of his own name and looked over at her with red rimmed eyes and a wavering smile. “Hey, Mari. How’d you find me here?”

She dropped her transformation and wrapped an arm around his and wiped away his tears with the cuffs of her sleeves. “It wasn’t hard. Where else would you have gone? And with the Butterfly miraculous too.”

“I could’ve taken it to Master Fu,” he offered feebly.

“Then you would’ve taken me with you.” She cupped his cheek and smiled sadly. “Sorry, kitty. I don’t want you to be alone.”

He swallowed heavily. “I found out what Hawkmoth was trying to do.”

“Was it something to do with your mother?” It was an educated guess. What else would Gabriel Agreste, the fabulously successful and rich fashion star, want?

“Yeah…” He stared off into the distance again before looking around the foyer. “You know, this place used to be my whole world. I rarely ever got to leave when I wasn’t doing stuff for his business. I didn’t mind much at the time, though. I didn’t know anything different. Besides, mom was there, so even if it wasn’t lively, it was warm and welcoming.”

She just watched and held onto him. It was clearly something he needed to get off his chest.

“We had a funeral for her three years ago. There hadn’t been any sign of her for years, so we just gave up hope.” He scowled. “Not Gabriel though. Refused to go to the funeral, so I had to go alone, see family I’d never met before and try to explain why he hadn’t show up to his own wife’s funeral.”

There was a long silence between them before Marinette said, “I’m sorry about your parents, Adrien. Your mother sounds amazing. I’m wish I could’ve talked to her, thanked her for raising such a good son.”

Adrien turned to look at her with those wide Chat eyes and for a moment she was worried she said something wrong. Then, he smiled. It was small, but it was genuine and heartfelt. “Come with me, Mari. There's someone I want you to meet.”

#MarichatMay2019 #Miraculous Ladybug #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Adrien Agreste #Chat Noir #Ladybug #Marichat #Tikki #Nooroo #ml fanfiction #my writing #Rekindle

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ihsom-has-a-writing-dream · 6 years

Text

Clarity ~1~

Well hello there Tumblr, I’ve finally found the courage to post this thing! Be warned though, this story contains spoilers and focuses on three certain Generals!

I have some plans for these girls, and love the prospect of fleshing them out more in a story! I hope you all like it! Note: this was posted before we knew if the Generals were all sisters or not. I implied some things in this first chapter, but now know they are all strictly sisters, no love here but the sisterly kind.

It was an almost impossible task, yet Francisca had accomplished it.

The icy general heaved, letting her axe disappear from use. There was a nasty scar along her shoulder, and her hat had a hole in it from the trespassers sword penetrating the carefully knit fabric. Zan was going to be disappointed in her for being so careless, yet the outcome of this battle outweighed the damage she received.

Francisca slowly floated down to the pink creature, carefully observing him in case he had decided to play dead. He hadn't, she could see the rise and fall of his chest, his labored breaths coming out less than evenly.

“You should have listened to me,” she chuckled. “I told you I would put you on ice for interfering.”

Of course she was talking to an unconscious...ball. And said ball she had no idea what to do with. Would she kill him here and now? Keep him prisoner?

She passively wanted more trophies for her collection, and another frozen one would be the icing on the cake.

However, she would have to show the other generals of the feat she had pulled off first. They would have to know there was opposition on this planet and to be prepared, it could mean a major setback in their plans. Hyness would not like that, she was positive.

Francisca slowly picked up the pink ball, humming in surprise at how light he was. It was great considering her shoulder was in no position to carry anything too heavy. She tucked him under her arm and went along her way into the deeper parts of the Jambastion.

It was actually one of those once in a blue moon days where Hyness wasn't completely bent on them finding the pieces of the dark Jamba Heart, a day where she, Flamberge and Zan could ‘relax’ to the best of their abilities. Of course half of the time said relaxing activities were training overseen by Zan herself, but hopefully they could fully unwind today. She had a shoulder to heal after all.

She had to spare a glance down at her prisoner, and her first reaction was thoughts about how cute he was. It sounded strange sure, but she liked her trophies cute and innocent looking. It was all the better to see such horror on their faces when she made them into statues. The moment when innocence was shattered, that was the image she loved to capture most in her artwork.

This boy would be perfect for that, if she got to do what she pleased with him. It felt only fair, after all she was the one to stop him in his tracks. But if Flamberge wanted to have her own fun..she would comply.

It didn't take her long to reach the open area of the Jambastion, she slipped past some Jammerjab’s patrolling the area and headed inside, expecting to hear some sort of ruckus. Instead she found the other two generals lounging about, doing their own thing.

Flamberge caught her gaze first, the fiery girl had a book open in her lap, scanning it’s contents. It had been a while since she had seen her read...well anything! It was a good thing too, maybe now she could show her some of her favorite books...

Zan on the other hand was knitting, and she seemed to be halfway through with her work. There were some hats for her and Flamberge resting aside her which were more suited for colder areas. Zan hated to admit that sometimes the universe was a tad too cold without the constant warmth of a sun around them. And that they would need to become warmer since their outfits were a little less prepared. Francisca obviously didn’t mind the cold much herself, but she knew her dear Berge and Zan would.

Before she could even announce her presence however, Flamberge noticed her right away, shutting her book and jumping up in delight.

“Francisca! You're back, finally!” Flamberge shouted.

She caught the attention of Zan, who set aside her knitting needles. “Ah, it's about time Franny. I was worried you somehow got lost on your patrol.” she let a hand rest on her hip. Then her eyes were directed to the unconscious puff by her side. Zan’s eyes raised in surprise, “Franny, do you mind showing us what you caught?”

