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cake-writes · 4 years

Text

No Vacancy (3/5)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Story Warnings: Both Bucky and Reader are gonna get kind of dark in this, so… Dark Fic (I guess?), Very Dubious Consent, Somnophilia (sex with a sleeping partner – and it’s gonna be more than once), Breeding Kink, Rough Sex, Angry Sex, Hair-Pulling, Visible Marks, Breathplay, Throatfucking, Restraints, Subspace, Choking, Spanking, Degradation, Masturbation, Angst, Anxiety, Feels, Mutual Pining, VERY OBVIOUSLY 18+

Summary: You and Bucky have been on so many missions together, you’ve lost count. How is it that you’ve never shared a bed until now?

A/N: NEW WARNINGS so have a look just in case there’s something you don’t want to read. i also made a moodboard. other than that... heh. enjoy, my fellow harlots. 🙈

Part Two / Master List

The devil on your shoulder tries to frame it as a confession.

The angel tries to claim it’s a sign of a guilty conscience.

I pressured you into sleeping with me, didn’t I?

Maybe it’s neither. Maybe it’s both.

Pressure. You should have said force. You encouraged him – took advantage of him – spurred him on with pleasured gasps and desperate pleas and god, you feel so full. He’ll be dripping out of you for days after.

It’s wrong.

You should have stopped him. He couldn’t consent – but the memory turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Just knowing how easily he can overpower you even while he’s asleep leaves your body burning with a certain kind of heat you’ve never felt before. Not to this degree. You’ve always known that he’s enhanced, of course, but until last night, you’ve never seen his strength so up close and personal – never experienced it firsthand like that, and now, it’s all you can think about. He’s all you can think about, and he doesn’t even know what he’s done.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His hand pressing your face into the pillow – you couldn’t breathe.

His cock stretching you out so perfectly – you couldn’t think.

His cum filling you to the brim – you couldn’t stop him. Or at least that’s what you try to tell yourself, but it’s a lie. You didn’t even try.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

The morning is spent tiptoeing around him, like he’s a grenade ready to explode at any given moment. It’s evident that Bucky doesn’t remember a thing about the night before by the way he interacts with you: careful, guarded, like maybe you’re the grenade.

You know you should tell him, but you don’t.

The secret you keep is the grenade, and when the pin is pulled, you don’t know what will remain. You’re scared that he’ll hate you, but you’re not ready to consider that he won’t.

So you confess in a bout of anxiety, instead, because your conscience is muddled and things are weird and you can’t even act right around him anymore.

You’re suffocating.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

He wanted to sleep with you. That’s what he said, but in that moment, it’s crystal clear that you’re not on the same page. The sleeping with you mean is vastly different to the sleeping with he means.

There’s tension. There’s never been tension before. It feels like you’re walking on eggshells, and you hate it. You hate the way he puts you on a pedestal half the time and treats you like a friend for the rest. You hate that the only time he’s serious with you is when you’re joking around. You hate it.

Why can’t he just be honest?

Why can’t you?

It’s overcast outside – downright miserable, really, with rain every ten minutes and you with no wet-weather gear. Washington State is dreary at the best of times, but now it’s even worse. It reflects your state of mind; the storm clouds are your inner conflict, and every clap of thunder signifies a punishment for yourself for wanting this, wanting him, wanting more.

You have to tell him.

As Bucky pulls the beater into the parking lot at the drugstore, the rain finally lifts for the umpteenth time. It feels like a blessing, or maybe it’s a sign.

You slide your hand into his as the two of you walk inside, something you’ve done too many times to count whilst undercover: a fact further proven when his fingers lace with yours so easily, so comfortably, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is.

When the bomb drops, it won’t be anymore.

“Cold meds are over here,” Bucky says as he leads you in that direction – but you don’t follow, and he stops to glance down at your hands like he’s only just realized what you’ve done. Then his eyes turn back up to your face, and in those pretty baby blues you watch as the confusion turns to suspicion, and your stomach turns to knots. “What are you doing?”

“I—I have to tell you something,” you stammer, hesitant, unsure. Your voice wavers and there’s a lump in your throat that makes it difficult to swallow.

You’re nervous. Of course you are. You’re not ready to pull the pin.

“We’re not together on this mission,” Bucky informs you, plainly, like you don’t already know that. You know what he means by together; you’re not a couple. You know that, too. It’s painfully obvious that you aren’t, now.

You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this.

But you do.

“We could be,” you suggest, to which he sighs in annoyance and pulls his hand free.

“Get your meds,” he says, tone clipped. “You can tell me in the car.”

And then he’s gone, and you’re left feeling even more uneasy than before.

By the time you get back outside, it’s raining again. Thankfully, the car’s unlocked, and you jump inside to find that Bucky has his seat reclined and his hands are tucked behind his head like a makeshift pillow. The radio’s tuned to some station you don’t recognize, but you’re in the boonies, now, so that’s really no surprise. A bit of static distorts the song that’s trying to play – something classic rock, but you can’t really place it through the low volume.

As you pull the door shut, he greets you with a sharp, “Took you long enough.”

He’s pissed off, and the way he eases his seat back up is further testament to that – slow, but precise. Calculated. Vibranium fingers tap the steering wheel, like he’s waiting for an apology.

Great.

The pharmacist just had to grill you about your sexual history, because this really is the boonies and you’re a single, unmarried woman looking for contraception. It took a lot longer than it should have, so much that you’re in a mood now, too.

“Sorry,” you mutter, locking the seatbelt into place. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, or,” you gesture to Bucky’s general vicinity, “whatever the hell this is.”

You’re already so tired and it’s only eleven o’clock.

That’s when you finally meet his eyes – just long enough to see that sassing him was probably a bad idea, and predictably it pokes the bear.

“If anyone’s acting off,” he begins, voice sharp, turning the engine back on, “It’s you. Don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but figure your shit out. We’re on a mission.”

You and Bucky have argued before, but not like this. This is personal. The fact that he used your words from your earlier spell of anxiety is proof of that.

As if you need him to tell you what your priorities should be. You already know.

“Roger that, Sarge,” you bite out sarcastically, rummaging around in the plastic bag to rip open the pill package. “I’ll get right on that.”

Then you shove the pill into your mouth and take a swig of water from your water bottle, before you slam it back down into the cup holder a little harder than necessary. Bucky lets out a long, slow breath as he shifts the car into gear, and you don’t even have to look at him to know you’re trying his patience.

Good. He’s trying yours, too.

Crumpling up the bag and its contents, you toss it haphazardly into the back seat and pop your feet up onto the dash in a fit of irritation. That’s when Bucky turns up the radio, and you finally hear the lyrics over the static:

We are all just prisoners here of our own device—

Of course it’s Hotel California. As if you can feel any more trapped than you already do.

You’re suffocating.

It’s clear you won’t be having any more conversation until you arrive at your next destination.

It’s clear that Bucky doesn’t care what you wanted to say, or maybe he’s forgotten. Not that it matters.

Up until now, the confession burned hot on the tip of your tongue – a desperation to tell him about what happened last night, or maybe even an apology, but not anymore.

He was the one who woke you up.

He was the one who held you down.

As far as you’re concerned, you’re the victim here. Not him.

So you don’t say a thing. Instead you shut your eyes and hope to god he didn’t get you pregnant.

You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave—

The rest of the day unfolds with even less camaraderie between the two of you.

There’s friction, so much that you’re about ready to scream by the time you make it back to the motel. Maybe a little friendly fire would be sufficient, because you’ve had enough.

Steve would understand. He knows what a pain in the ass his best friend can be.

Bucky doesn’t get the door for you this time, not like he usually does; instead he walks right into your shared room and leaves you standing out in the rain. That pisses you off even more, and you slam the door shut behind you so hard that the window next to it clatters in its pane: old, decrepit fibreglass.

You’re lucky that the whole thing didn’t shatter. It’s only hanging on by a literal thread.

That observation sobers you up a little. You can’t keep on like this.

“What are you, a bratty teenager?” Bucky barks at you, and the way he rounds on you so suddenly sends a jolt of excitement straight to your core. “Do you want the rain getting in, princess?”

The last word is spat at you with such vitriol, it makes your jaw drop.

He’s angry. He’s pissed off. He’s had it with you, and it turns you on.

What the hell is wrong with you?

You’ve felt like this all day – just blamed it on your anger because it’s easier to focus your energy into that than on the fact that you want him. That you always have. That you always would, now that you know what he’s capable of.

It’s wrong.

“No,” is what you finally answer; timid, almost, and your shoulders slump in defeat. You can’t keep on like this. It’s only seven o’clock – less than half a day of fighting with him and you’re already over it.

You’re exhausted. And so is he, by the looks of it.

He’s drenched from the rain. The carpet where he’s standing is damp with water, and his clothes haven’t fared much better. You’re sure you’re in a similar state – t-shirt and jacket soaked through, not to mention your jeans, and you’re dripping water into a matching puddle on the floor.

There’s a pause while Bucky runs a hand through his wet hair, before he mutters under his breath, “Christ.”

The rainwater only adds to the atmosphere, of course, and although that certain musty, damp smell isn’t quite as bad as the guest services office, it’s still very present. It tickles your nostrils, makes you sneeze, and then you can’t help but shiver because of the bitter cold.

Bucky’s hand on your shoulder is all the warning you get before he shoves you toward the bathroom – not gently, but not too roughly, either. Just enough to make you stumble.

You open your mouth to rip him a new one for it, because you’re feeling defensive over how much you like it, being pushed around so easily, being put in your place – but he beats you to the punch.

“Go have a hot shower.” The way he says it makes it sound like an order, and you shiver again when your thoughts go where they shouldn’t. “Your cold’s gonna get worse if you don’t warm up.”

That’s right. Your excuse from this morning.

“Fine,” you snap, “but I’m not going because you told me to. It makes sense.”

He sighs in frustration and picks up his towel from this morning off the back of a chair – uses it to dry his hair. “Fine. Just go. I don’t want you getting sick.”

He doesn’t have to say how much of a pain he thinks it’ll be if you do. The implication is enough.

So you shoot him another dirty look and stomp into the bathroom, feeling pissed off and turned on and fed up with this stupid fucking mission and awful fucking town and this shitty fucking motel. The old shower creaks and shudders when you turn the handle, and it takes a couple of minutes to heat up, but soon the hot water is a balm and you’re sighing in relief.

That feels much better.

When you take a little extra time to relieve yourself of the day’s frustrations, too, those happy sighs turn to breathy moans, and you can only assume they’re being drowned out by the water – but they’re not.

The walls are paper thin.

Not that it matters.

The shower leaves you feeling a lot more refreshed.

As you exit the bathroom, towelling dry your hair, you feel so much better. Clearer. Even if it’s wrong to use last night as a fantasy, it still takes the edge off – lets you concentrate more on the mission than Bucky, which is the entire reason the two of you are here.

Problem is, he’s staring at you like that.

Her mind is tiffany-twisted—

Hotel California immediately dies in your throat; you hadn’t even realized you were singing it to yourself until the look on his face made you stop.

“What?” you ask, feeling awkward all of a sudden. Bare. You’ve got a towel around yourself, but it’s not enough. There’s something about the look in his eyes that’s dark, hungry, and it makes your throat go dry. Makes you feel like you’re on display.

Bucky clears his throat and pulls himself to his feet; he’d been sitting at the foot of the bed, leaning more like, probably waiting for you to finish your shower so he can have one himself. “Nothing.”

And then he pushes past you into the bathroom – leaves you alone with your thoughts.

By the time he’s done, you’re already asleep. Or maybe that’s just what you want him to think.

It’s cold.

You must have fallen asleep at some point; you don’t know when, but the digital clock on your bedside table glows bright red in the darkness – 01:12 – and you stifle a yawn. You’re still exhausted, not to mention sore from being put through the ringer over the last day and a half. Your body’s still aching from last night, never mind the soreness between your legs.

The blankets shift beside you, just a little, and you freeze – but Bucky doesn’t do more than roll onto his back. Judging by the steady rise and fall of his chest, he’s fast asleep.

It’s like last night was a dream. Like it never even happened.

He’s a light sleeper, usually, but he doesn’t wake even when you go to get a drink of water, nor does he stir when you climb back into bed, half-scrambling to get back under the sheets and away from the autumn chill in the air.

It’s freezing, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of him even from your side of the bed.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

No response.

So you reach out hesitantly, nervously, like he’ll lash out at you for even trying – but of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know. Your hand splays across his shoulder in a gentle caress, and it’s only when you finally have his too-hot skin beneath your fingertips that you realize how cold you really are. Your fingers are like ice.

Or maybe it’s just an excuse for you to get closer.

Carefully, you lift his arm just enough to slide underneath. Your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt and your cheek rests just beside; he’s warm, so warm, and your eyelids instinctively flutter shut because god, he smells good. Sandalwood and musk and everything him, just like last night, only stronger, more concentrated, right from the source.

That’s when the fire between your legs starts to burn. You almost wish it didn’t. You shouldn’t think about him like this. You shouldn’t want him like this, but you can’t escape it.

Last night did happen, and it’s something you’ll never, ever forget.

You shift to peer up at him in the darkness, but his breathing stays just as even – just as steady.

“Bucky.”

It’s not a whisper anymore, but it’s not so loud, either. Your voice is rough from sleep. That’s all.

His brows knit together, and for a moment you think you’ve woken him – but then his face relaxes again. He’s still asleep.

Your hand smooths along the planes of his chest, slowly, as if to savour the feel of his muscles under your fingertips; and then it slides lower, to his abdomen, and your heart starts to race.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He’s so strong, so ripped, so fucking attractive and you just can’t help yourself because you’ve never touched him like this. You shouldn’t be touching him like this.

It’s wrong.

Your hand dips lower still, to the waistband of his sweatpants, and you swallow thickly.

Another glance up at his face – he’s still asleep.

You should stop. You shouldn’t do this.

But you do.

Your palm brushes against him through the thick cotton and fleece of his sweats, and your heart skips a beat because he’s hard. It spurs you on, gives you the courage to wrap your fingers around him, pump him once, twice—

And then you’re on your back, with him on top of you and cold vibranium fingers digging into the flesh of your neck.

You can’t breathe.

There it is again, that expression that makes your heart sink in realization and your core throb in muscle memory. He’s not here. Not really. Those pretty baby blues of his are blank, emotionless, and a cold sweat breaks out over your skin when you gather that he might actually hurt you this time.

“Buck—” You choke out, but you can’t breathe. “Bucky—”

He’s too strong, too powerful, too good at what he does. He has your arms pinned down with the way he’s straddling your upper body, and he’s far too heavy for you to push him off.

You’re trapped.

Only when your vision starts to go a little spotty does he finally let go, and you gasp and cough for air – at least until you feel the vibranium trail up your neck and along your cheek, and suddenly you’re staring up at him with baited breath as he drags his thumb against your lips. When he dips it inside to feel the wetness of your tongue, you shiver.

You like this.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He says something in Russian, then, but you don’t know what it means. Probably should have taken Natasha up on her offer to teach you way back when. Not that it matters.

At your lack of response, he grips your chin to the point that it’s almost painful. Almost.

It turns you on.

Then he repeats himself, a little more firmly this time.

“Da,” is all you can manage, a breathy whisper, because ‘yes’ is the only Russian you know. Problem is, you have no idea what you’ve just agreed to.

You soon find out when he lets go of your chin in favour of burying his hand in your hair, to pull your head forward; and with his free one, he pulls down his sweats just enough to free himself, let you come face to face with his cock. All eight inches of him, thick and hard and leaking precum.

The breath leaves your lungs with a whoosh.

He says a single word, and you don’t have to understand the language to know what he means.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, first, and then you glance up at his face, like maybe this is the dream and he’ll snap right out of it. Then again, you’re not really sure that you want him to. The desire coursing through your veins feels like a bushfire, turning any rational thought in your mind to ash.

It’s not a dream. He’s not awake.

It’s wrong, and you don’t care.

You lean forward slightly to take the head into your mouth, and then you give it a tentative little suck. He’s thick, so much that you know your jaw will be aching by the end, but the salty taste of him is intoxicating, it’s addicting, and you can’t get enough. Your tongue swirls around the head, as if to collect every drop of precum he’s offered you – and then you take him further.

About halfway down is what triggers your gag reflex, and you quickly pull away to cough.

A mistake.

He uses his tight grip on your hair to shove your mouth right back onto him – and then he pushes past your tonsils, and your nose is buried in his curls.

Sandalwood. Sweat. Bucky.

You gag once, twice, feel your throat constrict around him, but he doesn’t let up – just makes you take every inch of him until you feel like you’re about to pass out for a second time. Survival instinct has struggling to push him away, has your fingernails digging into the backs of his thighs, has you drawing blood but you don’t even notice – the lack of oxygen’s already gone to your head.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

You like this. You like it so much that your panties are soaked through.

By the time he pulls away, you feel a little dizzy, but you have half a mind to beg for more.

What the hell is wrong with you?

Each gulp of air feels like a blessing, one that he’s given you, that he’s allowed you to have and you look up at him again through half-lidded eyes as if to say thank you.

Then his cock’s all the way down your throat again, and your vision blurs with tears: a physiological reaction from gagging and coughing, nothing more. You’re not scared, no – you’re turned on. So turned on that you can’t think straight anymore.

You’re losing it.

When he finally relents, you rasp, “Fuck me.”

It’s in English, but he seems to understand just fine.

He lets go of your hair and moves off of you so that you can catch your breath. Your cheeks are wet, and radiating heat – but you don’t notice the latter until cold metal fingertips come back up to brush away your tears.

You feel dazed. High. Floating, and you never want to come down.

Clarity slowly comes as your breathing returns to normal, but everything still feels like a fever dream.

“Clothes.”

Another one-word order, in English this time, and you comply like you’re on autopilot because he’s him and your body’s buzzing with endorphins. Your t-shirt hits the ground first, followed by your pajama bottoms – but when you reach for your underwear, you notice that your hands are trembling. That’s how excited you are.

