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myfanfictiongarden · 3 years

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The Sea Witch´s Daughter- Descendants fanfic

If someone had asked Uma what she would wish to do in life, she would have probably answered with something like:”Kidnap a spoiled princess and wait for the ransom.” or “Eat a real chocolate cake that doesn’t taste like fish guts.” or simply “Sail the seas!”.

The thing being though that apparently there wasn’t anyone around to ask such things, no caring mother (more like “scaring” mother), no father or grandparent (like if) to share her dreams and sorrows or require into her well-being, it was clear that all Uma could do was throw her fantasies over board into the drink and roll up her sleeves to battle things as they came. And they came sure as the tide.

The apartment she shared with her mum wasn’t nearly the worst thing the Isle had to offer, her room did have a view at the sea and living above a restaurant meant there was always at least some kind of food around- but owning the restaurant was something completely different. That meant her mother could sit in her armchair and watch Auerdon soaps all day long with only occasional visits to check on the kitchens, while Cook and her could sweat by the stove, clean fish and serve customers as rugged as the Isle could make them. Life, sweet life.

Life wasn’t fair, at least not here.

Yet, to say there weren’t occasional moments of glee would be wrong to assume, and one of those were Thursday nights. Every second Tuesday night to be exact. Because then, and only then would Ursula´s Fish & Chips Shop see some action. It would be the nights when Uma would come to some fun. And money.

For years she and Harry would play dice for fun, always eager to trick the other and have the wining hand. Well, playing it had been a great way to beat down rainy days when you couldn’t roam the streets or peer, yet wished to avoid your commanding villainous parents. Very soon though they both realised that you could trick those around with a less fortunate hand into betting their last piece of silver on a game. A game they couldn’t win, for Uma and Harry made sure to get some profit out of it. The reason the house always wins. No cheating, no beating.

On this late August night though her spirits were slightly muffed. For the past week the heat had been unbearable, a summer rarely seen so hot here. And while the days were hot the nights had offered no relief either, it all culminating in a storm that had been raging now for two days. Her head was aching like mad for she had had the night shift all week, her legs were slowly giving in and to make things worse she had failed a lousy exam at Madam Mim´s lectures. To accompany her depressed spirits the storm had decided to get stronger, rain beating against the walls outside, wind howling through every single crack to be found. The reason why none of the customers intended to leave as yet, meaning she had to serve them as long as they stayed.

The plus side though didn’t slip her notice. The place, while not crowded, did have a fair amount of people in it, all of them buying drinks while they wait for the rain to end, and many of them beating down time gambling at the right table. From time to time she slips to the table, makes sure everything goes right for them (and bad for the others), sometimes she yells at a smart-head who wants to use his own dice, but all in all there is not too much for her to do there, Harry has everything more than under control. He carefully collects the win, his hook always flashing towards anyone who dares to complain, all while cleverly tricking everyone into thinking they have a realistic chance to get rich. Everybody seems to have a good time, so even though the day isn't perfect, its not too bad either.

It is late, very late. Probably long past midnight, but Harry wouldn’t be able to tell, none of the watches he carries with him working. It had been a long night, a good night as far as earning go, but he is glad the storm had eased and the patrons started to leave. Not that he was tiered, he felt nothing of that sort, but he had noticed Uma rubbing her templates more than often. Even with everyone gone there would have been enough work with the dishes to keep anybody on their feet at least for some time longer, so throwing a rather rough ruffian out of the tavern he wished to have this place cleaned out as soon as possible. Finally, the last of the Stabbington cousins stumbled out of doors and the last of the pale witch sisters left, everything was clear. Except for Ginny. She hadn’t been among the crowd at first, having come only in later, but she hadn’t been there to play either. Yet, he had noticed her keeping annoyingly close to him, always taking care that he had to notice her. Not that it didn’t flatter him, he flirted for sport often enough himself. But he was never that persistent to others like she had been all evening. And the worst thing: she was boring. Her giggles and smiles were annoying and he really wished she had left among the first. Ignoring her he starts to collect empty plates and mugs, using a rough towel to clean the tables, in the kitchen water flowing while Uma already washes the first turn. He can feel Ginny´s eyes following him around the tavern as he works. Only when he comes to her table does she finally speak.

“Do you have some time to spare later on?” She asks sweetly. Alright, he’ll play along.

“And on what would I be using that time?” He leans closer on the table with his elbow, a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, or so Ginny thinks.

“Some fun.” She stretches her arms in front of her along the table, nearly purring temptingly, her red lips forming a seductive little smile. He meanwhile moves his right hand to his pocket taking out a pocket watch, making it swing slowly between their faces before replying, his voice pleasant and steady.

“It seems like my time is already taken.”

Surprise is written all over Ginny’s face before it turns into obvious anger. That on the other hand makes him happy.

“Taken, with what? You mean washing dirty dishes with Shrimpy?” The mockery in her voice is sharp and cold, and he turns his head again towards her from where he had just started to collect some dishes. He continues for a moment to place plate upon plate before slowly walking closer to her, leaning with his right hand in the table again and giving her appearance an inspecting look, his grin getting wider as he leans closer to her.

“Seems like more fun than anything I could do with ye lass.” The anger is now clearly visible under her dark curls and she pushes the chair loudly as she rises, trying to make a dramatic leave, but is held back when he takes hold of her wrist and forces her to turn to him.

“And ya don’t call her like that. Ever.”

Ginny is just about to spit the word Shrimpy right into his face, yet decides against it and simply wrestles her arm free.

“Psycho.” She lastly states and leaves.

Taking her last remark as a compliment, Harry laughs and goes to carry the dishes to the kitchen.

The door swings open and from the corner of her eye she can see Harry entering the kitchen. By the clutter on the counter behind her he must have brought the rest of the dirty dishes, but she doesn’t turn around to check, her hands deep in dish water. She wants to finish this as soon as possible, and cursing under her breath dives her hands deeper into the already murky water. Quietly, Harry moves around the kitchen until she notices him close to herself, placing his precious hook aside and taking a rugged towel to dry the dishes she already finished, not an arm length separating them, both silent in their task. That was the nice thing about Harry, you could spend hours in silence, without any pretence, without any unease. She had never asked him to help her in the tavern, not even when she was dead-tired on her feet and on the brink of crying, but that never stoped him from helping her clean up in the middle of the night when there were surely more fun things he could have been doing instead.

For a while they continue like that in silence, the only sound that of splashing water, the dimly light from the only lamp casting deep shadows everywhere. Suddenly he throws the towel away taking a table knife in his hand while with the other holding another one out to her, offering her a mock-duel with cutlery.

“Harry, I’m tired.” she attempts, but seeing the mischievous glimmer in his eyes makes it hard for her to decline. Taking the knife offered to her she gives in. It is a fun short game, both of them moving faster and faster turns about the kitchen, years of practice making them equally matched. By now she is smiling, until lack of sleep catches up with her and the knife in her hand clutters to the floor when hit with a hearty swing from her opponent. Defeated, she drops her hands and he as well stops mid-step. And then, out of nowhere, he turns around and clearly offers her a piggy-ride. Dumbstuck she doesn’t respond for a while, surely he doesn’t mean to carry her to bed? While he must know where her room is as she had him hiding there a few times when they were little kids, it’s been years since she had taken him there. Her confusion lasts long making him turn around and repeat his offer.

“Com´on. Ya need some rest.” He says finally and that is all that needs for her to throw her arms around his neck while he takes hold of her legs.

She must have been too tired to register anything clearly that happened around her, but somehow they made it out of the kitchen and past the living room and the snoring Ursula, up the cracking stairs and to her tiny room. There is a faint memory of him placing her gently on her bed in the dark, of her somehow managing to take off her boots and him covering her with a blanket as she lies down.

Somehow, she seems to remember while falling asleep, she is sure she hears him whisper Happy birthday, Uma as he leaves the room and closes the door.

#love writing these two #and because I already wrote harrys birthday #it was time to write umas 16th too #disney descendants #uma x harry #huma #things i like #my writing #my fanfiction

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jonkentt · 2 years

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Sugar baby won’t you hurry home

Sambucky crack that caught feelings

on Ao3 • ♡ for Mak @santasamwilson

The Wilsons always had fudge for the holidays. Not slices of it or soap-bar squares, they bought big blocks of the stuff. Chocolate peanut butter, dark chocolate, marshmallow, strawberry. The flavors might change from year to year but you could always count on two massive blocks of melt-in-your-mouth fudge appearing on the kitchen counter when December rolled around.

Darlene would bring it home and scold her babies to keep their grubby hands to themselves. It was the same story every year, that fudge is for me and your dad. And every year, Paul would come home to his beautiful wife and incorrigible kids. He’d cut into one of those blocks with no small amount of drama. Little Sam was especially enthralled, watching his dad put a piece of fudge on his tongue and be overcome with absolute bliss. Every year Paul would say, Darlene, my sunrise, my shining jewel, you spoil me rotten. I’d sit right here and eat that sugary goodness all day but I just don’t think we can finish that all by ourselves. He would have a dazzling smile for his wife and a wink for his kids, and after that the fudge was fair game to anybody in the kitchen. Sarah was observant, she’d cut a piece just the way her dad had and savor it. It took Sam a few years to learn that more wasn’t always better, and he made himself sick more than once eating fudge all afternoon. When they were kids, it seemed like no matter how much they ate, there was always more. Like their very own Christmas miracle.

The siblings kept the tradition and got the same ludicrous amount of fudge even when they had to share it with half the neighborhood just to get it all eaten. When Sarah got married, Sam and his brother-in-law made a game of it, seeing who could eat the largest slice or who could resist that mouth-watering smell the longest. The holidays meant fudge was in the kitchen for as long as they could remember.

So when Sam brings home a dark chocolate block with walnuts and a peppermint block with chocolate chips, he’s surprised by the expression on Sarah’s face.

“What? Don’t tell me you’ve already bought some.”

“No, I—”

Sarah runs her hand over the boxes, opens one to breathe in the smell. Memories wash over her. Scenes overlay in this same kitchen, all of them filled with people she loves. She looks at her brother and Sam wraps an arm around her shoulders as silent tears slip down her cheeks.

“We haven’t done this the past couple years. Just… didn’t feel right with so many people gone.”

She smiles at her brother. Sam returns a smile with just as much warmth. Wilson smiles always make you feel at home, even from a sibling who drives you half crazy—especially then.

“I’m so happy you’re home,” Sarah repeats for probably the dozenth time, but Sam’s eyes light up just the same and he hugs her close.

“I am too.”

They dig in right away, eager to know if the chocolatey dessert is as good as they remembered. Both of them hummed in bliss after the first bite, and that prompted an outburst of laughter. They sliced and nibbled bits of fudge while sharing memories of holidays past, retelling stories they both knew. Maybe it was their laughter that eventually drew Bucky to the kitchen. He leaned into Sam’s side and listened to the story Sarah was telling, still groggy from a nap.

Sam finally turns his smile on Bucky and pats his cheek.

“You like fudge, baby?”

Sarah slices into it again and offers Bucky a piece. He chews thoughtfully for a moment.

“Oh shit,” he sounds offended. “That’s amazing!”

Sam cackles when Bucky reaches for another piece and scarfs it down.

“Ya know Sam,” Sarah says with a smirk, “maybe you shoulda bought extra this year.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow at Bucky, who pulls his hand back from reaching for another piece. Both siblings level him with an intense stare and they let Bucky sweat for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Eat as much as you want, honey.”

“Within reason,” Sam corrects. “God, I bet you could eat that whole block without getting sick,” he adds with obvious envy.

“Only one way to find out.”

Sarah rolls her eyes as Sam launches into his deeply boring story about building up a sugar tolerance so he could win at fudge consumption. Bucky gets distracted enough to interrupt Sam mid-sentence. “You’ve got a little—”

“What?”

Instead of answering, Bucky leans forward and sucks Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth. He’s very gentle about it. Maybe that still surprised Sarah a little— how gentle Bucky always was with her brother. Maybe that’s how she knew he belonged with their family. It was the kind of gentle that Sam was when he held Sarah’s new babies. It was the kind of gentle that her dad had been whenever he found Sarah crying. She didn’t know if Sam ever had that for himself before Bucky.

When Bucky pulls away, he has the gall to look dazed. Sure, Sam is an exceptionally good guy, but he doesn’t make birds chirp and flowers grow and the sun rise every morning even if Bucky seemed to believe so. Sarah couldn’t help but snort. That snaps Bucky out of it and his face turns bright red. He looks back and forth between the siblings.

“Uh,” Bucky clears his throat. Sarah raises an eyebrow at him. “I left somethin’ in the…” he gestures vaguely over his shoulder. “Just gonna…” He spins on his heel and escapes out the back door.

“Don’t forget you’re making dinner in an hour!” Sarah calls after him and Bucky throws her a thumbs up. “And keep my brother off the menu!”

“Jezus, Sarah,” Sam mutters.

“What? It’s cute how embarrassed he gets.”

“I don’t—" Sam rubs the back of his neck. “I donno what gets into him sometimes.”

“Oh, please.” She smirks at him. “Must be real terrible to have a handsome man following you around, treatin’ you like a Disney princess.”

“He’s not—"

“Real terrible!”

Sam tries to pull his I’m-done-with-your-bullshit stare but Sarah’s immune. She beams at him.

“I’m glad you brought that one home.”

“He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Spare me the details.”

“You know that’s not—"

“Gonna scandalize my pots n’ pans!”

Sarah had missed her brother so much. They go back and forth about who committed the worst crimes in their mama’s kitchen till they’re laughing too hard to argue. Unquestionably, Sarah’s done the worst, but by virtue of it being her kitchen now, she gets to make the rules.

❉ ❉ ❉

Sam is aiming to test the limits of Sarah’s patience. She’s not sure what draws her attention away from her recipe cards, thematically laid out before her with a growing list of groceries for an upcoming holiday party. Glancing across the room, she found her brother staring pensively at a square of fudge. Her brow wrinkles in confusion. What on earth was Sam up to now? He's looking at the chocolate like it might tell him something. Lord knows Sam has seen some crazy shit but… Then, very tentatively, he rubs the melting fudge on his lips.

“For shits sake!”

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. That sends Sarah into a fit of laughter.

“Samuel Thomas, you are not smearin’ that all over you face for your boy to lick off!”

He sputters, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“Take some home if you wanna pull that kinda diablerie!”

“I wasn’t—"

“Go on! I’m busy here, come back later and I’ll have a list for ya to take to the store.”

Her brother looks relieved to drop the subject, eating the evidence on his way out. Sam and Bucky were so whipped it gave her a headache. But they also made her laugh, so it could be worse. She just hoped her own babies would take after their dad and not end up with whatever genes Sam got. He could be such a dork, and it was endearing as all hell, but he didn’t show that side of himself to everyone. Bucky brought it out of him though— even made it look easy. Her brother got soft around the edges when he was with Bucky. All the doubts that Sarah only guessed at, all the self-regulation he did, that all faded away. The playful Sam she grew up with was still there under all the defenses.

◦ ◦ ❉ ◦ ◦

Paul Wilson’s old office has since been turned into a library. Sam finds himself taking refuge there whenever he needs to recharge. He also works in there since it was one of the few rooms with a locking door. A ping on his laptop alerts him to a video message from Torres. Sam reminds himself to pester the kid again about coming down to Louisiana. Mostly because he adores Joaquin, but also cause he wants help eating all the leftovers they’d have from Sarah’s holiday parties. He gets caught up studying the trail of breadcrumbs Joaquin’s piecing together, and suddenly it’s late afternoon and he wonders why the hell he’d come in here in the first place.

Sam drops into one of the big leather chairs facing the bay windows. Could he sneak some fudge unnoticed? If Sarah’s done sorting recipes maybe... Oh.

Sam groans and drops his head in his hands. He hadn’t even realized what he was doing till she said something. He was just going to nab a piece on his way through but then, well. Then Sam remembered the night before and. It was just! It was… c’mon who does that? Completely without warning sucks the sugar off someone’s lip instead of telling them to use a napkin. Sam was caught off guard! Bucky was so weird! And! And. Sweet, okay? It was weirdly sweet. Not in the sugar way but in the careful way Bucky pulled Sam’s bottom lip into his mouth. Like he was delicate, like he was honey dripping from a flower petal. Why would Bucky do that? Sam was curious and he’d pressed the square of fudge to his lips without thinking.

He swore quietly and willed himself to accept the situation. Can't let Sarah hold this over his head forever. It was, Sam noticed, difficult to keep up the cool older brother routine with Bucky around. He was slipping quickly towards sappy and predictable brother. It was solely Bucky’s fault.

“Hey you, uh, thinkin’ thoughts or can I interrupt?”

Bucky’s in the doorway hoisting a tray of baked goodies that must've been fresh from the oven because suddenly the whole room smells delicious. Sam grins at him. Bucky takes that as an invitation and lets himself in.

“When am I not thinking thoughts, huh?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow as he sits down. Sam sorta hates how much he loves it when Bucky gives him shit.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I brought you cookies!”

Bucky sets the tray on the table behind them, sliding his oven mitt beneath it. Each of the small sugar cookies has a not-chocolate kiss at the center. Sam examines one curiously for a second before biting into it.

“Ooo, is that butterscotch?”

Bucky hums around his mouthful of cookie which he hadn’t bothered eating in more than one bite. Not Sam’s favorite flavor but gooey and fresh from the oven makes anything taste good.

“Per Sarah’s request,” Bucky says after swallowing.

“Sarah likes some weird shit.”

“Mm no, Sam, butterscotch is great!” Bucky illustrates his point by popping another whole cookie in his mouth. Crumbs tumble down his chin, and Sam finally notices his apron.

“Oh my god, that’s adorable.”

Bucky beams. “Pretty great, right?” He pulls on the corners to show it off. A line of rats are climbing up the side of the apron, each holding a different ingredient to bring to the tiny rat chef from Ratatouille sitting on the front pocket.

“It’s a Christmas present from Cass.” Bucky laughs and answers Sam’s wordless question. “He ambushed me in the kitchen and convinced me that I wanted to open my present early. On the condition that the next cookies I bake gotta be his choice. Caramel critters?” Bucky shrugs. “He said Sarah had a recipe.”

“Buck, you walked right into that one. My mama used to make those. Really good when you make ‘em right.”

Bucky grimaces. “And when you don’t?”

“It’s a tricky recipe,” Sam admits. “Sarah’s convinced Mama left stuff out. She got so frustrated tryin’a make those for years and never quite got ‘em right. Her husband nearly burnt the house down when he tried bakin’ ‘em. That’s when Sarah convinced Cass he’d enjoy ice cream much better if he still had a house to eat it in. I don’t remember the last time someone had a go at it.”

Bucky groans and massages his temples. “Great. There goes my honorary uncle status.”

“Aw, baby, I’ll help ya.” Sam squeezes Bucky’s knee and grins at him. Bucky shoots him that extremely skeptical look again.

“You ever made these, Sam?”

“…No, but—"

“Nuh uh, you are not allowed in the kitchen.”

“What! You really gonna talk like you’re a better baker than me?”

“We both know for a fact that I’m a better baker than you.”

“If this is cause—"

“I’m still haunted but how dry that granola was.”

Bucky feigns gagging and Sam cackles, shoves his shoulder. He starts talking in a choked up voice like he just swallowed sandpaper and he’s begging Sam not to make him eat more granola. Sam’s breathless with laughter. He jabs a finger into Bucky’s ribs. Bucky shoves a cookie in his face. He tries to calm down enough to chew properly. He sticks his tongue out when Bucky snickers.

Bucky watches him, eyes sparkling, but he goes quiet. He’s staring at Sam’s mouth like he’s hypnotized. Sam swallows the last bit. His tongue flicks out to get a crumb on his lip and that’s when Bucky lunges for him, stopping just shy of smashing their faces together. Bucky licks the corner of Sam’s mouth. He traces the edge of Sam’s lip with the tip of his tongue, feather-light, the way he might catch drops of melted ice cream. He kisses the sugar from Sam's goatee, his chin, his lips. When Bucky captures his bottom lip to suck on, Sam lets his eyelids slide shut.

Maybe kissing Bucky shouldn’t still be all butterflies and giddiness. But Sam didn’t mind. Being in love with Bucky feels like a bright sparkle of discovery. Like they're both surprised to find something soft —strong and sweet, and tender— survived in them after everything they’d been through.

“Sam.”

“Mm?”

“You’re sweeter than cookies.”

Hardly even a whisper, yet Sam can hear the stupid grin in his voice.

“I can’t stand you.”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, sure seems that way. Oh, hold up—"

Bucky takes off his apron and folds it neatly, saving Sam from covering his jeans in flour. Sam climbs onto Bucky’s lap and kisses his smile. He still tastes like butterscotch. Sam kinda wants to eat him. Bucky slides his hand under Sam’s sweater and splays his warm fingers across Sam’s back, makes him shiver.

“You close the door?”

“Mm.”

“You lock it?”

“Uh…”

All Sam’s gotta do is cross the room to flick the latch but he's followed anyway. Bucky nips at his ear, kisses down his neck. Sam leans into that broad chest and soaks in the attention. Bucky’s eyebrows shoot up when Sam starts pulling off his jeans.

“Man, I’m just—” Sam hops on one foot trying to free himself from a pant-leg. “These are so uncomfortable.” He tosses the pants onto a chair, now standing in his bright red boxers patterned with little reindeer.

“Yeah, alright, you’ve made your point.” Somehow, Bucky gets out of his skinnies with more grace. “We all know you don’t skip leg day.” His boxers are red and green plaid, but his socks are far better. Pulled up almost to his knees, it looks like penguins are sitting on his feet.

“Please tell me you have more of those.”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

Bucky winks. God, he’s such a dork. That dopey grin just makes Sam wanna kiss him. And his face must show it cause Bucky grins even wider and picks him up. His legs wrap around Bucky’s waist and he doesn’t miss the way Bucky’s got two handfuls of ass.

“You love that I don’t skip leg day.”

“Love a lot of things about you,” Bucky tries for smooth but he’s blushing pink.

Sam gives into that stupidly persistent urge to kiss Bucky senseless. Like always, Bucky takes it slow and deliberate, like they’ve got all the time in the world. The hard line of his jaw moves under Sam’s fingertips. Sam absently rubs the spot behind Bucky’s ear with his thumb. When he breaks away, Bucky kisses along his jaw. Sam finds his mouth again and it’s just so fuckin’ nice. It’s just the sound of their breathing and the warmth of his chest and the familiar ache in Sam’s heart. He could melt so easy in Bucky's arms.

