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fayes-fics · 8 months

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A Beneficial Arrangement

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A marriage pact with a Viscount. What could possibly go wrong?

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), loss of virginity, vaginal sex. Bickering, developing relationship.

Word Count: 6.1 k

Authors Note: Unbetaed. Anon request fill from HERE (Anthony and a headstrong independent reader make an unconventional marriage pact). Sorry it's taken so long to write this, but I hope you enjoy! <3

It’s a dreary, rather ordinary Tuesday in spring when your life takes a turn.

“The Viscount is in want of a wife.”

That statement is all you hear as you walk past the drawing room where your mother is taking tea with her good friend, the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton.

“My eldest needs a husband,” your mother responds, offering you as if merely chattel; bile rises indignantly as she does so. “But I fear she is far too outspoken to be a suitable Viscountess.”

You sigh in relief, ear pressed to the closed door now.

“Oh, believe me, nothing would be a better match for my darling Anthony than someone who will challenge him, stand up to him,” Violet peals a knowing laugh. “We should arrange a meeting.”

——

3 days later.

He assesses you with a cool eye as your gaze drifts briefly over to both of your mothers, watching expectantly from a nearby table in the tea shop.

“You should know I will only be taking a wife to fulfil my societal duty,” he sniffs airly. “However, I do not expect you to produce an heir. The title may pass to my younger brothers; they are more inclined to form romantic attachments than I. Their offspring can inherit this title; it feels like a curse anyhow,” he adds quieter, his tone mildly embittered.

“Well, on your attitude to marriage, I can wholeheartedly agree,” you state, stirring your tea primly. “I do not wish to be shackled. I wish to remain free. I shall marry, as there is no other path available to me, but I do not plan nor do I ever want to be someone's wife.” You utter the word with disdain as if it is toxic.

His admittedly very handsome face transforms into one of surprise, a faint dot of colour on his cheeks as he peers at you as if assessing you in a new light.

“What?” You frown at him, his silent stare becoming too heavy to bear as his interest and engagement intensify.

“You are the first woman I have ever met who shares my outlook,” he confesses, seemingly caught off-guard. “It is so utterly refreshing… and, frankly, novel.” He pauses to pass his fingers slowly over his lips in a way that makes your stomach swoop, even if you refuse to acknowledge such even to yourself. “I do believe we should meet again to discuss this further,” he concludes.

And thus, you find yourself with the suit of one Viscount Anthony Bridgerton, both of your mothers overjoyed at the prospect.

——

9 days later.

“If I must marry, you are the most tolerable woman I have met, I must concede,” he states nonchalantly as you meet to promenade.

It’s quite an opening line for only your third meeting, even for someone as renownedly blunt as the Viscount.

“And a good afternoon to you too, Viscount Bridgerton,” you drawl pointedly with a raised eyebrow, subtly hinting how his greeting may have been lacking.

He chuckles, a flash of what looks like admiration in his dark eyes.

“As such,” he continues, “I would not be averse to a martial arrangement with you. An agreement, a pact if you will, based on our mutual understanding of what we both want from such an endeavour.”

The speed and pragmatism of his apparent proposal do not surprise you in the least. In fact, you are actually grateful for the lack of ceremony around it. If you must marry, you prefer it be swift.

“Did you mean what you said last week? In the tearoom?” You quiz as you begin to walk shoulder to shoulder through Hyde Park, the early summer air heavy with the scent of roses.

“Every word,” he replies solemnly.

“Then, I suppose this is a beneficial arrangement for me too,” you shrug as if agreeing about the weather, not the very course of your future. But there is something about this man that feels inevitable, fateful, but not in a way you dread. Also, his face is so very pleasing. If you must indeed marry, at least the view across the dinner table will be nice.

“Then it is decided,” he nods decisively, a brusque smile passing over his lips. “I so greatly appreciate your candidness with regard to this matter. It makes the whole business so much easier to deal with.”

He offers a hand to shake, and you take it, bemused, shaking on the deal, pretending this mere touch doesn't make every butterfly in your stomach roar to life.