It’s wrong.

Not that it matters, because you discard your panties quickly, too.

“Spread your legs.”

After leaning back on your elbows, you do so – and when he finally touches you there, your head lulls back. Two warm fingers spread you open like he’s checking to make sure you can handle what he’s going to give you. You’re not sure that you can, now, but hell if you don’t want to try.

When he removes them, a glistening string of wetness follows – and then it breaks. Some part of you does, too.

His arms hook around your thighs before he pulls you forward, just enough to line you up where he wants you. You yelp in surprise at the suddenness of the action, but it doesn’t faze him; he just sluices the head of his cock through your folds, and then he pushes in.

No warning. No preparation.

You don’t need it anyway.

The first thing you notice is that you’re sore, an observation soon forgotten the further he slides inside. The stretch of him feels different, now – better, because you’re already so soaked and the saliva only adds to the slickness. The position he takes you in bears a resemblance to missionary, with him on his knees, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning because it’s so good.

That doesn’t last long. The last couple of inches sink into you all at once with a snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” you whine, holding onto the pillow above your head like it’ll ground you, maybe keep you from losing yourself.

It won’t.

With his fingers digging into your hips, you’re not sure how long you’ll last. It’s a grip that ensures full control of your body, something only further proven when he uses it to pull you off of his cock. Then he shoves you right back down onto him, forces you to take every inch of him inside of you, and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

It feels too good. He feels too good.

You’re losing it.

The pace he sets isn’t gentle, but you don’t want that anyway. Not now. Not anymore.

Skin audibly slaps against skin as he fucks you – and that’s exactly what it is. He’s fucking you. He’s fucking the life out of you, rough, brutal, and there’s nothing admirable about it. It’s not the kind of sex that they show in the movies; it’s the kind that warps your mind, distorts your senses, makes you feel like you have only one purpose: this.

It’s carnal. It’s instinct.

You need to feel him blow.

It’s addicting, watching the sweat roll down his muscular chest. It’s exhilarating, seeing the furrow of his brow as he concentrates. It’s shameless, the way your breasts bounce with every punishing thrust, and you know he notices when his fingertips tweak a nipple.

Every part of you is exposed to him like this. Raw. Debased.

His.

It only sends you higher when you see the bruises on your hips.

You’re losing it.

And then he leans forward onto his forearms, caging you in – and it’s intimate. His forehead touches yours, his nose brushes yours, and you shudder because it’s not real.

Every part of you is exposed to him except for that.

So you pull him closer, giving him no choice but to bury his face in your neck, and it’s there he sucks a bruise; he leaves a mark, a claim, a scarlet letter on your skin.

It’s wrong, but it almost feels right. Almost – but it’s off.

The suddenness of him slamming into your g-spot draws you out of your head and back into the present. Even if it’s not real, he still knows how to play your body like an instrument, and he soon has you dangling over the edge, whimpering, begging, ready to implode. His fingers are in your mouth to stifle your moans, and he’s saying things – things in Russian – things you can’t understand, but it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters.

None of it is real.

When the pace changes, your ankles lock around his waist. He’s close.

“Come inside me,” you gasp, or maybe it’s a plea.

His hips stutter, then, and when he shoves it in as far as he can go, you fall.

It’s debauchery. It’s delirium.

His cock throbs, and that’s when you can feel it, the warmth, the heat – you feel each pulse as he spills inside of you, every hot rope of cum as he fills you to the brim. You’re clenching down so tightly around him, it’s impossible not to feel it. It’s impossible not to lose yourself. It’s impossible not to break.

When he bites into the tender junction of your neck and shoulder, you see stars. It’s a mark, a bruise, a delicate mixture of pleasure and pain, and his teeth leave your skin a reminder for the morning—

You’re his, inside and out.

If only.

Part Four

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes

829 notes · View notes

fullmetalscullyy · 4 years

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jealous roy

thank you @adrianna-lisbon for this prompt <3 i honestly cannot remember where/when you asked for this one, i just know i saved it into my wips with your name next to it 😭 i’m SO sorry its taken so long to get to you ;;__;; it got buried in my wips for a while. apologies! i hope you enjoy tho and that this is ok <3

also sorry if wasn’t you either ifdhs hashtag i’m a Mess but enjoy this oneshot on me if it wasn’t you!! <3

“Well?”

That was the greeting Riza Hawkeye received as she entered her apartment. Rolling her eyes, she locked the door and turned to greet the happy pup at her feet first. Hayate’s tail was wagging furiously while his paws danced happily on the wood below his feet. He’d missed her apparently while she was out on her adventure that night.

“Well what, Roy?”

She smiled at their dog as he rolled onto his back, begging her for some belly scratches. She happily obliged, cooing at him while her boyfriend hovered in the background. He didn’t need to fret. He didn’t need to get himself so worked up. Roy would absolutely deny it if she challenged him too, but it was so painfully obvious. She’d known him for too long not to notice it.

“How’d it go?”

He was trying to act casual but there was an underlying question there. He always asked how her day or evening out went, but this was different. There was an edge to his voice, as he wondered exactly what went on with her and the old friend she’d met up with that night.

“It was a very pleasant evening in good company,” she replied. And it was the truth. She’d caught up with an old friend from university while he was in town. They’d gone out for dinner with his wife, but that was tiny fact Roy seemed to have forgotten. Roy had been invited to the dinner as well, however he’d ended up working late at the office, so couldn’t make it. It didn’t help matters that she’d dated the man she’d been meeting up with in high school, and Roy had chosen to focus on that tiny detail of her past from over a decade ago, and not focus on the fact that her old friend was now married and his wife had been there tonight as well.

“That’s it?”

Sighing, Riza stood. She regarded her boyfriend. He was in his pyjamas, hands shoved into the pockets of his grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His t-shirt was plain and black, nothing special. However, if he were to stretch just the tiniest bit, she’d see his toned stomach. It was one of Riza’s favourite looks on him. While he looked dashing in his expensive tuxes on a night out or while going off to work in his three-piece suit, she’d take Roy Mustang in his pyjamas over all of that any day.

“You’re downright adorable when you’re jealous,” Riza smirked. “You know that, right?”

He huffed, a scowl overtaking his handsome face. “I’m not jealous,” he muttered darkly.

Riza laughed quietly at his barefaced lie, which only caused his scowl to deepen. He flopped down on the couch of their home, folding his arms across his chest with a pout.

"I’m going to get changed,” she called over her shoulder. She half expected him to follow her to their bedroom, but he didn’t. Riza didn’t think too much of it and took her time to unwind and get out of the dress she’d worn that evening. She’d picked it knowing Roy would love it, but unfortunately he’d been called into work at last minute, so he never saw what she was wearing until she walked through the door five minutes ago. Maybe that was what he was jealous about… It had sure disappointed Riza but couldn’t be helped. She knew she’d just have to save it for a later date instead.

Sighing, Riza changed into her pyjamas and padded back out into their living room. Roy hadn’t moved from the couch, still wearing his pout, and sitting slouched, with his arms crossed as he stared into the fire.

“What’s wrong?” she prompted.

“Nothing,” he muttered.

Liar.

“Listen… Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened. And I came home to you, didn’t I?” Her reminder was gentle as she ran her hand through his hair. It didn’t hurt to have him be jealous over what she’d possibly been up to tonight. She knew where they stood and the nature of their relationship. So did Roy. She’d been in love with him for over a decade and the strength of that love had never wavered. Not once. She just knew he was protective over her. Riza Hawkeye certainly didn’t need any protecting, but she had to admit, it was a welcome feeling to have someone care about her so much.

He sighed quietly and his sulk, slowly uncrossing his arms so they fell to his sides.

“I wasn’t jealous,” he stated carefully.

Riza smirked, but it was out of his view. She hid her smile as he turned to face her, turning her expression into one of concern instead. Roy’s head tipped back, lying on the back of their couch, his eyes gazing into hers. He looked… worried?

“What were you feeling, then?” Her prompt was soft. Call her curious. If he wasn’t jealous, like he proclaimed, then why was he hovering over her and acting like it?

“I don’t know,” he muttered. His eyes lifted to the ceiling and fluttered as her fingers continued their ministrations in his hair. “I was worried about you.”

She didn’t hide her smirk this time. “Why?”

“Because…”

“That’s not a reason,” she teased.

He huffed again. She moved her fingers from his hair, gently smoothing down the frown on his brow.

“There was nothing to worry about. John is married, remember? He has wife and a child, who is adorable by the way. He was asking after you too,” she added. “He wondered how you were doing and was very surprised that we were still together.”

“Surprised?” His frown returned as he turned to face her completely.

Riza nodded. “Not in a bad way though. In fact, he was happy for us.” She smiled softly at Roy. “He said that he knew from day one that we’d be together for a long time.”

When John had revealed his thoughts on the matter, a deep warmth had spread throughout Riza’s body, making her extremely happy. She’d always known that fact. It always felt like she and Roy were made for each other, but to have someone else notice the way she felt about Roy Mustang, it was a wonderful feeling. It made her happy to know that their deep feelings for one another ran so deep that other people had become aware of it.

“Really?” He looked like a small child looking for reassurance.

“Would I lie to you?” She teased him, smirking as she removed her fingers from his face. He even whined at the loss of contact. She placed her palms atop each other and rested her head against them as she stared at her boyfriend. “Boyfriend” … At this point they were practically married.

“No, you wouldn’t,” he relented.

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” she laughed quietly.

“Not disappointed,” he added quickly, rolling over onto his side. He placed a hand on her cheek, cupping it and swiped his thumb over her cheekbone. “Just realising how dumb I’ve been.”

“Good to know you’re self-aware now,” she chuckled. When he pouted again, she laughed louder.

“I didn’t mean to insinuate you would… do anything either.” He huffed, clearly frustrated as he quickly tried to reassure her. “Okay, maybe I was a little jealous,” he admitted.

“Of what?”

“Maybe I was a little jealous,” he echoed, running his hand up and down her bare arm with a pressure that was barely there, “because I wanted to see you in that dress first.”

“I can put it back on for you,” she smirked, enjoying the shiver running up her spine.

“I don’t know… I kind of like the thought of it on our bedroom floor,” he smirked.

“You want me to put it on, just so you can take it off me again, don’t you?”

He just grinned at her, while Riza laughed, standing from the couch.

“You have nothing to worry about, Roy Boy,” she called over her shoulder, making sure she added extra sway to her hips. She shot him a rather coy look, batting her eyelashes and leaving him dumbstruck on their couch. Then she paused. “You’ve owned my heart for over ten years,” she added quietly, dropping her act and speaking sincerely. “And that’s never going to change.”

He was off the couch in a flash, rushing to meet her. When he did so, his hands gripped her waist tightly as he pressed his lips eagerly against hers. She responded in kind, smiling against him.

“I know I had nothing to worry about,” he whispered against her lips. “But I still missed you terribly.”

“I know. I missed you being there too. I wanted you to be there.” She felt terrible when she saw the guilty look overtake his features. “That’s not what I meant –”

“I know,” he reassured her. “Don’t worry. I promise,” he vowed, “this weekend I’ll take you out to a nice dinner. Just the two of us.”

She looped her arms around his neck. “I would absolutely love that.”

“So…”

“What?” She lifted an eyebrow to question him.

“Don’t put that dress back on.” His grin was absolutely wolfish. “Leave it as a surprise for me tomorrow.”

Her head tipped back as she laughed. However, Roy took the opportunity to attack her neck with his lips, turning her laughs into breathy moans.

“I much prefer you in these pyjamas anyway,” he murmured against her throat. “Because I’m the only one who gets to see you in them.”

“The feeling is mutual,” she whispered, gazing up at him before his lips descended once more.

#royai #royai fic #royai fanfic #royai oneshot #fic request #emma writes

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acescreations · 4 years

Text

Lovestruck/Smooth Criminal Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Warnings: Fighting, swearing, arguing

Ship(s): Eventual Illiyance

Word Count: 3937

Summary: Illinois never expected to end up in prison. Nor did he ever expect to one of the prisoners to get attached to him, especially one that seemed to hate him at first. And he definitely did not expect to break every rule he had for himself and get attached to that same prisoner. Really attached.

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Looking back, Illinois wasn’t even sure how it all happened. Everything was sort of a blur, and what he thought was going to be an average adventure had ended with him in a prison uniform, listening as his possessions were listed off.

“One whip, one pistol and holster, one flip phone… several bags of trail mix, a dozen water bottles, a tinderbox, one compass, one hunting knife-” Illinois was starting to wish he was less prepared now, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stand still “-one flashlight, one matchbox, one pack of batteries, one sleeping bag, one tent, five bottles of dry shampoo, one Gameboy-” How long had that been in there? “-mountain-climbing equipment, and… a shit ton of hats."

“Yeah, about those hats, you think I could hold on to one of them?” Illinois leaned up against the counter by the window, but was almost immediately pulled back by a guard. “Prisoners don’t get to keep their possessions,” the guard growled at him as he was dragged off to the main room where all the other prisoners were. Illinois sighed as he looked around the room, occasionally meeting the eyes of prisoners who were staring at him.

Illinois ran his fingers through his hair, pacing restlessly around the room. “It’s just a hat Illinois,” he muttered to himself. “You can go without it, you’ve survived worse than this.” But I’ve always had my hat with me before. Illinois shook the thought away, sternly telling himself he’d be fine, although he kept running his fingers through his hair.

“Hey, youse is the new guy, right?” Illinois dropped his hand to his side as he turned to face the person who was addressing him. “Yeah,” he responded as he examined the man in front of him. “Name’s Illinois. Pleasure to meet me." Illinois shifted his weight onto one leg in an imitation of calmness.

The prisoner gave him an unamused look as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, I’s heard already. And I just wanna explain somethin’ to yas. That youse better not try ta break out, ya hear me?”

Illinois raised an eyebrow at him. “I never said I was going to try.” He hadn’t even really considered that possibility until then. Honestly, this guy probably would’ve been better off not saying anything to him.

“Well youse ain’t goin’ to. Nobody breaks outta here, so it’s best ya don’t even try, or else youse gonna deal with me, or worse, the Warden. ’M I clear?”

Illinois nodded, although he wasn’t at all concerned about what he was saying. His mind was still on all the kidnapped hats. “My sentence is fairly short, so you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m sure I’ll last until then.”

~ ~ ~

Illinois wasn’t going to last until then.

The first day or two weren’t too bad. Illinois hated having to follow a schedule, but he told himself he could deal with it. The yard wasn’t nearly big enough to get any real exercise in, but he thought he could deal. He even got over not having his hat. Kind of. But even with the surprising amount of hidden passageways in the prison, Illinois did not have enough to do to keep himself busy. The days were getting way too long, and Illinois swore his sentence was supposed to end days ago. If he didn’t get out of there soon, he was going to lose it.

Fortunately, Illinois knew he wouldn’t have to wait to get out. He had found every tunnel, every passageway, even trapdoors that Illinois didn’t think should be in a prison. He’d be able to get his possessions and get out like it was nothing. Nobody would even notice.

Or at least that was the plan , which would have gone off without a hitch if Illinois hadn’t walked out into the courtyard that night to see the tattooed prisoner that approached him on day one - Yancy, Illinois had since learned his name was - standing out in the courtyard, eyes coming down from the sky to land on Illinois.

“The hell’s youse doin’ out here?” Yancy demanded in a quiet yell.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Illinois countered, trying to remain indifferent. It was then that Yancy’s eyes finally landed on Illinois’s bag, and Illinois decided to consider himself lucky that it didn’t burst into flames from the fury in them. “Youse tryna break out!”

“Yeah, and I’d still like to do so, if you wouldn’t mind.” Illinois reached into his bag and pulled out one of his hats, putting it on as he attempted to walk past Yancy, who, unsurprisingly, did in fact mind. Illinois stumbled back as Yancy grabbed him by his shoulders and threw him back. “Oh no, you ain’t goin’ anywhere. Nobody breaks outta here, and youse sure as hell ain’t no exception.”

Illinois began surveying the area for a way out as Yancy began advancing towards him, cracking his knuckles. He ended up not needing to worry about that, however, because it was then that they were illuminated by flashlight beams of guards who had evidently heard the commotion.

“Hey!” Yancy’s head jerked over to the source of the lights when he heard a guard shout, and it was then that Illinois saw his chance to get past the prisoner. He immediately made a dash for the gate, but then suddenly the ground rose up to him and the air was knocked out of his lungs as Yancy tackled them both to the ground. “Youse ain’t goin’ nowhere,” Yancy growled as he struggled to hold on to a persistent Illinois until they were both grabbed by guards and dragged back inside, the two glaring daggers at each other the entire time.

“Wait here,” a guard commanded as the two were shoved down into chairs sitting in front of the Warden’s desk, their mutual glare still generating enough static to power a small town. “The Warden will deal with you soon enough.”

As soon as the guards had left the room, Yancy spoke up. “This was exactly what I was sayin’ was gonna happen to yas.”

“Well I would’ve been fine if you didn’t stop me.”

“Why the hell youse even tryin’ ta break out? You promised you’d stay!”

“Well I changed my mind.” Illinois chose not to argue the fact that he never “promised” to do anything. “And I still intend on leaving,” he said as he stood up, “and I’m not gonna wait around for someone else to stop me, sweetheart.”

“You’re staying here,” Yancy said with a surprising note of seriousness in his voice as he reached up and grabbed Illinois’s arm. “You’re the reason we both in this mess in the first place.”

“It’s not my fault you were outside. And what were you doing out there anyway?” Before Yancy could respond, the door opened, and the Warden walked in. Yancy’s hand immediately dropped from Illinois’s arm as he watched him enter.

“I have to say,” he said, looking between the two of them, “I am very surprised that it was you two that interrupted my sleep. And please, sit down.” Warden put a hand on Illinois’s shoulder and pushed him into his seat, and Illinois’s face twisted as he attempted to hide the amount of pain it caused. “You know,” the Warden continued as he sat down, “I had very high hopes for you, Indiana. You were showing so much improvement.”