Since the very first one, Bucky had the audacity to kiss Sam like he’d keep it up till the end of time. It was… annoying. It made Sam feel things he couldn’t say out loud yet. No one had ever kissed him like this before. It was pretty fucking dramatic. Sure, ol’ blue eyes here had died twice and went through shit blah blah blah and all of it was worth it to hear Sam’s laugh (his words) but he didn’t have to convey all that every time they touched. So what if Sam loved it. Shut up.

Sam giggles into Bucky’s mouth before he can stop himself.

“What?”

“Just a couple of guys… in their sweaters and festive boxers.”

“And?” Bucky’s grinning too.

“Just a couple of guys with a mutual underwear drawer.”

Bucky feigns horror. “You’ve been wearing my underwear?”

“Baby boy, if I wore your underwear it’d never look right on you again.”

“Jezus.”

“Cause the fabric would stretch.”

“I know what you meant.”

“Cause my ass is so fine.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Don’t even joke about that!”

Bucky’s laughing and Sam’s glaring at him while still wrapped around him and sitting in his hands. Sam’s not gonna think about it too hard.

❉ ❉ ❉

Bucky makes a truly valiant effort at baking Cass’ cookies. Sam picks out the music and gives constructive commentary since apparently Bucky was serious about keeping him out of the kitchen. The first batch looks alright when it comes out. They each bite into a cookie and wince at the resounding crackle. Sam curses, checks the bottom. It tastes far more burnt than it looks.

“What’d you say about my granola?”

“I don’t understand!”

“You left ‘em in the oven too long. Pretty novice mistake, Bucky.”

Bucky holds up a vibranium finger and puts his other hand on his hip. Sam tries not to laugh.

“It said ‘till golden brown’! Does this not look golden to you!?”

Sam leans over the cookie sheet and ponders. He regrets taking another bite of his cookie.

“Maybe she meant like a honey gold.” Bucky cocks an eyebrow. “K, but clearly these shoulda been taken out ten minutes earlier.”

There’s enough batter for another try. They watch through the little oven window. The tops look significantly paler when Bucky whips out the tray. This time, he goes to bend the cookie in half instead of biting into it. Except it doesn’t bend, it snaps. He grabs another one and that snaps too.

“Well,” Sam says around a mouthful. “S’not awful. Still way too crispy.”

“No shit.”

Bucky eats that whole batch in frustration while taking another go at the batter. When the timer rings, Sam’s finished a satisfyingly difficult crossword and Bucky seems hopeful. The next round of cookies are a promising light gold and puffy-looking. Sam, whose quite hungry at this point, eats one whole. He promptly coughs most of it into the sink and tries to swallow what’s left.

“Jezus chr—”

“I may have miscalculated the sugar to flour ratio.”

“You may have tried to kill your boyfriend!”

“Not recently.”

Sam laughs, coughs again, and drains a glass of water. They both hear his stomach growl. Bucky clears the kitchen so they can prep dinner. Sam’s not sure if he should feel pride or pity when Bucky vows he’ll keep trying.

They make pizzas for dinner, which means the Wilson kitchen descends into chaos. Cass and AJ start crowding Bucky to steal freshly melted cheese. It’s a cycle of pulling one pizza from the oven just to add another till Bucky’s satisfied there’s enough. He snatches the slice Sam's nephews had been fighting over and shoves the whole thing in his mouth before they can stop him. The look of horror on Cass’ face sends Sam nearly falling off his chair with laughter.

After feeding everyone else, Bucky finally sits down to eat. Sam picks the toppings off his pizza, gets a familiar glare.

“What? You put way too much shit on your pizza, man, I’m just helping.”

“Yeah well, you helping yourself to my food is exactly why I added extra!”

Bucky glances over to make sure Sarah isn’t watching then flicks a mushroom at AJ who squeals in disgust. There’s much more laughter and some half-attempts to make plans for the weekend.

“Hey, you boys get enough to eat?” Bucky calls as the brothers make their escape.

“Yeah!”

“Thanks Uncle Bucky!”

Sam grins and elbows him.

“What?”

“You’re such a sap. Here I was thinkin’ you lived for danger but really you’d be happy to stay in a kitchen all day and fuss over my nephews.”

“You’re the one that lives for danger, Sam.”

“Who, me?”

Sarah supplies an embarrassing story about a young and reckless Sam, that Bucky’s all too eager to hear. This is what he gets for being a hero. His favorite people in the world ribbing him for one thing or another. Luckily, he’s got fresh ammo from today’s cookie disasters.

He and Sarah get started on their mama’s cooking, talking about all the wild things she came up with till Sarah’s pulled away by a phone call. Bucky refills her wineglass and clears the dishes. Sam follows him to the kitchen, boxes him in at the counter, grins at him as Bucky’s fingers lace behind his neck.

“If you came lookin’ for dessert, you’re outta luck.”

Sam chuckles. He loses himself to Bucky’s eyes for awhile. Just ‘cause he can, and the blue is so pretty, and he likes the way Bucky stares back.

“Bein’ an uncle looks good on you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmhm. Love seein’ you with my family.”

Bucky ducks his head. He breathes out a laugh that sounds a little choked up.

“I donno what to say.”

Sam presses closer.

“Say you love it too.”

“More than anything.”

Bucky meets his gaze then and… damn. He’s really perfected the heart eyes game. There's a twist in Sam's gut. He swallows down the nerves and puts on a teasing grin.

“We’ll see about that after Mama’s recipe makes you question your sanity.”

“Which I already do daily.”

Sam snorts. He reaches around Bucky and takes a plastic knife to the conveniently placed block of peppermint fudge.

“What’s your plan of attack?”

“More baking soda, probably. And since the moisture seems to be a problem, I thought…”

Sam nibbles a piece of fudge. It’d been so warm in the kitchen all day that the fudge melts on his fingers, no doubt also smearing on his lips.

“You seem distracted. Somethin’ on my face?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. He’s so cute when he’s annoyed.

“You’re not subtle, Samuel.”

Bucky leans in and straight up licks Sam’s face with the flat of his tongue.

“AUGH!”

Sam tries to pull away but Bucky’s got him now, strong arms tight around his middle. He drags his tongue over Sam’s cheek. His breath smells like garlic and tomato sauce. It’s disgusting. Sam twists in his grasp but it’s no use. Bucky looks so unbearably smug.

“Gross! Bucky! You’re not a dog!”

“There’s stuff you don’t know about me, Sam. Like my canine instinct.”

“That’s absur—DAUUH!”

Bucky licks his ear. The warm wet and the brush of Bucky’s beard just— it tickles. Sam tries to protest but his laughter really undermines his effort. He gets a hand over Bucky’s mouth, but Bucky’s tongue between his fingers also tickles so he slaps a hand over Bucky’s eyes and wipes the slobbered one on his henley.

“You had fudge on your face. I was just helping,” Bucky parrots. “You started it!”

Sam gasps. “How dare you!” He steals another piece of fudge. Bucky grins and peers at Sam from under his dark eyelashes.

“C’mere…”

And because Sam is weak, he leans closer after too little hesitation. It feels worth it when Bucky catches Sam’s lip between his teeth.

“Sam, I swear to god!” Sarah’s voice rings through the room. “I’m ‘bout to kick you out and you don’t even live here!”

“It was—”

“Didn’t I say to take some home?”

“I did! But we’ve been here!”

“That was a long phone call, Sarah,“ Bucky cuts in and waggles his eyebrows. “Was it Misty?”

Sarah’s pointedly looking away from them and tugging at the sleeve of her cardigan.

“Wait, what’d I miss? Who’s Misty?”

Bucky grins wide. “Misty is—”

“None of your business!” Sarah grabs a dishtowel and snaps it at them. “Now go home before you cause more trouble!”

“Did she ask you out yet?”

“Get out of my house, Buchanan!”

Sam’s pulled towards the front door, still confused as Bucky shoves his coat into his arms and calls out, “Love you, Sarah!”

“I love you both. Thanks for the pizza.”

“Love you, sis. Even though you talk to Bucky more than me!” As the door closes behind them, Bucky entwines their fingers and skips down the front steps. “Misty who?”

“Mm, can’t tell ya that.”

“What? This is unbelievable!” Sam throws up his hands, one still holding Bucky’s. His knuckles get a kiss. “She nice?”

“I’d never let a villain anywhere near Sarah! And yeah, Misty’s nice. Well, I mean, I think she is. Kinda scares me actually.”

Sam considers. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

◦ ◦ ❉ ◦ ◦

“There will come a day when the strength of men fails,” Bucky mutters to himself. “But it is not this day!” He hoists the fresh tray of cookies above his head in triumph. It took three days of failed attempts but he’s pretty sure Cass will like these. Kinda disappointing that the boys don’t come home for another hour. So, of course, he goes to find Sam.

And gets a full view of Sam’s backside. Mm, those shoulders. He shakes himself. Focus, Bucky. Sam’s leaning against the rail of the back porch. Bucky wraps his arm around him and displays in his vibranium hand a perfectly golden brown, caramel drizzled, sugar dusted critter.

“Oh my god!” Sam turns to him, absolutely beaming. “You did it?”

“I did it.”

Sam actually bounces up and down with glee before grabbing Bucky’s face to kiss him. Bucky feels warm down to the tips of his toes.

“Go on, try it.”

Sam takes the cookie and cradles it in his hands. “Oh m— is this a squirrel?”

“Well they’re called ‘critters’ so…”

Sam throws his head back and laughs. Bucky tries not to think something cheesy like that’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen but. That’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“My mama always shaped these with pointy ears and drew cat whiskers on ‘em.”

“Well shit, then why aren’t they called caramel cats? I made squirrels and bunnies.”

“No, this is perfect!” Sam assures him between laughs. He breaks the cookie in half and offers a piece while biting into the other. Bucky watches his face intently. Sam’s eyes go cartoonishly wide. “Holy fuck… Man, how did you do this?” His voice is quiet with awe when he adds, “They taste just like hers.”

Bucky blushes. “Really? That’s better than I hoped for…”

“Sarah’s gonna love these.”

Sam eyes the piece in Bucky’s hand and he chuckles, giving it over. He swipes a bit of caramel drizzle to stick on the tip of Sam’s nose. Bucky’s heart could burst from the sight in front of him. Sam’s grin between stuffed cheeks, sugar on his lips and caramel on his nose.

“What’s that look for, huh?” Sam mumbles around his mouthful. Bucky giggles.

“You’re just…” He strokes Sam’s cheek with his knuckles. Sam smiles, all sparkling eyes and adorable tooth gap. “You’re so intimidating,” Bucky mummers. “If the aliens and androids could see you now, they’d all be scared shitless.”

“Well, don’t get between Cap and his cookies!”

All of Bucky’s brain functions shut down except for the little voice that’s constantly screaming about loving Sam Wilson. Even that voice kinda fades out when Sam looks at him all soft and fond. Being loved by Sam feels like getting tucked inside his very heart. Safe. Steady. Wrapped up in everything he is and everyone he loves.

“You forgot wizards,” he whispers.

Bucky pulls Sam close and tells him to just please shut up and kisses him like he’s the only person in the world.

Cass goes ballistic when he tastes the caramel critters. He’s bouncing and running circles around Bucky, prattling on and on about how he waited his whole life for this moment. Sam tells his nephew to stop being so dramatic and give his mom a cookie. Sarah actually gets a little tearful. She looks at Sam and they share some kinda sibling telepathy, then Sam gets tearful. Bucky’s horrified, thinking he must’ve fucked up after all. How could he do such a thing to a family recipe? He’s getting sick with dread when Sarah pulls him into a hug. She doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Bucky catches Sam’s eye over her shoulder and there’s no room left to worry. He hugs Sarah back. Her whispered ‘thank you’ is filled with so much emotion that Bucky might cry. All three of them sniffling makes Sam laugh, and Bucky smiles so wide his cheeks hurt.

❉ ❉ ❉

“Bucky bear, where’d you put the fudge?”

They're in their own house for the first time all week. Sam had cooked something for dinner that was altogether too green. He claimed genuine concern that living off cookies might cause some kinda fatal reaction with Bucky’s off-brand serum. It was a flimsy excuse but Bucky hadn’t even eaten the fudge out of spite. He’d finished it days ago.

Bucky peeks over his book. “In the fridge?”

Sam blinks at him. “You ate all of it?”

Bucky shrugs as Sam flops onto the couch beside him. “Can’t help that I like sweet stuff. You should know.” Sam’s already rolling his eyes before Bucky adds, “Cause I like you.”

“You’re so annoying.”

Sam crawls onto Bucky’s lap, gets his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair, and kisses him so sweet. Bucky grins against his lips.

“You say that…”

“Can’t help that I like really annoying guys. Apparently.”

“I should know?”

Sam just hums since his mouth is preoccupied. Bucky sinks further down the couch and pulls Sam on top of him. He tastes like cinnamon. His sweater slides off so easy. His lips feel so warm on Bucky’s.

When it’s late and the TV isn’t worth paying attention to, Bucky lays his head in Sam’s lap and Sam absently strokes his hair.

“Yesterday,” Sam starts quietly. “When you made Sarah cry.”

“Yep, leave out the part where it was happy tears.”

“Ya know what I was thinking?”

“Wow, he’s an asshole?”

“Nah.” Sam smiles down at Bucky. “Was thinkin’… was hopin’ that you really liked bein’ a Wilson. Cause they’d never forgive me if you disappeared on us now.”

Bucky sits up, wants to touch Sam but doesn’t. He asks what he’s afraid to hear the answer to.

“Is that—you think I would do that?”

“Would you?”

“No. Sam. Never.”

“Yeah. I know.”

◦ ◦ ❉ ◦ ◦

The Wilsons always had fudge for the holidays. Big blocks of the stuff. The fudge was fair game for anybody in the kitchen. Sarah would cut a piece and savor it. Sam and Bucky were only allowed to eat it if they stayed on opposite sides of the room. The holidays meant fudge was in the kitchen for as long as they could remember.

The next year, when Bucky brings home a chocolate block with peanut butter swirl and a maple block with pecans, nobody is surprised.

#sambucky fic #holiday sambucky #back on my gay shit

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hornsandthings · 4 years

Note

Umm hi I don’t know if you still take ACOTAR requests anymore but if you do can I request an azriel x reader where he’s in love with her and is afraid of rejection but he doesn’t know that she loves him too? 👉🏻👈🏻

hi nonnie, i’ll always accept an acotar request, hehe! did this in headcanon form, hope you don’t mind <3 it’s quite long and a little rough around the edges, but i hope you like it! ps. tumblr mucked up the formatting, some dot points don’t want to be indented. i hope it still makes sense x

when your and azriel’s paths crossed, it was the mother at work again. after mor, azriel didn’t think he’d ever have the strength for love again. the aching and the pining had taken their toll, and the appeal of the mating bond had faded. to feel it all again, to risk his heart like that again - he couldn’t. and yet, the mother saw fit that he would.

+++

he first met you in the palace of hoof and leaf, and it didn’t mean anything at the time; a stranger’s kindness, or if he indulged his cynicism, a hawker’s ploy. you were a commoner, a milkmaid who came to sell your products in the markets. he’d been at the neighbouring stall, waiting for the clerk to put together the only tea brew in prythian that could placate his migraines.

“sir, mr. shadowsinger, sir,” you called, “could i offer you a sample of my goat’s milk? maggie-may is very special, her milk can be just as good as a healer’s work, i swear it. try it, try it, sir.”

azriel looked you over, glad that cassian wasn’t here to make that particular moniker stick. one brow raised in dubiety, he nodded and held out his hand - might as well, he thought, tired and getting ever more desperate for his tea. this didn’t show outwardly, of course; azriel’s face was as neutral as ever, his shadows coiling about his talons. your gaze was expectant as he tried the sample, and while it was a little too earthy for his taste, he nodded all the same. perhaps it had encouraged you too much, because then you asked: “could i perhaps persuade you to buy a pint?”

azriel had no interest at all, yet he couldn’t help but notice the detail: your fraying sleeves, the imperfect glass bottles, the beginnings of dark circles under your eyes. and yet you were smiling, you were sweet, being very generous for someone who had to presumably make a living selling fresh products. not for the first time, azriel made a purchase that only someone of the inner circle could afford, and one that didn’t really benefit him. “i’ll take several,” he said, looking at the handful of wooden caddies, mostly still filled with milk bottles. “i’ll take it all.”

the clerk then handed azriel his brew while you stood there, wide-eyed and speechless, working through a range of emotions. at first you thought he was mocking you, but when he turned around again, fiddling with his coin pouch, you realised he was serious. “but, sir— maggie-may’s milk sure is delicious, but only in moderation— i couldn’t expect someone to buy it all—”

“as much as you’d let me, then,” he amended, being mindful not to impose or patronise. you bit your lip, trying to tally up the ultimate price, trying to gauge whether this man could even afford it. two gold, you said, trying your luck. azriel merely fingered his coins, placing the expected two and an additional three on the counter. he must’ve noticed your shock; you had frozen, after all, perhaps even stopped breathing. “since maggie-may is so special,” he drawled, earning a disbelieving laugh from you.

that night, cerridwen, nuala, and elain were very confused at the sight of bottles and bottles of milk laying in wait on the kitchen counter in the house of wind. the note - clearly by azriel’s neat hand - read: use within five days.

+++

from then on, you always engaged azriel when you spotted him in the market. you could never forget his generous first purchase, and so while he waited for the tea master to finalise his special brew, you would entertain him with an endless supply of free samples of new products. over the years, azriel saw your business extend from milk to also include cheese and soap. he learned unnecessary things about your cattle, such as the supposed social dynamics and - mother forbid - adultery that mr. sweet pea the goat seemed prone to. over time, azriel grew comfortable enough to share some of his stories and observations, the things he’s seen in other courts. it took a while to realise you had become more than his mere acquaintance, and perhaps it was because you were outside his usual spheres of the inner circle and his spy network. to have someone outside was new, and a little jarring at times. the different experiences, the contrasting perspectives - it was refreshing, and reminded azriel how far he’d come since his miserable youth. when he was with you, the stakes weren’t so high, the conditions not so dire. you were a spot of calm, a reminder that life could be something other than the court’s defense.

+++

one time when he visited - his tea no longer a requisite for him to make an effort to come in - you were noticeably subdued. “mr. sweet pea passed away,” you revealed, eyes wet and voice thick. something about that seized his heart, his shadows growing restless. “he was so special.” you actually said that about each of your cattle, something that azriel had started to find endearing, because he knew you really believed it.

social tact was not a strength of his - azriel knew he tended to be rigid and too formal - so he stumbled over some stilted condolences. it felt awkward and impersonal; azriel couldn’t empathise with the death of a pet, but he wanted to make it hurt less. he still remembered what the late goat had looked like the last time you had brought him in - an old thing, with a long beard and a mix of brown and black fur. strong, impressive horns, one which had a sizeable chip missing.

so that night, he did what he could and sketched that image he had in his mind, of mr. sweet pea looking very wise and ponderous, if a little tired. azriel’s time as spymaster had bestowed him a keen eye and dexterous fingers, allowing him to make the necessary sketches to give his colleagues a clearer picture when necessary - of maps, of creatures, of profiles. they tended to be a little rough and raw, nothing particularly artistic. he thought the same of his current piece, and hesitated over whether it was good enough.

when he finally gave you the sketch the next day, you went very still. he started stumbling over some excuses, but you soon interrupted him with a shaky breath. “this is so thoughtful, azriel. thank you so much.”

+++

azriel grew bolder, and interactions started to occur outside the markets. he’d invite you for tea, indirectly revealing one of his interests. he was a hard man to read, his expressions subtle when not stoic, but you learned. outside of professional matters, he was rarely straightforward, and tended to express his emotions in delicate, layered ways. his care for you was in the way he listened, how his attention never wavered when you were speaking with him. it was how he kept you close when you two navigated busy streets, how he lifted a wing over your head for cover when it rained, how he was content to spend time with you at your stall - sometimes for hours - despite his preference for quietude.

+++

when work took him away, you two would exchange letters. azriel didn’t realise how dangerous a thing it was, because you quickly became a very intimate and constant part of his life. the act of writing tricked him, making it easier to truly express his thoughts - there was no pressure of navigating the immediate reaction, no incentive to keep his words short. you managed to draw so much out of him. he was mindful of each letter of yours he received, keeping them safe and tied together with an old ribbon of yours he’d saved before you could throw it away. he would never admit it, but work abroad tended to be overwhelming: while secure in his network’s quality of intelligence, being in another’s territory always meant having to deal with various variables and vulnerabilities, usually unknown. maybe your letters would have made it all a little more manageable if they didn’t elicit such longing within him. your words made him smile, yes, but they also made his heart ache. he missed you.

+++

after a lengthy assignment in the dawn court, azriel was relieved to be back in velaris. his shadows swirled and whispered around his shoulders, eager to feel your presence too. he knew they fascinated you, how playful they could be sometimes. yet, azriel couldn’t find you at your empty market stall. it was odd - you hadn’t mentioned moving in your recent letters, and he couldn’t find you in any of the other market squares either. soon his shadows grew restless, embodying the concern that was rising.

he employed his spy network to find your farm, hoping it wouldn’t be too intrusive to just show up unannounced. you had mentioned some details in passing before - it was a modest place, with a small house and a meagre hill of grass to feed a handful of goats and sheep. the door was answered by two worried faces, who took one look at azriel and grew even more distressed. “our son— it’s not our son, is it? it can’t be— he just—”

“i’m here to see your daughter,” azriel interrupted, too preoccupied to remember polite niceties. they were confused, guarded, but let him through. the hallways were narrow, his wings often knocking against the wall sconces. he listened as they explained your condition - an illness had befallen you, leaving you bedridden for days. apparently a healer had told them it’ll pass with rest and water, and with that reassurance, azriel forced himself to remember his place. right in front of your closed door, he willed his shadows away from his face, called upon his familiar impassiveness. turning around to face your parents, he amended, “may i see your daughter?”

your room was dark, the curtains drawn. his heart raced as he heard your laboured breaths, and something pulled at him when he saw the small desk in the corner, an unfinished letter atop it. “azriel?” you whispered, voice sounding so small. “is it really you?”

he neared, taking a cautious seat on the side of the bed. you were shivering, but the thin sheet covering you stuck to your skin with sweat. “yes, it’s me, sweetheart,” he said, the endearment slipping out before he could stop it. his throat closed up immediately after, but your vague movements suggested you didn’t even realise, and that you weren’t all there. he could see the feverish blush high on your cheeks, even in the dim light.