“I shall make the arrangements swiftly,” he states, again with a short smile and nod.

You are married within three weeks.

——

6 weeks later.

‘‘What on earth is this?” he practically spits as he rounds the corner of Bridgerton House onto the back lawn.

“What does it look like?” you sass, tearing the netted visor from your face.

“It looks an awful lot like my wife is fencing,” his reply dripping with conceited judgement.

“Well, I’m glad to know you do not need glasses, husband,” you respond dryly, nodding to accept the excuses of the butler you were sparring with, who suddenly seems very keen to scurry away now the Viscount has arrived.

“Perkins, do not think this has gone unnoticed,” Anthony calls pointedly after the retreating man.

“Leave him alone!” you bark, taking your husband aback with your ferocity, him turning to you and almost gaping in surprise. “Perkins must do my bidding as lady of the house, and I told him to fence with me,” you elucidate, keen that the innocent party not suffer any consequences for your decision.

“Women do not fence,” he sniffs, changing the subject somewhat.

“This one does,” you riposte, spearing your epee tip into the grass to remove the suede gloves.

“It is unbecoming of a Viscountess,” he adds almost haughtily.

“Good thing such matters hold no truck with me,” you shrug, knowing you are likely provoking him.

To hell with what is appropriate for a titled lady. The title, and all of its stifling rules and expectations, is the very last reason you married the man standing before you. No, the reason is far, far more simultaneously complex and simple than that. He excites you—in ways you don't even want to admit to yourself.

It’s not something you would divulge to anyone, but arguing with your new husband has become your new favourite pastime. On the rare occasions you see him, that is. Since your wedding day, you have mostly been ships passing at the dinner table; otherwise, your lives have been very separate. At night, his rooms are at the other end of the long hallway from yours, and his days are apparently filled with business obligations. While the utter freedom to fill your days as you wish has been a blessing, it’s also been perhaps a touch lonely.

When you do see Anthony, you invariably end up clashing about something. And, well, it’s often the highlight of your week. A thrill zipping down your spine as you do so. The only person you have met who can keep up with your verbal sparring. It makes you excited, breathless, dizzy, a fizz low in your belly that feels entirely beguiling. Today is no different; you feel that same sensation as he stares at you, arms crossed, exasperated.

“Well, if you insist upon this rebellious pastime,’ he sighs after a few beats, snatching your epee, “the least you can do is improve your grip,” he grouses, rolling his eyes.

You startle as he crowds into your back, a warm hand wrapping around yours as he passes you the blade and demonstrates a different way to wield it that you concede feels better. The spike of victory in your bloodstream from winning the argument morphs into something entirely different as he stands behind you, his breath tickling your ear and the tendrils of your hair as he provides instruction.

You try to take the details on board, but your thoughts scatter with his overwhelming proximity. How have you never noticed the stirring amber notes of his cologne before? Or how very broad his chest is compared to his slim hips? Perhaps because this is the closest you have ever been, his body heat seeping into your spine, your heart fluttering hard against your ribs. You can’t decide if this effect your husband can have on you is the best or the worst thing. Somehow, it feels like both.

——

1 month later.

You are both relieved to avoid most of the season on the pretence of being on honeymoon, but inevitably, the time comes when you must debut as a married couple. Speculation about you growing ever since Lady Whistledown breathlessly reported your nuptials, a nearly unknown minor Ton member rapidly snaring the most eligible of perenially eligible bachelors.

So when you enter your first ball as Viscountess Bridgerton, all eyes are upon you. You feel mildly uncomfortable bedecked in jewels and a heavy silk dress, but know refinement is of importance at events such as these. You just cannot wait to get home and get out of them. This will never be your preferred milieu, a sentiment you apparently share with your husband—underneath his calm, unruffled exterior, you sense his dampened disquiet.

“Smile politely, nod in acknowledgement, but don't engage for any longer than necessary,” he counsels under his breath as an inevitable hush falls over the room when your arrival is announced. You are grateful for his steadfast support, his arm looped reassuringly through yours as you follow his advice, knowing he has navigated these waters much more than you have needed to. “The best thing to do is seem frightfully ordinary,” he explains quietly as you complete a circuit of the room. “They are ravenous for gossip; if none is to be had, their preoccupation will swiftly wane.”