Flamberge glanced down at Kirby, a gasp escaping her. “Wow Francisca! What is that? It looks cute!” she floated closer, lifting up Kirby’s arm to examine his face. “It is cute!”

Francisca chuckled, patting Flamberge’s head. “It's cute but also deadly. He barged into our lovely Jambastion uninvited and put a nasty scar on my shoulder.” she stretched out her arm for emphasis to show the damage done.

This time it was Flamberge's turn to be surprised, she promptly glared at the tiny puffball. Her flaming sword came to her from the air, as she thrust it in front of Kirby’s face, nearly puncturing his skin.

Francisca hopped back in surprise, although her sudden movements to protect their prisoner startled her more.

“Jamblast you! You puffy, pink pest!” she turned back to Zan, who had not moved an inch in her sudden outburst. “He deserves to be roasted! He hurt our precious Franny, Zan!” There was an unmistakable anger in her voice, a tone of which made heat rush to Francisca’s cheeks. This always happened with Flamberge; switching moods at the drop of a hat. Or in every case, if somebody hurt her dear Francisca. Although the icy general couldn't say she was complaining…

“Flamberge, put away your sword.” Zan floated calmly over, giving a look to her that stated she wasn't playing. Flamberge grunted, but complied.

“And Francisca, what kind of trouble was he up to in the sections?” Right to business, of course Zan wouldn't miss a beat.

“Destroying valuable troops, but otherwise just making his way through. He beat Pon and Con, the two of them seem to be freed from our influences.” she stated.

Zan hummed, drumming her fingers across her arm. “There doesn't seem to be much collateral damage, and our infantry could always be replaced.” She sighed, “There will be some repairing to do, but our biggest concern now are others like him.” she put her hands behind her back and started pacing.

Flamberge very carefully slided over to Francisca. She entwined her hand with hers, squeezing it for comfort. When Zan started pacing it meant things could get drastically worse. They were all considerably calm and collected, so their head general worrying over an opposition was nothing to shake a stick at.

“To think a planet like this could hold such a powerful creature..” she mumbled. “It would be foolish to assume there aren't others like him. We will have to keep a close eye on activities from the outside. Our lord will not have us to become cloaked with failure.” Her voice hardened near the end, and Francisca could feel her hand being squeezed even tighter.

“Flamberge, you will need to be prepared to fight any who choose to invade the Jambastion. And get to work on bringing back Pon and Con, we cannot have them escape and seek help.” she pointed a steady finger at Flamberge, who curtly nodded.

“What about me Zan? And more importantly him?” Francisca gestured down to Kirby, his form still rigid and unmoving in her arms.

“The original troublemaker, right.” She glanced at him, but then turned her attention elsewhere. “He will be held prisoner, we cannot send him back to the planet, but we also can't ignore the knowledge he may possess. A native from the land may better help us find the Jamba hearts.”

“Willingly?” Flamberge cut in, staring at Kirby with disgust.

“Willingly or not, if it comes to the point where he will not cooperate you will turn him like with the guards.” Zan looked out one of the many windows in the room towards Popstar. Her gaze hardened, “Failure is not an option here girls, you understand that correct?”

“Yes,” Francisca nodded, but then winced as a spasm cut through her arm up to her shoulder. “Ah...jamblasted…..” she cursed. She tried her hardest not to let her pain show, but Flamberge, ever observant, noticed anyway.

“You really need to rest Franny. You cannot fight in a position like that.” Flamberge gingerly put up a hand to touch the wound, but pulled back quickly when the contact made Francisca hiss in pain. “..sorry.”

“It's fine Flamberge, although I think I am perfectly capable of holding my own." She huffed, holding Kirby closer to her. It was instinctive; his soft body almost felt like a stress reliever..

“No, Flamberge is right. You will rest in recovery Francisca.” she held up a hand before the general could try and argue with her. “I will have no complaints on the matter,”

Francisca sighed, loudly. She hated being immobile for so long. The feeling of being useless…

“But, once again, what about pinky here?” she held up Kirby. “He is more powerful than you two might think, it would be unwise to leave him alone for extended periods of time. With his power he would surely break out with ease.”

The room fell into silence, of course before all could go smoothly dealing with Kirby was the main factor of concern.

Then just before Zan could open her mouth Flamberge had an audible ‘aha!’ moment.

“Ooo I know! Since we're trying to get him on our side, why not act nice to him? If we can persuade him to join the cause Hyness is so determined to make happen, there will be no need for turning! We can all look after him by the days.” she pointed to Francisca.

“You can keep him in check for a few days, since you're resting. Then you can hand him off to me, then Zan, and we start the process over again!”

Zan narrowed her eyes, “Flamberge that doesn't sound like a solid idea.” she put her hands on her hips again, giving the fiery girl a look.

“Why not?” she countered, mimicking her superior's stance. “It will be a potential new ally on our side, and a powerful one at that! Besides, turning takes a lot of energy and it would be easier this way for me.”

Francisca didn't know how she felt about looking after the person who nearly chopped her arm off. She wanted him as a trophy of course, but this made it seem like he was some pet. “What all does ‘looking after’ entail?”

“You know. Making sure he doesn't escape, keeping him fed and interested-"

“So like a dog.” Zan deadpanned.

“Exactly! But a smart and powerful dog.” Flamberge smirked.

“I thought you wanted to impale him a few minutes ago?”

“I still do, but the idea of making him into a pet is more exciting than killing him!” she giggled, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Leave it up to Flamberge to torture others in the weirdest ways possible. Although Francisca had to admit, the thought intrigued her too. She smiled, they were all a little sadistic on the inside.