“you’re too big for this room,” you mused softly, making azriel smile despite his worry. indeed, he had to bend down to avoid hitting his head, and keep his wings tucked in uncomfortably tight. he took your hand in his, and even in your feverish haze, you could register the roughness of his scarred hands, but they always handled you gently. “why didn’t you tell me in your letters?” he asked, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. your discomfort was clear in your frown, in your downturned lips. noticing the basin on the bedside table, he took the damp rag on your forehead and dipped it into the cool water, wringing away the excess before gently placing it atop your head again.

“i… didn’t want to trouble you with… with something trivial. a few more days and… and i’ll be back to work.” a weak smile pulled at your mouth, and azriel gathered both of your hands in his again. he shook his head at your line of thinking.

“your health isn’t a trivial matter to me,” he said, leaning close and cupping your cheek. in hindsight, it was so obvious that he had been in love with you far longer than he thought. it was all so rueful, the fact that he had let it happen again. despite it all, he pressed a kiss to your hand, trying to ignore how it trembled. your smile strengthened then, tracing a finger over his brow and down the bridge of his nose. azriel took a deep breath to savour the touch, and soon you two were merely watching each other, azriel wondering what thoughts were running through your slightly added mind. your lids eventually started to droop, however, but still he stayed even when you fell asleep, taking care to change the cool rag when necessary. his shoulders slumped when his head fell into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut tight. with such a revelation, what was he to do from now on?

+++

azriel didn’t think he could be a good lover to you - even if he so very much wanted to be. his job took up so much of time, and it required him to be secretive. azriel wouldn’t ever be able to share everything with you, for the sake of keeping you safe. even if he could, there was just something in his nature that kept him reserved and pushed others away. there were so many things he’d rather leave in the past, and so many more that he wished he hadn’t been part of. there was that, but also his loathsome scarred hands - a reminder of those darker days. no matter how gentle, his touch would always scratch and scrape. once you took notice of how neglected they were, left to dry out and sometimes even scab, you took to work to concoct a nourishing lotion. “you have to be gentle with yourself, azriel,” you had once told him, gently applying the salve to his hands. they were rough but warm against your skin. “you do so much.”

+++

and so, everything he did with you was tinged with a hint of sorrow. he couldn’t bring himself to confront you with the severity of his feelings, but he also couldn’t quite remove you from his life - you had become a friend. you eventually noticed that he started to let his touches linger: when he hugged you, he’d curl arms and wings around you, enveloping you wholly; when you were near, his shadows would stretch toward you, as if revealing a hidden desire. when you reached for his hand, he would always grip it firmly, and when you came very close for some unimportant reason, his gaze would always linger on your face, flicking so often to your lips.

+++

one night you had invited him over to the farm, wanting to introduce him to the latest addition of your household: a baby goat, just over a week old. she was as white as snow, and kept nibbling at your hair as you held her in your arms. “what should we name her, azriel?” you had asked, too preoccupied to notice how tense he was, hands in his pockets. “i was thinking of marjorie, or maybe miss marjorie… hey, what’s wrong?” his face was unusually expressive, his shadows roiling about his talons as if in distress. putting down the goat, her legs still clumsy and gangly, you stepped closer to azriel, reaching out. he shook his head, trying to school his face but you knew him by now. your shoulders slumped, recalling his strange behaviour over the years - he was present in most ways, but avoidant in others. “i wish you’d talk to me, azriel,” you murmured, taking his hand and hoping he wouldn’t mind the dirt. “you mean so much to me.”

it all bubbled up then in that small barn, the light dim and the smell of earth pungent. you let out a rueful laugh, rubbing your eye. “i’m in love with you,” you said, very quietly at first. immediately you felt so naive to be doing this. the fact was that azriel came from a different life, one that saw him as a leader of the court, who worked with powerful and beautiful people, fae who were richer and stronger and vastly more interesting. azriel’s mere presence in your life was extraordinary enough. and yet, you had found yourself falling in love despite the impracticability of it, found yourself admiring his kindness, his quiet generosity, his strength and resilience and dry humour. you shifted, looking right into his eyes. even if your love was unrequited, he deserved to be told - if only to let him know that he indeed was loved by one more. “i’m in love with you. i don’t— i don’t expect you to say it in return, but i can no longer keep it to myself. i love you.”

that threw azriel. he had fantasised of course, indulged in the scenario. but now, as you waited for his response, his thoughts stuttered. what? he wanted to say, unable to believe what he actually so very desperately wanted to believe. you grew nervous as the silence lengthened, azriel’s face as stoic as ever. you shook your head, covering your mouth in regret. “i’m sorry, i— i shouldn’t have said anything—”

he gripped your shoulders tight, gaze intense and voice low. “i also love you.”

“why do you say it like it’s a bad thing?” the solemnity which had tinged your relationship for some time was subtle, but you had felt it, and it had bothered you.

azriel’s hands came up to cup your face, and he quickly shook his head. “it’s not,” he said, he urged. “it’s not, it’s not.” and then his lips met yours, chapped and rough, kissing you slowly, thoroughly, firmly. the conviction made your heart melt, and you gripped his wrists, feeling his racing pulse and caressing it, kissing him back, standing on your toes, letting him steal your breath. “i love you so much, sweetheart,” he sighed against your lips, nose brushing against yours. you went to reply but then azriel had claimed your mouth again, one hand snaking around to your back and the other to the nape of your neck. the light shifted behind your closed eyes as his wings came down to envelope the both of you, and your fingers reached to tangle in his hair, to trace the shells of his ears.

when you two parted again, his grin was lopsided and a little wry. “i just couldn’t believe it,” he murmured, his eyes shining with emotion. why not? you wanted to ask, wondering what it was that had held him back for so long, but decided to delay it for another day. all you could do was hug him tighter, just glad for the sight of his smile and the feeling of his relief. glad for his happiness.

#acotar x reader #azriel x reader #acotar imagine #acotar fanfic #ugh this isn't my best but otherwise i'll never post D:#also a big f.u. to tumblr formatting

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agerestorybits · 3 years

Text

Twin fluff

"TAKE A BATH!" Roman yelled trying to corner Remus.

"Never!" Remus yelled before sneezing from the dust covering his body. He shook his head causing a cloud of dirt and grim to float into the air. Roman couched waving his hand in front of his face to clear the air.

Remus laughed before coughing, Roman grabbed him while he was distracted and threw him over his shoulder. Remus, being picked up, regressed.

"No! Nonono! No baft!" He yelled struggling to get loose.

Roman set him down once they were in the bathroom and the door was locked. Remus pouted as he sat on the floor arms crossed.

"Come on bubby you need a bath." Roman said.

"No!" Remus said tearing up.

"What if it was a bubble bath?" Roman suggested turning the water on.

Remus sniffed, eyes widening at the thought. "Bub batf?"

"Yeah. And we can make colored bubbles too." Roman said as he made sure the water was warm enough.

"Geen?" Remus asked. "An rea?"

"We can make green and red." Roman said as he helped Remus undress (coughing a few times) and then climbing into the tub. Remus watched excited as Roman added the bubble soap that foamed into Green and Red bubbles.

Remus squealed and giggled as he splashed with both his hands soaking Roman who sighed heavily.

By the time Remus was clean Roman had been drenched and the floor had a thin layer of water covering the titles. The bubbles were mostly gone so Remus was eager to leave, the thrill wearing off..

Roman got him dressed in Clean pjs before drying off and getting in clean clothing himself. "Now, let's not go crawling around in the attic again. Ok?"

Remus huffed. "No purmiss."

Roman sighed before ruffling Remus' hair.

---

Roman and Remus had their own Movie nights once a month in one of their rooms. They would set up a Blanket fort and get snacks and pick the dumbest scary movies to laugh at together. It was a meet in the middle between Roman's need for something fun and Remus want of something gory.

This time they were meeting in Remus' room, and Roman was feeling nervous. He had been on the edge of regressing all day and he didn't want to postpone Movie night. It was harder enough finding time that they were both free to do it.

He dropped as soon as he walked into Remus' room and found the whole place was a blanket fort, His brother going above and beyond as always. A large meal worth of snacks were scattered in bowls around the fort and Remus' mattress was set on the floor for them to sit on to watch the movies. Roman was almost bouncing with excitement.

Remus laughed as Roman sat down next to him as he was setting up the movie. Roman reaching for his water bottle that Remus had already filled with soda. Roman dropped and was relieved it didn't spill.

"Careful. No need to add more stains to the carpet." Remus joked.

Roman nodded not speaking. Remus looked at him. "You feeling ok?"

"Just excited." Roman said. He didn't babytalk when he was little he went nonverbal if he drop far enough.

"You're going to love this one!" Remus said as he turned on the movie. "The acting is Sooo bad!"

Roman hummed in agreement of his brother's statement as he reached over for some chips. The movie started out boring. There was some kind of love triangle that Roman just didn't care about while little.

Remus kept waiting for Roman to start complaining about the acting and how over done it was.

Nothing happened causing him to get confused and a little concerned. Was he feeling ok? He had been quieter than normal and he seemed distracted.

Remus didn't want to force Roman to talk to him so he decided to make fun of the acting himself. Roman laughed a few times but didn't join in.

Weird.

It wasn't untill the first jumpscare that Remus figured it out. Roman jumped and teared up as he hugged himself. "Ro? Are you feeling little?"

Roman whimpered before nodding. Remus put an arm around him. "Hey. It's ok. Do you want to watch something else?"

Roman shook his head. He pointed to Remus. "I'm fine with watching something else."

Roman shook his head again and pointed at the movie then back and Remus. It took him a minute to figure it out. "Of course I won't let anything get to you. We can keep watching if you want."

Roman nodded. He did like scary things when little but he wanted to be sure nothing would get him. With his brother there he felt safe.

Remus didn't remove his arm from around Roman the whole movie. He mocked the monsters which caused Roman to be less afraid of them. Roman jumped at all the scary moments and giggled afterwards. He was safe.

Still after the horror movie Remus put on a cartoon movie that normally Roman wouldn't watch but since he was little didn't mind it. They ate more snacks and Remus left briefly to get Roman his sippy which was easier for the little to drink out of.

Roman fell asleep and Remus tucked a blanket around him before cleaning up. They may have been room for both of them to sit on the mattress but there wasn't room for both of them to sleep there so Remus got out a sleeping bag and put it close to the mattress but far enough away the Roman couldn't kick him in his sleep.

"Sleep tight buddy." Remus said.

Roman muttered something in his sleep before snuggling under the blanket. Remus laughed under his breath.

#agere remus #agere roman #cg remus #cg roman #fluff

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moonbeambucky · 4 years

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Hey Neighbor (Part 4)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 2652 Warnings: none

Summary: You had a plan and then life came along with one of its own. With your future almost derailed you worked hard to get yourself back on track and finally everything seemed to be going right… that is, until your new neighbor moved in.

A/N: A huge thank you to my wonderful beta Sam @buckyofthemyscira Feedback is always appreciated!

PART 3 | HEY NEIGHBOR MASTERLIST

The past few days have been exactly what you wanted a month ago, peacefully silent, yet somehow it doesn’t feel right. You were able to finish your paper in record time, fully concentrating on your work but part of you missed the incessant music from next door.

There was an odd comfort knowing Bucky was home playing, and with the knowledge of his musical talent you now wanted to hear what he would come up with. Getting to know him briefly was… well, it was something. It could have gone a lot better if you didn’t stick your foot in your mouth.

Bringing up the music related noise was one thing but how you ever managed to bring up the noise of his “nighttime activities” made you wish you could have vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. You had done your best to avoid Bucky ever since, rushing out of or into your apartment as quickly as possible. You weren’t sure how you could ever face him again but you couldn’t deny that a small part wanted to.

Facing your shared wall you imagined where Bucky might be, picturing him on his couch, lounging across the cushions of the soft leather as he leisurely plucks away at the guitar strings, sounding out a melody. Or was he more focused, sitting upright and gliding his dexterous fingers across his keyboard? Was he at his computer editing his melodies? Was he thinking of you?

The silence was deafening. With your palm pressed against the wall you began to lean in with your ear, hoping you could hear anything. With a slight gasp you jumped back, there was noise but not any coming from next door. Your phone buzzed against the coffee table, with Steve’s face illuminating the screen.

“Hey Steve!”

“Guess who I saw going into Sweetgreen?” The strain in his voice clued you in to the right guess, Lillian. “Yup, and she wasn’t alone … yeah she’s still with Jason, for now,” he muttered under his breath, expecting her to cheat again.

“I’m sorry Steve. You know you deserve better than her, right? I know you know this.”

Steve sighed heavily. Even though he knew what you were saying was right, seeing his ex still hurt a lot.

“Thanks Y/N, I do know that, doesn’t mean I’m going to torture myself though and go in there so is it cool if I pick us up something else? I’m in the mood for carbs.”

Chuckling at Steve’s admission you couldn’t help but agree, salads were great and all but all this Bucky stress you’ve put on yourself definitely makes you crave heavier foods.

“Tacos?”

“Mmmm, yes tacos! Extra guac please Rogers!”

You set your table in preparation for Steve to come over with food, remembering to throw your wallet on the table to give him money. The last time he came over you had forgotten, being so caught up in reliving the terrible memory of your interaction with Bucky. Steve might have been right, if he handled talking to Bucky maybe you wouldn’t be so worried about running into him.

“Sam tells me you guys spoke,” Steve said, digging a tortilla chip into the container of guacamole.

You chewed quickly to swallow the bite you had taken. “Why do you always ask me a question mid-chew?” you joked. “But yes, we did speak and…” your voice lifted with anticipation as Steve’s eyes widened, waiting for you to continue. “He gave me the number for Elena Rodriguez. She’s head of the social work department and…”

“Oh my god Y/N please just tell me!” Steve begged.

“I set up an interview with her next week!”

Steve’s eyes crinkled with his excited smile though it faded shortly after as you nervously mused about fitting the internship into your schedule.

“One step at a time,” Steve offered with a small laugh.

He’s right. One step at a time. You didn’t even go on the interview yet, you might not even be hired for it; the thought of which worries you even more, but you remind yourself to breathe and take things as they come.

The elevator ascends slowly, filled with your eager coworkers looking to join the rush home. As it lets off on the ground floor, everyone dashes to the heavy glass doors as you leisurely stroll to the security desk.

Mr. Lee had a big smile on his face as he seemed to be in the middle of telling Steve a story. Slowly you approached the desk, seeing Steve smiling down at something in his hands.

“That’s what I said but Howard was ahead of his time. A comic book movie…” Mr. Lee chuckled. “It didn’t work in ’47 but it sure would be a hit now.”

“Oh, what’s this?” you asked.

Steve held up a sealed copy of a comic book, Kid Colt, which you were unfamiliar with.

Leaning over the desk towards you Mr. Lee spoke, “Tony found that for me in his father’s things. That’s how Howard and I met. He wanted to make a movie outta this. Stark Pictures. He never did though, the whole thing became a big tax write off.”

“I didn’t know you knew Howard Stark.”

“Oh yeah,” Mr. Lee boasted humbly, “Since I was seventeen. He was a good man. You know he was so proud to finally be a father. He worked a lot, probably more than he should have but he had Maria and the nannies bring little Tony over to the office. Tony Stank I’d call him. Oh boy, you could smell those diapers from a mile away it was so bad.”

Hearing Mr. Lee talk about the head of your company so freely like this made you laugh. It also made Tony Stark seem a bit more human. As far as you knew he was a workaholic who may or may not be seeing Pepper Potts. You’ve caught the way she looks at him though, with an extra twinkle in her eye or how she hesitates for the smallest moment to gather herself before going into his office.

“Tony Stank, that’s amazing,” you laughed, wondering if Pepper has ever heard this story before. “Well, have a good night Mr. Lee!”

Steve came around to the front of the desk standing tall, filling out his blue uniform with his broad stature. It was unfair how he could pig out on food with you and not show any sign of it. Meanwhile, your stomach has been rumbling all day from last night’s dinner.

“I’m on the late shift today,” he frowned.

“Poor Stevie,” you joked, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye. “Not that my night will be any better, I’ve got a shit ton of laundry to do.”

“Enjoy the sweaty laundromat then.”

“Oh I will,” you said sarcastically.

The steady hum of the running washing machines drowned out the sound of the newscast coming from a small TV mounted on the wall. It’s muggier inside than out, and even with the door open you can’t escape the permeating smell of cheap soap and mildew.

The wash cycle is nearly over so you move from the metal chair you had been uncomfortably sitting on, listening to music to pass the time, and lazily stroll over to the machine that is spinning your clothes. Quarters jingle in your pocket as you walk, ready to be placed in the dryer as you wait some more. You hate laundry day.

It’s crowded too, with all the chairs taken and other people leaning against the wall. A few kids were running around screaming, not helping their tired mother who looked too exhausted to even reprimand them as she folded all their clothes.

No one looked happy to be there, not even the attendants who had to apologize to the screaming man who didn’t understand why he couldn’t use one of their reserved machines. It was a cut throat world on laundry night, with other patrons fighting to stake claim for the next free machine.

A loud buzz lets you know your clothes are done, you wheel a basket over and open the door. The shadow of the clearly impatient person waiting for your machine blocks the dull light from the fluorescents above so you hope to grab everything quickly without dropping anything on the dirty linoleum floor.

“It’s all yours– oh.” Your mouth hung open, not expecting to see Bucky standing beside you. “H-hey.”

“Hey Y/N. Didn’t want to startle you,” he sheepishly said. “Uhmmm, is this free?” Bucky gestured to the obviously open machine.

You nodded quickly. Not knowing what else to say you stared awkwardly at the basket of damp clothes and said, “I’m gonna dry these.” Smooth.

Turning around you let out a deep breath and worried over what would happen next. It would be extremely rude to ignore Bucky and continue to listen to music. He hasn’t done anything wrong to you, not this week at least, but you were too scared to risk saying something stupid, again.

It would take at least a half hour for your clothes to dry so you put on a brave face and decided to walk back towards Bucky. Dressed in casual black shorts and a white t-shirt, his smooth, toned arms were crossed over his chest as he leaned against a support column, squinting to read the poorly transcribed closed captioning on the TV.

“Hey neighbor,” you said, offering a small friendly wave as he turned his head.

Bucky smiled, standing upright as he turned to face you completely to greet you back. He looked genuinely happy to see you, which made you feel even worse for how you left things.

“I’m sorry if I made things weird the other day. I didn’t mean to,” you blurted out before your brain gave any thought to see if this was a good idea.

Bucky chewed on his bottom lip, the gaze of his ocean blue eyes staring right through you. “Don’t worry about it,” he said with a cavalier air.

“So how’s the music coming along?” You were truly curious, having not heard any sound.

“It’s not bothering you, right?” Bucky winked.

“No, not at all,” you smiled softly. “Are you still working on that one piece?”

Bucky asked which one and you hummed the tune. Closing your eyes you missed the way his own lit up in delight hearing you repeat his melody.

“I know I complained about the noise but honestly it was so beautiful,” your voice lightened and he felt the weight of emotion even through the simple way you described it. “Maybe that’s why I couldn’t focus.”

Bucky adjusted his weight, needing to ground himself after your words made him feel as light as air. His music meant so much to him, working tirelessly to bring to life the sound he envisioned in his mind, to know that the unfinished piece had such an effect already made his heart swell with pride.

He developed his music like a chef crafting a recipe. Each instrument was a different ingredient, carefully selected notes were gathered on the counter, waiting to come together in a symphonic skillet. The flavors of music combine, heating up together the piano is covered in the spice of an electric guitar, with the drumming rhythm simmering beneath the surface as the sound of strings are poured generously over the top.

In the end the dish is a delicious feast for the ears but here you were, happily devouring the unfinished ingredient in its raw form.

“Yeah…” his voice came out breathless. Catching himself Bucky cleared his throat. “It’s actually for an upcoming video game. I can’t say which, but it’s part of an emotional scene when the main character finds his family is gone.”

“I can sense the depth of it.”

“That’s not even the best part,” he explained as his face grew with a wide smile. Bucky became lost in describing the emotion of the violins that would come in. “They’re the voice of the character and when he’s lost everything I have them coming in, crying out in pain. It’s sharp and strong, and beautifully tragic.”

Listening to Bucky describe his music resonated in your soul. You saw the complete love and passion he had for it and once again you felt terrible about asking him to stop.

“I’d love to hear it, if that’s okay.”

You looked at him with hopeful eyes, and Bucky smiled, nodding before he spoke his answer. He couldn’t wait for you to hear everything together.

You passed the time by getting to know each other a little more. Bucky has a younger sibling named Rebecca who moved west to work as an avian veterinarian in a bird sanctuary.

“My parents are lost without them around,” Bucky joked. “Do you know how hard it is to try to explain how to use Skype to them over the phone?”

“Oh believe me, I know. Somehow my mom always calls at the worst time to have me explain the most basic function on her phone that she already knows because we’ve gone over it a million times but…” You threw your hands up as Bucky joined in with your laughter.

When your clothes were dry Bucky gave you some space to fold them alone which you appreciated, not wanting to showcase your intimate items in front of him. He was still a stranger, sort of, but you were glad you were getting to know him.

Checking the time you realized it was on the late side and you still needed to shower before bed. Your clothes were packed neatly into a laundry bag, well most of them were at least. One sock managed to get eaten by the dryer to your dismay, and you hoped its pair was somewhere on your floor having fallen out as you prepped the laundry.

Slinging the bag over your shoulder, you gripped the bottle of detergent with your other hand and walked towards Bucky.

“Hey,” you called out to Bucky who lifted his head from his phone. “I’ve got a few things to do tonight still so can I take a rain check on hearing your music?”

“Yeah, of course.” Bucky did his best to mask his disappointment but he understood. He noticed the slump of your shoulders, balancing the laundry bag high on one side and letting your other limb hang low with the weight of the heavy bottle.

“Do you want me to carry that back?” he asked.