Indeed, the initial excitement about your appearance soon dies down as other, perhaps more flamboyant, guests arrive. People approach expressing surprise about your union, but once he economically explains you just knew you were right for each other, they often quickly move on, seeming almost disappointed at the lack of apparent scandal.

As the evening progresses, you school your tongue at some of the barbs you overhear, more out of a wish to be left alone rather than any adherence to social rules. Most of the things that appear to preoccupy the Ton you have little patience for. As Anthony spends some time with business acquaintances, you eventually find yourself in the company of the female members of his family, whom you are quickly becoming very fond of with every passing day in their company. Particularly his benevolent mother and headstrong sister, Eloise. In fact, the latter is the primary witness to the flare of your true nature, fatigue overriding your ability to remain silent.

Cressida Cowper is being particularly venomous about a mutual acquaintance. Eloise is quick with her witty tongue in reply, and you cannot stop yourself from piling on your scorn as well.

“Perhaps if the braiding of your hair were less painful, it would allow you greater empathy,” you retort before you can stop yourself.

Eloise’s responding guffaw sprays lemonade all over Cressida, whose shocked mien is the last thing you see before she turns heel to attend to her ruined dress in private.

“That was sensational!” Eloise wheezes in awe as she blots the remnants of her beverage from her chin.

You sigh.

“It was unwise,” you correct, knowing you have probably just made an enemy of one of the worst gossips of the Ton.

“It was wholly accurate and justified,” a cool, authoritative voice cuts in, and you look up to find your husband before you, a rapt glint in his eye that makes your lungs feel tight. It appears he may have also been witness to the moment.

Eloise’s eyes briefly ping-pong between the two of you, and then she loops an arm into the crook of Anthony’s as you continue to gaze at each other, cataloguing something new about each other that you mutually admire.

“I like her,” Eloise nods at you. “Excellent choice of wife, brother,” she grins.

It breaks the spell between you but seems to further ingratiate you with at least one member of his family. And that makes you feel light as air in a way you don't fully understand.

——

2 months later.

Funnily enough, it’s another random Tuesday when your life takes a complete turn. Yet again, you find yourself in another heated debate with your husband of barely twelve weeks. This time while sojourning at your country estate, Aubrey Hall.

“Must you?” Anthony gripes, standing up from his desk and rounding towards where you stand.

“Must I what? Speak my mind?” you bite back, hands on your hips.

“Be so damn argumentative,” he expounds, hands also on hips, chest heaving a little, “urghh, you are so aggravating!”

“Same!” You shoot back. “I have never met a man quite as disagreeable as you,” you add, not realising as you argue that you have taken steps closer and are now huffing irritated breaths close to each other's faces.

“Why did you agree to marry me then?” he snarls, his gaze suddenly fixated on your bottom lip, unbeknownst to you, it’s glistening and swollen from biting in irritation at his demeanour.

“Right now, I have no earthly idea,” you volley in return, but your pounding heart gives away the real reason. No one makes you feel quite as alive as Anthony, even when he is driving you up the wall, like right now. “Why did you agree to marry me, seeing as I am so very ‘aggravating’?” you spit, parroting the word back at him.

His stare blisters as he draws himself to full height right before you.

“We made a pact,” he huffs, “this is duty, nothing more.”

But the way he breathes and holds himself speaks to something else. A war in his body and mind. The maelstrom in his eyes belying his words… and then it hits you. So singular it knocks the wind from your lungs. This is desire. He wants you. In all the ways a man can want a woman.

And damn it all to hell if you don’t feel precisely the same.

“For me as well,” your tart, mendacious reply is bitter on your tongue.

The tension in the air is taut like a cord, ready to snap. You both toe to toe, noses almost touching, laboured breaths as you stare each other down like some game to see who will capitulate first.