Zan didn't seem as impressed as she could have been. Francisca could probably guess why, but the answer wouldn't seem fitting in the current situation.

“I...suppose using the easy way out isn't the worst option there is.” She crossed her arms, still sending Flamberge that glare. “But if he gets out of control and causes damage you two are responsible for his actions.”

Francisca nearly laughed, “Why am I also in on the shared blame?”

Zan smiled, an unsettling smirk painting her features. It sent chills down Francisca’s spine. “Because you are the one who brought him back here alive, instead of killing him on sight.”

She could hear Flamberge snickering beside her.

“Jambuhbye girls, I'll see you and our new pet later.” she chuckled and waved at the both of them, picking up her knitting supplies and heading out the door.

After a few seconds of silence Francisca sent Flamberge another glare, only this one being more lighthearted. “One of these days I'll get revenge for everything you've done to me, my dear Berge.”

Flamberge smiled, “You're kidding yourself Franny, you already know I'm too hot to resist.” she mockingly whipped her short hair back.

And oh, Francisca knew all too well.

#Kirby #kirby star allies #aaaaa I'm nervous #I really love these girls so much #I just want to give them the best #Francisca #Flamberge #Zan Partizanne

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herstarburststories · 7 years

Text

Attention ✘ Sebastian Smythe S ✘

✘ A/N: There! Sorry it got too long.

BY THE WAY: My computer isn’t working, I’m on my school’s computer right now :/ And having fun/stress about beach party! YAY!

I’LL POST A LIST OF YOUR REQUESTS TODAY OR TOMORROW!

I don’t know if it’s really good, but/so hope you like it!

@lyss-91, thank you for beta!

✘ Request by @unapologetically-insane: Omg I love your Sebastian Smythe fanfics and smuts 😏 I was wondering if you could do an angsty/smut based off of the song Attention by Charlie Puth? And basically the reader broke up with Sebastian over something but now she feels bad and wants him back.

In the middle of my conversation with a remarkably attractive girl, I saw her, my not-so-lovely-but-still-lovely-ex, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

Of all the parties in every millimeter of LA, did (Y/N) have to come right to the one I was at?

A smirk appeared on my face, of course she had to. Was probably going to any party with the mere hope of meeting me.

My brain begged for my eyes to check her out, and I let it. Focusing on her to study that body completely known by my lips. Fuck, how I missed her soft skin, her lips, her ironic gaze, all of her.

A red dress framed her body. Red. This had always been her favorite color, and it had followed her in the painting of her lips, and I noticed as she ran her hand through her hair carefully on her big fingernails that had scratched my back so many times.

My future one-night-stand continued to blab about dogs, bananas, college or whatever she was talking about. I nodded as I heard a brief pause, automatically assuming she had asked something.

I could try to remember her name, go back to the conversation and get a great night. However, my attention, and excitement, was directed at someone completely different. Too late, girl with no name.

I spent 10 seconds trying to find the girl who had vanished from my sight like smoke in the overcast sky, no sucess yet. Finally, I saw (Y/N) next to me, her usual wry smile on her lips. My icy heart tended to melt just a little at the sight of her, and I let out a grunt in denial. (Y/N) had chosen to do away with it, I shouldn’t feel bad about it. I was being strong, holding my feelings as close to my throat as possible, never letting them pass and show. She didn’t deserve this, and I certainly didn’t deserve it.

“Yet without subtlety on looking at me, Sebastian.”

“Dieu es une femme.” I smiled a half-moon smile, showered with shared irony, taking care of my features when reciting an old saying. “And she wears red.” Added.

(Y/N) rolled her eyes, but she was too proud to let the conversation end here and lose our little game. I knew it, and so did she.

“I bet it this red which gotcha your attention ever since I put my feet in. And not…” She gave Amber a disgusted look — oh, I did remember her name! — who was standing with arms crossed looking at the scene with a hilarious and indicative aspect of fury.

(Y/N) was right about that, the red of Amber’s overdressed dress was dull and just tightened her body to the point of letting me wonder if she really could breathe right in that. While (Y/N)’s was perfect for her.

In the past, (Y/N) considered me perfect for her. Would she throw the dress off too?

An ironic laugh floated through the air around me, making Amber think I was laughing at her and not the sadistic humor inside my head, which made her go away.

“You’re still sweet with women.”

“Says the girl who dumped me for no reason.” Ignoring the strange mixture of feelings that the person next to me was causing, I continued to converse in an ironic tone before an argument began. “By the way, how’s it you going to every LA party just to try and find me at one?”

I couldn’t decide if I hated or loved the laughter she gave.

“I think you’re deluding yourself a little too much, Smythe.” Irony had not abandoned her since the second she arrived. “I’m just having fun.”

“You throw dirt on my name so that I’d call you is a synonym for fun?” I shot (Y/N), staring at her seriously. Her light expression faltered, and I smiled. “Well, it looks like I’m not so deluded like that, món bébé.” I said her nickname in a wicked tone, but even so, those two little words rolled out of my tongue easier than I’d like to admit.

“I didn’t say bad things about you.” (Y/N) rolled her eyes, regaining a defensive posture. “I just didn’t speak good.”

I raised my eyebrow at that, about to give an answer, until I realized I didn’t have one.

(Y/N) was just standing there, staring at me after she’d said something remotely offensive. The small wrinkles on her forehead and her close eyebrows as she frowned declared that she was suprised by me still quiet waiting me to say something.

And I wanted to say.

I wanted to scream at her, wanted her to feel bad about what she did, wanted her to suffer. At the same time, I wanted to kiss her and make her mine again, remind her of how that was. I wanted (Y/N) to apologize, I wanted to love her.