“It’s Illinois. And why haven’t I been released yet, then?” Rather than answer Illinois’s question, the Warden turned his attention to Yancy.

“And I am very disappointed in you, Yancy. I thought I could expect better behavior from you.”

“But Warden, I’s was just tryna keep him from breakin’ out!” Yancy protested.

“I did not ask for an explanation. You were still outside your cell after lights out, and I can’t just allow my prisoners to wander freely, now can I?”

“Well no, but I-”

“Enough!” the Warden interrupted. “Yancy, I’m sorry to do this,” he said, placing a hand on Yancy’s shoulders, and Illinois winced sympathetically at the audible crunch it caused, “but I can’t make exceptions to the rules, even for you, you understand?”

Yancy nodded. “O-of course, Warden, I-”

“Wonderful.” There was another crunch as the Warden patted Yancy’s shoulder. “Now, I’ll have to have the two of you spend the rest of the night in solitary.” It looked like Yancy was about to protest again, but before he could, the Warden left, and two guards came and took them to solitary confinement.

Yancy glared at Illinois the entire way to the solitary cells, and once he was roughly pushed into the small room, he turned to glare at his back as the doors closed on them before turning around to the opposite wall. With a shout, Yancy slammed his fist into the wall, and after a short breath, he drew back his arm and slammed it into the wall again, and then didn’t stop. He wasn’t trying to get out of the cell; at the moment, his focus was on how Illinois had lied when he said he wouldn’t try breaking out, and how that ended up getting him to spend the night in solitary.

Once Yancy had released enough of his anger on the cell wall to think clearly, he took a deep breath and leaned against the wall. He stared down at his knuckles, which were already starting to swell, and gave himself a moment to think through things. For one, he had no idea how Illinois had managed to get outside in the first place - with his stuff even - and without Yancy’s help. As far as he knew, he was the only one in Happy Trails who knew how to break out, which would mean that Illinois found the way out himself, which, Yancy had to admit, was pretty impressive. He was guessing the guy figured his way out at night and somehow managed to not get lost, since he apparently never really slept, or at least that’s what Sparkles guessed from sharing a cell with him. If that was the case, he definitely wasn’t getting any sleep tonight. Yancy knew he was never able to fall asleep in solitary. But who knows? Maybe Illinois figured out how to get out of solitary already.

~ ~ ~

Illinois stared dully at the door when it opened the next morning, idly swinging his leg back and forth as it dangled from off the bed. When the guard who opened the door yelled at him to get out, Illinois did not need to be told twice, despite him knowing that it would be just as aggravatingly dull outside the cell as it was inside. He’d at least be able to move more than three steps in any direction.

Illinois was almost thankful, then, when he had to go back to following the prison’s schedule; at least he was moving. However, it wasn’t even a week before Illinois started to feel like he was losing his mind again, and even though he didn’t exactly keep track of time anymore, he assumed his sentence had been extended. Not that it seemed to matter anymore, he nearly went insane even before that night in the courtyard.

Illinois really should’ve been expecting it when he finally snapped. And yet, when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he still barely processed when he instinctively whipped around and connected his fist with the face of the hand’s owner.

Illinois blinked for a moment as he stared at his outstretched arm before moving his eyes to the person it had knocked back, only to land on the face of a very surprised Yancy.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Illinois slowly lowered his arm as he watched every face in the yard turn to the two of them, absolutely certain that Yancy was about to retaliate. He could already tell this wasn’t going to end well for him; he had nowhere he could run, and he already knew there was no way he could beat Yancy in a fight.

All these thoughts immediately left Illinois’s mind, however, when he heard laughter coming from the man standing across from him. Illinois blinked in surprise he could tell all the other prisoners shared as everyone turned to look at Yancy, who just stood there, laughing.

“Well whaddya know, I’s didn’t think lover boy had it in him,” Yancy said once he had finished laughing. “I’ll let youse off this time ‘round, buddy,” he said as he walked up to Illinois before patting his shoulder and leaning close to Illinois’s ear. “Meet me here. T'night,” Yancy whispered as he let go of Illinois’s shoulder, walking away and leaving Illinois to stare after him in confusion. Was Yancy lying when he said he’d forgive Illinois punching him? Did he just not want to deal with getting punished for getting into a fight? Didn’t he remember what happened last time Illinois saw him in the yard at night?

Illinois didn’t stop asking these constant questions to himself for the rest of the day, and so his curiosity made him risk the possibility that Yancy was planning on beating him up so he could meet him. Illinois wasn’t entirely sure what he was expecting when he arrived there, but it definitely wasn’t seeing Yancy with Illinois’s bag on his shoulder, turning one of his hats around in his hands.

Yancy looked up when he saw Illinois walking over, holding up the hat. “So why’s the hell youse got so many of dese?”

Illinois shrugged as he stopped in front of Yancy. “What can I say, I look good in a hat.” It was obvious to Yancy that Illinois was trying to look calm and collected, like every day, but he was still doing a really bad job at it. The dude didn’t seem to realize, but how pale he had been getting for the past week or so made his bit really unconvincing.

Yancy sighed. “Well, here ya go,” he said, holding Illinois’s hat and bag out to him. Illinois looked at him in surprise for a moment before cautiously taking them from him. “Alright, I’m gonna get youse outta here before I end up with a shiv to the back,” he chuckled as he began walking off, gesturing with a casual shrug of a shoulder for Illinois to follow.

“Wait, you’re… helping me escape now?” Yancy looked back at an Illinois who looked like he thought he just completely went nuts.

“Well I’s didn’t grab all that stuff for fun,” Yancy said, gesturing to Illinois’s bag.

Illinois stared skeptically at him, and Yancy had no idea what he could still be questioning. “Well why the change of heart?” Illinois asked after a moment.

Yancy raised his eyebrows at him. “Youse seen yourself lately? Buddy, you wasn’t gonna last anyway, and I don’t want youse to hurt yourself by hittin’ the wrong dude.” Yancy laughed, slapping a hand against Illinois’s back. “How comes you so attached to the outside world anyways? What’s in it for youse?”

“What isn’t out there, that’s the real question. There’s so much to do out there, so many things to see. There’s adventure, glory, life to live!"

Yancy jerked his head to the side as he heard guards approaching, apparently having heard Illinois, and pushed him into a concealed corner, hiding them both there until he could hear the guards leave. "You might wanna keep youse’s voice down,” Yancy reminded him as he continued leading Illinois away.

“So why are you staying here?” Illinois suddenly asked him.

Yancy glanced back for a moment before shrugging, his hand subconsciously going up to the back of his neck. “Well, I mean, this is home, y'know? I got my gang back there.” Yancy sighed, and from then on, it was silent.

Then, once Illinois was outside the gate, he turned back around to look at Yancy on the other side. “So how come you were out here that night?” he asked as he put his hat back on.

Yancy shrugged before pointing up to the sky. “Just takin’ in the view, y'know?”

Illinois looked up at the sky where Yancy was pointing and nodded. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” Illinois stayed there for a moment, and just as he started to turn to leave, Yancy reached out a hand to stop him. “Hey um,” Yancy glanced down at the ground, “youse should come visit some time. Visitation’s every third Sunday, but considering how far youse got yourself, youse could probably come in whenever you like,” he chuckled.

Illinois stared at him for a moment, and Yancy had no idea what he was thinking in that moment. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said with a nod before turning and walking off.

And that was the last Yancy saw of Illinois.

At first he thought that maybe Illinois would stop by for a visit, even though the chances were slim, but then a month passed, and then two, with no news of him, and eventually, Yancy accepted that he wasn’t coming back.

And so, he was reasonably surprised when he was standing in his cell one night, and he turned around to see somebody climbing out of his cell wall.

Out of instinct, Yancy immediately took a step forward and drove his fist into the stranger’s face, only to find out that the shocked face of the stranger was actually Illinois, who had fallen back against Yancy’s bedside table. Yancy stared at him in disbelief as Illinois stared down at the floor in shock, both of them completely motionless.

After what felt like an eternity of both of them being completely still, Illinois reached up and put a hand to his face where Yancy’s fist had collided with it. Yancy watched as Illinois clicked his tongue before saying, “Yeah, I had that coming.”

As if his voice had broken Yancy out of some kind of trance, Yancy took a step toward Illinois, a barrage of questions on his tongue. “What took ya so long? Why youse only visiting now? How the hell did youse get in here?”

Illinois stared at him for a moment as he straightened himself, looking like he was still processing everything, as if he was the one who just watched somebody he thought he’d never hear from again suddenly appear from inside his wall. Illinois slowly lifted his hand to point to the wall he just came out of. “There’s a tunnel hidden behind that wall panel,” he explained. “I just figured that since I was in the area, I’d drop by for a visit.”

“What?” Yancy turned to the wall panel, which he only just realized was still loose. He pulled it back, looking down the dark tunnel behind it. “Huh,” was all Yancy could think to say, as he was more focused on wondering how he never found out about a secret tunnel connected to his own damn cell.

“Yeah,” Illinois said, going to stand beside Yancy. “I’m really not surprised you didn’t see it until now. I don’t know if you’d be able to push this panel out of place from this side, at least not the first time.”

Yancy raised an eyebrow at him. “So youse found a passage I didn’t, huh? I gotta say, buddy, that ain’t bad at all.”

Illinois shrugged elaborately, walking backward into the tunnel. “Hey, I’m an adventurer. Finding secret tunnels is second nature for me. Anyway, how about we go on a quick walk, for old time’s sake.” Illinois grinned, and a whip crack echoed through the tunnel as he winked.

Yancy sighed before pulling the panel into place as he followed Illinois down the tunnel, wondering why he was so willingly going along with what Illinois said.

“You should see if you can move that panel from the inside.” Illinois’s voice echoed off the walls. “This path is probably shorter than the one you’ve been taking.” True to his word, it wasn’t long before a light appeared at the end of the tunnel, and the pair arrived on the other end, just outside the prison walls.

“I gotta admit,” Illinois said, leaning against the wall, “the view actually is a bit better in the yard. This way was just shorter.”

Yancy looked around briefly before looking at the wall behind them. “Youse ain’t tryna get me ta break out, are ya?” he asked Illinois.

Illinois laughed loudly at the question. “No, if knowing me isn’t incentive enough for that, then nothing is.” Illinois winked at him, and there was another whip crack. Yancy sighed at him before looking back up at the sky, letting silence settle around them for a while.

“So how comes youse got landed in here in da first place?” Yancy asked after a few moments.

Illinois shrugged, glancing over at him. “I got arrested for trespassing, plus I think I ran from the police.” Just a moment passed, and then Yancy burst into laughter, completely disregarding Illinois’s confused expression.

“Youse fuckin’ got arrested for trespassing!” Yancy said through his laughter. “Please tell me youse at least had some fun while runnin’ from the heat.”

Illinois opened his mouth as if to defend himself, but then closed it with a sigh, crossing his arms and looking up at the sky again. “So what did you do, then?”

Yancy’s laugh quieted, and he looked down for a moment. “Killed my parents,” he sighed, shrugging as he glanced over to judge Illinois’s reaction.

Illinois stared at him with raised eyebrows before briefly nodding. “Huh,” was all he said, and Yancy had no idea what that response meant.

“Anyway,” Yancy said, standing himself upright, “I should probably be heading back now. Don’t want the guards to see my cell empty.” He chuckled before holding up a hand to wave Illinois goodbye. As he turned back to the tunnel entrance, he heard Illinois say, “Wait!” and felt him grab Yancy’s arm. Yancy turned around to see Illinois reaching through his bag, pulling out a pen. Yancy stood still as Illinois clicked the pen and wrote a series of numbers on Yancy’s hand, followed by a set of small hearts.

“Just in case I don’t came by again, so we can keep in touch,” Illinois explained as Yancy stared down at the writing. “And who knows? Maybe if you get out someday, you can get in contact with me.” Yancy heard a whip crack as Illinois turned away. “Anyway, see you later, Ohio Boy.”

How did he know I’m from Ohio? Yancy stared after Illinois for a long moment as he walked away before looking down at the number on his hand. He released a deep breath as he reentered the tunnel, thankful for the cooler temperature of it, continuing to think back to the person he had just talked to, comparing him to the person he had helped break out just a few months before. Yancy couldn’t help but feel grateful that he had helped Illinois break out when he thought about it. He actually started to wish he had never stopped him the first time when he thought about how terrible Illinois had been looking, and how much better he looked tonight.

Once Yancy got back to his room, he put the wall panel back into place before staring at it for a few seconds. A smile came to his face as he sighed, laying down in his bed. After a moment, Yancy lifted his hand, staring at the series of numbers, getting lost in thought.

#a heist with markiplier #yancy #a heist with markiplier yancy #yancy markiplier #yancy x illinois #illiyance #illinois ahwm #yancy ahwm #illinois a heist with markiplier #mr. murderslaughter #fighting tw #swearing tw #arguing tw #writing tag

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kitty-bandit · 5 years

Text

Just Friends

Rating: E Fandom: Original Setting Pairing: Orha x Akihiko (OCs owned by @kandasboi) Tags: Drama™; Romance; Dealing with an Ex; A/B/O Dynamics(ish); Heat Sex; Sex; Oral Sex; Anal Sex; Anal Fingering; Multiple Orgasms; Barebacking

I’m back again, and this time with a commission for @kandasboi! The request was for his OCs. If you want to read the other two fics I’ve written for him involving these OCs, you can find them here and here.

If you’d like to commission me, check out my commission info!

Keep walking. Don’t turn around—

Orha kept his gaze forward, looking straight ahead as he quickened his pace in the hope that Malakai would give up pursuit. He hunched his shoulders, holding his books tight to his chest and clenching his jaw as he speed-walked through campus. But that subtle hint, and his not-so-subtle body language, didn’t dissuade his ex from taking chase. Hurried footsteps echoed behind him and he heard Malakai call his name—louder this time—as he closed the distance between them. Finally, a strong hand gripped his shoulder and yanked him to a stop before he could cross the street.

“Didn’t you hear me? I was calling you for half a block.”

Out of breath, Orha turned and looked up at Malakai’s handsome face. He hated that he still thought of him as handsome, even after all the shit he had put him through. But it was hard not to see his beauty—that strong, muscled body and pretty face framed with the softest brown and gray ombre hair. He wished Malakai looked as ugly on the outside as he did inside, that the world would work like that sometimes. It would make it easier to see people for who they really were—before you gave them the chance to hurt you.

“What do you want?” Orha refused to meet his brown eyes, instead staring at the courtyard and watching a squirrel forage under a tree. His heart refused to calm itself, beating a mile a minute as he waited for Malakai to speak his peace.

Malakai rummaged through his messenger bag and pulled out a thickly bound book. “Here, I found this and I thought you’d like it.”

He shoved the book into Orha’s arms, leaving Orha scrambling to keep from dropping his other books in the process. Orha bit his lip to keep from snapping, but couldn’t stifle an exasperated sigh. After rearranging the books in his arms, he looked down at the one Malakai had given him. It was a history book, and one he’d wanted for a while. He hadn’t purchased it because of the price, though. And Malakai just...

Orha shook his head and met Malakai’s gaze. “Why are you giving this to me?”

“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. He had to be faking it—Malakai wasn’t that dumb. Orha had learned how manipulative he could be, and had paid the price for it. “I saw it in the bookstore yesterday. Are you saying you don’t want it?”

“No, I—” Orha sighed and looked back down at the book. “It’s expensive.”

“You know I can afford it.”

“That doesn’t matter—we’re not together. You shouldn’t buy me things anymore.”

Malakai shrugged, looking more at ease than he had the right to be—especially with Orha’s nerves knotted up like rope. “Consider it a gift from a friend, then.”

Orha let out a stunted laugh as he stared down at the book cover. Friends. Friends didn’t harass you or spread rumors about you or destroy your property just for fun. They weren’t friends and, as far as Orha was concerned, they never would be.

He still didn’t understand what Malakai was up to. Not even a month ago he was bullying Orha every time they encountered each other—on campus and off. But this change, the complete turn around, struck him as more than a little off. Malakai had been following Orha around, finding excuses to show up at places he knew he would be. He’d given Orha gifts. They were small at first, but the price and sizes grew exponentially. This book was the most expensive yet. Last time he’d priced it, it’d been almost $200. Way over his budget. And Malakai simply threw his money away to buy it for Orha? Something didn’t add up.

What the hell was Malakai planning? What angle was he working? What purpose did being nice to him serve? The more he approached him, the less Orha trusted him, but he was too scared to outright reject his advances. The last thing he wanted was for Malakai to bully him again. He’d already suffered enough from that.

“Fine,” Orha replied, tucking the book to his chest with the others. “Thanks, I guess.”

“So,” Malakai began, taking a step closer and pinching a lock of Orha’s hair between his fingers. “There’s a party tonight at my place. You should come.”

Too close. Orha flinched and pulled away—out of reach from Malakai’s greedy grasp. His stomach twisted in a sick knot. “Sorry, I’m busy tonight.” No way in hell would he be caught dead at Malakai’s house. He turned and headed back down the sidewalk.

His heart dropped in his stomach as heard footsteps behind him.

“Are you busy with something? Or should I say someone?” Malakai asked as he matched Orha’s pace.

“What are you talking about?” he asked back, jaw set tight as he clutched his books to his chest.

“You’ve been hanging around that guy a lot. Akihiko.”

Orha’s back stiffened and his pointed ears flicked backwards, flattening against his head. He shot a glare Malakai’s direction, bristling. “What’s it to you?” The words were harsher than he’d wanted, but he couldn’t help it. Akihiko was a sensitive subject, and Orha didn’t like hearing his name on Malakai’s tongue.

“Just curious.” Malakai watched Orha, unabashedly staring, while Orha quickened his pace. “Haven’t seen you with anyone else lately.”

It was too much—too much to handle all at once. “I gotta go.” He cut across the street, a few cars slamming their breaks and cursing him out as he dashed in front of them. But the shortcut worked and Malakai didn’t bother crossing traffic to follow after him. He sighed in relief, but the anxious energy still hummed along his skin like electricity. He wanted to go home and relax.