“Oh, no it’s okay, I can manage.”

The apartment was only two blocks away, two long blocks but still, you didn’t want to inconvenience Bucky even though judging by the curve of his biceps it wouldn’t be a problem.

Bucky walked with you to the front of the laundromat as you smiled and said goodnight.

“Goodnight Y/N,” he whispered, watching as you walked down the sidewalk until he could no longer see you in the crowd.

The words stayed on his lips like they were always meant to be there and Bucky has a brief flash of a life he’s never thought about.

A warm bed, made even warmer by the figure curled against him. His breath syncs with theirs and he’s at peace. His heart beats to the rhythm of love and his lips purse together to plant a soft lingering kiss on their forehead. A smile secures itself on his face because he’s truly happy; surrounded by the comforting feeling knowing that when he wakes up that person, his love, will be by his side.

The machine buzzes at the end of its cycle dragging Bucky back to a reality that has him gasping for breath. He steps outside for a minute for air, needing to clear his mind of the vision that seemed so real it scared him; for better or worse he can’t quite say.

PART 5

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series

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lady-z-writes · 3 years

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Plaything (Heisenberg x fem!reader) Chapter 2

Summary: Reader works for BSAA and is scoping out the village until you get captured by none other than Heisenberg who doesn’t take well to trespassers. Once he learns of your hatred for your job, he wants the information you have and he doesn’t have to try hard to get it. You find yourself drinking, fireside, with him and can’t help but let him touch you. Angie said he’d needed a plaything and, well, you’re it.

Chapter 1

Smutty chapter 2 below the cut:

He doesn’t let you leave – ‘not yet’ – is what he’s told you, but you’re pretty sure he has no intention of letting you go…which…could be worse?

You think you’ve got a minor concussion, but that surely has nothing to do with your reaction to things, right? He’s…charming, oddly. A little socially awkward at times – with his quick speech once in a while.

As you sit in his makeshift kitchen, you ponder what he’s told you last night: that he was taken – ripped from his family at such a young age. No wonder he’s got a lack of social skills.

He’s currently shirtless despite the overall chill in this part of the factory. You’re wearing your knee-high boots and his shirt from last night, considering your tattered clothes are strewn about somewhere outside by the fire – which he let die. You can remember staring out the wall of windows at the black smoke billowing up into the morning sky; Heisenberg’s heavy gasping behind you.

You probably could have snuck out; he wasn’t sleeping but you maybe could have made a run for it. Though you didn’t want to go anywhere. Maybe it was self-preservation: he could be quick to attack if you tried to leave. Plus, you had no idea how to get out of this place, minus jumping from the roof. Maybe that had been his plan all along: make you feel trapped so you didn’t think to go anywhere.

You can’t help but think about your situation prior to coming here. After all the time dedicated to your career with BSAA, all the dates you turned down because your missions kept you away from home more often than not – you sold your fucking house because you never stayed there – this job has torn away so many dreams of yours. It was nice to…just…be still for a moment, even if it’s in the arms of some lord of this strange place.

Shaking off your thoughts, you focus on the present moment – on the shirtless back you’re staring at as he makes coffee; the muscles moving and beautiful under the scars on his back.

His shirt is soft and well-worn; it smells like him and you’re grateful that it takes away the chill in the air.

“When you…-” you interrupt the silence then sigh, shaking your head, thinking better than asking that question. “Never mind, I’m sorry.”

He raises an eyebrow as he half-turns toward you.

“No, speak. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

You nod, reminded that he preferred honesty last night.

“When you were growing up…here…was it just you or were there others?”

“You think we’re really siblings,” he huffs out a laugh. “No, kitten, we’re not. I had…other kids in my similar situation…all killed by that bitch.”

Your stomach drops at the thought of it – of growing up with other kids only to find out the person who claims to be your mother has murdered all of them. For what? For those experiments Heisenberg told you about last night?

“God, I…” you cross your arms over your chest, feeling a chill that comes from within.

“Don’t pity me,” he snaps, then collects himself. “Sorry-” when the coffee beeps, he turns away from you to pour some into those chipped glasses. You’re sure one still has the remnants of last night’s binge. “I just…need someone to understand.”

But how could you? This is way bigger than just you, a little BSAA agent. This is years of mental manipulation, of gaslighting to its fullest extent. This is trauma like you’ve never seen before. He needs help, not a fucktoy.

Of course, you don’t say any of this to him because the anger that has replaced the sadness in his eyes makes your stomach churn and a small bit of arousal to course through you. He must sense this because once he puts your coffee mug down, he brushes his fingers against yours, making a low growl in the back of his throat.

His mouth is almost on yours again when you press a hand to his bare chest. He halts, hums, quirks a brow at your restraint.

“I…could use a shower.”

“…Oh.”

“You’re welcome to join me…”

“Ohh,” he coos at you. “Naughty thing…” his hand cups under your chin. “Follow me.”

You bring your coffee, mostly because you’re still tired. There…wasn’t much sleeping last night.

The bathroom he leads you to isn’t too far from his quarters. There are four shower stalls that are cut out like little cubicles. It’s not as filthy as you’d expected so you’re sure this is where he showers normally. There are towels stacked up on a bench nearby and soaps are piled on shelves near the stalls. You’re going to walk out of here smelling like his soap which is surprisingly comforting to you.

You strip from his shirt, hang it on the hook outside the stall before stepping out of your boots. Heisenberg’s behind you in moments – stripping from his clothes to join you under the warm water.

His hands are roaming all over your body as you wash your hair – the soap trialing over your skin to drip down the drain. Heisenberg doesn’t let you get much further than rinsing your hair out before he’s got you against the wall, mouth on you, facial hair harsh against your skin. Rough hands roam down your body before he shoves a finger inside of you, swirling around, pumping into you just enough to get you mewling.

His hard cock is pressing against you belly and it’s so arousing knowing how needy he is for you. The newness surely has something to do with it. He doesn’t waste much time with foreplay before he spins you around and bends you at the hips. Your forearms press against the tile wall as you get on your tiptoes to help him angle you just right.

He lines up his cock and presses into you harshly – letting out a guttural moan once he bottoms out. The sudden stillness makes you wriggle against him in hopes of getting him to move, but he just grips your hips tighter.

“Uh uh, no. You’re not rushing things like last night. This could take hours and you’re gonna be grateful, kitten.”

You whine as he slowly starts moving in and out of you, the pace tantalizing. The moment you slam your body back against him, he halts completely and makes you count to thirty before continuing on.

“You’re gonna learn,” he grunts in your ear as he pinches your clit between his fingers. His hands grip your neck as you lean back into him. “I want you,” he kisses down your shoulder, “to wash up,” a bite to your back, “before you get to cum.”

“But-”

“No debate,” he snaps, fingers leaving your clit. “Finish up.” The moment you go to follow orders, he pulls your hair, growls, “don’t let my cock slip out.”

This proves difficult but it’s a challenge you’re willing to accept. Thankfully maneuvering in this odd position is distracting. Once Karl watches you washing your legs and front, he slowly thrusts in and out of you. You’re cussing at him and he’s laughing.

“Could you maybe not?” you whimper out.

“You have a job to do. Get it done.”

“You’re distracting.”

“So are you,” he retorts. You hum at him, push back against him to get some deeper stimulation. “That’s a thirty second count,” he reminds you, grabbing your hair, pressing a palm to the wall. “Brat.”

Thirty seconds go by before he allows you to move again – but you’re done washing what you can reach. Once you pass him the soap, he slides out of you and you whine at the loss. A large hand comes to your throat, pressing, forcing you upright as he drips soap down your back. Left hand still at your throat, his right scrubs in the soap. The moan that leaves you is humiliating but, fuck, this feels so good.

You finish washing completely and you’ve never been more eager to rinse off – practically rushing under the water which makes him chuckle. As you’re rinsing, he washes up too and you can’t help but stare at his body.

When towel-drying, you notice he’s under the shower spigot, hand pumping around his cock as he stares at you. Your stomach flips at the attention.

“Now,” you hear his voice barely there over the hum of the shower. “Get on my bed; ass in the air. Wait for me.”

You want to protest, but you know he’s got powers and that probably won’t end well for you. Instead, you slip on your boots and try to find your way back through the maze of hallways to his room.

You hadn’t been alone in a room since you got here. The noises of the factory are pretty alarming and you can’t help but let your mind wander to the zombie-like creature you’d seen on the bridge yesterday.

Shaking off the memory, you seat yourself on his bed, kick off your boots. The sheets are still messy from last night. Letting your naked body settle and relax, you feel a chill of arousal run through you at the thought of Heisenberg’s return.

Footsteps down the hallway startle you; you’re unsure if you should cover up in case it’s someone else or do as you’re told and put your ass in the air for him.

You do the latter because you’re worried about what metal pieces could go flying in this room if you don’t follow orders.

“Mmmm good girl,” he hums as he steps in the room, your ass on display for him.

Seven steps toward the bed and it’s shifting with his weight. Rough hands grip your hips as he positions and shoves his still-hard dick back inside you.

“Fuck, still hard for me?” you tease.

All you earn is a soft grunt. “Lay down.”

You follow orders, mentally preparing for something intense.

Instead, he lays too, pulling you against him in an almost-spooning position. And he just lays there. Impatiently, you start struggling against him but he’s too strong and merely holds you in place without much effort.

“Really?”

He chuckles against your hair as he presses a kiss to the back of your head.

“You’re gonna learn, kitten.” At his words, you whine and try to fight out of his grip. “So damn feisty…” He’s got you tight against him. “I’ve got all night, buttercup, keep moving…” at his tone, you halt. “That’s what I thought. Bad girl. Sixty second count…for now. Go.”

Your punishment. Sixty tantalizing seconds later, you’re sweeping your fingers across his forearm that he’s got draped over your body. His fingers twitch to life, dance across your flesh, meander between your legs.

Your head is thrown back against him as you moan when he relentlessly massages your clit.

“Aw, you like that? I’m not even moving my cock in and out of you and you’re purring just from my fingers? So good for me. So fucking good…”

Still, he refuses to move. You tense your pelvic floor just to see what he’ll do. He breaks for a moment, inadvertently rutting against you at the tension of your muscles around his cock.

“You bitch,” he growls. “240 count.”

“W-what!?” You’re breathless, so overwhelmed with this need he’s instilled.

“You heard me,” is his reply.

As you count, he doesn’t remove his fingers from your clit and the pressure is overwhelming. You’ve never felt this desperate in your life.

His mouth comes down to your neck; gently, careful. “You skipped 84,” he informs you. “Start again.”

Tears prickle in your eyes as you throw your head back, hitting against his chest in frustration.

“Listen. You’re gonna work for this orgasm. You got me?”

Nodding slowly, you begin your count again.

And he starts playing with your clit again around the 190 mark, your body involuntarily bucking against him.

He tuts at you, huffing a laugh out.

“Again, kid? Jesus.”

His hand leaves you momentarily and you feel him stir behind you. Not daring to look, you close your eyes and take a breath now that his fingers are off your clit.

He’s lit a cigar and with a flick the lighter gets tossed across the room.

“Why aren’t you counting?” he says in his next exhale.

You nod, starting at one again while he puffs on his cigar and stirs slightly, shifting his still-hard cock just enough to make you antsy. The hot ashes sting as you continue your count and before you’re done, he’s got his fingers barely grazing your clit again. Soft breaths between numbers, you hold back a moan when he tenses inside of you. He waits, but you keep counting.

He’s clearly trying to break your concentration now that you’ve hit the 200 mark. The open-mouthed kisses against your neck, the sounds he’s making, his hand roaming over your body, the burn mark he leaves from his cigar…

“Two hundred forty,” it’s huffed and breathless, but you manage it.

Heisenberg lets out a laugh against your neck. “Wow. You’re quite determined, huh?”

Without warning, he slips out of you, kneels, pulls your legs toward him so they rest on his shoulders. Cigar in his mouth, he slides his hands underneath your ass and lifts your hips so he can glide his cock back inside you.

Heisenberg groans with his head thrown back as you buck up toward him. The cigar goes toppling down onto your belly, burning where it lands. The sensation makes you seethe at first.

“Leave it,” he demands, watching the pain fade to pleasure as he starts rutting into you.

You’re lost in the ecstasy, totally incapable of any thought other than hoping he lets you cum soon. There’s nothing in this place but him and you, nothing to distract or undermine. He’s all hands, all open-mouthed kisses and tongue trailing across skin. He’s taking you in this time, enjoying your body, not just trying to get off like last night.

Your climax is abrupt, surprising the both of you and leaving you clawing and gasping. As your walls clench around his cock, he moans out a string of words, but your ears are ringing so loud.

You’re barely catching your breath when he pulls your hair, takes the cigar off your skin, ashes it on the ground, inhales.

Smoke billows from out of his nostrils as he says, “ride my cock” and you feel your cunt clench him tighter.

Heisenberg lays back then, focuses on his cigar, really wants you to work for him as you slide down onto his shaft. It’s the first time he’s let you on top and, honestly, you’re focused on getting him off (even though the angle he’s hitting you at is perfect.)

You press your chest to his, kiss at his neck as you raise your hips, pulling him from you – barely the tip inside at this point. With the faintest movements, you shift your hips to tease his tip.

“Ohhh, you little minx. Think you’re cute, just the tip?” he hums a laugh.

You slink down his cock slowly, rutting him deep for a while, listening to his manly growls. He’s putting out the cigar on the wall behind him before he grips your hips and shoves you down harder with every movement.

“Fuck, Karl, I want you to cum…”

He smirks, “Yeah? Want me to paint you like one of my French girls?” he laughs at his own joke. “Or should I fill up this nice cunt?”

You whine. “Whatever you want, Heisenberg.”

“You’re mine, kitten. Don’t forget it.”

Without a second thought, you shift from your knees to a crouch over him, giving you better leverage to bounce on his cock. The unexpected change makes him cuss. The power behind every thrust sends shockwaves through you.

Ears ringing, you hold your breath until you notice a loud clanging around you. When you look around, you see all of the metal in the room is shaking. One glance at Heisenberg beneath you, you realize he’s staring, pupils blown wide, lips parted as he pants. The sounds coming from him are making you even wetter…

Fingers bruising you, he grabs a handful of your ass and forces you to move at his pace. Face smashed against his chest, you hear his moaning and breaths before feeling him shoot his load into you again.

The noise from the metal in the room stops as the pieces shoot in all directions, clanging to the walls. You hadn’t expected to dodge sawblades and gears as you’re getting fucked but here you are.

Heisenberg is a panting, sweaty mess under you. His lips cup around your ear, nibbling a bit as he hums your name – breathy, exhausted.

You don’t want to get off him, don’t want this to end, but the way you two have been going since you met, you know it’s only a matter of time before he’s ready again.

It’s all you’ve done since you arrived, really, and a part of you wonders if this whole plaything is a cover. Does he really want companionship? Or is it a farce?

When you flop down beside him, he keeps a hand gripping at your hip. Protective, maybe, but you take it as controlling. And it’s sort of a comfort to you in this place. Memories of the church and those siblings of his – the monstrous things he’s told you they’d do to you…

You lucked out, so you imagine.

Heisenberg’s eyelids are heavy, his breathing even as you both lay there. You wonder how long it’s been since he’s slept. You’re pretty sure even when you dozed off last night, he’d gone to tinker with something on his desk.

He still hasn’t told you what his plans are for you and it’s starting to make you believe he doesn’t have any. Other than this.

There’s a version of you in this daydream that wants to stay here, with him. You don’t want to feel the way you did before you came here.

“So, what’s life like – where you’re from?” he ghosts a caress over your lower abdomen, watching your body tense from the tickling sensation.

“Empty.”

He blinks over at you, just stares.

“You’re-you’re joking,” he waves it off. “Surely being out of a village like this, you’d have things to fill your time.”

You shrug. “My career’s caused a lot of issues in my personal life. I’ve…missed out on so much.”

“Oh, pity to you,” he rolls his eyes, still not getting up.

It’s probably a defense mechanism, probably a way to keep his mind from going deeper into that hurt. Though his words are harsh, his eyes take you in again, examine you, as if in a new light.

“So, what you’re saying is, this place is a vacation for you.”

“Given the current circumstances,” you look at your bodies draped together, “I’d say yes.”

“Huh,” he laughs. “Mother always said the pretty ones are fucked up.”

You don’t know if you should be flattered or offended.

“This’s been real fun, kitten, but Daddy’s got work to do.” He goes to sit up, swings his legs over the edge of the bed, finally lets go of your hip.

“And what should I do?”

He raises a brow. “Oh, you? I’m not letting you out of my sight. You think I trust you in this place by yourself? Probably make some grand escape. And we can’t have that, now can we?”

“You can trust me,” you insist.

He barks out a laugh. “You would say that.”

“Heisenberg, I told you: I want out of BSAA. If that’s something you’re holding against me-”

“You act as if I’ve put much thought into that,” he pulls his pants on, shoves his feet in his boots. “Playthings don’t need a backstory,” he speaks pointedly. “Now get dressed.”

He leaves the room.

He’s so difficult to read. One minute he’s asking about life outside of the village, the next he’s pushing you away.

The only clothes you have are your torn up pants, your boots, and one of his shirts. Tentatively, you get dressed and meander into the hallway.

“Step back,” his voice calls from down the hall.

Your body responds too slow and in seconds, a beast is running at you; its left arm a drill. It’s like your body is in slow motion – barely letting you register what’s happening – until Heisenberg uses his power to pull the metal maniac backward.

Metal pieces go flying everywhere – clearly, he’s broken something.

With the thing on the ground, you don’t know whether to approach Heisenberg or revert deeper into the bedroom.

“Get your ass over here.” Though his words are menacing, his voice is soft, almost exhausted.

Like a frightened animal, you slowly approach him, keeping as much distance between you and the metal thing as possible.

“Do you always break everything you touch?” he hums close to your ear.

You think he must like the look of you in his shirt because he’s thumbing over the material, nipping at the skin on your neck, his facial hair scratching against you in the most arousing way.

“I’m sorry, Karl.”

He groans, almost a laugh punctuating it. “You’re not,” he whispers. “But you will be.”

You should be scared, should be experiencing whiplash from the change in demeanor from two minutes ago in the bedroom. Instead, you’re clinging to his jacket, moaning at the sound of his gloved hand smacking your ass.

The creature moves, but he shifts his hand and the thing stays down as if magnetized to the floor.

You’re completely worked up again, noting his half-hard cock pressing against your hip as you stand in the hall with him.

“Bad kitty,” he whispers beside your ear. “You any good with a screwdriver?”

#karl heisenberg #heisenberg #karl heisenberg x reader #karl heisenberg x you #heisenberg x reader #heisenberg x you #smut #fem!reader

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svtskneecaps · 4 years

Text

Number 17

Vernon Chwe x (gender netural) reader

Words: 5048

Genre: fluff, some pining (does pining count as angst?)

neighbor! childhood friend! aus

you’re feeling the summer listlessness. vernon helps you find something to do

day 35 of a tct summer collab

(holy shit guys i’ve been excited to post this since like, MAY holy shit i hope y’all enjoy reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it)

(my masterlist)

You shot him a text. Very simple.

vernon i’m going crazy

He shot a text back. Very simple.

why

why do you think? you ask. i don’t know what to do

it’s summer, he says, you can do anything. for example, i’m lying in bed enjoying myself

it’s 1 pm

it’s summer

Who are you to argue with that?

i’m still going crazy. you might be able to stay in bed all day but i’m gonna go insane

so find something to do

i can’t, you say, because it’s true.

all year you were listing hundreds of things you would do when you got the time

i know, you say, i know. but it’s like, now i have the time, but i just feel paralyzed. i don’t know what to do

And you wait for a response and none comes for long enough that you worry you said something that was too weird even for him, but then your screen goes dark and your phone buzzes and his contact is on screen. You answer and his messy bedhead fills your screen.

“You want me to decide?” he asks, and his voice is rough like he just woke up.

“Sure,” you say.

“Try baking something,” he says. “Like chocolate chip cookies or a pie or something.”

“You’re just saying that because you want to eat it.”

“Absolutely,” he mumbles, face still half buried in his pillow. “I can grab a quick shower and come over just in time for the taste test.”

You snicker. “No way, you don’t have the palette for a taste test.”

“Alright, then I’ll put them in the oven and we’ll hit up a couple friends and force them to try it.”

And. . . honestly that doesn’t sound half bad. It’s been five days since you saw anyone outside your immediate family--which is suffocating in its loneliness, after the routine closeness of the year--and maybe that’ll make you feel less paralyzed.

“Okay,” you say.

True to his word, Vernon’s over within thirty minutes, leaning his bike up against yours in the garage. He handles the oven for you, although not without teasing you about the time you burned yourself on the top of the oven while taking out your grandma’s angel food cake at Christmas.

“Well at least I helped you remember how coordinates work,” you say, because you both knew that was the reason you two learned whether to move on the x or y axis so much faster than your classmates.

“At least I know how to keep my skin intact,” he shoots back.

While taking the tray out of the oven he very nearly blisters his thumb and drops the tray; after securing the tray’s safety and running cold water over the blister, once your heartbeat returns to something acceptable, you inform him that instead of cookies he’ll be eating his words, to which he responds with, “At least my words taste good,” and you snap him with the towel. He flicks water at you, and only the fear of having even more to clean up keeps you from starting all out war. You tell him to bring his swimsuit over tomorrow, though. There’s mischief in his eyes as he agrees.

You each balance a tupperware of cooled cookies on your handlebars as you coast through the neighborhood, knocking on doors and handing them out to friends and friends’ parents. Minghao takes three. Seungkwan’s mother trades you two bottles of water, fresh from the fridge, for a cookie and first dibs on the next batch. She takes another one and says it’s to give to Seungkwan when he gets home from acting camp, but winks when she says it. You snap Seungkwan the picture of his mom with the cookie, and he snaps back a picture of himself and Jun making dorky faces demanding you save a few for them because make no mistake we will be swinging by your house when we’re done for the day and we expect cookies you two!

Jeonghan and Joshua aren’t home, but you find them all hanging out in Seungcheol’s pool. Jeonghan asks why you aren’t selling your cookies. “Because this is the taste test,” Vernon says. “We’ll be getting you hooked on this batch and then start charging ten bucks on the next round.” Jeonghan praises your business sense and takes a bite out of Seungcheol’s cookie while he isn’t looking. Seungcheol tackles him into the pool and you leave before the ensuing splash fight can get the cookies wet.