And, in the last weeks, all I’ve been trying to do is not to love (Y/N). I used to think that loving someone was exhausting, but to stop loving is even worse.

Which made me sound completely stupid, like Lady Hummel. So I would never let those feelings and thoughts go into the outside world.

I was living well in my own hell, ruled by my only one.

And suppressing it all.

Because (Y/N) didn’t deserve for me to be sad, and I didn’t deserve to be bad for her. (Y/N) broke up with me because of her stupid jealous paranoia. Even if we came back, that would never change. Neither would I change my possessiveness.

We were made to go wrong.

But now, looking into her eyes, I wondered how something destined not to work could give me so many foolish feelings.

‘Cause I still didn’t answer - maybe, after all this time, I’d finally found my breaking point - and (Y/N) was watching me.

And she did the most beautiful and contradictory thing she could do; She smiled sweetly at me.

“You…” I tried to think of something to curse her, make her ill or make her quarrel with me, anything but what my tongue was begging for a chance to speak.

“You’re the most complicated girl in the world.” I sighed in withdrawal, that was better than my subconscious wanted to do.

“And you’re the most arrogant guy in the world.” Again, (Y/N) was not going to make it cheap, of course, just like me. “But that’s why we’re good together, I guess.”

Fine, that had been like a shot and a straight ticket to paradise at the same time. Like Kurt in mute, but learning signal’s language.

“I… I’m sorry… I had a stupid crisis of jealousy. I miss you.” Before I could take it that (Y/N) had jumped her pride, my body waved goodbye to my conscious part and let my feelings pick up the reins: my lips were kissing hers hungrily.

Her thin arms curled around my neck, pulling me closer, our bodies making a dull thump as they collided.

Fuck, I’ve missed that.

I invaded (Y/N)’s mouth without asking permission, touching her tongue with mine aggressively. (Y/N) didn’t seem to care about that, about the contrary: the way her mouth contracted against my lips pointed out that she had let out a low moan, and that was what she needed to turn me on.

“What are you doing to me?” I whispered against her lips in frustration, giving up restraining myself. I raised my head, leaving us face to face. Her victory was clear, I was an addict and needed my delicious drug.

“Just what you’re doing to me.” Before (Y/N) could finish her sentence, I was already pushing her into the bathroom by the wrist. I quickly locked the door as she checked the place to make sure there was no audience.

I approached (Y/N), agilely laying her over the ceramic sink. My lips followed trail down her neck, kissing, sucking and biting the place, aware that it would leave marks on her (Y/S/C) skin later.

And I wanted those marks, so that everyone would see that she belonged to me, even if only for one night.

Her legs wrapped around my body pulled me closer, making my lower parts touch hers over our clothes. It caused me a growl and a strong bite on her neck, which made her moan loudly.

I quickly pulled myself away from her and opened the zipper of her red dress, that dress was a karma. And as I threw the piece of cloth on the floor, I realized that his whole body was my own karma.

(Y/N)’s small hands took off my shirt, and her cold fingers began the known journey on my skin, leaving a sort of electric ray through the parts she passed as my hands felt her straight curves.

“I want to prove you.” I stared (Y/N), capturing the moment her irises darkened and her pupils dilated, (Y/N)’s body language giving the confirmation I needed, but not the one I wanted. “Do you want it, babe?” I ran my fingers down her skin, noticing (Y/N)’s ragged breath. “Hmm …” I murmured as I touch (Y/N)’s intimacy over her panties. “You’re wet, why?” I kept moving my fingers over her outstretched panties, expecting her to say something, but I just got groans. I sighed in a false discontent, pushing the panties aside with one finger and shoving another inside her. “You have to tell me that, doll face. Or…” I moved my finger inside (Y/N) and she let out a moan, but I pulled it out quickly, pulling away from her then.

“Sebastian Smythe!” (Y/N) exclaimed angrily, I bet she would kill me if she found the strength to stand up.

“You have to tell me, (Y/N), why are you so wet?” I smirked, wanting to hear her words.

“I’m like this because you did it to me, Sebastian. And I need you to just come and work it out!” (Y/N) admitted in an angry tone and I laughed, approaching her again. I got to my knees as I played in her pussy with my fingers, loving how wet it felt.

“You want me to go down on you, princess?” I put one more fingers in, making her body arch. “Do you want me to prove you?” She gasped.

“Y-yes.”

“Beg.”

“What?” (Y/N) stared at me, and I smiled as I met her eyes.

“Beg.” I smirked, (Y/N) would never beg for anything, except this. What made me more excited and need for her words. “Now.” As I caressed her clit with my thumb. She let out a wailing groan, making me smirked even more.

“Please, Seb!” She cried like music to my ears. “I need you, I need you to make me cum. I need you to go down and make me yours.

“Good girl.” I smiled contentedly, then headed down into it. I placed my tongue inside one of my favorite parts on her body, delighting in the precum there. I kept licking it hungrily until (Y/N) was close. I added a finger, two inside her, which made her body tremble. I continued to delight myself there for another minute.

Feeling my hair being pulled by (Y/N)’s hands as her legs opened and my head was pushed against my particular paradise.

Determined to end her pleasurable pain, I licked (Y/N)’s clit as I thrust four fingers into her, (Y/N) screamed and, before she came, I turned my mouth to the place it belonged, swalling every drop of her taste, the best taste in the hole world.

(Y/N) never need to warn me when she was about to come, I always knew.

“I hope you’re not tired.” I said after a few seconds of just hearing her breath catching. (Y/N),smiled at me as I licked my lower lip, which still had the taste of her.

“I’m always ready for you, love.”

Love.