As he left campus and crossed into the residential area on the outskirts of the university, a buzzing in his pocket distracted him from his thoughts. Pulling out his phone, his dark blue eyes widened at the name on the screen—Akihiko.

His pace slowed as he unlocked the screen and read over the text.

Aki—Dinner tonight?

It was so casual, the way he asked; subtly comfortable in a way that Orha wished he could say was mutual. The realization struck him, that he had been spending more time with Akihiko than he’d thought, if he could message Orha so easily. It meant that Malakai had been right in his observations, as much as he despised that knowledge.

Still. Still. It didn’t mean anything. In spite of Orha’s original concerns, Akihiko was kind to him. Too kind, really. More kind that he deserved. Like a real boyfriend.

But they weren’t boyfriends. Not really. Or at least, they’d never labeled it. They simply spent time together—some of it platonic, some of it intimate. Whatever they had, it worked, and Orha didn’t dare disturb the balance they’d found in each other. If it was one thing he knew for sure, asking too much in a relationship doomed it to fail. For once, he’d like it to work out, if only for a little longer.

Orha typed back, fingers quick on the screen.

Orha—Pass tonight. Not feeling well.

Little dots popped up on the screen, and Orha waited for Akihiko’s message as he walked.

Aki—Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.

As much as dinner with Akihiko sounded great, Orha didn’t think he could handle it. Not tonight, at least. He’d been feeling strange all day and the run-in with Malakai knocked him off his feet. What he needed was a nap—a nice long nap so he could forget Malakai and Akihiko and his stupid, turbulent emotions. Besides, he needed rest. The last thing he wanted was to catch a cold because he was stressed.

Orha shoved the phone back into his pants and sighed. Tomorrow. He would worry about it all tomorrow. He just needed to get home tonight and rest.

As that thought entered his mind, he felt the plink of a raindrop on his cheek. Looking up, he watched the sky turn dark, clouds churning in the sky with ill intent. Another drop hit his face—and another and another.

“Shit,” he grumbled, picking up the pace. Only a few blocks remained until he was home, but before he could curse himself out for forgetting an umbrella, the sky opened up and the deluge hit.

Tucking his books close to his chest to protect them from the rain, Orha broke out into a sprint. As he ran, water collected into puddles on the sidewalk and splashed against his legs with each step. He couldn’t escape the rain—it permeated everything as it poured from the sky in violent sheets. With his heart pounding in his chest, he hurried down the street in hopes of keeping his books dry in the downpour. As he neared the end of the block, he spotted his house and darted to the door, fumbling with his keys to get indoors.

After bolting inside and slamming the door shut behind him, Orha sighed in relief. Water dripped down his face, soaking his dark hair and leaving drenched clothes stuck to wet skin. He set his books down on the coffee table in the living room. They weren’t as waterlogged as he’d feared—just a bit of wetness along the top edges. They would dry easy enough.

As he spread them out on the table, his eyes landed on the history book Malakai had given him and his stomach clenched unpleasantly. He might have wanted the book, but he didn’t want it if it came from his ex. Maybe he could sell it online or something. It would be better than keeping it around and reminding him of what had been.

Unable to bear looking at the book any longer, Orha trudged to his bedroom, water dripping everywhere. He would clean up later, but for now, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep. Stripping out of his sopping wet clothes, Orha dropped each item to the floor without care. Once he was down to his boxers, he slipped into bed and covered himself with the blankets. His skin was clammy and cold from the sudden shower, but the softness of his sheets and pillows drained the tension from his body. Even with wet hair, he felt better.

Before he could muse any longer on why he was so tired and drained, he drifted off to blissful unconsciousness.

xXxXxXx

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Orha’s nose twitched. He groaned pulling the blankets over his head to block the noise. He didn’t want to get up—not yet. His body ached and burned, as if he’d ran a marathon and all he wanted to do was keep sleeping.

Bam! Bam!

“Ugh.” Orha rolled to his back, eyes cracking open to stare up at the ceiling. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, but the rain hadn’t stopped and it was dark.

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

A frown spread over his lips, tugging at the corners, and this time, he let out an angry snarl. Who the hell was banging on his door? “Just go away,” he growled, too weak for whoever was at the door to hear. He still felt off—not quite right inside—and the constant pounding was giving him a headache. The noise continued, and Orha huffed. “Fine, asshole! I’m coming!” Throwing back the blankets, he ambled to his feet—and fell to the floor.

With a moan more wanton than pained, he squeezed his eyes shut and caught his breath. He was hard—so painfully hard. The damned knocking had been so annoying he’d completely missed it. But after failing to stand and nearly falling flat on his face, he realized what had been off all day.

Orha had started his heat.

“Shit. Fucking—ugh.” Cursing to himself as he crawled on the floor, he grabbed a pair of sweatpants and pulled them on in the hopes of hiding his massive erection. However, the fabric tented over the bulge, leaving his state even more obvious than before. He couldn’t hide it, or his other symptoms. With his fevered skin, blown pupils, and short breath, anyone would be able to see his state. Not to mention the smell…

The sudden and gnawing urge to jerk off over took him, but he shook his head and tried to focus. He had to get rid of whoever was on his porch first, then he could take to his...needs.

Stumbling through the house and growling under his breath, he stomped towards the front door in nothing but a flimsy pair of sweatpants. The knocking persisted. Orha yanked the door open and took a breath to shout at the person who had rudely jolted him out of his peaceful sleep—

Only to deflate completely as he recognized the handsome countenance staring wide-eyed at him. “Aki?” he asked, confusion heavy in his voice.

Akihiko looked like the proverbial deer in headlights. He stood there, one hand still raised to knock on the door and the other cupping a small plastic container to his side. “Oh—Sorry. Were you sleeping? I was starting to get worried because you didn’t answer your phone.”

“I—uh—” Orha felt his mouth go dry as he looked at Akihiko, his hair and clothes wet from the pouring rain. “I didn’t hear it.” His stomach clenched, a twang of hunger humming through his veins. He knew it was the heat talking, his brain addled with hormones, but in that moment, he’d never wanted Akihiko more.

Akihiko tensed as Orha watched him, and handed him the container. “You said you weren’t feeling well, so I brought you some soup.” He took a long breath, and Orha knew he could smell the pheromones he gave off. There was no way to hide the scent, not now. “But I guess you’re not that kind of sick.”

“Yeah...” Orha swallowed thickly, heart hammering in his chest like a drum. He barely made out Akihiko’s words, as if cotton were shoved in his ears. His boxers were too tight, and he felt hot and sticky all over. He wanted them off. He wanted everything off of him right then, but he couldn’t stop staring at Akihiko.

Weakly, he grabbed the container, the warm plastic pleasant against his palms. He leaned in closer to Akihiko, swaying on his feet as he breathed in his scent. He smelled like the fresh rain that hadn’t stopped for hours and sandalwood. Heady, earthy. Masculine and strong. Just what Orha was craving. Just what he needed. “Thanks,” he said as an afterthought, moving closer still. Reaching out, he touched Akihiko’s hip, fingers tucking into the waistband of his pants.

Realizing the situation they were in, Akihiko took a step back, but didn’t push Orha away. “Uh, maybe I should go? You seem a bit out of it and—”

“No—” Orha tightened his grip and pulled Akihiko back towards him, practically dragging him into the house. “Stay, please? I want you to stay.”

A torn look crossed Akihiko’s face as he hesitated. Resting his hand against over Orha’s as it clung to his hip, he let out a shuddered breath. Orha’s scent had to have been strong by then, and the longer Akihiko lingered, the harder it would be to leave. Even in his heat haze, Orha could see the thoughts and emotions passing over his face, struggling to decide on the best course of action.

But Orha saw him crumble, and his heart skipped a beat as their eyes met. Akihiko raised his free hand to cup the side of his face. His palm felt so cool in comparison to his heated, flushed skin. “…Are you sure? You’re not just saying this because you’re in heat and—”

“I’m sure,” Orha interrupted, pulling him closer. “I don’t want to be alone tonight—I can’t.” Without further elaborations, he leaned in and captured Akihiko’s lips in an excited kiss, devouring his mouth with vigor.

Moaning into the kiss, Akihiko wrapped his arms around his waist and held him close. He tightened his grip on Orha as his tongue slipped into his mouth. It only lasted a few seconds, that hungry, mutual desire, before he released Orha’s lips. “Okay. Okay, I’ll stay,” he whispered back, his lips brushing against Orha’s as he spoke.

Orha whined, a noise he loathed to make at any other time. But it was his heat—he allowed himself to indulge in the… neediness of it all. Besides, he doubted Akihiko minded. If the stiffness pressing into Orha’s hip was any indication, Akihiko liked it a little too much.

Akihiko kicked the door shut behind him and kissed Orha again, one hand pressed against his jaw to tip his chin back, as if he were drinking down his kisses like a fine wine. Orha’s grip on the container of soup fumbled, but he curled it closer to his body to steady it. A sweet, desperate moan rumbled in his chest and he went limp in Akihiko’s arms.

“Aki, please,” Orha mumbled against his lips. He dug his fingers harder into the hem of Akihiko’s pants and rutted sloppily against his hip.

“Yes, yes—of course.” He grabbed the soup from Orha’s hand and set it on the coffee table, nearly knocking it over in the process. But it didn’t matter—not to either of them. All that mattered was getting to the bedroom as fast as possible. Everything else could wait.

They stumbled their way to the bedroom, tripping over each other’s feet while kissing and groping. Orha panted into Akihiko’s neck, his breath hot against his skin as he dug his nails into his back. As they reached the threshold, Akihiko lost his patience with their slow pace and picked Orha up—holding his thighs as he lifted him. Orha’s legs wrapped around his waist, ankles crossing at the small of his back. His head spun as Akihiko carried him and he buried his nose in his soft, white hair. Heats made him do strange things, but even with a clear head, he couldn’t get enough of Akihiko’s scent. He took a deep breath to pull the smell into his lungs, and tightened his grip.

His scent was divine, but before Orha could muse on that indulgence any longer, his back hit the mattress and forced him to expel the sweet smell. He didn’t have time to complain before Akihiko’s lips were on his once more, devouring his mouth like it was his last meal. Akihiko’s legs pressed between Orha’s, forcing them open to rut against his stiff erection.

“Nnnn...” Orha’s hips rocked up against Akihiko’s, adding to the delightful friction and pressure between them as he sucked on his lover’s lower lip. It was too hot, hotter than only a few minutes ago, and sweat beaded along his neck and back, perspiration dotting his skin in between the raised hairs. He shivered, not from the temperature, but from the friction between them. His cock was so hard now, he felt like he might burst from the pressure.

It was stupid to forget about his heat—Orha knew it. But he had little time to berate himself when Akihiko’s tongue was down his throat and his cock was nestled firmly against Orha’s own. He squirmed under the attention, desperate and hungry for more.

A rough thrust knocked Orha back, their lips parting with a gasp. Moaning, he tugged at Akihiko’s shirt, weakly grasping at the fabric as he attempted to pull it off. “Too hot, Aki,” he mumbled, squirming under Akihiko’s heavier body.

Sitting up, Akihiko raked a hand through his white hair, the messy strands tangling in his fingers. He gazed down at Orha with lust in his blue eyes, chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. Their eyes met for only a second, fire burning bright in them. Before Orha could speak again in the hope of hurrying him along, Akihiko grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it off. Orha watched in awe as he revealed his chest, sweat already glistening against his skin in the dim light of the bedroom. It was a sight he’d seen numerous times before, but it never failed to send a jolt of desire deep in the pit of his stomach.

Akihiko’s fingers curled into the flimsy fabric of Orha’s sweatpants, tugging them and his underwear down his thighs in one quick motion. His stiff prick bounced against his stomach in anticipation and Orha moaned as Akihiko stripped him. Tossing his head back and forth against the pillows, he grabbed the loose sheets under him. The slightest contact against his cock was torture. The reddened head leaked precum like a faucet, dribbling over his stomach and smearing across his skin. He watched impatiently as his clothes were tossed to the floor and Akihiko rid himself of his own jeans.

He needed Akihiko. He needed him bad.

As if hearing the silent plea, Akihiko leaned in and kissed Orha again, slipping his tongue into his mouth. Without the frustrating barrier of clothing between them, Orha felt everything. Akihiko’s muscles flexing, the sweat sticking to his skin, the heavy heat between his legs as it dug into Orha’s stomach. Now that—that was what he wanted most, what his body craved.

Sliding a hand between them, Orha grabbed Akihiko’s cock. He growled low in the back of his throat, starving for the contact, and stroked him with greedy fingers as he rutted against his hip. The touch left Akihiko moaning in his mouth, hips arching into the contact, and Orha’s heart leapt in his throat. Akihiko was so sensitive to his touch... It made him want to please him more, to see what sweet noises he could pull from his rumbling chest. But before he put his plan to action, Akihiko broke their kiss.

“Nnnn, Aki...?�� he groaned out, dizzy from the heated kisses and his body’s soaring temperature.

Akihiko didn’t answer. Instead, he kissed his way down Orha’s neck, each press of his lips leaving a heated trail on his skin. Orha panted as he stared up at the ceiling, squirming under the too-soft touch. “Aki—Aki, more… Please, more…” he begged, ears flattening against his head and tail flicking behind him as he struggled to find more friction between them.

Each nip and caress of his tongue on Orha’s skin left him writhing under Akihiko’s touch. He continued down his chest, stopping at Orha’s nipples and lovingly teasing them both with his lips and teeth. The gentle brush of his tongue over the hardened nubs sent shivers of desire up and down Orha’s spine. He couldn’t take much more of Akihiko’s teasing, not when he was this worked up.

Orha’s cock dripped precum between them, balls heavy and tight with need. As Akihiko ceased his torturous admiration of Orha’s nipples, he moved lower, kissing over his taut stomach. With one hand on his hip to keep Orha steady and the other planted on the mattress to keep himself upright, Akihiko settled between his legs, breath blowing across the red and sensitive skin of Orha’s dick.

“Aaa,” Orha whined, hips arching up in a desperate bid for contact. “Aki, please.”

“Hush,” Akihiko whispered, his voice hoarse and deep. But even as he chastised Orha’s enthusiasm, he smoothed his hand up his shaft, thumbing over the slit and smearing precum over his fingers. The touch did nothing to satiate the lust building in Orha’s guts, and he moaned like a wanton whore.

More. He wanted more.

Akihiko watched as Orha writhed under him, hands balled into fists and nails digging into the sheets underneath. He continued to rub at his stiff length, fingers slowly moving along the shaft and spreading precum across hardened flesh, all while ignoring his own growing arousal between his legs. Orha panted and whined, staring back at him with half-lidded eyes.

Smirking, Akihiko pressed his thumb over Orha’s leaking slit. “Be a good Kitten and I promise I’ll make you cum.”

Orha could do nothing but moan and tremble under the teasing touch.

Taking the lack of answer as submission, he leaned down and wrapped his lips around Orha’s cock. The wet heat of his mouth had Orha crying out, and he ripped a hand from the bedsheets, stuffing it in his mouth to keep the worst of his desperate noises from crawling out of his throat. Akihiko’s lips and tongue were talented things, as he’d learned in their dalliances over the past month or so.

Akihiko smoothed his lips over the shaft, dipping down until he buried his nose in the coarse hair at the base. Flattening his tongue along the underside, he hummed against the stiff flesh, gently sucking and bobbing his head. With his lips stretched around Orha’s needy girth, he grabbed his hips, keeping him pinned to the bed and unable to thrust up for more deliciously hot friction.

“Aki...Aki, please...” he begged, head tossing against the pillows. The heat grew low in his belly, like the tightening of a rubber band. Further and further it stretched, taut and tense. Orha’s breath came in hitched gasps as the feeling grew in his guts. He wouldn’t make it much longer, not with Akihiko working him over with his perfect tongue and perfect lips. Sweat prickled along his neck and forehead, and the sounds of his own stilted breaths were muffled as the tension in his body grew, blood pounding in his ears.

With a heady sigh, Akihiko pulled back, mouth sliding over Orha’s cock until only the tip remained snug between his lips. He flicked his tongue back and forth against the dripping slit, sucking the head like the sweetest lollipop.

Orha groaned, eyes rolling back in his head as his hips bucked—struggling for more contact, more heat. But Akihiko’s grip stayed strong, and he kept Orha pinned to the mattress.

“I’m gonna—Aki, I’m gonna—” Orha rambled, back arching off the bed as that tension in his belly pulled tighter, tighter, tighter—and snapped.

Orha came with a moan, fast and hard. It was almost painful as his body seized up in pleasure, tight and taut as he spilled himself down Akihiko’s willing throat. Cum and spit collected at the corners of his mouth as he eased Orha though his orgasm, cheeks flushed and lips nearly bruised for the effort. When Orha finished, spent dick twitching pathetically against his tongue, Akihiko finally let him free.

Orha panted, blue eyes transfixed on the ceiling as he struggled to breathe, to feel anything but the numbing pleasure tingling along every inch of skin. His head spun from the endorphins swimming in his veins, leaving him drowsy. But as the effects of his orgasm faded, his skin refused to cool down. He felt hotter than before and just as hungry—ready to swap skin once again. His cock twitched excitedly against his stomach, slowly growing hard. He hated his heat, hated how desperate and pathetic it made him. But, if nothing else, it was nice to share it with someone he could trust.

“That was good, Kitten.” Akihiko ran his hand along Orha’s jaw, fingertips brushing sweaty skin. He moved slowly, reaching for the nightstand where he knew Orha kept his more...intimate items. “Now, stay put and I’ll make you feel even better.”

“Yes,” Orha whispered, voice hoarse from moaning and panting. He struggled to swallow, throat parched and mouth dry, but did as Akihiko asked. Turning his head to the side, Orha watched him pull open the nightstand drawer and rifle through the contents.