“I do believe we are at an impasse… wife,” the last word dripping with disdain, but he is leaning closer than he ever has, his lips fractional inches from yours.

“It would appear so…,” you concur, “…husband,” you roll the last word slowly, lingering on the end of the first syllable as if it is both a treat and a bitter pill on your tongue.

“I have been raised a gentleman,” he hisses, “but there are times that you test my resolve.”

“I do nothing of the sort!” you decry, knowing you are lying even to yourself now. Somedays lately, you live to simply push his buttons, just to see what he will do. “And resolve of what? To not be a good husband? Because I can tell you, forthright, you are doing a wonderful job of being a terrible husband,” you goad, knowing you are poking the proverbial beast now.

“I give you a wonderful home to run as you please, I give you the freedom to pursue whatever pastimes you wish, I let you speak your mind. As Viscountess, the world is yours. What else could you possibly want in a husband? I do not ask you to do things, wifely things, that I could,” he warns, his voice buzzing low. “I could demand you submit to my will; it is my right,” he growls.

A flame behind your ribs catches fire, even as your eyes flash indignant.

“You do not wish for that sort of wife; you told me as much yourself.” It’s a heated whisper, much breathier than you mean it to be.

“A man can change his mind,” he gravels, “same as a woman can change hers if she wishes.”

“What made you change your mind?”

He fixes you with a hypnotic, weighted stare.

“You.”

The way that one word drips from his lips tilts your whole existence. It’s so loaded you don’t know what to say. Unmoored, your system awash with chemicals, your mind flooding with images of sketches you have seen of men and women together. Of what the marital act can entail. It’s something you believed would not ever be a part of your marriage, your life, even, but now….

Now your handsome husband is staring at you, ragged breaths, face wild, telling you he has changed his mind. Maybe he wants that sort of marriage, that sort of union. Something gallops hard in your chest as he steps away, as if wrongly intuiting you are about to turn down his suit, and something bubbles up from deep inside you.

“Do not dare,” you growl.

His mouth falls open in shock.

“Do not tease me so and leave me wanting,” you continue with a boldness and timbre you barely recognise as your own. “‘Tis crueller to build false hope than to take what you want,” you sniff and stare him down, so wholly decisive in your intentions and desires. If this is the nudge he needs, you’ll give it.

“You want me to exercise my conjugal rights?” he falters, appearing utterly stunned.

You don’t answer; just do one thing, your heart pounding loudly in your ears. You close the last few inches and press your lips to his.

They are soft and plush against yours, making your insides warm and glowing. Then, Anthony makes a noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. So ferociously, you squeak into his mouth as he opens your lips and slides his tongue over yours, his strong arms pulling you into an embrace so you are enveloped by his warm body.

Good lord.

You feel like you are drowning in him as he grabs your jaw, directing the kiss, turning it into something wholly other. Your lips move endlessly together as you both greedily take from the other for what seems like ages. When you pull apart, you are both heaving breaths and staring at each other, almost confused.

“Don’t you dare do that again,” you snarl, wanting to rip every item of clothing from your body and his.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds airily.

And then you crash into each other again. Drinking desperately from each other's mouths, powerless to resist whatever flame draws you together.

He walks you backwards as your tongues tangle, and you startle slightly as your bottom hits his imposing desk. Hands loop around your thighs, and he hoists you into the surface, never breaking the intoxicating kiss.

He tries to step between your legs, but your column dress is too tight to allow it. You attempt to wiggle the hem upwards as you kiss, then, with a frustrated grunt, he bats your hands away and, using a strength that shocks you, rips the silk material asunder from the hem to your hip.

“I loved this dress!” you decry over his lips, unwilling to admit you’d destroy every single dress you own if he just kept kissing you like this.

“I’ll buy you another,” he dismisses, pushing your thighs wide with his hands. “I’ll buy you as many as you want.”

“You had better,” you challenge, scarcely able to believe you even have the wherewithal to debate with him, especially as this is the first time a man has ever touched your bare leg.