Those two syllables together caused an earthquake inside me. She couldn’t call me that anymore. We were not even close to loving each other.

She wasn’t even close to loving me.

All the anger and frustration ran through my veins faster than my blood. How could (Y/N) have played so low?

I felt confused, deceived, angry, sad and yet in love. Love fucked me, and I had to discount those feelings somehow.

“You’re not coming home with me tonight.” Stated the obvious to (Y/N), staring at her treacherous eyes. Her expression dropped, and a part of me felt pleasure to at least give a taste of the pain I was feeling to the girl in front of me, in counterpoint, another part just wanted to hug her and forget what had happened.

How did I get myself like this? She messed up my life, and I allowed it.

“Sebastian, I…” I started to open my jeans and take off my shoes with my feet. My boner was starting to hurt, screaming for attention.

“You what, (Y/N)? You love me?” I laughed in irony as she lowed her head. But, of course, (Y/N) continued (Y/N), which meant that she got it up the same two seconds later, ready to reply.

“It was a mistake, Sebastian, I already apologized, you know I never meant for that to happen.” I finally got off all my clothes, though (Y/N) refused to look at my body, determined to prove her point of view.

“Maybe.” I smirked, approaching her. “But, doll face…” I gripped her waist at the same time as I pushed my body forward, entering hard and fast inside her. (Y/N) screamed in a mixture of pleasure and surprise, quickly finding support on my shoulders and squeezing them. Just being inside her gave me a increditable pleasure. “You never wanted my heart, either.” I hit her once more deeply, receiving her yelling groan as my only answers. Her hand found my back in a dance known for both of us. “You just want attention.” I waited three seconds, my heart pounding in my chest for the situation and the burning desire that her smart mouth would deny my words, but she didn’t.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N) didn’t deny her non-love for me.

I tightened my grip on her waist with even more strength, my hips moving accurately fast, making us both moan loudly between our lips. Her fingernails, as expected, scraped my pale back without mercy and I kissed her mouth in a continual anguished despair. One of my hands traveled to her boobs, playing with her nipple, which made (Y/N) sigh and arch her hip even more toward my cock. As I returned my kisses to (Y/N)’s neck, in a way too long for the good of the two, I felt her perfume against my nose; Regret, sweet and strong at the same instant.

Finally, I reached her breast, letting my other hand squeeze one while I used my mouth and tongue to play with the other. The groans that came from (Y/N)’s mouth were more than obscene, making me hard than I already was.

Pulling away from her boobs, I found myself in need of feel her mouth against mine again, but (Y/N)’s refused to turn from my my shoulder, giving small bites and quick kisses toward my neck.

I knew what she was doing. (Y/N) always had something for my freckles, she loved kissing each one of them, and her favorite was on my neck.

She reached her goal, making me sigh as I felt her bite followed by a suck in one of the most visible places in my body. (Y/N) has always loved marking her territory.

I had to come, now. I felt it in my particules, I needed it more than I needed oxygen, I had to release my anger and anguish somehow, before they took over my whole body like a snake venom.

Started to run my finger down her clit as I captured her lips, moving my hips in sync with hers.

“That’s what you expected, wasn’t it?” Growled angrily against her inviting lips, sucking her bottom lip before she could answer me. I increased the rhythm of my hips and rubbed (Y/N)’s clit more, looking at her contorted face of pleasure that second, and that was enough to make me come inside her.

The cry of deliverance that (Y/N) gave next reminded me of when she was mine.

And that she would never be again.

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clown-bait · 6 years

Text

29 Neibolt ST (Monster Roommate AU) CH12

Ok so bear with me this chapter is the GOOFIEST. But you had been warned and you’re all still here. So prepare for dancing, Abba, new characters, fluffy Penny trying hard to do human dating, sad Babadooks, fantastic choreography, and general deadite fuckery.

Chapter 12

Date Night

—————

The entire nightclub was packed with monsters for the occasion. It was a monster owned place ran by the Cenobites one of the few places they could all gather without interference from humans. Leatherface had yet to show up it was going to be a huge surprise for him to see half the monster population there just to say happy birthday to the lovable behemoth.

Pennywise had gone early and was busy setting up the balloons for the occasion since that was his speciality and because the girls (plus Drac) kicked him out of the Neibolt house while they got ready.

He was weary leaving them there with The Evil still floating around but he figured with at least Freddy and Drac there they'd be somewhat well armed. Leech wasn't completely defenseless either, she had come a great long way in her lessons. The young vampire was more than capable of hunting for herself now but she seemed to be putting it off due to her fear of dying and taking that important final step. The clown was still proud of her though, with his and Dracula’s help she’d be a force to be reckoned with someday.

Penny was lost in thought when he bumped into a large dark figure in a top hat. It turned and grinned widely at him.

“Peeeeennnyyywiiiiissseeeeee.”

“Oh! My apologies Baba! Wasn't looking!”

The Babadook reached out its hand almost tenderly to the clowns injured eye.

“Huuuuurrrttt?”

“ah yes that, uh incident with some um pipes.” he was embarrassed to reveal that he had let Deadites infest his house. If people found out that the clown had been slacking off he'd be a laughing stock. He was the untouchable Pennywise after all, the apex predator of this realm and feared by all! Pennywise nervously chatted with the Babadook about his wound trying everything he could to hide the fact that a lesser demon was able to get the best of him. He was also pretty sure the grief monster had a giant crush on him as well, seeing how he kept reaching out to look at the clowns injury with great concern. It was not a great situation for Penny to be in all around.