Orha kept a few little playthings in that drawer, as well as necessities. Condoms and lubricant were a must, but he also needed things to keep him occupied when no one else was around to help him through his heats. Dildos and vibrators of various sizes were tucked away for when he needed something to scratch that itch deep inside him. It was never as nice as the warmth of another person, but it would do in a pinch.

He wondered for a long moment if Akihiko would grab one to use on him—just to torture him a little longer. There were even a few cock rings and other devices they could use to drive each other mad with want before coming down from this heat addled state. But before he could voice his question, Akihiko closed the drawer, only taking a small bottle of lubricant.

Orha’s excitement doubled as he watched Akihiko drizzle the lubricant over his fingers, the large digits glistening in the dim light of his bedroom. His breath caught in his throat, eyes following Akihiko’s movements as his fingers slipped down between his legs to open him with slow, purposeful prodding. He felt the pressure against his hole, slick and tight, then spread his legs wider with a low moan.

Grinning, Akihiko leaned down closer. He continued to work into Orha’s ass, the ring of muscle flexing around his finger as he slipped in deeper. As he reached knuckle-deep, he licked along the underside of Orha’s stirring cock, the sensitive flesh twitching with excitement.

One finger wasn’t enough to satiate Orha, but it was enough to remind him of what he really wanted—what he craved. “Please…” he begged, hips rocking under Akihiko. “More, please…”

“You’re needy tonight, Kitten,” Akihiko replied, licking at the head of his cock again. Orha might have already cum once, but his body was ready again—prick stiff and leaking precum without shame.

“Yes,” Orha whined, unable to deny it with how soft and pliant his body became under Akihiko’s touch. The heat had drawn out his needy side, the side of him that craved attention and soft touches and intimacy. He might have tried to deny it on any other day, but it was still a part of him, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Akihiko hummed, breath blowing against Orha’s slick flesh. “I like it,” he mumbled, slipping a second finger into Orha’s ass.

“Aaa…” Orha’s back arched, toes curling as he was stretched wider. It still wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but he would take what he could get.

A laugh bubbled up in Akihiko’s throat. Without a word, he slipped Orha’s cock back into his mouth and sucked him down to the hilt. The wet heat of his lips and tongue combined with the pressure of his fingers up Orha’s ass was almost enough to have him cumming a second time. Luckily, his first orgasm had dulled his need just enough to keep him riding the pleasure longer.

Two fingers slid in and out of Orha’s body, dragging along his flesh and pulling hungry noises from his lips. Akihiko scissored his fingers in Orha, moving them back and forth and in and out with slow, methodical movements. He stretched and worked his way deeper, all while lavishing Orha’s cock with attention. It was almost too much for Orha to bear. Almost.

Just as he was on the cusp of cumming a second time, Akihiko pulled his fingers out. The empty feeling dragged a whine from Orha’s throat, quiet and desperate. He closed his eyes and twisted against the bedsheets, still hard and hungry for attention. Akihiko lavished Orha’s needy prick with one last teasing suck before letting it drop from between his lips.

Chest heaving, Orha forced his eyes open and watched Akihiko as he smoothed lubricant over his stiff cock. It was then that he remembered Akihiko hadn’t touched himself in the whole time they’d been in bed—not once. His cock was red and hard, more than Orha’s own. The thought sent a shot of guilt through his chest, guilt and desire to even things out between them.

Akihiko lined himself up against Orha’s puckered and slick entrance, grabbing his hips and pulling their bodies closer together. But before he could breach the ring of muscle, Orha sprang into action.

He grabbed Akihiko’s shoulders pushing him to the side and straddling his hips as he pinned him to the bed. Akihiko grunted in surprise, eyes wide as he stared up at Orha. He’d been so pliant and submissive earlier that Akihiko hadn’t expected the sudden change in energy between them.

“Orha?” he asked, one hand sliding up his bare stomach, tentative and gentle in its touch.

“Let me,” Orha mumbled, still dizzy and disoriented from his heat. Sweat dribbled down his neck as he shifted his position, grabbing Akihiko’s dick in one hand and steadying himself on the bed with the other. “I want to—” As he spoke, he sank down onto Akihiko’s slick cock, breath catching in his throat and a moan spilling past his lips. He sat down slowly, taking him all in until he bottomed out, ass flush against Akihiko’s hips.

The pressure and the heat—it was all so much. Too much. Orha felt the delicious tightness building in his abdomen as Akihiko’s cock stretched him wide. He wanted to ride him until he couldn’t feel his legs anymore, until he was numb from the pleasure. But before he could move or voice his desires, Akihiko moaned and squeezed Orha’s hips, rutting up into him with a shallow thrust. Orha’s back stiffened as Akihiko’s cock brushed that sweet spot deep inside him. That tiny motion pushed him off the edge a second time. With a weak moan, he came again, painting his stomach white with hot seed. His hips rocked against Akihiko’s, riding out the pleasure until he finished. Panting and flushed, he looked down at Akihiko’s hungry eyes.

“God, that was so hot,” Akihiko mumbled, fingers squeezing Orha’s sides with a bruising insistence. He took a long, shuddering breath, eyes half-lidded, and smoothed his thumbs over Orha’s hips, as if to apologize for grabbing him too roughly. He slipped one hand across Orha’s stomach, humming to himself as he slid it through the mess he’d made. “Kitten, do you wanna rest? I can take over again if you—”

Orha didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. Gathering what strength he had left in his limp limbs, he forced himself upright. Without hesitation, he pulled his hips up and thrust himself back down, impaling himself on Akihiko’s cock. The rough thrust left them both groaning in pleasure, backs arched and muscles tight. But Orha didn’t stop with just one thrust. He went again and again and again, bouncing up and down on Akihiko’s hips with abandon.

“Aki. Aki. Aki.” He repeated his name like a mantra, body oversensitive and yet still wanting more. His cock was half-hard already, a third orgasm quickly budding in his abdomen. Orha had never had a heat this intense before—never. Every brush of Akihiko against him, inside and out, turned his guts to goo.

Growling in excitement, Akihiko rocked his hips upward, timing it with Orha’s own thrusts to dive deep inside him with each pass. They worked in tandem, quickly building up the friction between them. Orha whimpered with each thrust, his body sore and sensitive from the torturous teasing Akihiko had already put him through. Having his prostate slammed into over and over again only left him hungrier for another orgasm.

Leaning forward, Orha planted his hands on Akihiko’s shoulders, fingers digging into his flesh as he rocked himself harder onto his cock. The slight change of angle made it so each thrust hit Orha’s sweet spot head on. He gasped with each intrusion, but only rutted faster and faster against Akihiko. His spent and sore dick strained against their stomachs, rubbing raw between them.

Akihiko moaned, nails leaving half-circle marks on Orha’s thighs. “Shit, I’m—I’m close. Orha, I’m so close—” His eyes screwed shut, head tipped back in pleasure as he pumped his hips faster, filling Orha deeper and deeper with each pass.

“Yes, Aki, yes—” Orha’s thrusts grew frantic, grinding himself onto Akihiko’s stiff rod with fervor. Hearing his partner’s excited cries pushed him to continue, past the point of caring how sore his body was or how much it would hurt tomorrow. He wanted this—he needed it. The feeling of Akihiko deep inside him, the pressure of his body opening up to accommodate another, the tension in his muscles, the furious beating of his heart, the violent tremors running along his limbs. He needed all of it.

Then, as Orha worked himself harder than before, he felt Akihiko stiffen under his body and a rush of heat fill his backside. Akihiko groaned and came into Orha’s ass without warning. The heat and the wet squelching sound as cum slipped down to mess the backs of Orha’s thighs was enough to send him into his third completion of the night. As he rocked down one last time, he came again—a weak stream of white spurting across his abdomen and mingling with the crusted cum already painting his skin. When the tremors subsided, he collapsed against Akihiko’s chest and began purring.

Akihiko wrapped his arms around Orha, holding him close as their bodies slowly cooled in the damp air of the bedroom. “You okay?” he asked, voice low and winded.

“Mm,” Orha hummed, unable to keep his eyes open. Contented purrs rumbled in his chest as he snuggled up to Akihiko. Cum messed his stomach and inner thighs, but he was too tired to do anything about it. He couldn’t even be bothered to uncouple himself from Akihiko, his lover’s slowly softening cock still deep inside him.

Akihiko continued to rub his back, fingers lazily drawing circles along sweaty skin. When his breaths evened out, he shifted to the side and rolled Orha onto the bed. Orha groaned in protest, grabbing his arm before he could completely part from him.

“Don’t go,” Orha whispered, clinging to him as best he could for how exhausted he was.

Hesitating, Akihiko brushed a hand over Orha’s flushed forehead. “I just thought you’d be more comfortable on the bed than on me.”

Orha couldn’t argue the point, but his heat-addled mind still demanded the closeness. He relaxed against the bedding, but didn’t let go of Akihiko’s arm. “Don’t go,” he repeated, softer this time.

Akihiko smiled and stretched out next to Orha. He pulled the dirty blankets over their sweaty bodies and wrapped an arm around Orha once more. “Okay. I won’t. I promise.”

The warmth and closeness drew Orha in like a moth to a flame. Resting his head against Akihiko’s chest, he continued to purr like contented kitten. As he slowly succumbed to sleep, heat satiated for the moment, he hoped Akihiko would keep his promise.

END

#personal #kandasboi #kitty bandit writes fanfiction #/#//#lemon #commissions

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fizzyxcustard · 5 years

Text

A Rose At Twilight (2)

Chapter 1

Masterlist here

Read the most up to date version on AO3 here

Summary: From the series 'Imagine your Thorin poster coming to life at night'. You notice that someone has been visiting you at night; things have moved and roses start appearing on your dresser. Your nightly visits with none other than Thorin Oakenshield start becoming more intense, passionate, and he is eager for you to return to Middle-earth and be his Queen. However, your abusive boyfriend Ryan stands in your way, intent on making your life hell. Will you and Thorin overcome all the obstacles to begin your new life together as King and Queen? And is your past with an abusive boyfriend the only challenge you now face in a new world? Your new friends and family help you uncover all your strength that you never realised you had. But will it be enough to fight away your past and the rising opposition of you becoming the Queen of Erebor?

Warnings: Domestic violence, emotional abuse, mental abuse, physical abuse, smut, oral sex, fluff, anxiety, depression, reference to suicide, poisoning, hospitalisation, strangulation, nightmares, character death.

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield x Fem!Reader, Fem!Reader/Original Male Character

Comments/Notes: Originally posted last year on fizzy-custard under the imagine title ‘Imagine your Thorin poster coming to life’. This fic is now 20 chapters long over on AO3, so if you want to skip ahead, the link is above and also in my blog header. If you wish to be added to any series, character or fandom tag list, message me or send an ask.

Follow Forever tag list: @himoverflowers @shikin83@theincaprincess@deepestfirefun @nowiloveandwilllove@houseofrahl@mynameisnoneya1991 @blankdblank @captainrainbowpanda@cd1242 @c-s-stars@thorins-magnificent-ass @patanghill17 @trees-and-ink@inumorph @leah-halliwell92 @greendragonette @msjava1972 @thequeenoferebor@bespectacled-bunny @ghostlyandee @raindancer2004 @dottiechan @captain-almighty@hobbitlover23 @catthefearless @epicallychrissy @nelswp@adaliamalfoy@spn-obsession

Thorin Oakenshield tag list: @exhausted-human-being @samara-marty-art

Hobbit tag list: @fentah @hails270105 @princess-of-erebor1992@mechromancing-cinnamon-roll @online-imagines-reader

A Rose at Twilight tag list: @obnoxious-in-pink

The rest of the day and you tried your hardest to put your mind away from the thoughts of what had happened the night previously. You served customers at your job in the local music and film shop, forcing a smile and trying to keep awake with non-stop coffee on breaks during stock checks.

By the end of your shift and you were drained in every sense, physically, emotionally and mentally.

As you got to your door and pulled out your key, your neighbour, a middle aged man from the maisonette flat next door, greeted you. “Is everything alright?” he asked, his hands full of bags of grocery shopping.

You looked at him, confused. “How do you mean? I’m fine.”

“I heard you arguing with your boyfriend last night. It was fairly late, around half one. I thought about coming round and knocking on your door.”

You froze. “Erm, yeah, everything’s fine. You know, lover’s tiff and all that. Thanks though, Terry.”

You opened your door as quick as you could and slammed it behind you.

Thorin must have been real. Your next door neighbour had heard you telling him to go away as you had battled with your own sanity, but also must have heard Thorin’s voice.

After slamming the door behind yourself, you quickly dashed back out into the damp air of the autumn evening. “Terry?” you called. Your neighbour was just about to close his front door and reappeared.

“Yeah?”

“What exactly did you hear last night?”

“Well, I couldn’t hear the exact argument but I could definitely hear your voice and a man’s. It was quite a deep voice, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was your boyfriend’s. It sounded deeper than his, but it’s not my business to ask.”

“Okay,” you said softly. “Thanks.”

Thorin was real. How in the name of hell was he real?

You ran back into your flat and raced through into your bedroom. For a few seconds you stared at the poster on your wall. Was this where he had been coming from? “How can you be real?” you whispered, looking up at the image. “I believe you are, but how?”

***

For three nights you remained vigilant, hoping and praying that Thorin would come back to you. But your words of telling him to be gone must have sealed his resolution to not come back. During the nights you kept waking every hour and would call his name into the darkness, your heart pounding in excitement and anticipation at hearing his voice again.

Nothing.

On the afternoon of the fourth day since you had met Thorin, Ryan came to visit you. He brought a four pack of lager with him, but you could see he was already fairly intoxicated when he walked into the flat. He was staggering, his eyes heavy and his speech slurred.

“You’re drunk, Ry. Go home,” you told him as he followed you into the flat.

“Fuck that. I’m staying here...”

The look in Ryan’s eyes began to scare you as he came closer. “You stink of beer,” you hissed and shoved him away.

He grabbed you tight at your hip and pulled you against him and then kissed you, his wet lips sliding against yours.

“Get off me!” you shouted, shoving him away.

Ryan raised his hand and slapped you hard down the left hand side of your face, almost knocking you off your feet. Pain stripped through your face and you rocked backwards, only to then feel him grab your breast perversely. “Come on, babe. You like playing rough.”

Anger rose in you and you shoved him as hard as you could, pushing him completely to the ground. He looked up at you, shocked by your outburst and sudden retaliation.

“Get the fuck out!” you growled. “And don’t you dare come near me again.”

Ryan left your flat, dazed and silent. As your front door slammed shut, you fell backwards into a dining room chair and wept again. Where had that sudden surge in strength come from? Everything of late was becoming overwhelming, and you felt that intense need to get away wash over you again.

***

Two days later and you received a call from one of your mutual friends of Ryan. He was an ex colleague of yours who had introduced you to Ryan about a year previously. Your friend’s voice came down the phone line at you quickly and almost frantic. “Ryan has been attacked and is in hospital.”

“Hospital?” you asked. You looked around to see if anyone else was close enough to hear you as you sat in a local Starbucks drinking a coffee. “What happened?” You felt genuine concern for Ryan, wanting to know how severe his injuries were. “Is he alright?”

“He’s got concussion, a broken nose and missing a couple of teeth, but doctors say he’ll be okay. Do you know anyone who could have done this to him? He was on his way back from the pub around midnight when someone jumped him just outside his flat. The only description that Ry could give was it was a short bloke with long hair. And the strangest thing was, he had a sword on him.”

Immediately you sat bolt upright in your chair and felt shivers race down your spine, freezing cold. Short man with long hair, carrying a sword?

***

After work you raced home, running for the bus and then running again to your flat. Your whole world was spiralling out of control, but the bottom line was, you liked it. Someone had defended you, attacking your now ex-boyfriend for his disrespect and abuse. The thought of it all made you shiver from head to foot and smile at the same time.

By now it was dark as the autumn night closed in. The roads were shining with a fresh gleam of rain, and in the air a fine mist was beginning to descend.

You ran into your flat and straight into your bedroom, switching on the light.

“Thorin, I don’t know if you can hear me,” you said, slightly breathless, and feeling stupid for talking to nothing but thin air and a piece of paper on your wall. “I’m sorry for telling you to go away. I know what you did for me. You attacked Ryan. Please, come to me tonight.”

You waited.

Every slight bump or knock and you felt your heart leap. You remained on high alert to every sound. When you showered, you rushed to get dry and back into your room. You then fetched yourself a cup of tea, rushing around the kitchen to get back in your room.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered as you lay yourself down for the light, switching off your bedside lamp. By now the excitement of everything swirling around you became overwhelming and you dozed, swaying into a light sleep.

Until suddenly you jolted awake, gasping.

“Thorin?” you called out, praying with everything inside you that he would answer. “Please be there. Please.”

You reached out and turned on your lamp, letting light illuminate the room.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you looked upon your room and Thorin was nowhere in sight. “Why are you hiding from me?” you asked. “I’m sorry for what I said.

However, as you looked at the poster on your wall, you gasped again. His image was not there; the paper was only coloured by a blue background.

“Who said I was hiding?” a voice came, and your bedroom door slowly creaked open.

You felt your whole body freeze as you admired his form. He walked towards you, a smirk curling his lips upwards. “However could I stay away?” he asked, standing before you at the side of your bed. His blue eyes studied you, those beautiful eyes which held sadness and a sense of something longed for.

“You attacked Ryan?” you asked.

Thorin’s eyes grew darkened by his frustration and hatred for the man who had disrespected you. “No one dishonours you,” Thorin hissed. “Most of all the one who should love you and defend you.”

Complete silence overtook you. How could you answer such a statement? Was he declaring love to you? How could he love you?

Thorin sat down beside you, turning his upper body to face you. “I have watched over you for some time now; I’ve seen your tears, heard your laughter, and you have the spirit and heart of a Queen.”

You looked down, trying to comprehend his words and this whole situation. For a few seconds you forced your eyes shut and then looked up at him, smiling sadly. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do,” you said. “You talk as though I’m strong and fierce, and I’m not.”