True to their word, Jun pulls into the driveway with Seungkwan in the passenger’s seat and Mingyu in the backseat (they must’ve agreed to carpool with Mingyu after his cooking workshop), and you get nervous because Mingyu’s going to college for baking and everyone knows that out of the group Mingyu is the best cook, but Vernon presents him with a cookie no hesitation and Mingyu tells you they’re amazing, and Vernon gives you this smile as if to say, see, nothing to worry about.

Wednesday, Vernon comes over with his swimsuit and you make a pair of rudimentary signs for a car wash out of an old cardboard box. His is very simple, bubble letters with the address and CAR WASH in all caps. You tried to get a little creative with yours.

“I love it,” Vernon says, crouched next to you as you hover over your sign. “You can almost hear the cloud cow saying ‘graphic design is my passion’.”

You push his shoulder hard enough that he topples over, laughing. “It’s supposed to be a soapy car!”

He’s so proud of himself for that joke that he suggests you start a car wash company instead of going to college. “You can call it Clean Mooters,” he says, as you’re filling your buckets.

You blast him with the hose and he laughs so hard he snorts.

You spend the day covered in soap and water, spraying Vernon with the hose if there isn’t a car to wash and shrieking and trying to dance around behind him every time he gets the hose from you. When the cars stop coming you pack up shop, uprooting the signs and taking them inside, tossing them in the recycling bin.

Thursday it’s raining outside. Vernon comes over anyway. You call him an idiot. “Don’t you know the rain’ll rust your bike?”

He shrugs with a half smile, shrugging off a raincoat that now has a strip of mud up the back where his tires kicked up the dirty street water. “There’s only a hundred and four days of summer vacation,” he says. “I didn’t want to miss one.”

You seize his coat and toss it in the sink, bowing your head to scrub off the mud so he doesn’t see how red your cheeks have become.

You play Mario Kart on the Wii for most of the day (Vernon hits you with a red shell right before you cross the finish line; you hip check him off Rainbow Road), and even as out of practice as the both of you have become over the school year, you’re still pretty well matched. By the time you get bored with that, your mom has texted to say she’s going to need to stay at work a little longer and you might be on your own for dinner. That’s fine, you and Vernon try out a recipe for lasagna that you found on a food blog (buried under the woman’s lengthy story of the time her husband nearly got stomped by a cow. “It’s a sign,” Vernon says, “Clean Mooters is your true calling.” You’d hit him if you weren’t very carefully adding a layer of sauce).

It’s still raining when Vernon has to leave. You stand there, just outside the cover of the garage, watching Vernon shrug on his raincoat.

“You’re gonna get soaked,” he says.

“You say that like I care,” you say, rain beginning to drip down your hair.

He steps out of the garage then, too, standing next to you. You turn your face to the sky, closing your eyes against the heavy drops that splatter against your cheeks.

“You’re gonna catch your death.”

“Says the guy who’s wearing a raincoat with the hood down.” You shove his chest without looking. He catches your hands. You look down.

Your eyes meet.

Vernon drops your hands and coughs. You reach up to brush the water from your forehead, gaze on the ground as your face burns, despite the cool rainwater still sliding down your cheeks.

“I, um, I should go,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say. “See you.”

He hops on his bike and rides away. The rain falls so hard you lose sight of him before he rounds the corner.

Saturday the whole team gets together at Jeonghan’s house, because he has a firepit. Seungkwan is standing on the picnic table when you ride up, in the middle of a dramatic retelling of some odd thing that happened at acting camp. He appears to be fencing Vernon with an imaginary sword, and you can only imagine the context of that story. You don’t announce yourself, for fear of making one of them fall off, and help Wonwoo get the food from the kitchen. Mingyu is already getting set up at the grill (despite being one of the youngest, he’s the only one any parent trusts near the grill; previous block barbeques have ended in disaster that no one’s eager to repeat). Minghao is by the firepit, holding the lighter very tightly, either to keep it away from Soonyoung or to ensure he’s the one to start the fire.

Seungkwan jumps down from the table when Jihoon tells him to, although he continues telling his story in an enthusiastic yell. Vernon meets your eyes and grins, flicking his eyes at Seungkwan like you’re sharing an inside joke like normal, and you can almost forget that moment in the rain ever happened.

Nearby, Jeonghan is filling a plastic baby pool with water. You ask him what it’s for but he just grins and tells you it’s a secret. When it comes to Jeonghan that’s usually cause for concern, but also you’re itchy inside your skin and all you did Friday was pick out a couple songs on the old piano your great grandmother left your family and no matter what the adventure you’re down for it, so you leave him to it. It’s the first bonfire of the summer. You can handle anything.

They get the fire started before Mingyu finishes grilling, the smell of the meat wafting over the yard and making your stomach rumble. Unfortunately, they misjudged the wind direction and half of the chairs are directly in the path of the smoke. There’s a lot of complaining as people rush to shift their chairs out of the way. Vernon ends up next to you in the scramble. You aren’t complaining; now you get to tease him about the way he seasons his food and he’ll tease you back about your tendency to drown your burgers in ketchup.

(except you don’t; you eat quietly and neither of you bring up the other’s habits and somewhere deep down that scares you)

When the sun goes down, Jeonghan and Joshua bring out the alcohol, and everyone who’s old enough drinks.

The baby pool, Jeonghan says, is for the losers of the tournament. The tournament, he says, is simple. And for pairs.

The first challenge is a wheelbarrow race down the street. You thought you and Vernon had a pretty good chance of winning, but then, by some divine magic, Jihoon and Mingyu shoot off and cross the finish line miles before everyone else. Half the group calls bologna because come on they’ve got just about the biggest height difference between them, out of everyone, but Joshua was reffing the starting line and didn’t see any false starts; they won fair and square.

The second challenge is hula hooping. You don’t have much hope for your score, not because you’re bad at hula hooping, but because you’re bad at hula hooping when Vernon is right next to you and also hula hooping. You end up laughing so hard that you lose your hoop within three spins, but in the end it doesn’t matter, because Vernon can carry the team score to victory.

“Who needs eight years of gymnastics?” he asks, and you beam.

The third challenge is a ‘who knows their partner the best’ challenge. Jeonghan put together a list of questions, which he and Joshua list off and give time for each partner to write down both their answer and what they think their partner put. You’re a little scared; you’ve known Vernon for as long as you can remember but sometimes you wonder if you really know him like you think you do. The questions aren’t so bad, simply asking what your partner’s favorite clothing brand is, or what time they get up in the morning, or what they think of pineapple on pizza. You breeze through the questions, until the last one. Joshua lists the final question, which member of the group is their favorite?

Your answer is simple enough, but you aren’t sure of his. Sure, you partnered up, but Seungkwan had all but thrown himself directly at Wonwoo when Jeonghan sent you off to partner and you knew Vernon and Seungkwan had known each other long before you had talked to anyone in the neighborhood or gone to a barbeque or slotted yourself into the dynamic of the block, and you knew he and Joshua had a special sort of friendship because of their similar heritage and you just didn’t know for sure what he would put (especially after the strange moment in the rain; you weren’t sure what it meant and you weren’t sure you wanted to know).

Eventually you write Seungkwan’s name on the sheet and hand the paper to Jeonghan when he comes around to collect. You fidget with your fingers as they tally up the scores. Next to you, Seokmin hops up to either get into a passionate debate with Soonyoung over what his true favorite movie is or to maybe just tackle Soonyoung into the grass. Either way, Vernon slides into his empty chair.

“So what’d you put for number seven?” he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what he means. “Clean Mooters,” you say.

He pumps his fist. “I knew you’d see the light eventually!”

“Well I did get the most tips,” you tease.

“Well of course,” he says, “you’re the best looking, it’s only natural.”

Jeonghan calls out that they’ve tallied up the scores before you can process the full implications of that sentence.

You win that round too. Joshua hands the sheets back, and you carefully fold yours and shove it in your pocket.

You play a few more rounds: the chubby bunny challenge (Mingyu crammed an ungodly amount of marshmallows in his mouth, you almost wanted to go to church after seeing that; he kept going even after he won, until he almost choked and Joshua shut him down), the perfect s’more challenge (which you suspect was just an excuse for Jeonghan to get s’mores without having to make them; Mingyu’s first marshmallow slid off his stick, and the second caught fire; Seungcheol and Chan ended up winning and Seokmin called nepotism), the long jump (Soonyoung got overexcited and misjudged his landing; he landed hard on the cement and although he was totally fine, he would ask Jeonghan at random intervals for bonus points because of his injury with a shit eating grin all the while), and finally, a game of hide and seek.

The hide and seek rules are simple; they’ve been the same since you were old enough to be outside after sunset: don’t go off the block, don’t go inside, don’t leave your partner, and don’t use a light. The tournament judges give you thirty seconds head start. You and Vernon take off down the street and the thrill of the game sings through your bloodstream.

“Think they’ll think to look for us up Mrs. Boo’s tree?” Vernon asks as you run.

“Yeah, you remember Seungcheol did that once and Jeonghan’s never forgotten it, it’s the first place he’ll look.” You pass Chan and Seungcheol as they try to conceal themselves behind the Christmas decorations that Mr. Wilkinson still hasn’t taken down. “Mrs. Kim’s porch?”

“No, she’s got her light on.”

You skid to a halt at the end of the street, chests heaving, both casting around for a hiding space. Down the street, Joshua is beginning to yell, counting down from 10. Vernon tugs your sleeve, and points.

You grin.

Moments later, you resettle the plastic lid onto the box, burying yourselves carefully under the tarp inside and setting a few bricks on your backs for good measure. Mr. Lee is upgrading his yard this summer, and one addition is planned to be a brick footpath, and thankfully he left the tote of bricks out where you could get to it. Holding the tarp firmly in place, with the bricks above you for insurance, if they open the tote and decide to slap the tarp, you would just feel like a full box of footpath bricks.

Perfect.

Of course, it’s a pretty small space and you and Vernon have to lie pretty close to one another in order to fit, and your foot presses against his shin and his elbow is in your stomach, but if you lay there and don’t breathe, you’ll have the game in the bag.

“So,” Vernon says, voice so soft it’s sometimes hardly more than a breath, “what’d you put for number seventeen?”

You think back. “Vernon there was no number seventeen.”

“No?” he asks, with a tone like he’d always known. “Guess I’ll have to make one up.”

You snort, very softly. In the distance, yelling breaks out; Soonyoung and Seokmin just got found.

“How do you feel about long distance relationships?” he asks, so softly you nearly miss it.

Your heart skips a beat. You’re pretty sure he’s implying something but you aren’t sure if it should scare you or not. “I think they’re hard,” you say carefully. “Not impossible. But it takes work from both sides. So it’s hard.”

You hear him inhale like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t, and you feel the breeze from his exhale on your face. Neither of you speak, and you aren’t sure if it’s because you’re listening hard for the seekers or because you have nothing left to say.

The lid of the tote scrapes. You stop breathing. Jeonghan says something above you, drowned out by the beating of your heart. He pulls the lid off, and the moonlight filtering through the pinholes in the tarp might as well be a searchlight after the darkness.

Vernon’s face is inches from yours.

You blink, feeling like your eyelashes will brush his face with the motion. They don’t. Jeonghan pokes the tarp, hitting one of the bricks lying on your side. Apparently satisfied, he closes the lid. His footsteps recede.

Vernon’s face is still burned into your eyes like a sunspot.

He was staring at your lips.

You end up losing hide and seek, despite your perfect spot, because Minghao and Jun somehow managed to get onto Jeonghan’s roof (nobody’s managed to guess how and the pair smugly refuse to tell). The tournament ends with only Seungkwan and Wonwoo having not won any challenges. They change into swimsuits and dunk themselves in the baby pool, and then sprint back across the lawn to their towels yelling about the cold (you put a finger in; it wasn’t nearly as bad as when Jeonghan had filled it).

Vernon stops you before you get on your bike to get home.

“I’m. . . gonna be out of town for a couple weeks,” he says, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I can still facetime, but probably only in the mornings and evenings.”

“Okay,” you say, even as your heart sinks (he’s never been away this long).

“Yeah,” he says, and you stand there beside your bikes, looking at each other, like you’re both a little lost in what to do. His eyes keep flicking to your lips.

“So what’d you put for number seventeen?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t hesitate. “I think it could work,” he says, voice as soft as it was in the tote, and you find yourself leaning in to listen. “Easily, even, if it was someone as special as--”

He goes quiet. “As?” you prompt.

He shakes his head. “Someone special,” he says.

You haven’t drank at all but something still buzzes in your veins. It’s the first Saturday bonfire of the summer, and moon floats above the horizon like a glowing balloon, and a warm breeze caresses your skin, and you don’t feel afraid of anything.

“I guess it could work easy,” you say, “if it was someone like you.”

He stares at you long enough that you think maybe you overstepped and your cheeks start to heat and you duck your head and step back with something like an apology and--

--his lips crash into yours.

You don’t know if the kiss lasts for three seconds or three hours. All you know is when you break for breath, you find yourself caught in his eyes, the same familiar deep brown as you’ve seen for years growing up through schools and summers and camps and sleepovers, lying on the floor of the living room and whispering about movies and grades like they were the most important thing in the world.

And then you blink and the world unfreezes and he mumbles something about a curfew and you mumble something about your mom and as if pulled by the same strings you mount your bikes and pedal off in opposite directions.

You lie awake for hours, thinking about his eyes.

You facetime at any and all available hours. You find yourself staying up later to be able to catch him on a lunch break. And it’s hard, but you do it. Because, look, everyone on the block has known that his parents want him to go to Korea for college, and that he wants to go to Korea for college. For years you’ve known this moment was coming. And he’s only going to be there a couple weeks for some kind of tour he landed because his grandmother knows a guy who knows a gal who’s related to a guy who used to babysit for the guy on the school board, or something, and then he’ll come back and you can spend the remainder of the summer doing whatever.

Until then, you’re content to wake up earlier just to get an hour chatting with him before he goes to sleep. You show him all the pages you’ve marked in your mom’s old recipe book and tell him when he gets back you’ll make a couple and sell them for profit. You draw an official logo for Clean Mooters, and he suggests you add a restaurant as a side business that you two could run for extra profit. “Clean Mooters and Good Burgers,” he says, and then says, “No that’s terrible. I’ll keep thinking.”

“Are you the whole Clean Mooters marketing team?” you ask.

“Of course,” he says. “We both know all the business sense went to me.” And he smiles and you forget how to breathe.

You don’t talk about the kiss.

One time, he calls you, and your eyes swoop to check the time, because you know it’s crazy late where he is. You answer.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says before you get a word out, and his voice is hoarse and it twists your stomach. “Can you-- just tell me about your new project?”

And you do; you’ve taken up crochet this week and your grandma gave you a couple pointers and you do your best calming ASMR voice as you repeat her pointers and what you plan to do to build your skill, and then end up going off on a tangent on whether Clean Mooters should have a gift shop selling cow merchandise (“It would make sense, there are a lot of cows around here.”) and when you pause to recollect your thoughts, all you hear is his quiet breathing.

The day Vernon’s set to return is a Thursday, which is perfect, because it gives him time to recollect himself before the Saturday bonfire, which will be the real welcome back party. On Thursday, you and the other kids on the block draw all over the street and then, when his flight is late and the sun goes down before he gets to the street, assemble to hold flashlights over the really good stuff. You only see his smile for a few brief seconds as the car goes past, but it’s enough to make your heart swell.

Friday you wake up to a knock on your bedroom door. “Hey, up and at ‘em, it’s noon!” Vernon calls through the door.

You groan and throw an arm over your face. “Says the guy who was still in bed at one pm that whole first week!”

“Yeah, and it was heaven. Come on, you get up fast enough and I’ll buy you a donut.”

You get dressed and meet him downstairs. “Try that again and I’ll convince my mom to rehide the spare key,” you threaten.

He just grins. “I’d be able to find it.” He picks up your bike helmet. “You want to get out of the neighborhood with me?”

You’d rob a bank if it was with him. “Absolutely.”

It’s a rush to be back on your bike, both of you pedaling faster and faster to try to be in front, weaving around the cars parked on the streetside and hopping the curb just to prove you can. Last week’s project was learning to ride a bike no handed and you show off the new skill as often as you can.

You go everywhere and nowhere. You hit up the mall and he buys you a donut and you wander the halls window shopping, and he buys a whole rainbow set of tinted glasses just because they looked cool; you break open the package the minute you own them and check out your reflection in the store window.

“We look ridiculous,” you say, adjusting the red pair so they sit better on your face.

“Speak for yourself,” Vernon says, turning to see himself from different angles. “I think purple’s exactly my color.”

You shove the blue pair on over the red, even though they barely fit on your nose, and stick your tongue out at him. “There, now we match.”

He puts on another pair of glasses and it turns into a competition of who can wear the most, and then into who can wear the most without getting a headache. That second winner was Vernon, but you won the first half.

You hit up the McDonalds in the food court and get the large cup for a dollar, and then go down the drink machine and hit it with just a quick blast of each, repeated over and over until the cup was full. It tastes like a mess of conflicting sugars and syrups. You drink the whole thing through separate straws. You can’t stop glancing at his lips. Your faces are so close.

You get ice cream and sit under the bridge over the creek to eat it, watching the sun go down somewhere downstream, listening to the cars whizzing past overhead.

“I missed you,” Vernon says.

“I missed you too,” you say, even though that doesn’t convey the half of it.

“During the school year--” He stops, and you glance over to see him staring into the sunset, his ice cream melting toward his fingers.

You take his free hand. “It’ll be hard, not being close for so long,” you say. “But-- we could do it. I’m not just going to stop talking to you because I have classes and-- you know how my sleep schedule gets during the year.”

He laughs, softly, lacing your fingers together. “I’ll be able to call and tell you to go to bed without you turning it on me.”

“Damn.” You scowl at your feet. “Didn’t think about that. You sure you can’t just go to Europe instead?”

“Nope,” he says. “You’re going to have to find a new defense.”

You sigh. “But Vernon that one’s worked since we were fourteen.”

“It never worked!”

“Yes it did because then it got you on the defensive instead!”

“But you still went to sleep when I hung up, didn’t you?”

Double damn. He’s right and you know he knows it, from the raised eyebrow look he’s giving you as he catches the ice cream that’s melting around the edges of his cone.

“. . . That’s entirely beside the point.”

He just grins. You bury your face in your ice cream cone, trying to devour the rest in a single bite to avoid the urge to pout. Of course, all that really does is get ice cream all over your face, but whatever. When you look back at him, he’s still looking at you, his eyes soft and fond and damn but you’re going to miss him like a lung when he’s gone.

“You’ve got a little something there,” he says, and you make a face at him to maybe hide how very obviously whipped you are and do your best to wipe it off with the pile of napkins you snatched.

“Better?”

“No, it’s still--” and he scoots in, and you both go really quiet as he wipes the ice cream from your cheek. His thumb traces your lip.

“You know,” you say, very softly, “if you wanted to kiss me you could’ve just asked.”

His eyes blink up to meet yours, and red tints his cheeks, but he still smiles. “Okay,” he says. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yeah.”

Your ice cream melts. (“It’s okay,” Vernon says, “I’ll buy you another.”)

#caratwritersclub #a tct summer #seventeen #hansol vernon chwe #seventeen au #vernon au #vernon #seventeen scenarios #vernon scenario #vernon imagines #seventeen imagines #seventeen fluff #vernon fluff

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ghost-in-the-hella · 3 years

Note

If you are still taking prompts, and were so inclined, 47 for Gideon the Ninth!

I am always so inclined. Enjoy this... this thing. Gets a bit rude because, well, Gideon.

47. “You look like hell.”

---

“You look like hell.”

Gideon startles at the sound of Coronabeth Tridentarius actually speaking to her. She sounds more intrigued than judgemental, as if hell were an exotic travel destination she’s not yet been to but is eager to learn more about. Gideon is, not for the first time, grateful for her affected vow of silence as all possibility of coherent thought abandons her tongue. She would surely be a stuttering gay mess if she tried to speak to a woman as beautiful as this particular princess of Ida. With her feigned vow, she can still pull off the “strong but silent” affect and at least somewhat salvage the impression of being a suave badass who’s great with the ladies.

Or she could if she weren’t currently a panting, heaving, sweat drenched, bone dust coated, blood smeared, tattered mess.

It figures that Harrow doesn’t even have to be in the same room with Gideon to have completely ruined her game. Gideon draws herself up to her full height and squares her shoulders - fighting the urge to slump into an exhausted heap on the floor - and straightens her crooked aviators. She hopes that her face paint is still a badass skull and not a runny mess of gray; they’re not big on mirrors down in the facility. Her spine stiffens as Coronabeth steps toward her, smiling like they’re sharing a secret, and brushes one perfect hand lightly at each of Gideon’s shoulders, scattering fine chips of bone onto the floor.

“Poor thing,” Coronabeth purrs, locking Gideon in place with intense eye contact even through her shades. “Your necro’s really running you ragged, isn’t she?”

The last thing Gideon wants to talk about while a beautiful woman is touching her - actually touching her! Okay, touching the shoulders of her robes, but still! - is her screeching ferret of a necromancer. Her distaste must show in her expression even through the caked on layers of sweaty paint because Coronabeth chuckles prettily and squeezes her shoulder - Gideon tenses her sick delts reflexively, desperate to please - and gives her a conspiratorial smirk. “That’s alright. I won’t ask you to divulge any forbidden secrets about the Ninth House or the trials.” She runs clever fingers around the hem of Gideon’s hood - a rumpled heap around her neck, having fallen down as she heaved herself up the ladder from the facility in a hurry to get herself to a sonic - and winks suggestively enough that Gideon swallows hard. “She really must be putting you through the ringer. You know, I feel quite sorry for you cavs sometimes. So much is asked of you, and you get so little in return…”

Gideon has passed out. Surely, this must be what has happened. She’ll wake up in her nest of black blankets with a dirty magazine glued to her face by skull paint and drool, completely covered in sticky notes blackened with Harrowhark’s vitriol. Because it sure as hell feels like Coronabeth - Coronabeth Tridentarius, crown Princess of Ida, hottest necromancer this side of the funny books - is flirting with her. With her. Gideon Nav, indentured servant of the Ninth, perpetually demeaned cavalier primary to her lifelong nemesis, hottest cavalier in history to never touch a boob that wasn’t her own. With her stupid, itchy black robes that still smell faintly of Ortus Nigenad’s flop sweat no matter how many times they’re laundered, with her overgrown and uncombed hair all full of cobwebs and bone dust, with her half-melted face paint of a creepy fucking skull not quite concealing her latest acne outbreak. So there’s no fucking way that this isn’t some delightful dream inspired by too many titty mags before bedtime.