Just as Pennywise was in serious need of rescue the nightclubs front door opened and the girls (plus Drac) began to walk in. Tiff turned around to tell Leech some last minute thing and Drac adjusted her jacket. They stepped away dramatically in some sort of big reveal much to Leech’s embarrassment. The clown had smelled her sweet scent almost instantly and turned around from the Babadook a big goofy grin lighting his face when he realized his favorite vampire was here. And boy she was perfect. He pushed the Babadook aside with a quick “excuse me” leaving the tall grief monster slightly sad looking when he saw Pennywise smile at the vampire.

He crossed the room making a beeline for her and Leech attempted to meet him wobbling on her heels like a newborn baby deer. She failed spectacularly nearly falling down the steps. Pennywise had brought his hand out to steady her and she gripped the fabric of his costume for support.

“Careful there firecracker” he chuckled “wouldn't want to ruin that dress.” he plucked the tag off the back of it and Leech grew red in embarrassment. Penny chuckled somewhat relieved she was just as nervous as he was “Is it new?”

“You said wear something nice.”

“I like it” the clown whispered so only she could hear causing the vampire to blush. He rarely complimented her like this and she had to admit it was nice.

“Thanks Pen~” she pulled him down and kissed his nose causing the clown to scrunch his face but he still smiled in annoyance. The two stood there awkwardly for a minute until an ear piece in Penny’s ear buzzed to life.

“OFFER HER YOUR ARM JACKASS” it hissed

“Oh!… right!” he held out his elbow which Leech took with a questioning smile. They were still standing there the clown unsure what to do next.

“Um are you going to eat it? Or should I take it back?”

“What?”

“My arm.”

“Why would I eat your arm Pen?”

“Chucky told me to give you my arm, its no big deal I can grow it back”

Leech snorted and laughed hard. “You’ve never done this before have you?”

“I- um no”

“You offer your arm to me so I can hold onto you Pen. In Drac’s time the men would lead the women to the party but now its more just a sign of affection or respect…” she smiled mischievously at him “……and to let all these bitches know you're all mine” the clown felt a twinge of excitement from that. Chucky whispered something in the radio from around the corner where he was posted up for the night with Dracula. They were both on a mission to make sure the clown and his lady love had a successful first date. Pennywise took the advice and grinned at his date.

“Why would they be staring at me my dear with you looking like that” the clown cooed using the dolls line.

“Pfft you should change your name to Pennywise the smooth talking clown. You big flirt” she punched him in the arm.

Pennywise gave her a big bucktoothed grin. “Shall we kitten?” he purred as he began to walk with her to a table. Unfortunately for Penny, all the ones with regular chairs were full so he improvised leading her to a couple of couches. The clown stopped for a second, processed something, then pulled the entire couch back and gestured to his date to sit. Leech was trying her hardest not to break into laughter. He was trying his best after all.

She decided to humor him and sit down “thanks” she smiled, the clown beamed “nailed it” he whispered. Chucky and Drac peered out from behind the corner groaning. “He doesn't have a clue” the doll smacked his own face

“This is a nightmare” the vampire despaired.

Pennywise sat down next to Leech looking at her awkwardly a drop of drool falling from his lips. He was completely unsure of what to do next. Desperate for help he looked over his shoulder mouthing the words “what do I do?”

“TALK TO HER YOU IDIOT” Chucky hissed from the headphone

“ok ok right……” he whispered

“Um soooo what’d you end up getting Leatherface?” the clown began almost nervously.

“You're not going to like it” came her reply.

“Why not…” Penny narrowed his eyes

“Weeeeell, we kinda got him a drum set. I know, I know loud noises, BUT you saw how much fun he was having playing that game he's going to love it! A little creativity for the big guy will be good for him”

“And just how did you afford that? I know you don't have much you've been late on rent for 2 months now”

“Good thing I'm banging the landlord right!?” She elbowed him hard with a theatrical smile.

“I knew it! You've been using me for free rent” Pennywise teased in mock offense.

“Free rent and my apparently extreme coulrophilia” Leech placed her hand on his leg to lean up and kiss/nip his jaw. Before Pennywise could comment his ear buzzed again this time Freddy had stolen the radio and was giving terrible advice.

“Tell her you have a balloon animal in your pants and you want her to help you blow it up!!!”

“FREDDY GIVE THAT BACK YOURE GONNA BLOW IT”

“HAHA BLOW!”

“GOD DAMMNIT KRUGER”

Pennywise turned to glare at them eyes flashing dangerous yellow until Leech grabbed his face turning it back to her.

“Why do you keep looking back there?”

“It-its nothing. Tell me how you were able to get the gift.”

She sighed. He REALLY wasn't going to like this.

“Ok first you have to promise you're not going to get jealous”

“Leeeech what did you do” he growled

“Promise me Penny.”

“We’ll see.”

She took a deep breath “Ok well you know how Drac has Renfield as his familiar right?”

“….go on”

“Weeell… I kinda picked up one of my own today, his name is Jim he's scrawny metalhead kid that works at the music shop”

“Hiiiisss name?” the clown sneered he was clearly getting jealous anyway.

“Look he's not like my close friend or anything he looks like barely out of high school. I told him I’d make him a vampire if he got me the drum set thats it.”

Pennywise growled. “ and why am I not your familiar? Shouldn't I be the one you're most familiar with? You're my mate after all.”

She rubbed her temples he clearly didn't get the definition of a familiar.

“So you want to be my servant? Because thats basically what this is.” Pennywise was still glaring at her. “Pen I know you're excited but save that talk for later when were alone and you can be my little slave all night” she gave the clown a wink and wicked grin in an attempt to deflect his anger with humor.

Somewhere in the building Pinhead’s eyes went wide.