Thorin moved towards you. “You do not see yourself as I do. I heard you defend yourself against that oaf you have called your lover. There is strength in you, and you must believe in it.”

“That wasn’t strength. That was me trying to imagine being you.”

“Never be ashamed of yourself. Never,” Thorin insisted as he watched you hang your head. “Be proud of who you are, because I know I’m proud of you.”

You looked at Thorin as he sat beside you on the bed and smiled weakly at him. “If only things were that easy. You’ve got to be careful here. Attacking someone is a serious offence, and you can be arrested for it. Ryan described you as his attacked and I knew straight away that it was you.”

Thorin scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Then he should not have dared touch you the way he did. Vile, disgusting piece of filth. No honour, no respect...”

You reached forward and touched Thorin’s hand. “Just be careful, please. I’m not worth getting yourself arrested for and thrown in prison. And, anyway, how have you become so good at sneaking about?”

“I may have borrowed your key,” Thorin said and then smirked. “I know that you leave your bag next to your bed, and after I heard your altercation, I could not allow him to get away with his actions.”

“So, you can see me even during the day time?” you asked.

“I can see you, but I cannot move into your world until the sun has set,” Thorin replied.

“I can only imagine the weird crap you’ve had to watch and hear,” you giggled.

Thorin looked at you, shifting so he could turn himself towards you. “Watching you and being able to sit beside you as you have slept has lightened by heart greatly, dear one. I am glad that at present the nights are longer. It means I have more time to spend with you.”

In that moment you decided not to ask any more questions, and just allow the situation to unfold naturally as it was meant to. There was some supernatural force at play here; you had no idea what it was, but you said a silent prayer in your heart, thanking whoever was responsible for giving you this chance to find a connection with someone who genuinely cared for you. If this was indeed the Thorin you had always admired, then you knew he was kind, honourable, steadfast and would do anything in his power to protect you, as long as your intentions to him remained true.

You leaned against Thorin, your cheek being tickled by the fur on his pelt. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For caring.”

Thorin kissed your head and drew his arm around you. “I not only care for you, my dearest, I love you.”

He loved you? You had been having suspicions since you first met him that his feelings for you ran deep, but the words actually being said hit you hard. You swallowed hard and your heart jumped as a pleasurable shiver wound its way down your body. This man was prepared to fight for you, attacking anyone who disrespected you and that made you yearn for him, as well as the lust in his eyes, the beautiful words he spoke and his gentle touch.

Your eyes remained locked for a few more seconds until you leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss against his lips. You felt his beard tickle your chin and you smiled beneath the kiss. And then you felt his hand brush up your cheek, cupping it and caressing your skin.

The kiss grew deeper until you both lost your breaths and the heat mounted to such a plateau that you found yourself straddling him, your hips rocking against his. His right arm was holding your body tight to him, and his left hand was still in your hair. Thorin groaned, the sound becoming lost between your locked lips, until he began nuzzling and sucking your neck.

“My love,” he moaned loudly against you.

You had never felt so loved, treasured and worshipped as you did in those moments with Thorin.

The excitement of having Thorin beside you only kept you awake for so long, until fatigue began to get the better of you. The Dwarf King held you in his arms as you both lay down on your bed, warm beneath the covers and encased in each other.

You breathed in deep, savouring Thorin’s unique aroma. It was so unlike anything you had smelled before; leather mixed with musk, with the slightest touch of tobacco and earth.

“You must rest now,” he told you, his deep voice resonating from within his chest and throat, then vibrating through you. That voice was enough to send you over the edge with delight.

Thorin began to hum against you and kissed your hair, holding you tight. However, the realisation that you wouldn't wake up next to him began to unfold and you turned around in his arms. He smiled as you faced him, and you suddenly had the urge to kiss his long nose. Thorin chuckled at the impact of your lips tickling his nose and held you even tighter.

“I want to wake up next to you but you’ll be gone in the morning,” you said sadly.

“Do not think on it just now,” Thorin told you. “Allow yourself to sleep. I will always be with you in spirit.”

#thorin oakenshield #fanfiction #the hobbit #triggers #domestic violence #smut #warnings #thorin x you #thorin x reader #thorin x fem!reader #thorin oakenshield x you #thorin oakenshield x reader #thorin oakenshield x fem!reader #chapter 2 #poster coming to life

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cheetahsprints · 6 years

Text

Stranger Perspective

Words: 1,486

Reverb squints in the obnoxious sunlight.

He couldn’t believe this would be his life now, in witness protection. He should be thankful to still have his life. He’s just bitter. He’s never had anything to be thankful for that wasn’t taken from him in the next breath.

His house is modest, with a small porch shadowed by the roof. He doesn’t care to put any furniture on it, but a small, sad plant hangs above the handrail. The porch next door features a table and chairs, a grill, and a plethora of vibrant flowers.

It’s disgusting. Even more disturbing is the bright rosy-cheeked man he’s until now only observed from his window. Reverb doesn’t quite buy that he’s real, he’s like an android specifically programmed to pierce Reverb’s cloud of rancor. It makes him want to lash out in a violent storm.

He stands at the edge of the sidewalk that splits his yard, finally forced to take the trash out that was piling up. He has been avoiding human contact. After watching the people he was attached to perish at the hands of the man who claimed to love him, he’s not eager for new connections.

His neighbor’s small mixed breed dog sprints down the fenced yard and starts to excitedly bark at him. He glares at it and drops the trash in the can. He turns on his heel back toward the porch.

“Hey!”

No. Damn it. Go away.

“Hi.” Reverb contemplates throwing the trash can lid at his neighbor’s blithe expression and dashing to his door so he can hide again. He stiffly walks over instead. Maybe his visage will be more frightening from a shorter distance.

“Sorry about Daisy, she just loves people!”

The mutt yelps at him, her little legs surging as she all but bounces back and forth along the fence-line. His bland expression and scowl have no effect. HR smiles fondly at her. Reverb wants to wipe it off his face. No one has ever smiled at him like that. But an excitable fleabag earns it?

“If she loved me she’d shut the hell up,” Reverb responds. He could lie that it was a slip if pressed. It wasn’t.

“Aw. Not a dog person huh?”

Reverb shrugs. Lively things shrivel away from him if he doesn’t destroy them first. Cheerful people tend to be the quickest to judge him.

Reverb takes the chance to examine his neighbor up close. He’s tall. But not like a spindly giraffe, more like a retired racehorse sort of vibe. He’s probably never done anything backbreaking in his life, but Reverb has seen him run. His muscles are usually hidden under baggy sweats or sweaters.

As of now, this lazy Sunday, he wears a tight black T-shirt that has to be murder in the heat and a pair of white boxers with hearts all over them. “Are boxers fashionable here as outdoor wear or is it just you?”

HR laughs unperturbed and doesn’t answer. Reverb senses that it won’t be a simple matter to goad him. He’s utterly sickening but oddly charming. Reverb can see his biceps and abs, and he’s admittedly lowkey attracted. He stares longer than necessary to test the reaction.

HR follows his gaze. “Being a writer doesn’t mean I have to be a homebody! There’s a great trail near by if you’re interested.”

A writer? Reverb narrows his eyes. What does he write? Poems? Sappy, prose-filled fanfiction?

“I think I’ll pass.”

HR nods and leans on the fence. “It’s not for everyone. Though it has other merits - lots of foliage for ah, disguising certain co-operative activities.”

HR’s gaze roves over Reverb’s crotch and snaps back to his eyes. Possibly Reverb has underestimated him. Upbeat and cautious aren’t mutually exclusive. However, his placid smile seems eternally stuck there.

He smiles, laughs too easy. Either someone really hurt him and it’s his way of coping, or he’s never faced difficulty in his entire life. And it has to have been a fairly high number so far, going by the laugh lines on his eyes and mouth.

His eyes. They’re a brighter shade of blue than Reverb could discern from the other side of his window. Bright colors aren’t usually his thing, but they’re beautiful.

His neighbor steps through his gate. Oh no. Reverb slowly backs away, but he ends up tripping over the garbage. He holds out a hand. Reverb ignores it and reclaims his footing in a smooth movement. His neighbor grins, unaffected, and sticks out his hand for a shake.

He hates himself the way he flinches. HR’s eyebrows knit in concern. He glances at his own hand as though it’s a bomb ready to go off.

“Are you OK?”

Reverb reluctantly takes it. “I’m - I’ve recently gained freedom from my abusive spouse -”

Hunter Zolomon. If he ever sees his face again, Reverb would gladly strangle him with his bare hands. Possessive, cheating asshole lost his shit when Reverb got into a fistfight with his mistress. He should have seen it coming, Zolomon snapping and stabbing him in the chest.

“Say no more! I apologize, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Reverb rubs his chest at the memory onslaught. He missed Reverb’s heart by a few centimeters. He’s lucky he had earlier invited his brother over for a drink, as he called the ambulance. Any later, and he might’ve been toast.

When the police told him that Zolomon had been charged for several counts of murder, he wasn’t surprised. He didn’t struggle, didn’t debate. He was Tired. He was ready to escape.

Reverb sniffs with displeasure. “Don’t do that. Act like... like normal. My reactions are my problem alone.”

“If that’s want you want. But I feel I should take some responsibility to respect your space if you need it.” HR strokes Reverb’s skin with his thumb. He supposes it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture.

Due to that, he realizes he’s still holding HR’s hand. Not only that, but he’s squeezing his fingers so tight, it’s probably hurting him. He quickly shoves them in his pockets. Meanwhile, his dog crashes through the loose gate and charges him. HR grabs her in what appears to be a practiced move.

Reverb doesn’t embarrass easily. He’s simmering inside at his show of weakness. HR displays no sign of being unsettled. He scratches his dog under the chin to stop her squirming.

“Name is Harrison Wells by the way, but you can call me HR. Sumptuous day isn’t it? Nice to meet you.”

“I guess. I’m... Reverb,” he deadpans.

“Reverb? Well that’s an interesting name.”

“It’s not my birth name,” Reverb responds.

He was explicitly instructed not to parade that fact around. He’s never been one for rules.

Everyone who knew him by this name is dead now, so he was able to wiggle out of a different alias. He found out his old gang, the only people who used to call him Reverb, were killed by Zolomon. They had been setup to appear as accidents or were just shrouded in total mystery. As a means of control, no doubt. So his precious Francisco would have nowhere to go. His parents were estranged, and his brother, well. They weren’t suited to sharing space.

He doesn’t elaborate, but HR seems to just roll with it.

“That’s cool. Maybe you could give Daisy a pat? I promise she’ll settle down if you only pet her a little. She’s a sucker for attention.”

Reverb’s nostrils flare. He looks at the dog still tucked under HR’s arm, her tail wagging and tongue hanging out. He awkwardly strokes her on the head.

“So what do you do?”

Reverb wants to run for miles from this small talk. It’s exhausting.

“Nothing. I don’t know yet. I used to run a criminal enterprise,” Reverb admits tersely, gazing at a point over HR’s shoulder.

“Oh. I’d love to hear the details someday. It could be useful for my next novel. I released the final in a trilogy almost two years ago... and now I’m working on something entirely different!”

Nothing seems to faze this guy.

“So you’re actually a published author. Grand. I’m almost impressed.”

He even ignores the jab.

“It’s the best.” HR’s arm twitches. Reverb tenses. He seems to think better of probably trying to touch him in a friendly manner. “Would you mind if I base a character on you?”

“I don’t care. But you barely know me.”

“Hopefully that can change,” HR winks and says, “in due time.”

“Maybe.” Reverb’s stomach flips. “If you can play your cards right. But take note, I don’t play fair.”

“You’ll find neither do I,” HR replies mild and affable, but Reverb can sense a weight behind his words. “I’m an infamous hustler, I’ve been kicked out of a dozen bars.”

Despite himself, Reverb chuckles. “Is that so? Perhaps we have more in common than I thought.”

#revells19 #revells-19 #my fic #witness protection AU #past abusive relationship #HR x Reverb #why am I posting this omg

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sppiderholland · 6 years

Text

Slow Dance

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Song: Slow Dance With You [ Adventure Time ]

Word Count: 1723

Summary: Peter was an admirer from afar who finally got the chance to talk to you when you were paired up for a school project.

A/N: This is really short and I haven’t written anything seriously since 2014 so please forgive my skills for being a tad rusty ^^;;

Slow Dance with you

Peter felt the way his heart thudded when he saw your smile from across the room. He was a silent admirer, knowing he had fallen into a daze whenever he watched you converse with the people around you.

Ned nudged his friend, causing Peter to light up as a bright shade of red.

“Dude, you’re staring.” Ned chuckled, to which Peter responded by blushing further and burying his face in his hands.

He knew he was staring, all he had been doing recently was staring. It wasn’t like he wanted to seem like a weird creep, he just, he couldn’t bring himself to talk to you.

You were this bright, bubbly classmate who lit up when you laughed. You would manage to get your classmates, your friends, to laugh with witty stories and remarks. He was just, Peter. Just Peter. He was this awkward nerd who stutters when he talks to pretty girls and who seems like a huge loser to all the popular kids.

I just want to slow dance with you

He had been wanting to talk to you for weeks, just say something, anything. Even a simple “hello” would have sufficed. But everytime he approached you his hands felt sweaty, too sweaty. Like, he couldn’t shake your hands because then you’d feel the sweat and think he’s weird and-

“Peter?” Ned waved a hand in front of his friend, who had returned to his daze only to look more and more anxious by the second.

Peter gave Ned a nervous smile, “Sorry, sorry I just-” He tried to conjure up an excuse, but found that he was grasping at air. Besides, Ned knew him, there was no reason to lie.

Ned leaned back in his chair, glancing from you to Peter, “You know, if you want to impress her you could just swing into class as Spiderman.” He smirked.

“I’m not using Spiderman to win over a girl.” Peter retorted, smiling back at his friend. Ned gave Peter a look that could only be described as a ‘We’ll see about that’. The two burst out laughing.

“Mr. Parker, Mr. Leeds, if you’ll please refrain from making a commotion I’d like to begin my lesson.” A rather annoyed voice pierced through their bubble of enjoyment.

It took only a moment to realize the teacher had entered the classroom during their short conversation, and everyone was staring at them. Including y/n.

“S-sorry sir.” Ned apologized for the both of them, the two boys suddenly having an increased interest in their notes. Heads down, eyes avoiding the gaze of others.

The teacher cleared their throats, shuffling papers as a silence settled across the room once again. “As you all know,” they began, a watchful eye falling over each student, “a rather large project has been approaching and today will mark the start of it.”

A plethora of groans played out from classmates who would rather play some violent video game until three am opposed to writing a research paper, or do any work of any kind.

“Thus, I have organized everyone into partners.”

Partners. Peter immediately looked up, feeling a small butterfly fluttering rapidly in his heart as he held out for the smallest hope that his partner might be you.

“Michelle Jones and Ned Leeds,” the teacher read out. Michelle turned in her chair and gave Ned a simple thumbs up. Peter, Michelle, and Ned had started to become quite a trio, so those two working together was one of the best scenarios they could hope for partner wise.

However, that left Peter out. He felt more butterflies begin to occupy his chest, his hand clutching his pencil as he muttered “please please please..” under his breath.

However, Peter wasn’t read off of the list for minutes. The teacher continued to go off with different partners and it was driving the spider-boy insane.

“y/n l/n and Peter Parker.”

Did he hear that correctly? Peter blinked in shock, refraining every muscle he had from pumping a fist in the air and shouting “Yes!” at the top of his lungs.

I know all the other boys are tough and smooth, and I got the blues

Even though he knew he would most likely not get anywhere with you, even though he knew he would probably get too flustered to speak, he still had an excuse to at least hang out with you. Just the two of you.

This childlike glee he felt carried him on a cloud throughout the rest of the period, and he was only brought down from the skies when he heard your voice, sweet like honey.

“Peter, right?” You smiled, he loved you smile. It reminded him of sunshine and flowers and all beautiful things in between.

He gave an awkward smile and wiped his hands off on his pants before holding it out to you, “That’s- that’s me.” He chuckled.

You shook his hand, holding back a laugh. “We should meet up after our classes to talk about our topic, are you free?”

Peter gave a nod, his tongue seemed to stop working and his voice seemed to get caught in his throat when he tried to respond.

“Is your place fine? My dad is pretty strict on visitors.” You laughed, only to be met with another nod from Peter.

You shifted your books to your hip, ripping a corner off of a notebook page and scribbling down your number before folding it and handing it to Peter. “Okay.. if you want me to come over later just text me an address and a time, otherwise if you’re cool with it we could just walk to your place.” You gave another smile, sensing an awkward tension.

“y/n!” One of your friends called out, you gave a small wave and dashed off to catch up with your group.

Immediately Peter groaned and slumped onto the desk, tucking your number into his pocket.

“Dude that was a major fail.” Ned commented. Michelle, who had come over to Ned’s desk after the class, just nodded in agreement.

“That was almost hard to watch.” She joined in.

Peter sat up, glaring at them. “I know, I know, it was bad. Okay? I just- I got so flustered-”

Ned pat his best friend on the back, getting up. “It’s alright dude, you just have to get yourself together before your place. Come on, we’re gonna be late.”

I want to slow dance with you

The day seemed to pass with such speed Peter could’ve sworn he time traveled.

Before he was even able to place his thoughts in order he was met with the warm afternoon sunlight on his face as the last bell rang.

He shoved his hands into his pocket, feeling the paper you handed him earlier. He swallowed, hard, and maneuvered his way through the halls to see if he could catch you.

“Peter! Hey!” You shouted, causing him to turn on his heel so fast he nearly slipped. You laughed and ran over, holding your backpacks straps as you continued to radiate the glow he was so drawn to. “Are we walking to your place or should we meet up later?”

“Now- now is fine.” Peter tried to respond smoothly, scratching the back of his neck as he offered a shy smile.

“Oh, ok. Awesome! Let’s go then.” You patted his shoulder and started to walk to the front of the school, turning to make sure he followed.