Coronabeth’s hand slides down from Gideon’s shoulder, gliding down the length of her arm - trailing over the firm roundness of her deltoid, the jaw-dropping perfection of her biceps, the corded extensor muscles of her forearms - down to seize her calloused hand with her own surprisingly strong one. “I think you deserve something in return. Don’t you?”

Okay. New thought. Maybe Gideon hasn’t passed out, but she’s probably going to if Coronabeth keeps touching her like this.

Gideon nods very carefully, trying not to let any drool drop from her mouth.

Coronabeth’s smile is as bright as Dominicus. She tugs Gideon’s hand and leads her down an unfamiliar hallway. Gideon follows obediently despite her necromancer’s warnings ringing in her head, shrieking at her to trust no one. Well, Gideon figures, if she’s a lamb being led to the slaughter, at least she’ll die happy. A girl’s holding her hand! Flirting with her! Smiling at her! Touching her muscles!

Much to Gideon’s surprise, she is not promptly jumped and flesh magicked to death upon entry to the Third’s quarters. In fact, as far as she can tell, she’s alone in them with Coronabeth. Sure, she had to offer up a bit of blood to the gross ward on the door, but she’s already bleeding a little bit from her adventures in the facility anyway so that’s no biggie.

She’s relieved to note that there are two big, ostentatious beds in addition to the smaller (but no less ostentatious) cavalier bed at the foot of one. If by some miracle she does get laid today, she’d really rather it not be in a bed that Ianthe Tridentarius has also slept or - God forbid - boned in. Coronabeth hustles her past the beds (dang) toward a large and opulent bathroom. “Here, get washed up.”

A fluffy purple towel is thrust into Gideon’s hands, there’s a gentle shove at her shoulders and the click of a door shutting, and suddenly Gideon is alone in the fanciest bathroom she’s ever seen. It’s even more ridiculous than the one in the Ninth’s quarters. She catches her own reflection in the mirror and finds that she looks every inch as confused as she is. “What the fuck?” she mouths to herself.

“I don’t hear washing happening!” comes Coronabeth’s mellifluous voice sing-songing through the door.

Gideon Nav fancies herself a remarkably strong person, the kind of person who could move mountains barehanded if she set her mind to it. Apparently, she has one fatal weakness: a beautiful woman telling her to do, well, literally anything. So Gideon obligingly scours the paint off her face - Harrow’ll be furious, but Harrow’s always furious and her paint’s a mess anyway - and inspects herself once more in the mirror. Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous. Little bit of acne at the hairline and around the left nostril, bit ruddy-cheeked from over-scrubbing, but still a flawless masterpiece of hotness.

She sniffs her armpits. Pretty sweaty. Are chicks into that? If they’re going to bone (please, please, please) then won’t she get sweaty again anyway?

Wait, are they going to bone? They are, right? They’re alone in Corona’s quarters, her terrifying sister and their insufferable cav have clearly been sent away, and Corona’s super hot and bossing her around and dragging her into her bedroom (well, through her bedroom to her bathroom, but still). If this were one of Gideon’s magazines she'd already be up to her wrist, or at least majorly winning at tonsil hockey. This is literally a textbook scenario for boning.

Okay, then. It’s on. So now what? Should she brush her teeth or something? Her breath’s probably pretty rank after the morning she’s had. Should she, like… shave stuff?

“You may draw a bath, if you like,” Corona calls through the door again. “Ianthe and Babs will be gone for hours. And something tells me that you have never been pampered.”

And so Gideon ends up taking the first ever bath of her life in the gilded bathtub of the Third. She can’t bring herself to fill the tub more than a couple of inches, even though from her skin mags and her comics she knows a bath is usually filled until the person in it is all but drowning, or at least until the bubbles are tastefully covering the good bits (comics) or just barely not covering them (skin mags). She does throw in several of the weird perfumy things hanging out around the tub at Corona’s urging. By the end of it, she’s pretty sure she’s dirtier than when she stepped in except that now she’s filthy with scented soaps and salts and glittery “bath bombs” (surprisingly not that violent but also surprisingly messy) instead of sweat and blood. She scrapes and scrubs at herself and then gives her body and her clothes a good shake out in the sonic for good measure. She borrows some toothpaste and uses her finger as a toothbrush, then rinses with borrowed mouthwash.

There’s a fluffy purple and gold robe that smells a bit like Corona’s perfume and seems the right size, so even though it’s a million miles off from her usual aesthetic she consents to shrug it on. It’s impossibly soft and warm and smooth. Stops a bit short on her thighs, but presumably that won’t get any complaints.

When she steps back out into the Third’s quarters, Gideon feels strangely vulnerable without her protective layer of filth. She smells like a stranger, and her fingertips and toes are wrinkled in a weird way that she assumes has to do with the bath bombs or maybe with how hard she was scrubbing. That, or she’s picked up some freaky skin disease from the Third’s bathtub. She hopes she’s not about to die or something.

Corona looks beyond delighted to see her emerge, ruddy and steaming, from the bathing chamber in her ludicrous little bathrobe. It’s a shame that it’s short on the leg coverage and heavy on the arm coverage, since Gideon’s legs are fucking awesome but not nearly as impressive as her guns. She wants to ask what Corona has planned for her now, but her stupid oath to Harrow stays her tongue. If all goes well, Coronabeth might have a better use for her tongue than words, anyway. So instead she stands there trying to look impressive rather than panicky and overstimulated.

“Come here,” Corona beckons with an elegant finger, her eyes glittering like shards of polished amethyst. Gideon’s pretty sure that Corona’s not using any necromantic tricks on her - she knows what that shit feels like by now, and it’s vastly unpleasant - but she follows her gesture as inexorably as if Corona were looping a leash of thanergy around her throat and dragging her closer.

And then Coronabeth Tridentarius is touching her. Like, pretty much everywhere. “Hmmm, let’s see,” she murmurs thoughtfully as she palpates what feels like every trembling inch of Gideon’s being (apart from the good bits, but maybe this is what foreplay is? she’s heard of it, but her magazines usually skip straight to the main event). Instead of trying to think, Gideon focuses on feeling, which is much more in her wheelhouse.

Corona’s nimble fingers carding through her damp red locks (they could stand a trim), fingernails sending tingles through her scalp as they scratch gently against skin that’s never been touched in kindness before. Fingertips trailing down the strong line of her jaw, gently seizing her square chin and turning her face to every possible angle, her gaze as palpable as her fingers. Strong hands (how does the Princess of Ida have actual calluses on her fingers?) testing her muscles, examining her hands and paying particular attention to her fingernails (they could also stand a trim).

“You look good in my robe,” Corona announces, taking a step back and allowing Gideon to breathe for what feels like the first time since she set foot in her quarters. “Gold suits you.” She locks eyes with Gideon and quirks her lips into a subtle smirk. “Gold suits you very well.”

Gideon swallows hard, trying not to gulp audibly and concentrating on not sweating through her borrowed robe.

“Much better than black. Not that you look bad in black, mind you, but there are other colors that would be much more flattering for your lovely complexion.”

She takes Gideon by the hand and leads her over to an over-decorated table that Gideon observes is overflowing with cosmetics. “For example… Hmmm… Plum?” Corona holds up a tube of something that’s a deep, bruised purple, examining its contrast with Gideon’s skin. “Or perhaps mauve…”

Coronabeth is insatiable. Gideon is left exhausted. When she finally emerges from the Third House’s quarters (very much not laid), hours have passed and she feels as if she has run a marathon. Not from any outward exertion, but from the effort of holding still and keeping silent throughout the whole ordeal.

She is perhaps the most sexually frustrated she has ever been in her life, having never been touched by a woman (and what a woman!) so much before, or really at all before unless she counts herself or the shriveled crones of the Ninth.

She is also… well. Made over. Her hair has been combed and styled, and it reeks of hair gel almost as badly as Naberius Tern’s does on an average day. Her nails have been trimmed, filed, and buffed smooth before being painted a soft lilac and accented with shimmering gold. Her face has been rendered utterly unrecognizable; Harrowhark would likely envy the sheer amount of makeup on it if only it were in the design of a skull rather than whatever peacocky nonsense Coronabeth’s done to it. She is, at least, in her own black robes despite Coronabeth’s best efforts to get her to borrow some of Babs’s gaudy frippery.

She suspects she has, in fact, been fucked by the Third after all.

She slinks down the hall as stealthily as she can manage, thanking her lucky stars that her necro is probably half-dead in a bone or buried up to her pointy little goblin ears in ancient books or possibly both rather than being a normal, decent human being who might give a fuck where her cavalier has vanished off to for hours on end with one of her greatest rivals. She’s hoping that everyone else in Canaan House will be equally preoccupied and that she’ll be able to return to the safety of her chambers with her dignity at least partially intact when she rounds a corner and nearly faceplants directly into the solid mass of Camilla the Sixth.

Gideon draws herself up to her fullest and most imposing posture and tries to mask her humiliation as best she can. Camilla observes her cooly, but Gideon swears her fellow cav is just barely holding back a laugh.

After a small but excruciating eternity in limbo, Camilla steps aside to let Gideon dart gratefully past. Camilla casts a few words over her shoulder as Gideon passes, and they follow her burning ears all the way down the hall and back to her quarters: “You look like hell, Nav.”

#prompt fill #prompt fic #ghost writes #prompt ghost #postfuguestate #gideon the ninth #GtN #gideon nav #coronabeth tridentarius #fanfic

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sunshinejihyun · 4 years

Text

The Fool in Love Was Actually the King || Kiro

Author’s note: I’ve been needing some sweet, fluffy Kiro content lately, so I needed to deliver.

Warnings: there’s a thunderstorm? does that count as one?

Word count: 2553

Masterlist

It started off as a humid day, the type of day that made Kiro’s hair stick to his forehead and the back of his neck and the girl’s hair would have as well, except for the fact that she had already pulled it up in a small ponytail, grumbling about the weather.

Despite her sour attitude over the stickiness in the air, Kiro was still able to drag her along to the pond behind his house and got her in a boat for a little picnic while watching the large koi fish swim about.

“So,” she started, talking around a mouthful of sandwich. “What big thing are you working on next? A movie, magazine shoot? No, wait! Let me guess, an album?”

The way she got so excited over his work made Kiro’s heart warm and his stomach flip. When other people asked him about things related to his job, Kiro knew it was only because they wanted to have the insider scoop. But not her; no, she genuinely cared about him and asked because she was interested in him and what he was enjoying.

“Hmm… you must know me so well, Miss Chips!” He exclaimed, taking a swig of water as her face brightened into a beautiful smile. “Yes, I’m working on my second album. Today was the first time in weeks I’ve been able to be out of the studio!”

“And you chose to spend it with me? I’m honored!” She polished off her sandwich and there was a smudge of peanut butter on the corner of her lips. Reaching over, Kiro brushed his thumb over her soft lips and collected the peanut butter onto his thumb before popping it in his mouth and sucking it off. “K-Kiro!”

“Tasty!” He exclaimed, secretly pleased at the blush starting on her cheeks. As she stared at him speechless, Kiro felt a drop of water on his head and looked up at the darkening sky and as she raised her eyes to see what he was looking at, rain started pouring down. “Hold on, let me move the boat, we shouldn’t be out on the water if it’s going to storm!”

Kiro was too focused on rowing back to shore that he couldn’t even concentrate on the fact that she was definitely watching his muscles move underneath his tee shirt and getting flustered sitting across from him. As the boat reached the dock, Kiro got out and tied it to the pole at the end before holding his hand out to the girl, and as she took it, he relished in the warmth and softness that he found himself craving when he hadn’t seen her for a while.

Standing on the dock, one of her hands enclosed in Kiro’s, his other hand went to lightly rest on her waist. “I’ve never kissed someone in the rain before, what do you say, Miss Chips?” Although his voice came out teasing, Kiro was nervous. Sure, he had kissed the girl countless times before and didn’t want to seem eager, but he couldn’t deny that he had been craving feeling her lips against his once again and… he was a romantic; Kiro had heard that kissing in the rain was one thing you should do with the person you loved at least once, and he wanted to try it with her.

Without saying anything, she stood on her tiptoes and gently brushed her lips against his own and as she did so, Kiro’s grip on her waist tightened slightly, keeping her in place so he could kiss her longer, relish in her taste for just a moment more. When Kiro released her waist, she looked up at him with shining eyes, adoration dancing over her features and he was sure that he looked quite the same.

Then the lightning struck. The both of them jumped in their place, their grip on the other tightening only slightly and Kiro started off in a light jog, urging her to keep up. “C’mon, my house is right up this hill!” His grip on her hand was slipping from the wetness pouring down on them and Kiro stopped for a second to move his hand to her waist and finish guiding her to the house like that, a secure grip on her the rest of the way.

Stepping in the doorway, Kiro shook his wet hair out of his face and brushed it back, all the while she slipped out of her wet shoes and soaked jacket. With a glance at her, Kiro felt his cheeks heat up as he noticed her shirt clung to all of the curves. It was hard to peel his eyes away, she was so breathtakingly gorgeous he could have easily stared at her all day and never find anything he’d get bored of looking at.

“Um, Kiro?” She was looking at him like he had grown two heads and Kiro realized he had been staring for longer than he thought. “Can I borrow some clothes so I’m able to heat up? I’m freezing cold.”

To be quite honest, the only thing going through Kiro’s head currently was the thought of soaking in a bubble bath with the girl standing in front of him. To be able to see her relax and just let go for a few moments, those were his favorite times. Where she wasn't worrying about work or stressing over the messages Victor left on her phone; where she could just spend some time with Kiro alone, no cares in the world except for how much the both of them cared about the other.

So Kiro quietly took the girl’s hand, guiding her to his rather large bathroom and turned on the tub, letting it fill with water before gesturing to the collection of bubble soaps he owned. “I thought we could have a bath together… don’t worry, I won’t look! I’ll close my eyes and you can even keep your underwear on if you want! I just want to spend some time together.”

She stepped forward and kissed Kiro’s lips once before choosing a soap that smelled like sweet strawberries and pouring a generous amount by the faucet. As bubbles started forming, she pulled off her shirt before dropping her soaked skirt to the ground. “Keep those boxers on, Mister!” She exclaimed as Kiro started to pull his pants down over his hips. She admired him as his shirt came off and Kiro knew his neck and chest were starting to flush red from her watchful eyes on him. He could stand in front of a crowd with no problem, but as soon as he stood in front of the woman he loved, he was a flustered mess.

Love. It was such a silly thing; when he met the extraordinary woman who was now settling in between his legs, her back pressed to his chest, Kiro felt his whole world change. Where he used to see muddy puddles on the ground after a storm, when he met her he started to see the rainbows in the sky. She helped change his perspective on the world, and finally taught Kiro what it meant to feel loved.

Sure, he was adored by many people, and he appreciated all his fans immensely, but she loved him for everything he wasn't, whereas they loved him for everything that he was forced to be. She loved Kiro despite his obsession with comics and the dorky way he sang and danced when it was just the two of them alone. She loved him even when he cried in her arms some nights, when the pressure from everything became too much and he just needed to release it somehow. She just loved him.

Kiro loved her just as much, if not even more than she loved him. He found himself thinking of her every day and wondered if she thought about him as much as he did her. He loved the way her hair first looked in the morning before she showered, all poofy and bangs flying everywhere. He loved the way she tried to cook for him but still managed to burn everything she put on the stove. And he loved the way she looked at him, like he was the only person in the world for her and that look was what could dispel all of Kiro’s worries in a fleeting moment.

“What are you thinking about?” She asked, leaning her body back against his so her head was on his shoulder and she could lightly kiss his neck. “You’ve been awfully quiet today.” “I’m thinking about all the deserts I could be eating right now,” he teased, his fingers dancing over her bare sides, making her squirm and giggle. “We should order a bunch for tonight.”

“Tonight? What is tonight?” She questioned, moving so she was sitting still in his lap but this time facing Kiro.

“Well, we’re having a sleepover, of course!” He exclaimed, leaning in and kissing her browline and dissolving the confused look on her face. “What kind of boyfriend would I be, knowing you have a fear of storms, to let you go home tonight and sleep by yourself?” Her eyes shone, and Kiro couldn’t tell if she was crying because he remembered, or happy that he just assumed she’d be staying the night. Maybe it was both, but either way she moved in and wrapped her arms around his neck, and Kiro immediately hugged her back, his hands resting on the middle of her back. “At this point I should just move in,” she pulled back with a playful look in her eyes, resting her forehead against Kiro’s. “I stay here more than I do at my own house when you’re not on tour.”

“I think we can figure something out! It would be nice to come home to you after I finish a leg of a tour.” Kiro answered honestly and the grin on her face went straight to his heart and the piece of it she already owned just grew a little bigger. “Will you move in with me?”

This was it: the biggest milestone they could take before getting engaged, and Kiro was ready to jump all in. This was the woman he loved, why should he spend more time away from her than need be?

“I would like that a lot Kiro, yes. I love you.” She always said those three words with such sincerity. No matter how many times she said it, it felt like she was saying it for the first time.

“I love you too!” Kiro stood up to grab a shampoo bottle, water falling off of him like a waterfall, and tapped both of her shoulders with it. “I now crown you, Potato Chip Queen! And you know what your first act shall be after being crowned Queen?”

She giggled, rubbing her shoulders with her hands. “I don’t know, Kiro! What?”

“You must kiss your King, of course!”

She stood up and he bent down to meet her shorter stature, her lips planting firmly on his for a second before pulling away. “Mwah!” She laughed at his shocked expression and moved to get out of the tub. “Your Queen demands some new clothes to wear! Go on now, or else you’ll upset her and you don’t want to know what’ll happen if she gets upset!”

Kiro grinned before wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist and stripping off the boxers clinging to his lower half and quickly exited the bathroom making his way to his bedroom to dress himself before dropping some clothes outside the door and calling for her to let her know they were there. Continuing on into the living room, calling and placing an order for takeout before settling down on the couch and scrolling through his phone.

As she stepped into the living room, Kiro let out a low whistle. She looked gorgeous no matter what she wore, but in a pair of his sweatpants and one of his tour tee shirts, she looked ethereal. “Next time you need a change of clothes, you can go into the closet and grab your own!” He stated proudly.

“What if I don’t want my clothes? Yours are pretty comfy!” Her smile dropped off her face as lightning struck and the building shook and she quickly jumped onto the couch, throwing herself in Kiro’s arms. Kiro rubbed her back comfortingly as the storm raged on outside and when the doorbell rang signaling the delivery was there, he walked with her tucked under one arm to grab the food sitting on the doorstep. “You ordered me food?”

She snuck out from under his arm and poked her head into the bag. Once she was satisfied with the order she snatched it from Kiro and made her way to the kitchen before dumping some of the dinner onto a plate. “Make yourself at home, babe.” Kiro teased.

“This is my home!” She responded before handing Kiro a plate she had piled food on. “I’ll meet you in the living room! After we eat we can make a pillow fort!”

With the thought of the storm momentarily gone, Kiro followed closely behind the girl and flopped down next to her on the couch, both of them eating quietly as they rushed to eat the food before it got too cold.

Once he had finished, she took his plate back to the kitchen to wash up and Kiro stood up, grabbing all the couch cushions that would detach and threw them on the floor before grabbing some chairs from the next room over to hold up the sheet over the cushions. She reentered the room with an armful of blankets and silently started making a little bed for the both of them to lay on and once she was satisfied with how it looked, she and Kiro put the sheet on top of the chairs together.

“After you, my Queen!” Kiro gestured inside the fort and she crawled in, pulling the blankets back for Kiro to climb in next to her. “This is cozy.”

Snuggling into his chest, she breathed out a sigh of relief. “I could get used to this, laying with you every night.” “Well, good!” Kiro exclaimed, his hand rubbing up and down her back in a comforting motion. “You’re going to have to!”

Suddenly she gasped, moving to sit up. “Kiro!” He looked at her, heartbeat picking up in panic as she twisted her face in disappointment. “We didn’t have dessert!”

Kiro laughed and pulled her back down to him, her lips softly meeting his own. “That’s alright, you’re the sweetest thing in this house currently, my Potato Chip Queen!” Her mouth twisted in a soft smile and she buried her face in his neck, arms wrapping around his middle. “Now sleep, my love. Plenty of time for sweets tomorrow, and every day after that.” He kissed her forehead and she made a sound of contentment, her eyes closing as her full day caught up with her and before long, she was fast asleep.

Matching his breathing with her own, Kiro finally felt at ease in his own home. She helped to build the foundation with love that ran so deep, he’d be able to feel it even in the darkest storms.

#mlqc kiro #Kiro x mc #Kiro fanfic #mlqc #mlqc fluff #mr love queen's choice #mlqc fanfic #mr love #mr love kiro #love and producer #love and producer fanfic #love and producer fluff #zhou qilou #zhou qilou fanfic #zhou qilou fluff #my writing

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zmwisethepoet · 3 years

Text

“Saluting” the Alabaster Progenies

Written by L.J. Talbot

Published in The Literary Parrot Anthology

Hellfire brewing from the Second Continent…malicious activities. Fallen out of grace, weakness rises. Predictability written in treasonous blood. Triumphantly independent, equality for all! Our forebears made this country spectacular… for the White Man.

White Klansman ruins the title of Dragon and Wizard, turning to triangular ghosts of disgrace. Peace in their doll’s eyes involves no color but their own. To lynch is to be honored. To maim is to win every war. White Man’s rope hung the hangman and a karma-laden universe.

White Man in his White House, sequestered in conspiracy’s safety, endless halls with treacherous rooms.

White ‘Murrican’ Man flaunts his patriotism like an Ivy League graduate with doctorate in hand, boasting of benefits and the many joys of segregation, the splendors of the lack of unresolved issues. Separate, but equal, but sugarcoated. White Man’s white carpet turns red, the color of betrayal from ‘civil’ brothers.