“Don't get sassy with me dear” Pennywise warned. Leech rolled her eyes at him for how ridiculous he was being over this.

“Lighten up Pen its a party. You really have nothing to worry about anyway I don't even think regular humans can satisfy me anymore beyond being food.”

He growled putting his arm around her possessively “Good.” Leech leaned her head back against him. “We’ve got to work on your jealousy issues.”

“I don't have issues.”

“Sure Penny.”

“You're such a brat”

“Yeah but I'm your brat” she nuzzled against his ear earning her a semi-annoyed grumble. He hated when she did cute things like this to him in public.

“CLOWN”

Pennywise looked behind him to find the leader of the Cenobites approaching him.

“What is it Pinhead I'm busy right now”

“I hope you will take me up on my offer this year and join the after party this all hallow’s eve.”

“The answer is still no.”

“Do not deny yourself my gifts. I heard your pain….your…pleasure… your suffering is most welcome in my establishment.”

Pennywise groaned in embarrassment. “Great of all the people to know about that, it had to be this guy.”

“Oh shit an afterparty! We sh-” Leech began excitedly

“Not a good idea” the clown replied putting a gloved finger to her lips.

“We shall be expecting you.” Pinhead sunk away.

“Why is it a bad idea?” Leech asked when Penny pulled his hand away.

“You can ask Freddy about it later, he still has the nipple piercing from the eleven minutes he was there” Pennywise said holding his head in his hands

————-

The night continued on Leatherface was terrified at first when everyone in town jumped out to say surprise. Turns out monsters don't really know how to surprise in a friendly way. He quickly grew excited when he saw that everyone was there to say happy birthday to him. Leech made sure to stop by and give the giant a huge hug before running outside to grab his gift.

Jim pulled up outside the night club nervously. He was a scrawny looking guy with shaggy hair, a denim battle jacket, and piercings. Typical music store metalhead.

“Jimbo!” Leech called out to him waving.

“Oh hey um….. master? Mistress? What do I call you?”

“Huh good question. Stick to master till I come up with something better. You got my drums?”

“I wrapped them like you said”

“Excellent, be a doll and bring them in for me will ya”

“When will I get to be a vampire?”

“Soon enough you gotta work for me a bit first Jimmy boy.”

Pennywise had suddenly appeared behind Leech and grabbed her waist causing her to yelp in surprise. Jim looked at the demonic clown in shock and fear screaming “WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT” Pennywise flashed him a fang filled grin.

“Oh right introductions, Jimbo this is Pennywise my uh-“

“I'm her mate.” he sneered gripping Leech tighter

“Was going to say eldritch horror boyfriend but that works too.”

“Wait you're dating this thing?”

“Thats right Jimboree, its actually our first official date! Isn't he just adorable?” she flicked one of Pennywise’s bells while he growled and drooled behind her.

“You got some weird kinks master.”

Leech frowned and Pennywise began giving off a low hiss.

“Just deliver the drum-set Jim-jam I’ll call you if I need anything else.”

“I dont like him” The clown sneered

“Wow um thanks man I'm standing right here” said Jim who was unloading the truck. He was still terrified of the snarling monster who was eyeing him in a way one would eye a cheeseburger before taking a bite.

“Pen you don't like most people,”

“I eat most people.”

“You eat Jim and I’ll stop making you red velvet cupcakes.”

The clown panicked a bit before grumbling something to himself “Fine. He can live”

“Go inside you big idiot and I’ll come dance with you. And I'm serious leave the human alone.”

The clown snarled one more warning at Jim and vanished. Leech sighed and adjusted her wig “If he gives you any trouble at all come find me, Pen’s got a bit of a possessiveness issue we’re working on. He seems to respond well to positive reinforcement though.”

“um o-ok….”

She left the terrified human to go back inside, deciding to grab a drink first before finding her date who was sulking in a corner Chucky and Tiff were chiding him for something and the clown was not having it.

“You're gonna blow it man!” Chucky hissed

“I am not I was just showing that Jim guy she's mine”

“Possessiveness isn't attractive sweetie” Tiffany added.

“You need to lighten up. I got an idea go take her to the dance floor and wait for my signal.” Chucky said looking up at the DJ booth.

“Ugh fine.”

He walked over to Leech who was casually chatting with Freddy and sipping a bloody marry he had two girls on his arm from the werewolf sorority a few neighborhoods over from Neibolt.

“Dance floor.” The clown growled taking her hand.

“Can I finish my drink?”

“Later.” he pulled her away

“Whats his problem?” Freddy asked

Pennywise led Leech to the dance floor she began huffing and complaining wondering why Penny was in such a sour mood all of the sudden. “What the hell’s gotten into you Pen?” she asked. She knew he was prone to mood swings but his attitude was all over the place tonight.

“I-I’ll tell you later.”

“You fucking better you're acting really weird right now.”

“Just dance.”

Pennywise got the DJs attention and motioned for everyone to clear he moved Leech to the edge of the circle while smirking. He was clearly up to something.

He grinned as Get Lucky started to play. As soon as he started to move people cheered Pennywise the dancing clown definitely lived up to the name. Leech stood at the edge of the circle in awe. Without a doubt the clown was definitely getting lucky tonight. Part way thought he grabbed Leech and danced with her, this time she was actually able to keep up with him a bit. Her annoyance at him melted away into laughter. The two finally began having an amazing time.

His dance finished and the party swarmed him as he bowed. Say what you will about him but Pennywise was legendary on the dance floor. Leech shoved her way through the mob of people to pounce on him kissing him hard. “You, me. Nearest storm drain. Right fucking now.” was all she said before grabbing him Freddy gave the clown the thumbs up as she dragged him to the exit.