Peter took a moment before jogging to catch up with you, making small conversation as you passed the New York streets. Cars honking and people pushing by, but you two seemed to enter your own world.

I want to slow dance with you

“I think demonstrating the evolution of dance would be pretty cool.” You laughed, leaning over Peter’s shoulder as you watched the popular YouTube video on his phone.

Peter glanced at you and smiled, “I mean.. It wouldn’t have to be like this. We could make our own version and.. Stuff.” You looked up and met his gaze, and only then did he realize how close you were. He blushed and looked away, causing your cheeks to turn a shade of pink as well.

You both had been sitting in his room for half an hour, bouncing ideas off of one another as you sat on Peter’s bed. When you first arrived Peter told you to wait a moment as he dashed upstairs to clean his room, meanwhile, you had a lovely conversation with Aunt May.

But now you seemed to finally settle on something.

Why don't you take the chance? I've got the moves I'd like to prove

“Yeah, yeah that sounds cool.” You clasped your hands together as you began to really dive into the idea. “We could have costumes too, that could earn us some extra points.” You pulled out your laptop, typing rather quickly as you pulled up images of ballroom dancers. “I know how to waltz, if that helps.”

Peter looked at the images on your screen, his eyebrows furrowing into a rather concerned expression. “Is waltz anything like slow dancing? Because I only know how to do that.” He gave an awkward laugh, scratching the back of his neck again. It was a nervous habit of his.

You chuckled and pulled up a YouTube link and clicked, setting your laptop to the side as soft music began to play. “Really? Let’s see your skills then.” You said as you got up off of the bed, the weight shifting.

Peter’s eyes went wide as he nervously followed you, getting off the bed as well. You took his hand with your own, the other resting on his shoulder. Peter already felt his cheeks burning as he gently placed his hand on your waist.

You both swayed for a bit, the music being the only sound playing as you danced.

The way your hair fell in front of your eyes and the way you held his hand so gently had him over the moon. Slowly you both drifted closer, until your head rested against his shoulder and both of your eyes were closed.

Even if it was just a simple dance, it was obvious the feelings were mutual, even if unspoken.

I want to slow dance with you

#peter parker #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #fluff #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #spider-man #spiderman #spider-man: homecoming #spider-man x reader #spiderman x reader #spiderman imagine #spider-man imagine #marvel imagine

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deathbyvalentine · 6 years

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This Is What I’m Reduced To - A Death Unto Darkness Coffee Shop AU, Chapter 6

The next day, Cal called in sick for the first time in not just this job, but any job they had ever had. Stephen sounded concerned on the end of the line, but Cal hung up before too many questions could be asked, damn the consequences. They didn’t want to talk about it. They didn’t even want to think about it, but that didn’t seem to be much of an option. They shoved the picture that usually sat beside their bed into a drawer, unable to bear the sight of Baris with his arm around their waist, his grin lighting up his face.

It had been years.

“Ready for this Cal?” Cal grinned, chalking their hands, watching as Baris stretched to touch his toes, the locker room just theirs. The only ones left from their division. So close to winning, they could fucking taste it. Elation was filling the room, they knew how good they were. “Born ready bro.” - A sound of a crack, echoing in the silence left by the stunned crowd.

Cal wondered if he had seen them. If he recognised them. They were different now, a shadow of their former self. Their hair cut short, muscle lost, dark circles painted under their eyes. He looked very almost the same. Taller, stronger, but still essentially him. They’d know him anywhere. Apparently, the feeling wasn’t mutual.

They considered, vaguely, moving to some place far away, starting again. It’s not like they hadn’t done it before. But this was a job that was quiet and safe and undemanding, so far in their comfort zone it was practically a fortification.

With a groan, they pulled the duvet over their head, and resolved to never leave. Nothing good ever came from leaving their bed.

Cal found themselves rather resentful of the sun during their walk to work the following morning. It was too bright and obnoxious, and since it was still early spring, did not yet carry the benefits of warmth. They hid half their face within a scarf and warmed their hands on a thermos of tea that had a small dash of vodka added. You know, for warmth.

When they reached the store front, before they opened it, they decided a smoke was deeply understandable within the circumstances. They closed their eyes and inhaled deeply, instantly soothed. It reminded them of sneaking puffs behind the back of the buildings with Baris, giggling manically and feeling as if they were committing some capital crime. It reminded them of being a teenager.

They started slightly when they opened their eyes, Nic crossing the road towards them with a little wave. “Mind if I join you for a moment?” “Um no, by all means.” “Thanks again for the button.” He leaned next to them, a careful arms reach away. “They’re bloody difficult to find replacements for, and I would have been on stock take duty for weeks.” “It’s nothing, really. I’m just sorry I didn’t remember sooner.” “You remembered at precisely the right time.” It was a lie, but a kind one, and Cal ventured a small smile. “And I’d like to return the favour. Come over to the shop sometime, see what real coffee tastes like.” “Don’t let George hear you say that.” “I’ve told her my opinions on the sludge that she calls a beverage.” Cal raised a single eyebrow, and suddenly, Nic was backtracking. “Not that it’s down to the workers of course. Down to her bloody flavourings. For someone from her background, she does not have a sophisticated palette, in fact - ” “Nice save.” “I like to think so.” “I might take you up on that.” “I do hope so.” He pushed himself upright, and left with another little wave.

Cal watched him go, curious as to why he was being as nice as he was. Perhaps this was some grand plan to sabotage George. Even so, they were curious about the inside of the Chaser. And curious about the staff.

The morning was calming in its predictability. Stephen was artfully deflected, George hadn’t noticed they were gone, and the cash register was throwing a tantrum. At eleven o’clock, the missionaries arrived, stayed for an hour and tipped them with a leaflet emblazoned with the phrase: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO SAVE YOUR SOUL???” Very little, Cal concluded, tossing it in the recycling bin. Religion wasn’t exactly their thing.

A person called Gant had started visiting, though usually they took their extremely strong coffee in George’s office. From what Cal could gather, they were some sort of undercover food critic or similar, and had possibly judged one of George’s previous ventures. They looked at Cal in a way that made their skin jump. Like they recognised them. Their paranoid brain immediately whispered that they were telling George some terrible secrets about them, that not even they themselves knew. Stupid, but hard to dissuade. They tried their very hardest not to look like a complete tosser in front of them, just in case.

Mitra had also apparently taken it upon herself to unnerve Cal as much as possible. She didn’t seem to blink very much when ordering, and waited with her arms crossed, staring at the smaller barista. It took a few weeks of this nonsense, but the combination of persistence and the image of Mitra at Baris’s shoulder and Cal finally snapped.

“What?” “What?” “You keep looking at me.” “Am I not allowed to look - “ She squinted at the name tag. “Callum Gearwright?” “Not if it looks like you’re about to murder me, no.” “I’m not going to murder you.” “Tell that to your face.” Mitra’s mouth twitched, as if suppressing a smile. “Fine. I will. But I will also issue you some advice.” “I don’t need your advice.” “Oh, but I think you do. Stay. Away. From. Him. You’re not good for him.” A thousand quick retorts came to their tongue, and a thousand quick retorts melted away. “Trust me. I have no intention of ruining his life any more than I already have.” “Good. Then we have no quarrel.” She slipped a coin inside the tip jar and picked up her coffee cup. “Have a nice day Callum Gearwright.” Cal decided, in that moment, they fucking hated electricians.

#coffee shop au #prose #Death Unto Darkness

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capnjay21 · 6 years

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the importance of being idle, 12/12

A/N: aloha! I posted this on AO3 a little while ago, but it has yet to make it onto tumblr. I wanted to say thank you so much to everybody who stuck along for the ride, it wouldn’t have been anymore than a oneshot without you! I’ll ramble a little more at the end, but here it is.

Rating: M

Catch up on: AO3 | tumblr

the importance of being idle get-out-of-my-apartment-(no-really-get-out)-you’re-hot-but-I-got-shit-to-do rock ‘n roll AU. Captain Swan.

Neither the fragrant dispensable hand soap, the superior quality of microwavable goods nor the silent as smoke bathroom door could make living in the Blackbeard’s Revenge tour bus a salvageable experience.

Admittedly, she’d only been there for just over twenty-four hours.

But it still fucking sucked.

After watching the Jolly Rogers drive away, she’d had little else to do except move her camera equipment and her small suitcase onto the other bus. Of course, the only free bunk happened to be right next to Blackbeard’s, but at least she wasn’t ousting any back-line equipment. If she was going to be here for the next month and a half, she would keep her head down and stay out of trouble, collect her money and go.

And try not to think too hard about the band that had driven away.

She spent the entire day in her bunk, alternating between attempting to read and adjusting settings needlessly on her camera, ignoring any offhand remarks sent her way. Blackbeard’s Revenge clearly had their own rhythm, the radio flipped onto some postseason baseball game while they alternated between relaxing and trying to coax a rise out of Emma. There were only so many ‘and how goes our forlorn freelancer, darling?’ she could take before she took a leaf out of Tina and Killian’s book and socked one of them in the jaw, but their every jibe strengthened her resolve. The only small mercy she could think of was the lack of Neal, since he had his own car he’d been using for that leg of the tour.

Eventually, the men dozed off and Emma was left in peace, scrolling idly through her phone. She didn’t text Killian. Her immediate instinct was to wait and see if he texted her first, but remembered too late that they never actually got to a point where they’d exchanged numbers — she only had his because of the note he’d left in her apartment that very first night. Along with his shirt.

(The shirt she had, in a moment of weakness, decided to throw on.

She’d brought it on the tour under the pretext of giving it back to him, and it had sat at the bottom of her suitcase until she could find the right moment — which now, of course, had obviously passed her by. It felt oddly symbolic of her entire relationship with Killian, to her chagrin.)

August had messaged her a string of salsa dancing women emojis, assuring her she’d pull through the other side. In response, she’d merely sent him a tired looking selfie with the book she’d secretly swiped from his bunk; Pinocchio. His reply was scandalised.

I knew there was a reason you said no to my fairytales. ‘Finding your own destiny’ my ass.

<b>that’s not v gentlemanly </b>

They’d bantered for a few minutes before she let the phone lie, a dull ache settling in the centre of her chest. She missed him. She missed all of them.

And before she let the rattling of the bus on the highway lull her into an afternoon nap, she couldn’t stop feeling the phantom scratch of stubble against her temple as a kiss was laid there, a murmur of sweet dreams, Emma, carrying her away.

***

BR had managed to recruit some local band last minute to open for them that night in New York, a city where no shortage of musicians lurked waiting for a chance like that to come along. They’d been okay, the style leaning a little too far into pop-punk for Emma’s liking, but dutifully she took photos and acted much the same as she had on every other night. It was a job, now. Nothing more. Take photos, go to bed. No lingering backstage, no welcome distractions, no banter as the venue was set up — all she cared about was her finger over the shutter release and the thought of getting back to her bunk, Killian’s shirt folded neatly underneath her pillow.

She’d gone back to the bus immediately after the gig. Even with that vestige of him surrounding her, it had been a restless night’s sleep.

They were performing just one more show in New York, and the next morning Emma couldn’t help but let her thoughts stray to the fact that it would be the last time she worked with Neal. If it weren’t for the fact that it left her alone with Blackbeard’s Revenge she would’ve been more relieved, but as it stood Neal was both a buffer and an inconvenience. They both knew it in their unspoken, mutual agreement; this would be the last time they saw each other. There was no use prolonging their association — the past was firmly in the past, Emma had closure. She didn’t know what Neal had, but it sure as fuck wasn’t anything that concerned her, and there was something decidedly liberating about finally setting fire to that chapter of her life, and letting it go up in smoke.

While most of her freedom to decide had been taken from her over the past day, it felt good to still be able to make some choices.

As the hours ticked by into the early afternoon, Emma was flicking through the photos she’d already taken from the last month or so, Blackbeard and Isaac playing cards in the seating area, with Pan listening to music as he lay back in his bunk. Jefferson had disappeared a few hours ago. It was a bitch to get into the city from the parking lot they’d been assigned near Newark, but the bassist seemed to be the only one interested in giving it a try. Emma couldn’t bring herself to give it a go, and it was highly likely the other three had already been before. The precarious peace, however, didn’t last long.

The door at the back of the bus swung open, sunlight beaming through and making Emma blink against the sudden brightness. Assuming it would be Jefferson returning, Emma didn’t spare it a glance — he was easily the most tolerable of the lot of them, but that didn’t make him any less complicit in the reason she was there.

“Ah,” Blackbeard greeted loudly, and Emma reached for her headphones. The least she could do was drown him out. “Jones. You’re late.”

Her head shot up so fast her neck cracked.

To her utter disbelief, Killian Jones stood silhouetted in the doorframe.

It took mere milliseconds for his eyes to find hers, a vivid blue like the glow of a lighthouse scattered on the waves. Although rationally she knew it had scarcely been a day and a half, it felt like far too long since she’d seen him, and she wrenched her gaze away to try and take in the rest of him — somewhat dishevelled in appearance and, if she wasn’t mistaken, wearing the same rumpled clothes as the day before. With his raven hair sticking up at odd angles on the back of his head, he looked as if he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep.

“Apologies,” Killian was saying to Blackbeard, “this place isn’t exactly convenient to reach.” Blackbeard waved a dismissive hand, before turning back to his game.

Before Emma could even fire off a query about why he was there, Killian cut her off.

“Pack your stuff, Swan,” he said, “we’re going.”

She didn’t move.

“What’re you doing here?”

Killian let out an exaggerated huff. “What does it look like? I’m attempting a dashing rescue.”

“And they say romance is dead,” Isaac hummed in amusement from his spot on the sofa opposite Blackbeard. Emma ignored him.

She didn’t get why everyone was being so goddamn calm.

As if sensing her hesitation, Blackbeard quirked an eyebrow in her direction. “You’re welcome to stay, Miss Swan, if you so desire.” The look he gave her could be described as leery at best. “But he has come all this way, and even I don’t advocate for that sort of cruelty.”

“Time is rather of the essence, love. Cab’s out front.”

Killian was watching her earnestly, and she followed the movement of his tongue as it darted out to wet his lips. He was nervous, by now she could read his posture like a map, and something about it suggested to her that his sense of urgency had little to do with a taxi fare.

What the hell was going on?

Cautiously, she reached for her bag, gaze darting between the man in the doorway and those sprawled on the sofas. “You’re saying I’m allowed to just walk out of here?”

Blackbeard spread his hands. “Of course.”

“No invoices in the post?”

“Not even for your pilfering of my vastly expensive soap.”

Emma wasn’t about to wait around for them to change their minds.

She gathered her stuff as quickly as she could, shoving any loose items around the bunk back into her suitcase before carefully disassembling her camera and safely packing away all of the components. After she descended the ladder and made a quick check of the sheets for anything she hadn’t seen, she threw one last look over her shoulder at the three members of Blackbeard’s Revenge. Malcolm was still lying on his bed, eyes closed with his headphones on, not having even acknowledged the turn of events. Isaac and Charles’ attentions had returned to their game.

Emma opened her mouth to try and check one final time that she was in the clear.

“Call,” Charles said mildly, “you really do have the worst luck, Heller.”

“I’m sure my luck will improve once you stop using those two extra aces.”

They weren’t even the slightest bit interested, and she owed them nothing. So, after throwing them the proverbial middle finger, she merely stepped out of the bus and into the early afternoon sun. Killian’s hand was at the small of her back, guiding her to the entrance of the parking lot where two cabs were already waiting. From their brief distance, she could see August, Robin and Smee in one, Tina in the other, with piles of their equipment stuffed in between.

“Killian —?” she started.

“Sorry to press you, love,” he smiled widely at her, before throwing a furtive look back at the bus, “I’m merely eager not to tempt fate.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“You’re going home,” he said firmly, and the heat from his hand just erred on the side of scorching through her sweater. “That’s all that matters.”

“But how —?”

They’d reached the taxis, and all too suddenly the door had swung open to the first and she realised there was an empty seat beside August. Killian brushed a hand over her hip just briefly before he retreated to the other, dropping into the backseat beside Tina. Emma, entirely baffled but not too fond of questioning her good fortune just yet, saw she had no other choice but to buckle in. When she entered the cab it was to a few scattered cheers and August squeezing her hand affectionately.

She may have no goddamn clue what was happening, but it felt good to be back.

***

The Jolly Rogers were going to get signed.

The moment the door to the cab had shut, August, Smee and Robin were practically tripping over each other in order to relay the good news, an energy thrumming through them that she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. Apparently, they’d had some incredibly busy twenty-four hours.

From Jefferson’s mansion in Connecticut, it had taken around eight hours of straight driving to get them back to Storybrooke, Merida testing the speed limit at any moment she could — it was a race against time, they’d decided, to see if they could make something of the exposure from the national tour before the news that Blackbeard’s Revenge had dropped them hit the press. There was no telling just how Gold Records would spin the news, and just how much of an effect it might have on any potential labels interested in signing them.

As it turned out, somebody had been waiting for them. Eric Triton had never been the bitter sort, he had confessed to them, but if his time with Blackbeard’s Revenge had taught him anything it was that he far favoured the reward that came with nurturing a band who actually cared about music to playing whatever it took to top the charts. After his departure from Blackbeard and company he had turned his attention to producing, eventually partnering up with the Poseidon Music Group after a providential meeting with the CEO’s daughter on a beach, and had made it his business to constantly be scouting for new talent ever since.

Apparently he had attended their gig at Warehouse 4, the one Emma herself had skipped what felt like a hundred years ago, and he was one of the calls that had Smee’s phone vibrating for days afterwards. You could imagine his exasperation when Blackbeard’s Revenge got to them first.

It was why, he’d told them, he almost felt glad that they’d been dropped from the tour — it gave him a second shot. The moment one of his contacts had alerted him to the disagreement at Jefferson’s mansion he had started camping as near as he dared to the town line, predicting correctly that they would be racing back to Storybrooke as soon as possible. He accosted them as they stormed into town, and the next thing they knew they had an invitation to play before Poseidon himself next week. Which was only a formality, of course. The deal was as good as done.