White Textbook Man made Jesus a glamorous dentine, lavish robes and biblical aromas. Every rendition, a fabrication of a Holy Grail Answer. The Spear of Destiny impales the carcass of White Man’s previous alter ego.

White Man demands that you speak the mechanical English language in a country that was never his to begin with.

Hungry, Hungry Hypocritical White Man turns his back on the newest families, arriving with aspirations of their own. Immigrants of horrific locations, dictated by those who would murder if questioned. They plead with waterfalls of sincerity, but he drives away in a Korean automobile, wolfing down spiced Pakistani dishes of nourishment. White Man just remembered where he placed a great number of Native Americans.

White Man waves his shielding genitalia. There are but two genders. You will never change his mind.

White Bread Man stuffs his face with wholesome artificiality. Mayonnaise and marshmallow fluff! White corn tortilla chips and sour cream! He bathes in ivory soap bubbles, cleansing his skin with absorbent microscopic children he released nary an hour ago. White Man’s stomach trampoline is on display through every mirror.

White Man utilizes lethal gases and increases oven temperatures, incinerating the roasted flesh of his own class.

White Man with a badge spreads the honest word that blue lives matter immediately after gunning down protestors with the only method of communication he has known his entire existence. His breed has made them the enemy since the dawn of sirens. He is yet another statistic on the Holy Hit List. White Man is only erect when his firearm is present.

White Man promotes himself, skinhead ways of life, the Neo-Con dream of the century.

White Machismo Man extends the impossible, forbidding white women to promote white feminism. Equality for all except the majority they call ‘minorities’. White Man’s nuances wag the decaying tail. White Man paints a target on the back of every woman. White Man inquires about what the term ‘intersectional’ means.

White Man, Heir of Destruction. White Man inherited a planet of pollution. White Man inhales pollution to be pessimistically optimistic.

White Settler Man 2.0 enslaves the rightful owners of the purest lands, tainting them with rodentia’s diseases. Listen to the White Man’s sage words while raping native women into traumatic oblivion. He calls them all ‘filthy savages’. White Man’s fate, decided by the arrowhead’s end.

White Man sings of paradiso. He should have listened to Lilith. His burden is his own.

White Man in white collar, operating his deceased emerald brethren on numerical paper, privileged above all. Shuns the impoverished residing under dank overpasses, begging for half a life. He is quite charitable towards his investors. White Man speaks up about his own struggles.

White Whining Man is a staunch supporter of racial division. There are great numbers of ethnic heritage months because he made all progress possible. White Man’s idea of progress is inevitable defeat.

White Man pays no heed to the vicissitudes of modern living, for he was always in the past tense.

White Knight Man defends the honor of women who wish to speak for themselves. Bodyguard for the Incels, tormented misfits whose virginity is a rabid kennel beast. They spend their funds on deliberate objectification, to ogle at a dream that remains a magazine photograph. White Man’s superiority complex is small penis energy.

White Man stands alone, kissing his first world problems on the reflecting glass lips.

Straight White Man weeps, pounding sand about how there is no Straight Day to celebrate, no Straight Month with soft, grey parades. White Man does not comprehend acceptance. White Man, straight and diamond mind mundane.

White Man cries out for his former alliance, yet his abandoned principles retaliate.

Abrahamic White Man wants you to believe in his white deity. He is welcoming if you join the mountainous army of chanting followers, but points a mortal finger of judgment if you spurn his Lord and Savior. White Man’s finger is now officially broken.

White Man loves his orientation, yet the rights of humans beyond his are excluded from his fallen kingdom.

White Food Chain Man endangers his fellow creatures by means of bullet kisses and taxidermy trophies. He deserves his Bald Eagle mascot, a thief and scavenger by natural trade. White Man does not discover; his parasitic form feasts on scraps of original delicacies.

White Man lives his own afterlife, serving white voices with blackface paint… Reminder of a world too white for him.

I am an independent river flowing the other direction. My alabaster skin is ashamed to be seen around the lot of you, mutations of descendants. A melting pot of curiosities, we ought to be. A species who is eager to learn, but the race has reached the finish line.

July 8, 2020

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wyofabdoms · 3 years

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Ten Days - Day Eight

Characters: Javier Peña x female reader

Summary: Javier is shot and refuses to take his antibiotic while recuperating. You get creative and make him a deal that ensures he will take his medicine everyday: one kiss for one pill. It's gonna be a long 10 days.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character injury, slow burn, mutually unrequited, angst, swearing, soft and sweet Javi, period appropriate sexism, brief mention of broken Javi

Word Count: 2484

Note: You have a bad day at work and seek out Javi to keep you company.

Read the full series on Ao3

The Friday work day ends early for you and finds you seething as you stomp up the stairs to your apartment carrying two loaded bags, one stuffed with your favorite take out food, the other clinking with multiple bottles of red wine (and one large bottle of whiskey).

It had been that kind of day.

All you wanted to do was drink yourself into a fuzzy stupor so you could forget the bullshit from today. The second you’re in your apartment, you shuck off your work clothes in the main entryway and pop open a bottle of wine in the kitchen wearing nothing but your bra and underwear. As you gulp down the first sharp taste of tart alcohol, you wander to your bedroom. By the time you’ve washed your face, put your hair up out of your face and changed into comfy shorts and a ratty tshirt, your glass is empty. It’s a good thing tomorrow’s Saturday because you can tell right now you’re probably going to have a major headache in the morning. You click on your record player and turn up your favorite Bruce Springsteen album, then snuggle into your couch with your food, another full glass and a trashy romance novel. A few bites into your meal, though, and your train of thought wanders back to your day and you lose your appetite.

How dare they! How dare they all. YOU were the one responsible for that intel. After the shit you’d had to do to track down that punk bartender and get him to talk...no one even bothered to acknowledge it. Not that you required them to stoke your ego and tell you how great you were, it wasn’t like that at all. It was when you were passed over despite your hard work and someone else completely undeserving earned the praise that infuriated you. It was always that way (most of the time, anyway). Every single male colleague you worked with always seemed to overlook the fact that, more often than not, you brought things to investigations that might not normally have happened; that you worked as hard as they did...oftentimes harder. You had to to be successful in a man’s world. You were damn good at your job. As cliche as it sounded, you often thought it as your woman’s intuition...an idea that many people scoffed at, but you knew was actually a legitimate and important trait. But today had been more than just the usual workplace sexism. Once again you had been overlooked as being an integral part of the team. It happened so often by now that you were still surprised when it stung so much. Today you had just felt like breaking. So you had left work early...not even bothering to clock out or finish your paperwork.

Fuck them!

You couldn’t stop yourself this time. Tears began to fall again (Christ, when did you become such a crybaby?!?) and you shoved your face into a throw pillow as you sobbed for several minutes, getting the anger and frustration out of your system. It was so unfair. And you knew that if you had been born with a penis and were in the same situation, it would be a different story all together. You also felt a pang of longing: if Javier hadn’t been sidelined and out of commission, you know he would have had your back today. He was the one exception to the sexism you experience (most of the time). It had taken some coaching on your part when you had first become partners; he had made his fair share of blunders that had hurt you and been unfair. But he had always listened when you had called him on his bullshit, when you had explained how the things he had done or said made you feel, explained how they were not fair solely based on the fact that you were female. Early on he had acknowledged when he was wrong. He still occasionally did or said something thoughtless, but he usually was quick to recognize when he was wrong and he had inadvertently become your champion when things like today happened. Though you hated to admit it, when he spoke up to others on your behalf, it made you feel good...although it also enraged you that a man’s voice pointing out your hard work was heard by the other men in a room rather than them all just recognizing it on their own. Javi would have stood up for you today if he had been there.

Thinking about your partner reminds you that you should probably check in with him before you get too tanked...you definitely don’t want to interact with him after you’ve had as much wine as you were planning to have...and after you’ve been reading things you know you’ll encounter in your book.

You snatch up the bottle of whiskey, not bothering to hunt down his keys and patter down the hall to his apartment, tap, tap, tapping on his door, enjoying the soft buzz the wine was making you feel on the edges of your thoughts, eager to make sure he was set for the evening so that you could get back your own apartment.

As soon as Javi opened the door you realized immediately that you had made several critical errors despite only being one glass of wine in. His eyes immediately traveled down your body, taking in your exposed neck; it was unusual for you to wear your hair up like this. They roamed further and assessed your t-shirt with hardly any elastic, the collar hanging low and dipping off one shoulder. Despite the fact that you swam in the material, it was obvious to his keen eye that you were not wearing a bra beneath it. You started to shuffle a little as his eyes traveled further and raked down your bare legs, his lips curling into a smirk when he saw your bright yellow, fuzzy socks. You rolled your eyes at his roaming gaze. My champion...you thought sarcastically.

“Hey!” You said loudly, snapping your fingers in front of his face a few times then waving your hand in front of your own face, drawing his eyes away from your exposed legs. “My eyes are up here, Peña. You don’t need to be lookin’ anywhere else.” He shot you a guilty grin, knowing he was caught and you felt some pressure leave your chest. After his apology last night and the unspoken sweet moment that followed, you were afraid things might be weird between you. Thankfully, though, things felt ok...until you see the smile drop from his face and his forehead crease in concern.

“What happened?” He asks. You pause, confused by what he means. Then you realize: you had just been sobbing into a pillow in your apartment...no doubt your face looked as puffy and red as it felt. You held up the bottle of whisky.

“I got passed over for another commendation today.” Your voice was full of false cheeriness, edged in steel and highlighted with fury. Javi’s eyebrows came together “Agent Dickhead got it instead. Want to have a celebratory shot with me?”

“Sure,” and he stepped back from the doorway to let you in.

***

Javi was appropriately outraged along with you at the injustice of the entire situation as you sat at his kitchen table. After inviting you in, he had gotten glasses for you both as well as a bowl of chips and you had poured them each a drink. Out of the corner of your eye, you had seen him glance at you to check that your back was turned and you had watched as he knocked back a pill from the bottle next to the sink, keeping his back to you, and making no mention of it. One shot had turned to two and you both went back and forth between chuckling and spitting ire over for the incompetence of the man who had wrongfully received the recognition that you deserved. After your partner poses a particularly explicit hypothetical question regarding “Agent Dickhead’s” relationship with his mother that leaves you clutching your sides in a fit of giggles, he sighs.

“Sorry I wasn’t there. I know you don’t need me or anything like that, that’s not what I mean, but…” he trails off for a moment and fiddles with his glass on the table before finishing. “...I just wish I could have said something. You don’t deserve to be treated like shit.” You sigh too and lean back in your chair.

“Thanks. I appreciate you saying that.” You sit in an amicable silence. Then you shift in your seat, stretching your legs from where you had tucked them up under you “I should go. I don’t want to keep you, I just…” your frustration from the day hits you again like a ton of bricks and in the next instant, to your utter horror you are blubbering into your hands, your shoulders shaking, trying not to sob hysterically in front of what you are sure is your mortified partner.

You hear his chair scrap across the kitchen tile and you feel more than see him kneeling next to you on the floor. Before you can react to his closeness, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his solid frame. You think for a moment that you should pull away...but you just can’t. You breath him in as you lay your head against his chest and cry into his shirt, the soft smell of soap and cigarettes giving you something else to focus on besides your hurt and rage and you feel your tears start to subside just a little. He buries his face in your hair for just a moment, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a heavy sigh, then he props his chin on top of your head, tightening his arms a little bit more around you.

You stay like that for a while, his arms cocooned around you, you letting him hold you while you cry yourself out. He’s told you before there is nothing more terrifying to a man than a woman in tears and you know how uncomfortable it makes him feel. This isn’t the first time you’ve cried in front of him; it’s happened before on a few occasions, but it has never resulted in anything quite so intimate. He usually slings an arm around your shoulders or simply sits next to you patiently, waiting until all of your tears are spent. And then there had been that one terrible, dark time when you had found him curled up in the locker room at work at two in the morning, his head clutched in his hands, shoulders shaking, silently sobbing into the wall. You had never been so frightened of anything as you had been then, seeing him so broken in front of you. You had held him and the two of you had never spoken of it again save for his grunted thanks the following day.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to feel safe, feel small, feel cared for, even if only for a few moments. Your breath comes in shallow stutters as your breathing begins to regulate. Reluctantly, you pull back, sniffling and wiping your nose with the back of your hand. You touch the wet front of his shirt, chuckling your apologies, embarrassed. He shakes his head and shrugs in response and you force yourself to look at him.

His eyes are full of something that makes your heart pound. The longing from previous nights, a reflection of your own hurt, and something that can only be described as adoration. He brings his hands from around you and frames your face along your jaw, his thumbs carefully tracing the trails your tears have made on your cheeks, wiping away the last of the wet streaks.

“You ok?” He gruffs softly, the question reflected in his soft, sweet brown eyes as they search yours. You can only nod, hypnotized by the incredible tenderness you see in his face. For all of the resolve you have always had that has kept you from crossing the line with this man, you have never felt so much weakness as you do in this moment. Every part of your being screams at you to wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him; to beg him to touch you, to make love to you. You know if you did he would oblige you. He would make you forget how hurt you are by work, make you feel like the most special person in the whole wide world, make you splinter apart under his ministrations. All you had to do was close your eyes and lean forward…

...Before you can convince yourself to act or not, Javi makes the decision for you. Cradling your head in his hands, he leans forward, pressing a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. It lacks the heat of the last time your lips touched, but strikes a perfect balance between chaste and lustful, pressing just long enough to be more than a peck, but not so long that either of you get lost in your desires. He pulls away after a few tender moments, pausing as he does just millimeters from your face, his eyes open and studying you carefully, taking a moment to breathe in the air from your exhalation, his lips hovering over yours. Your eyes remain closed, though, unable to look at him for fear of wrapping yourself around him and shoving him to the floor to ravish him. He lowers his head, his forehead brushing your mouth and he lets out a shaky sigh. He whispers your name as though casting a spell and you open your eyes, staring at his lowered head until he raises it again.

He looks at you for a moment longer, then rocks back onto his heels and pulls himself up to standing, taking you along with him. You stand a little too close to each other for just a moment, heat crackling across the small space that separates you, your palms flat on his chest, his hands resting on your elbows before they drop to his sides. He takes a small step back and the raw desire you see in him frightens you.

You mumble your thanks for the company and the drink along with an apology for losing your shit on him. He waves you off, telling you not to worry about it, never breaking eye contact. You swallow hard and blink before saying goodnight and making your way back to your own apartment, your legs suddenly feeling like they’re made of jelly and your heart pounding so hard you’re amazed he doesn’t hear it all the way down the hall.

Day One

Day Two

Day Three

Day Four

Day Five

Day Six

Day Seven

Day Nine

#javier peña x reader #javi #javier pena x female reader #narcos

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oh-so-scenarios · 4 years

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ᴛʜᴇ sᴇʀᴇɴᴅɪᴘɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ᴛʜɪɴɢs...♠| 08

⤖ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀs ᴛɪᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇs? Jᴜɴɢ Hᴏsᴇᴏᴋ ɪs ᴛᴏᴏ ʙᴜsʏ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏғ ʜɪs ᴍᴀғɪᴀ ɴᴇᴛᴡᴏʀᴋ. Hᴇ ᴡᴏɴ'ᴛ ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇʀᴇɴᴅɪᴘɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ʜɪs sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪᴍ…ʀɪɢʜᴛ?

⤖ Mᴀғɪᴀ Lᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ Hᴏsᴇᴏᴋ x ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ Fᴇᴍᴀʟᴇ Rᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, Aɴɢsᴛ, sᴍᴜᴛ, sᴏᴜʟᴍᴀᴛᴇ!ᴀᴜ,

A/N: Unedited. This is kind of a filler chapter. Finally entering Phase 2 of this story. Lol yall don’t know what that means, but my goodness did it take a while. Please ignore any typos!

(Word Count: 6.1K)

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Y/N:

He hates me. I know it. I crossed the line. That’s probably what I did. I kissed him on the cheek? I confessed my feelings and probably made him even more uncomfortable? Way to go Y/n! Way to go!

It’s been 7 days since the Charity Gala, and while things were buzzing in the news about the transportation company that was being sued for the “loss” of the real artworks, Hoseok has been ignoring me like the plague. Or so I think.

Jennie and I are at the headquarters as much as we are at the hospital and in each visit, and I haven’t seen Hoseok once. No one said anything about him, or where he might be, so I can only assume I angered him. My heart feels...crushed? I thought there was a warm moment, a real moment somewhere in that night of fake hugs and smiles.

It must have been the alcohol getting to my head, thinking that something was...beginning. It was silent as Jennie and I cleaned up the operating area, the patient still not woken as he rested in the recovery bed.

This is 3rd surgery Jennie and I have performed for the black market. I seem to be the only uncomfortable, seeing as Jennie hums calmly while stripping the dirty gloves off her hands and slipping off the disposable plastic apron to reveal the dark blue scrubs that I also wore. I copied her motions, slipping my gloves off and throwing the apron into the trash bin.

I took a deep breath and placed my hands on my hips. After the patient was awake and well enough to leave, we’ll have to come back and clean the area better.

I looked over at Jennie who stared back at me with a knowing look, “Jungkook said he was buying fried chicken for everyone.” She spoke softly, glancing towards the knocked-out patient. I wordlessly walked past her to the sink, washing my hands with soap and drying them off.

I moved to the side, giving her the space to do the same. Her hair was pulled up into a high bun, and though I nagged her about that being inappropriate for surgery, she looked like a chich college student.

I stood by the sink waiting for her while she hummed to herself. She’s been very happy lately. It’s because of Jaehyun. He makes her happy, and the love radiating from her was depressing. She cheered me on, telling me that the kiss on the cheek was a brave move. It was a great move! I was being assertive!

But why do I feel like shit? Not a single text, not a call or even an order passed down to Jungkook. Hoseok is missing in action, and no one wants to admit it. If he didn’t hate me before, he hates me now.

We walked out of the room and out the lobby area, finding a chaotic scene. Six men seated around the large round table, fussing and bickering with boxes of fried chicken sat between them. I snickered at the scene, watching Jin stood from his seat to yell at Taehyung.

“You said you didn’t like Lemon pepper! Why are they over on your side!” His voice echoed through the place, while his eyes widen. He shook his head vigorously and his face turned a bright red. Giggles emerged in the room as Taehyung pushed the basket of chicken across the table.

I quietly walked up to a seat beside Namjoon who showed me a kind smile.

“Done with the surgery already?” Jimin chimes. I nod, glancing over the different types of chicken. Jennie sits about 3 seats away from me, digging into the food right away. Namjoon pushes a basket of some wings, silently offering it to me.

“Is Hoseok avoiding me?” I asked softly, I was hoping they wouldn’t hear me. That the loud smacking of lips as they ate would drown out my words, but everyone stopped to look at me. Yoongi’s brows furrowed and he looked towards the others as if they had the answer.

“What do you mean?” Namjoon asked from beside me. I sighed, leaning forward, looking over the wings once more.

“I haven’t seen him since the gala, and he’s not ordering me around like he usually does…” I trail off as I realize I sound like a whining child.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow at me, chewing the last of the food in his mouth before speaking.

“Boss traveled Y/n, I thought you knew,” Jungkook said a matter of a fact. My mouth made a small O shape, embarrassment consuming my whole body.

“He traveled?” I questioned, looking to Jin who was nodding slowly.

“He left 2 days after the gala, he has some business in Japan. I told him to tell you, but I guess he didn’t.” Jungkook adds with his eyes focused on the wing in his hands. His gaze flickered up to me knowingly.

Jungkook hasn’t asked me what we were arguing about at the gala when he interrupted, the ride home is silent, while I sniffled and wiped my tears. I can’t be certain why I was crying. Maybe it was because he thought so little of my feelings? Or he found it so hard to believe that someone could like him?

“Why would Boss avoid you?” Namjoon asked, before pointing at the wings he set in front of me. It was silent order to start eating or he was going to take them for himself.

I reached forward and grabbed one wing, twisting it around with my fingers. I can’t be sure what the flavor is, but that didn’t matter right now. The room grew quiet, some chewing and shuffling containers being all that’s heard.

I sighed, “I kissed him--”

“You kissed boss?!” Jungkook exclaims in...excitement?

“--On the cheek!” I add quickly, not wanting him to jump to conclusions.

“Wow noona” Jungkook said with his wide eyes gleaming, “and what did he do?

I shrugged, “Nothing. He didn’t say or do anything.” I took a bite of the wing, looking up to see all the guys at the table smiling slightly.

“So what were you so worried about?” Taehyung voices as he reaches for a napkin to clean his mouth.

“I thought I crossed the line? I didn’t want to anger him or come on too strong.” I was hesitant to say anymore. I only really talk to Jungkook. This is the first time I’m really having a conversation with anyone. Other than Yoongi of course. I didn’t feel uncomfortable though.

The older guys, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Yoongi, weren’t strangers; but they certainly weren’t close friends. They work the closest with Hoseok, so I don't see them as often as I do Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung. They do the more of the details for Hoseok. They aren’t as eager to share as the younger guys.

“Hoseok will only protest never encourage.” When Seokjin says it like he’s solved the case, my brows furrow. I’m not following.

After meeting my unclear facial expression, he sighed and leaned back in his seat.

“He didn’t say anything, so he didn’t hate it. If he didn’t like it, he’d let you know for sure.”

“That’s just how Hoseok is.” Yoongi adds simply, “And if you are so curious to what he’s up to, just call him.”

“Call him?”

“Duh. If you’re bothering him, he won’t even pick up. You’ve already gone ahead to do something bold like kissing him, you can’t get bashful now.” Yoongi starts to work on another wing, taking a big bite before reaching for the open water bottle on the table. He pushes his hair back, despite the thick headband that was already feeding that purpose.

Jennie hadn’t spoken this whole time, too busy stuffing her face with wings. I kept eating while she wiped her mouth with her arm, my eyes widening at the uncharacteristic behavior. Jaehyun is rubbing off on her and that’s clear. Jennie used to be ...stiff. A bit stuck up but not enough to come off as a bitch.

She had high standards and expected only the finer things, yet she would also go with the flow of things, not wanting on the chance to experience something she could later brag about. Since meeting Jaehyun, she has loosened up in terms of the proper chip that was on her shoulder.

“I say,” She takes a sip of water, but I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her water to take.