The couple passed a table. There was a man sitting alone in the booth a book in front of him his face hidden by the darkness of the club. Leech’s primal instinct told her to get out of there as quickly as possible that this man was pure danger. She gripped her clowns hand tightly, flirty steps turned to panic and she led him away from the exit.

“Leech what the fuck was that” Pennywise grabbed her when she finally stopped in a less populated area of the club.

“Huh?”

“You reek of fear you're practically drenched in it actually….it smells delicious by the way…. but thats not my point.”

“That guy at the table by the exit. Somethings-somethings not right.”

“What do you mean that guy Leech.”

“I- I felt something calling me to him, h-had to get out before…” she trailed off

“Am I allowed to be jealous now? Because the only person allowed to make you this terrified is me.” Pennywise growled in the direction of the table “Stay here. I’ll take care of it” he leaned down and kissed the top of her head wile deeply inhaling the scent of her fear before walking off. Jim came over to her now nervously.

“M-master?”

“You're still here Jimbo?

“I-I cant seem to leave every time I do someone else grabs me. That guy with the nails in his head keeps asking me to go to a party with him I don't wanna go man I'm gettin’ bad vibes here. Baaaaad vibes”

“Jimmy, buddy just stick with me and Pen I got a feeling some shits about to go down anyway.”

As if on cue demonic screeching erupted from the direction of Pennywise as the man with the book vanished in a shadowy mist, only to reappear by the exit. He turned to wave at Leech before walking out the door clearly having just created some kind of distraction. The clown found himself walking to the dance floor somehow losing control of his current form. In fact the entire Neibolt residence plus the Freddy Drac Party Shack (as Freddy refers to it) were all making their way to the center of the dance floor.

“PEN PLEASE EXPLAIN WHAT JUST HAPPENED” Leech called out to him unable to control her own body

“S-something… the book…” was all the clown was able to say he was fighting what ever was manipulating them as was Freddy, the demons were having a way easier time with it than the others. The club all stood back as if possessed, creating a circle around the group on the floor.

“Does this have something to do with your friends from the bathroom Kruger” Chucky hissed

“Ok first off not friends, second probably.”

“How do we stop it?” Tiff asked.

“I got a guy but you aren't going to like it.”

Music began to play and they all began to dance.

“Is this fucking Abba?” Leech turned her head to the group.

“Oh dear they turned this into a…a..…a musical….” Drac said in horror.

They were in formation now singing together unable to control their mouths “YOU CAN DAAANCE YOU CAN JIVE HAVING THE TIME OF YOUR LIIVVEES”

Penny and Leech broke forward from the group to point at each other “OOOH SEE THAT GRIL WATCH THAT SCENE DIG IN THE DANCING QUEEN”

“what the fuck” they hissed at each other while grooving back. Penny’s face had begun to split open from the struggle.

Tiff and Leech then spun around and began to sing and dance “FRIDAY NIGHT AND THE LIGHTS ARE LOW” they grabbed their mouths in shock.

“LOOKING OUT FOR A PLACE TO GOOO” the boys returned faces filled with pure embarrassment.

They continued the number. Everyone shooting looks of panic to each other trying hard to regain control of the situation while sporting killer dance moves and choreography. At one point Penny even caught Leech in the air dirty dancing style. Dracula looked like a dancing grandpa with a tambourine. Chucky and Tiff spun each other around during the chorus while Freddy and Leatherface (who was the only one somewhat enjoying this) danced together behind them. The group came back together ending with Pennywise doing and epic death drop before pulling himself back up. The song ended people laughed and cheered thinking it was planned. They regained control of themselves and the entire group bolted to leave.

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT SOMEONE START TALKING RIGHT NOW” screamed Tiffany.

“It was that fucking guy!! Pen what did you say to him” Leech turned to the clown who was in a state of shock and confusion.

“What fucking guy?” asked Chucky

“This guy in the corner freaked me out Penny went to go take care of him and suddenly we were dancing and the guy was gone”

“R-read s-something.” Pennywise was obviously not able to handle what had just happened. The clown seemed to have a real problem being rational when his ego is wounded.

“Those Kandarian fuckers are stronger than I remember.” Freddy cracked his back.

“Ok lets just go home call that guy and wait this shit out” Chucky suggested

“They got in…. not supposed to get in…. be-become prey now…. lesser… l-loser.” Pennywise was on the ground knees against his chest.

“Jiinnngles, you ok?” Chucky waved a hand in front of the clowns face

“L-loser…..I’m a…a..l-loser”

“Oh boy he's gone” Leech groaned going over to check on her clown.

“Great he's like the only thing we could use to stand a chance against these assholes too. Theres probably something wrong with him to let a lesser demon get to him like this.” added Freddy.

“Then we need to snap him out of it” Tiffany shouted

“He hasn't been feeding as much could that be it?” Leech was trying to get a hold of the clowns face to hold him still.

“Possibly, someone get him to eat something. Leech he's your boyfriend go get him some food.” Freddy said getting his phone out to scroll through his contacts.

“Wait what?”

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

IM SO SORRY! I had to do it I had to do the Beetlejuice esque dance number to an Abba song. BUT I finally got to introduce Jim who’s a neurotic, tired music store clerk that just wants cool vampire powers so girls will like him. And dont worry about Baba guys, he’s finds someone to love him eventually. Next chapter is Leech heavy so I apologize ahead of time. Its about to get fucked up friends! Also I’ll be posting some side drabbles sometime today as well now that Jim’s been introduced. So yay for more content!

#pennywise #pennywise the dancing clown #pennywise fanfiction #pennywise x oc #pennywise x reader #it fanfiction #monster roommate au

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