“Have you guys slept at all?” Emma gaped, and the dark rings around their eyes spoke volumes.

All three of them were giddy, exhausted but exhilarated, and constantly iterating just how glad they were that she was able to share in their good news, but not one of them would say a second word on just how they managed to wrangle her out from Blackbeard’s grasp, insisting that it wasn’t their story to tell. Emma had an inkling of just whose it was, but her curiosity only compounded the longer she sat sandwiched between August and the door of the cab.

It was a couple hundred bucks for the fare, something she insisted on covering once her cheque from Blackbeard’s Revenge came through, but mercifully they wouldn’t be paying for all the way back to Maine. The taxis dropped them off in New Haven, at a trucker stop they'd agreed to meet Merida and her coach at. The driver was offering the trip pro bono out of something she denied was affection, but it did mean they had to work around her schedule — hence why they were cramming most of their equipment between them in the taxis.

“We don’t have anywhere to live,” Robin had pointed out, “and we didn’t have time to find a motel. We haven’t stopped moving since we left you!”

It was here that Emma was finally able to approach Killian. While the others milled around outside, perched atop amps and keeping an eye on the flow of traffic for Merida’s coach in the early evening, Emma watched him slip away and head into a diner, not wholly unlike the one they were abandoned at all those weeks before.

A fluorescent green light blinked in and out of life overhead, and a buzzer went off somewhere behind the counter as she entered — loud enough to draw Killian’s gaze instinctively. He had just finished buying sustenance by the look of it, and once his eyes landed on her a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He held out a paper bag towards her.

“Onion ring?”

Emma took one of the proffered items. “I thought you hated onion rings.”

“You don’t,” he pointed out.

For a moment they chewed in silence, her on an onion ring and he on what looked like a carrot stick, before wordlessly moving back outside. Behind them, the neon light from inside the diner shimmered, casting fluorescent shadows against the crunch of gravel underfoot. From twenty or so feet away Emma watched August stand, take ten paces in one direction, then turn and walk back. Everybody was waiting for something, some new start. Anticipation tickled through the air.

“I heard about your record deal,” she found herself saying, “congratulations.” Although a little stilted in its delivery, the sentiment was earnest. She was still wrapping her head around things but she couldn’t be more proud of the Jolly Rogers.

“Well, nothing’s set in stone yet,” Killian demurred, but she could see the pleased flush working its way up from his collar. “We were just lucky to come across the one person in the industry who might hate Blackbeard more than we do.”

Lord knew Eric had every reason, if what Emma had heard was true.

“Still, it’s exciting.”

“It is,” he agreed.

A few pregnant seconds passed, and Emma waited for him to volunteer the information he must know she was eager to find out — just how the hell she was there, and not back in a tiny bunk on Blackbeard’s bus resigned to another evening of ignoring their jibes as best she could.

“Killian…” she began.

“Carrot stick?”

Emma waved the bag away, along with his futile attempt to divert attention. “How is it that I just walked out of there?”

Killian shrugged, making every effort to appear nonchalant. He almost succeeded. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it does,” she insisted. His and the others’ reluctance to discuss it only had her anxiety climbing higher and higher, wondering just what stipulations Blackbeard had latched onto her release. “If you’ve traded your soul to Hades for me then I want to know about it so I can —”

Thank you? Knock the living daylights out of you?

“—make it right.”

The corner of Killian’s mouth quirked upwards, the static light of the diner casting his eyes in an electric blue. Alive, aware. Watching her as closely as he always had. “You’d climb down to hell for me, would you, Swan?”

“If I had to,” she replied neutrally. A fierce truth rang with every word.

“Well, you needn’t worry,” Killian continued brazenly. He finished his final carrot stick as she waited for a response, crumpling up the packet in his palm and letting it drop into the trash can beside them. “My soul is safe and sound. We merely offered to cover the cost of your termination fee and Blackbeard was amenable.”

The declaration caught her off guard; the termination fee was five thousand dollars, that had been non-negotiable. If the Jolly Rogers had that sort of money lying around they would have already offered to foot the bill — she may not have known them long, but she knew that much. They were great people who cared about her wellbeing, and she couldn’t imagine August at the very least permitting the act of driving away from her if they had the means to release her. It was why she spoke her next words with a cautious, amused confidence.

“You guys couldn’t string enough cents for a cardboard box, no less five thousand dollars.”

“That’s the thing about commerce, darling. Money is easy enough to acquire if you have something of value to trade for it.”

He had his guitar, of that she was certain — by the edge of the curb she could see Robin leaning against the familiar case. Killian was avoiding looking at her, reaching a finger behind to scratch at the shell of his ear. Emma’s heart steadily began to beat a rhythm against her ribcage. To her spinning mind, it sounded a lot like Lavender Rose.

“And what was that?”

“Why the Jolly Roger, of course.”

For a moment Emma blinked, lips parted, not entirely sure what he was referring to. For a petrifying fraction of a second she imagined Blackbeard had insisted the band break up for her to be let go, but belatedly shook the thought when she remembered Eric Triton and the record deal that supposedly awaited them in Storybrooke.

His gaze dropped and she followed it, before suddenly realising the silver chain she could usually see peeking through the collar of his shirt had vanished.

This, here, is the Jolly Roger.

His watch.

Killian was still speaking, but her eyes were fixed on the absence of the accessory.

“Did I forget to mention the casing was overlain with sterling silver? An ivory clock face, seventeen jewels — and all natural sapphires, not synthetic, mind. Fetches about eight thousand dollars at retail. One of only fifty novelty Peter Pan watches made in 1955, I believe.”

Emma didn’t care about that, not about sapphires or rubies or silver.

He’d said, he’d told her; that watch was the last thing he owned of his father’s.

“Cruella Feinberg gave me a fair price back in Storybrooke when I went to her. I could’ve probably gotten more if I hadn’t rushed it, but I wasn’t sure how easy it would be to track the BR bus after New York.”

He seemed to notice that she hadn’t so much as murmured a response, and squeaked out the remainder of his explanation. “I, ehm… I was in something of a rush.”

Emma couldn’t wrap her mind around it. This sodding impossible man had found time in between trying to negotiate a deal that would decide the future of his entire career to trade away his most valuable possession, for a girl who had barely been able to tell him that she liked the song he wrote. For her. She was stunned. Fucking mortified. Beyond moved.

Despite your best efforts, Swan, I was utterly charmed by you.

Thank you, she had said, when he’d first shown her the watch. Somehow it didn’t feel like enough now.

She became more aware of the way he was angled towards her, hanging on her every breath. Fuck, she had to say something. She had to say something.

“You sold your watch for me?”

She thought he might turn away, cower from everything she was asking of him — that after all that, she needed to be sure. She needed to hear it, just one more time. She wanted the beat of Lavender Rose thumping through her, the scent of rusted strings on his shirt. He’d already done so much, but she couldn’t let him get away without saying it, not with her heels slammed into the earth the way they were.

Tell me, she begged.

Killian’s vibrant blue gaze met her head on, like he knew — he probably did.

“Aye,” he said.

Emma wasn’t sure which of them moved first — she thought it was her, she hoped it was her — but after several long seconds her hands wound their way around his shoulders and he was dipping his head to meet her. When their lips connected, she sighed; at once familiar, she knew these lips by now. She knew the way he kissed, as he undoubtedly knew hers, she knew the way his hand would curl at her waist to scratch against the leather of her jacket. She knew the way his mouth would part, the way he would breathe unevenly through his nose against the skin of her cheek to avoid breaking away.

She knew his heart.

He would let her pull away, if she wanted to. After everything he would let her let him go.

Not that she would.

Killian’s right hand rose to brush reverently against her cheek and at once they parted. A flicker of what she knew to be trepidation flashed in his eyes, and he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Something inside of her crumpled, and it felt like only really then that she understood just how many times she had let him down. Knowingly and unknowingly both.

I’m sorry, she wanted to say.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she said instead.

Killian’s shoulders lifted in the barest shrug, his finger tracing a line behind her ear to wind its way around her hair.

“I’m done dwelling on the past.”

To his evident delight Emma tugged him back down to her, this time for longer than before. It was only when they broke apart to the whoops and crows of three other, equally delighted, people, that she realised just how not-alone she and Killian were. The other three Jolly Rogers watched from their spot at the side of the road with matching shit-eating grins.

Emma raised an eyebrow at Killian, whose arm had moved around to tuck her closer into his side. “I’ll never be able to get ten minutes alone with you, will I?”

“I could do with a break.” At Emma’s look of disbelief, he shrugged. “What did I say about refraining from kissing me after you’ve had onion rings? I can barely stomach you.”

Merida’s bus pulled into the parking lot to the chorus of Killian’s yelp, with Emma leaving him clutching at his side as she walked back over to the others.

***

"Swan?"

The hoarse whisper hovered just over the low rumbling of the bus, barely loud enough to rouse anybody from sleep —but then, Emma hadn't been sleeping. She had a feeling Killian hadn't been either.

When his face popped up over the edge of her bunk, eyes bright in the dim light, it all but confirmed it. He looked abut as wired as she felt, and she met his gaze warmly. He beamed.

"Mind if I —?" The guitarist gestured to the slim line of space between her and the railing at the edge of the bed, and in response Emma shuffled away to allow him a little more room. As quietly as he could, Killian hauled himself up the ladder and slid in beside her. "Christ," he muttered," these beds weren't made for two — ow." He knocked his head on the tip of the ladder and scowled, while Emma stifled a laugh.

A glance at her watch informed her it was nearly two in the morning. It also made her stomach twist both pleasantly and anxiously all over again when she thought about watches. The accessory had played crucial roles in some of the worst and best moments of her life now.

Killian, meanwhile, had righted himself as best he could, slinging his right arm over her hip and tugging her closer. Emma did not resist, and even nudged her leg between his.

"Hello," Killian murmured, just before their lips met gently.

Emma smoothed her hand up his chest, stopping once it reached the curve of his shoulder. "I'm sorry you sold the watch." She wanted to be a little more articulate than she had been when he'd first told her — it was important to her that he knew that.

"I'm not," Killian replied with the barest shrug. At Emma's disbelieving look he carried on, rubbing a hand down her back. "Honestly, Emma. It was just a piece of jewellery."

"You said it was the last thing you had left of your father."

For a moment he was silent, eyes dropping down to her fingers tracing patterns into the front of his shirt. "My father was not always a decent man," he said finally, although it was clear the words had been difficult for him to get out. "I'm sure he'd be happy to see it go to a deserving cause." Before she could reply he hastened to continue, murmuring her name to cut her off.

As she watched him expectantly, he breathed out an uncertain laugh. "I, erm… forgive me, I have to know. You're not going to get off this bus and change your mind, are you?"

His hand had frozen on her lower back, almost frightful of her response. With his mouth twisted in a wince and his body tensing, he appeared so much like somebody bracing for an impact that she laughed and knocked her forehead into his chest.

She could feel his smile into the crown of her head, but he worked on putting some space between them all the same. "I'm serious," he said, although the mirth in his eyes somewhat belied it, "I'm not sure I could make it through another of your unpredictable tides."

After a moment the laughter subsided, she let herself watch him, truly take him in a way she hadn't done for some time. His eyes appeared a deep navy in the low light, his left eyebrow raised in that barest approximation of hope she had come to see there, lips parted just so like he was waiting for her permission to breathe. Emma touched a hand to his cheek and his eyelids fluttered shut, leaning into the movement. He would let her back away, even now. Even with her in his arms he was offering her that one final chance, and she felt affection surge for him all the more because of it.

"I'm not changing my mind," she promised.

Killian's eyes flew open, watching her carefully.

"I want to see where this thing goes. I'm not saying I'm not terrified, because I am." Like standing at the edge of this unknown precipice, a jump she'd come so close to so many times before with this man — but now she was ready. "I'm petrified."

"I can feel you shaking," he hummed quietly, pressing a kiss to where her neck met her shoulders. "Trust me."

"I do," she murmured. "I want this future with you, and that's what scares me. Does that," she paused, pulling his face back up to meet her eyes, "does that sound crazy?"

Killian shook his head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, which quickly morphed into something more confident.

"It sounds like music to this pirate's ears."

Emma laughed, a loud, happy thing, and Killian did his best to hush her by drawing her into a kiss. For a few moments they just lay there, chuckling silently and trading affection, the slant of his lips against her own a welcome feeling. It was just as she felt his hand sliding lower across her back, sending a shot of excitement through as his eyes met hers, his intent clear, that she remembered exactly where they were.

And that they weren't entirely alone.

"Guys, that was adorable, but I swear to God if you have sex on this bus I will never forgive you."

Tina's voice pierced the silence like bursting a balloon — Killian instinctively shot back from Emma, which only led to him smacking his head onto the railing behind him at the edge of the bunk. Emma immediately snorted with laughter, which only increased as he rubbed the back of his head and sent a reproachful look in her direction.

"We'll turn you into Merida."

Robin's voice, too, floated down from further up the bus. Emma was grateful for the dark as she felt her face begin to heat up — it was hard enough laying herself bare in front of Killian, let alone his three best friends. Because she was certain, as much as she could be, that August would also be awake. The damn guy didn't miss a thing.

Tina made a noise of agreement. "Merida specifically said she wouldn't tolerate any funny business."

"Yet somehow," Killian bit back, "she tolerates you lot just fine." After a moment he clearly has no interest in ending, he reluctantly sat up on her bunk and shuffled back towards the ladder. Emma's hand on his leg served as her only protest, and Killian lifted it to place a kiss on the back of it. "I guess I'll have to wait to finally show you a good time, Swan," he winked, "and have you remember it."

Bizarrely, she found herself thinking of one of the post-its he had given her in Storybrooke so long ago. She'd very much like to know how it felt to hear him scream.

"I guess you will," she replied, making her intent clear.

She could tell Killian just resisted letting out a low whistle, before dropping down the ladder.

"Much better," Robin assured them. "No 'good times' should be had on the bus. Only terrible, not good times."

"August, stop reading," Tina urged, "I know you're doing it. Nobody can have fun on the bus!"

A barely distinguishable rustle came across from August's bunk. "Don't bring me into this."

As the teasing escalated into a sock skirmish (thus determined, claimed Robin, by August's tendency to use socks as missiles when disturbed) Emma forgot about her embarrassment. They were good at that, the Jolly Rogers. Helping her forget. Making her feel comfortable even when the only place she had ever felt safe was a hundred miles away. They had driven for hours through the night so that they could get to her, had defended her even when her opponent had been one of their closest friends, had cared for her. Without strings. Unashamedly. Wholly.

Mary Margaret would always be her sister, or as close to a sister as Emma would ever get. But these guys?

They were her family. The one she had chosen for herself.

And the one she would continue to choose, every fucking chance she got.

***

"You ready?" She had asked, a week later, as Killian wiped his palm on the edge of his jeans. To try and get rid of the sweat, she knew, it was practically rolling off of him in waves.

"As we'll ever be."

Emma squinted through the viewfinder on her camera, using Tina fiddling with the height of the microphone as her focus point. Beside her, Killian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, anxiety driving from him. At the other end of the room, Poseidon himself, his executive assistant and Eric Triton were just settling themselves into three large chairs. With their high backs and elaborate deorations around the arms, thrones was the first word that popped into Emma's head when she'd seen them. Imposing, powerful. Intimidating as hell.

Part of the reason Killian was reminding himself to breathe in and out.

"You heard what Eric said," she assured him, "this is just a formality. It's practically a done deal."

Killian looked at her sharply. "Not if he doesn't like us."

"He will."

The activity in the room was slowly beginning to wind down, each party slowly running out of ways to delay the inevitable. Emma gave him a gentle shove.

"Now get lost so I can take some decent photos, yeah?"

This time when Killian smiled down at her, she could tell he meant it. It was one of those goofy, wide smiles she had found he couldn't keep back when she was around. It had a somewhat irritating habit of making her stomach drop pleasantly. He smoothed a hand down her back.

"Such glowing words of encouragement," he mused, leaning to brush his lips against hers.

"Why bother?" she smirked once he pulled away. "It's not like my lack of encouragement ever held you back."

In response he patted his hand against her, and gave her one last amused glance over his shoulder before heading over to the others. His strat, perched primly against the wall, was soon lifted and slung over his shoulder, as he exchanged a few quiet words with Tina and August. Robin was settling himself down onto the stool behind his kit, and Tina then hummed a few quiet tests into the microphone.

Emma, meanwhile, took a few preparatory shots. After deciding the look Killian had sent her was altogether too deliberate, she stretched her arm behind her back — true enough, her fingers grazed something stuck there. Tugging it free, she realised it was a post-it. Some things never changed.

Wish me luck.

—K x.

When their eyes met again, she shook her head with a smile. He didn't need luck.

Soon enough, the low murmur of noise in the room slowly sunk into silence, Eric no longer murmuring into Poseidon's ear and the huge man instead surveying the group of musicians in front of him. Despite herself, Emma felt her pulse begin to thump a little bit quicker, glancing between the two sides of the room.

The twang of August's bass lurched from one of the amps, before fizzling out into nothing as he rushed to still the string.

Poseidon shifted in his seat. Emma's finger hovered over the shutter button. Killian cleared his throat.

Robin lifted his drumsticks to eye-level, pausing before clacking them together —

One, two —

Three, four —

The shutter clicked. The room exploded with sound.

And that was it.

And that’s it, folks! An epilogue will follow sometime in the near future because there are a few loose ends I’d like to tie up and I will always love my jolly rogers. almost as much as I love all of you! thank you so so much for your endless support + patience with my gaps between updates, I’ve loved being able to tell this story in the way I always wanted to.I hope you all liked how it ended, and maybe I’ll see you next time on another project!

peace & love / over & out!

-jay x

#jay writes #cs fic #cs ff #captain swan #cs crew #ouat #emma swan #killian jones #cs au #the importance of being idle #complete #here is the finale!#I really hope you guys like it #it's been quite the ride #so for the final time #enjoy!

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