She repeats herself, “I say you keep on with what you’re doing. Be forward. You have to be with a laid back guy like Hoseok. Call him, holding his hand, kiss his cheek and all that. If he says he doesn’t like it, stop.”

Taehyung claps his hands together, “We won’t say anything about it and act oblivious! Just do what feels right and we’ll act like it’s nothing new!”

Taehyung pumps his fight up into the air, the whole action being something you’d expect if he was drunk.

“Operation ‘help Boss understand Y/n’s feelings’ is a go!”��

“He understands,” I mumble, “I told him that I liked that despite his lifestyle.”

Taehyung shook his head, “No Y/n...we need him to understand!” He deepened his voice on the word ‘understand’.

“Hyung is very smart, but he’s also...dense when it comes to things like this. For him to understand, he needs to see actions. Once he feels like he’s got a handle on the situation, he’ll possibly respond or make a move.”

I chuckled, “You really know Hoseok really well.”

Taehyung kisses his teeth, “I’ve been studying the mystery that is Jung Hoseok for 8 years now.”

~!~

It sounded so easy when the others were talking about it. Call him. Don’t text him, but call him. But now that I am lying on my bed, the butterflies in my stomach were overwhelming. I look at the clock on my wall to see that it’s nearing 10pm, I’m sure he’s awake.

I grabbed my phone, scrolling and finding his contract. I pressed his name and watched the screen change as the number dialed. I placed the phone on speaker, staring up at the ceiling while I waited, hoping to hear his voice.

A few more rings later, and it went to voicemail. I sighed, hanging up before it could start recording. Of course, he’s busy. According to Namjoon, Hoseok is going for his actual investment work. One day I’ll get Hoseok to tell me more about his investment company. It’s thriving and doing well.

I turned onto my side, sleep suddenly growing heavy on my eyes. It’s been a long day and I was finally feeling the tiring work of the day while my body relaxed and went slack against my bed and pillow.

I don’t remember how long my eyes were closed before I felt a buzzing vibrating the bed. My eyes fluttered open, and though my vision was blurry, I could make out the caller ID.

I grabbed my phone quickly, swiping to answer and hitting the speaker button. I set it down on my bed, staring at the black screen while soft breathing sounded through the iPhone speaker.

“Doc.” He said quietly. He sounded bored, with no sense of urgency or sleepiness. I looked at the clock again. It is 11:34pm.

“Hi.” I croaked, eyes widen at my own voice. I cleared my throat as quietly as I could.

“I woke you up.” He said, almost sounding sorry.

I shook my head slowly as if he could see me lying there in my bed, with my hair a mess and my baggy T-shirt and shorts.

“I don’t mind. I don’t work tomorrow.” I answered. There a beat of silence, and I can hear cars zooming in the background.

“You called me?” He sounded annoyed, not because I called, but the fact that I wasn’t speaking.

“Yeah,” I replied softly, “I didn’t realize you traveled.”

“I guess I didn’t tell you, it was sort of last minute. I had to handle some business.” He replied.

“Oh, I see.” I pause for a moment, “I hope I’m not bothering you when you’re busy.” I rush out that last bit, my nerves getting to me.

“No, you’re not.”

“Ok, cool. Umm...how much longer are you staying in Japan?” My desperate attempts at preventing an awkward silence.

“Why?” I could hear the smirk in his voice, “Do you miss me?” He chuckles soon after, showing that he was teasing. I bit on my bottom lip nervously as he laughed. I gripped my bedsheets in on hand and closed my eyes, thinking of how I should be bold. Without opening my eyes I spoke the first thing that came to mind.

“I miss you a lot.” Hearing the words leave my lips caused my skin to tingle. My eyes remain closed while I listen to Hoseok on the other line. His laughter dies down and I heard a slight shuffle. He doesn’t speak for a short time, leaving me in my dread and fear.

“I’ll be back in 4 days,” His teasing tone was no more, he spoke simply and plainly. My shoulders drop in relief. He’s ignoring my statement, which I regret even saying so him ignoring it is for the best. I heard more shuffling and what sounded like a car door closing.

My eyes stay closed as I speak again.

“Good,” My voice is light, sleepiness taking hold of me again. I yawned lightly, and we sit in silence for a little while.

“Go to bed, Y/n.” Sounding like he was ordering a child. But I was too tired to say something smart.

“Good night Hoseok, sorry for bothering you,” I muttered.

He takes in a deep breath, sounding like he made up his mind on something, “Y/n?”

I hum in reply, irritation rising as he was keeping me from falling asleep.

“Whenever you start missing me, just call me.” He said the words casually, but he spoke quietly this time. My eyes snapped open in surprise. He cleared his throat, showing discomfort with his own words. He’s nervous? I looked at my phone in time to see the screen flash to black as he hung up the phone without a goodbye.

What...did...he--

He said to call him whenever I start missing him? I laid there with my eyes wide and my mind empty. My heart racing to the point of my vision vibrating as I stared blankly at the wall opposite of me.

The conversation was short, awkward and almost forced but...it wasn’t awful. I would like to think that he enjoyed our conversation. He also didn’t say anything about the kiss or the gala. But it was nice to have a small normal chat.

Whenever you start missing me, just call me.

My lips turned up into a shy smile, “He’s too cute.” I say to no one in particular.

To say, nothing had changed...wrong. But to say things had changed would also be wrong. Hoseok hasn’t brought up the gala, the kiss or even the investigation being conducted on the small delivering company that is being accused of swapping the real art with fake art.

Hoseok wasn’t really attempting to make conversation, but he wouldn’t suggest hanging up whenever we sat in silence. He comes back from Japan tomorrow, but I’ve called him 2 more times in the past 3 days. Usually later at night, when he is on his way back to the hotel. Calling him the second time was harder than calling the first time.

Whenever you start missing me, just call me. What was that? Where did that come from? He doesn’t make mention of it again, and neither do I. But it feels like his words loomed over us with every conversation we had. Like he wanted to say something about it but was waiting for me to bring it up.

I stared up at the ceiling as I heard the shuffling of bedsheets and blankets. Unlike the other times I called, Hoseok was actually in his hotel bed this time. Since our conversations were barely conversations. I’d ask him how his day was, I’d get a one-word answer followed by me desperately trying to keep the flow of things going. I wanted to try and dig deeper. If he doesn’t want to tell me. He won’t.

“Hoseok?” My voice sounds quiet and lacks confidence. When he replies he sounds distracted and I can faintly hear his fingers tapping away at his phone screen.

“Yeah?” He sounds distracted.

“So you took over for your father when you were 16?” I asked timidly, a slight tremble in my voice. I heard another shuffle, with a small sigh following after.

“Yeah,” He answered, “No big deal.”

He was trying to brush it off, but I wasn’t going to move on that quickly.

“It must have been scary...dealing with the death of your father, but also being ushered into such a big role.”

“I don’t want your pity.” He hissed. My heart dropped a bit, feeling the peaceful chat turning dour.

“I’m not pitying you, I just imagine it must have been hard.”

“I managed, I had the guys to help me out. I did what was expected of me and I turned out fine.”

I opened my mouth to reply but he kept speaking, so I sat and listened.

“My dad was sick, and I knew what was coming so I was ready for it. I prepared and was able to move forward.”

“How do you prepare for something like that? Taking such a big role I mean.”

He groans, “I don’t know. I just stopped hanging out with friends, I stopped my hobbies and things like that. My relationship with the guys also changed. It was...rough.”

My eyes perked up, “You knew the guys before?”

Hoseok lets out a humorless chuckle, a bitterness underlying the action.

“They were my best friends before I became their boss.” He sounded sad, and I felt sad as well. There was a longing in his voice. How much as his relationship with the boys changed? They seem...close, right? I wouldn’t exactly call their relationship the typical friendship, but I wouldn’t say it’s lacking.

Before I respond, ready to reassure Hoseok, a thought enters my mind. I don’t know what their friendship was before, and how or why did the guys agree to do such work for Hoseok? Were they already aware of Hoseok’s father and the lifestyle he had?

“They’re still your best friends now.” I inject, wondering why he was speaking in the past tense.

He scoffs, “Nah, I wouldn’t agree.”

“Why?”

“They just work for me at this point, I doubt they like me anymore.” The statement sounded so insecure. My brows furrowed and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The flashbacks to Taehyung’s cheeky smile as he spoke about Hoseok were battling the words I just heard.

“What?” I shake my head, “What would make you think that? Has the boss, employee overshadowed the friendship? Is that what you think?”

He doesn’t respond, leaving me with his calm breathing as a sign of his distress.

“I don’t think it’s that way at all Hoseok! If you feel that way, I think you should talk to them about it.”

When he still refuses to speak, my heart grows heavier. Does he go around just thinking everyone holds some sort of animosity, does he? The conversation at the gala makes sense, and a light bulb flickers on above my head.

Do you really like me?

“Why are you so keen on having everyone detest you?” My tone comes out a bit rougher than I intended, but it doesn’t seem like he noticed.

“My line of work doesn’t really let me be a people person.”

“But that’s work, isn’t it? There’s a time where you gotta shut the work mindset off...right?”

Another beat of silence, my own breathing sounding louder than Hoseok’s. Another shuffle from his end and a grunt. I’m guessing he was changing his position on the bed.

“Go to sleep, doc. You’ll see me tomorrow.” That’s all he said and the line disconnected. He hung up.

Once again I’m left lying in my bed with my thumping heart and my thoughts. What a ball of secrets Jung Hoseok is. Just what is going on in that head and heart of his?

~!~

“We did the best we could,” I said to Jennie as we walked down the hospital hallway. We trailed behind Dr. Lee who was looking down at his clipboard. Our heels click against the tile floor, as we zoom towards room 323. We were on our way to check on a patient who just woke from a surgery we performed the day before.

We already knew this was going to be a rough one. A terrible car accident has left a couple in a sad state. The wife, an older woman in her early 50’s had damage to her legs, leaving her partially paralyzed. Only temporarily. With proper physical therapy, Ms. Cho will be able to walk again.

As for Mr. Cho, he is stuck in a sleep-like-state. A coma, one could say, however it is believed that he can hear his surroundings. Though we did surgery to stop the internal bleeding, the seriousness of his injuries can’t be known until he awake.

I glanced at my outfit, the yellow dress seeming too bright for the depressing atmosphere we were going to enter. However, the yellow dress was significant to my mood. The happy butterflies floating around my stomach were clouding my focus.

It was a dress Jennie gifted me a few months back, and it sat in my closet collecting dust. The dress stopped right at my knees, it’s shaping being form-fitting with being skin tight. The hem of the skirt ruffled out, giving it a spring vibe. The whole dress was covered in white polka dots, less than you would regularly see for the pattern. The v neck wasn’t deep enough to be inappropriate, and the sort sleeves also had the same ruffle as the skirt hem. My white heels complimented the whole look.

When I strolled into work today, Jennie was sipping her coffee, only to have her eyes widen as she choked.

“Wow,” She breathed, “You look hot!” I cringed, gesturing my hands for her to bring her voice down. She was being too loud. A few nurses turned their eyes, raising their eyebrows.

“Mr. Jung must be returning today,” one of the nurses at the help desk muttered loudly, “I heard he hasn’t been at any board meetings because he traveled.” I turned my head towards the voice to meet a teasing set of eyes.

I stared at her and she shrugged, “Am I wrong?” She giggled looking me up and down. The other nurses giggled along with her.

“It is that obvious?” I whispered to Jennie. She took another sip from her Starbucks cup before she gave me a thorough once over. She takes a look at my outfit, a cheesy smile pulling at her lips while her eyes moved up to my face.

“Oh hell yeah.” She chimes. I grunt, covering my face with both hands.

“He’s going to think I’m such a try-hard.” I groaned then adjusted my white doctor’s coat to try to cover the dress more.

Jennie bites her lip, the red lipstick that painted them not smudging one bit. She brought her coffee cup up to her lips as if to take a sip. She raised her shoulders and turned her body to the side as if she was hiding something from me with her body.

“Y/n, I’d be more worried that you’d make him hard.” She whispers just loud enough for me to hear. My face heats up and a coy expression grazes my face.

“You think so?”

“Oh, I know so!” She exclaimed, winking at me.

We stood there waiting for Mr. Lee to arrive. He told us to meet him here at noon, and it’s already 12:23. The longer we stood there talking, the more I noticed glances my way from patients and fellow workers.

“Is the dress inappropriate for work?” My face scrunches up and my insecure questions slip from my lips.

“No, not at all. You’re just giving off different vibes than usual. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, you look good.”

Before I could reply, Jennie spoke again, “You talked to him on the phone yesterday?”

“Yup,” I said popping the p, “The conversation gets...better. It was very weird at first but it’s smoother now. You can tell he doesn’t usually do that kind of thing.”

Jennie nodded in an approving manner, “That’s sweet.” She smiled and took another long sip of her coffee from tossing the empty cup into the nearby trash can. She turned back around just as Dr. Lee rounded the corner.

“Took him long enough,” Jennie said under her breath. She stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, giving me a better look of her outfit. She wore a simple black turtleneck, the fabric looking too thin to protect from any cold, and a sage green skirt that was shorter than my dress with black heels. Her red lipstick popped and her slicked-back ponytail with the side part made her look so slick.

Jennie takes more risks with her outfits than I do. She dances right on the line of a provocative and voguish. No wonder this amazing dress I’m wearing is something she bought me. My hair was down today, Jennie telling me that pulled the outfit together more.

“Sorry for being late ladies. I-” Dr. Lee’s voice catches in his throat as he looked up from his clipboard. He gawked at me, blinking his eyes repeatedly and racking his eyes down my body. He snaps out of his trance not a second later, looking back to my face and shamelessly smiling at me.

“Dr. L/n, you are...breath-taking.” He said honestly.

I roll my eyes, “Thank you, Dr. Lee.”

“Let me take you out to dinner.”

I falsely give it some thought, “Mh, sure! I’ll be sure to bring Mr. Jung along.”

His smile drops at the mention of Hoseok, but the flirty nature in his eyes doesn’t change.

“Well, I’ll always be here.” He said with a wink, looking down at his clipboard again.

“And that’s unfortunate.” Jennie jeered back.

And that’s how we ended up where we are now, marching down the hallway to deliver not so good news to an older lady. By the time we reached the door of room 323, yelling could be heard. A thin and harsh voice was shouting while the calm voice of a nurse battled on.

Dr. Lee opened the door and all the noise stopped.

“Ms. Cho.” Dr. Lee said as he stepped in and we followed.

“Where is my husband?!” She shouts.

Dr. Lee sighs, “Please Ms. Cho, give us some time to help you understand what is going on.”

After she yells on for a few more minutes, Dr. Lee manages to calm her down. Her chest rises and falls intensely as lays back in her hospital bed. Her brows were furrowed and she glowered at us. Her gaze shifted between the 3 of us. Dr. Lee is going to do most of the talking, and we were just here to give the details of the surgery and the results.

Jennie and I took some time to explain to Ms. Cho the results of her surgery along with the condition of her legs. We had to pause for a moment as she cried. I made sure to give her a tissue and tried my best to comfort her. After we finished updating her on her condition, came the hard news of her husband.

There is no easy way to break news like that. And it’s always hard to see how people handle news like this. One of the nurses rubbed her back as she sobbed. Her black hair falling into her face.

We were in there for quite some time, setting up her physical therapy appointments. Jennie was discussing with Dr. Lee while I spoke to the nurse regarding the changes to Ms. Cho’s care.

“Young lady,” Ms. Cho suddenly says to me, sniffling in the process. I look over at her, showing a small smile.

“I know you have many patients to take care of, and you probably hear this a lot. But...my husband is my everything. Please do whatever you can to save him. Money isn’t an issue.” It’s hard to believe this soft-spoken woman was the same angry voice shouting earlier.

Her bloodshot eyes were tired and sad, but in general, she looked young for her age. Her skin lacked wrinkles or any significant sign of aging.

I smiled at her, “Of course Ms. Cho, we will do our best.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of her lips and I watch her eyes move to my white coat, “Dr. L/n?” She reads my name.

I smile, “Yup, that’s me. Y/n L/n.”

“A lovely name for a lovely girl.” She says softly.

“Thank you so much, ma’am. I must say you’re also very beautiful.”

She laughs slightly, having it fade off into a sigh, “My beauty is all I have at this point.”

She throws a gentle punch at her legs, “These things are useless.” She mutters.

“Ms. Cho, you won’t be in a wheelchair forever, we can promise you that,” I assured her.

She looks towards Dr. Lee and back at me, “Is that guy any good? His rehearsed smile and strong cologne are throwing me off.”

I cough to hide my laughter while the nurse closes to me giggles with her hand covering her mouth.

“Dr. Lee is one of the finest doctors I know, he won’t lead you astray. His smile may be a practice, but if there’s one thing that is genuine, it’s his love for helping others.” She nods like my words put her doubts to rest.

“Thank you Dr. L/n, and I apologize for yelling at you earlier. That isn’t like me.” She looks down shyly, clearly embarrassed by her previous behavior.

“Don’t worry about it Mrs. Cho, I would have reacted the same way. You just went through a very disorienting series of events. I wouldn’t expect you to be poised.”

She smiles but soon gasps as if forgetting something.

“And the other driver? How is he?”

While I explained the conditions of the other driver, who also had serious injuries, Jennie and Dr. Lee came back from the corner of the room they were standing in.

“Mrs. Cho, you’ll be staying with us here at Seoul Sky Hospital for some time and we’re happy to have you. We will do whatever we can to give you a steady recovery; we will also work to look after your husband.” She nods, showing a strained smile. After a few more words, we start to shuffle out of the room. I am the last to leave, giving her a small smile.

~!~

I’m sitting in the passenger's seat of the car while Jennie sits in the back with her arms stretched up across the seat. Her back leans against the door while her eyes are closed. Jungkook is driving yelling at Jin who is on speakerphone.

“Boss agreed to buy dinner, and you wanna eat chicken...again? Let’s get noodles!” Jungkook whines. I giggled as he pouts.

“Yah! He said we could order whatever! I’ll order chicken and you order noodles!”

“Why do we have to order from too different places?” Jungkook replies.

“Just figure something out!” Someone barks in the background. It sounds like Yoongi. I can just picture Hoseok sitting among the chaos.

I laughed at their banter, but it came out a bit chopped. My nerves were getting to me. I was quiet most of the ride, but just like everyone said, be bold. Do whatever feels right. What’s the worst that could happen? He could reject me? Embarrass me in front of all the guys, and make the atmosphere?

Yikes! I just cringed at the thought.

I shut the car door and followed behind Jungkook and Jennie as he did the regular door unlocking as well as the double doors. Everyone was in the “lobby” area. Jimin and Taehyung stood around Yoongi who sat at the circular table. They were clearly annoyed him, as he sat there with a blank face as they poked at him.

Jin sat a few sat away from Yoongi and had a smaller MacBook opened.

Namjoon stood in front of the chalkboard, writing and a few things, and beside him was Hoseok. My heart hammered a bit. I could see most of his back, and a bit of his side profile. He on the circular table, some papers in his hands. He was looking between the papers in his hand and the words that Namjoon was writing.

He wore an oversized red t-shirt, and grey joggers with black sneakers. He wore one of those fancy Rolex watches on his risk and his hair was a bit messy.

There’s that same old focused face of his.

Jungkook left my side, heading towards Jin who I guess was ordering food. Jennie gave me a knowing smile and nodded towards Hoseok. I walked further into the room, feeling self-conscious as I caught the guys' attention. I no longer had my white doctor’s coat to hide in.

One of the guys' whistle and I ducked my head down shyly. Namjoon turns around at the sound but Hoseok doesn’t seem to care.

“Hi everyone,” I said shyly as I got closer.

Everyone says their hellos, well everyone but Hoseok. Namjoon smiled at me, his gaze flickering to Hoseok quickly. Namjoon turned back to the blackboard and continued with what he was writing.

Jennie also went about greeting everyone, saying her hellos before taking a seat at the table. She leans back and grins while crossing her arms. I act oblivious to the fact that everyone was secretly waiting for me to approach Hoseok. I walk around the table, ending up on his right side.

“Hey,” I said softly.

“Hey,” Hoseok replies pausing for a beat before looking at me. I don’t miss the way his eyelashes flutter and his eyes flickered down my body quickly.

“How was your flight?” I asked just as his eyes met mine again. His eyes were narrowed

“It was good.” Since he was seated on the table, his line of sight was my face, making us the same height at that moment. He refocuses on what Namjoon is writing.

There’s that warmth I always feel when he’s around. His presence is so...comforting.

I stare at his profile for a second more and just...do what feels right.

I take hold of his bicep while leaning forward and I did the same thing I did at the gala. I kissed him on the cheek. I pulled back, my face still close. He looks at me, eyes wide. I smile in response, almost wanting to laugh at the deer in the headlights expression that was on his face.

“I’m glad you’re back,” I spoke softly. His eyes, no longer wide, scanned over my face. His eyes narrowed and he looked at me...wantingly? My eyes widen in response. Whoa. I drew back completely, taking my hand off his bicep and noticing just how the atmosphere in the room changed.

I faced the board, flustered by Hoseok’s gaze on me.

“S-so what are you writing, Namjoon?” I asked quickly and my heart fluttered, wondering if Hoseok’s eyes were still on me. And they were. I could feel his eyes on the profile of my face. I drew in a deep breath, trying to seem interested in what Namjoon was telling me.

Something about someone going around Korea saying they are ‘Seok’ the mafia head and creating trouble. Someone is basically pretending to be Hoseok.

I nodded understandingly.

“Boss is looking hungry,” Taehyung sang playfully as he walked around the table.

Jennie snickers and to no one, in particular, says, “But not for food.”

I turn to look at Hoseok just in time to see his gaze move from me to the paper in his hand. He scoffs, in a light manner this time, and a small smile stays on his lips as he goes back to reading the document. Chuckles sound through the room at Jennie’s remark. Hoseok doesn’t say anything, focusing on the work at hand.

But the red color of his ears said it all.

“Cute.” I cooed to myself, and Hoseok heard, his red ears getting even brighter.

Hoseok, I’m gonna break those walls down Brick by brick.

♠----♠----♠-----♠

Thank you for reading! Like, reblog and let me know what you think :)) I also have a question for you, how do you view “Y/n” in terms of personality and character? Also any predictions?

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