He pulls back from the kiss to stare intently into your eyes as his fingertips trace from your kneecap up the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. You don’t mean to, but you tremble, having never been touched this way before. You gasp as his palm cups the apex of your thighs, his hand feeling so warm through the thin silk protecting your modesty, his fingers swirling circles over your patch of hair as the heel of his palm presses against your slit.

“I can feel your heat,” he hisses.

You can barely process what is happening, your body rioting as he touches and teases you, staring you down. Instinctively, you reach for the tiny buttons at your hip, but your hands fall away as he flicks his middle finger downwards and catches a nub that makes your body buck.

“Anthony,” it falls from your lips unbidden with a halting breath. It may well be the first time you have uttered his first name in his presence.

He groans at the sound. “Please, always say my name like that,” he pleads through gritted teeth.

So you repeat it, the same intonation, even as that finger drags slowly up and down over the swollen pearl between your legs, undone by how good it feels.

“Are you chaste?” he inquires; it’s not judgemental in tone, just pure curiosity, his ministrations lighter.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, “but I do know of the marital act”, you add, wanting him to know you are not entirely innocent.

“Hmm,” he hums, looking at once thoughtful and blistering, his finger moving more insistently again, “I am glad to hear it. Then you shall not be entirely shocked by what is about to happen?”

“So… we are to undertake it? The act?” you stutter, his finger making you feel so good you have to bite your lip.

But he doesn’t answer your question directly.

“Wife, how attached are you to these undergarments?” his tone almost idle, cocking his head to the side as his gaze lingers over them.

You shrug practically. “I have many exactly the same.”

Then, you gasp loudly as the sound of silk tearing fills the room. You are quaking as the warm air of his study swirls around your exposed, damp slit. He shocks you by dropping to his knees before you. Pushing your thighs wide on his desk and looking up at you with burningly intense eyes, he presses his face to your flesh, inhaling deeply, his nose buried in your pubic hair before his tongue peeks out and nudges the swollen nub he was teasing through the silk.

Your mouth drops open, and something inhuman escapes your lungs. Then he does it again, this time enclosing the whole area between his lips and sucking hard on your flesh, tongue curling and ploughing into your folds. The heat, the suction, the muscular swipe of his tongue feels so good your mind blanks out, a tremor in your splayed thighs that he holds forcibly open with warm hands. He keeps doing so for a few moments as your fingernails curl hard into the edge of his desk, scarcely able to do anything but writhe and gently moan. IIdly you think upon all of your curious research, never once had you heard of or read about a man doing as he is now, placing his head between his wife’s thighs and sniffing, drinking from her body.

“You are plenty ready for me, wife,” he huffs, his warm breath tickling your responsive folds, little ripples of pleasure deep inside scattering your thoughts. “Are you averse to me taking you right here?” he waves a hand nonchalantly at his large, imposing carved wooden desk.

“I… I rather thought su-such things could only ha-happen in a bed,” you confess stiltedly, a quiver in your voice.

He smirks up from between your thighs, turning his head to kiss the fragile skin there. “Oh, no, wife. We can fuck anywhere we please…” he pauses and looks sincere, “however, should you prefer a bed…”

“Here is fine,” you rush out, so very keen to have your husband make a woman of you. As if leaving this room may break the spell you are under. Location be damned. You just want to know him. He smirks again, placing a final quick kiss on your flesh, looking very pleased at your response.

“I wholeheartedly concur,” he rumbles as he hoists himself back up to stand, stepping inwards to rock his clothed pelvis against your pulsing nub. There is something hot and swollen in his trousers now, and you realise this must be his member.

“Show it to me,” you enthuse, nodding at the insistent bulge.

“So very impatient all of a sudden, wife,” he scolds with a bemused chuckle, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand over the bump. It feels so hot and steely even through the fabric. “Unbutton me,” he orders casually, pointing to the fastening at his hip.

Exuberantly, you undo them quickly, keen to see if his member matches the sketches you have viewed. As the front of his trousers falls away, he quickly pushes down his white underwear. There, nestled in a thatch of dark hair at the base, is your husband's cock. Your eyes widen at the sight. It seems more considerable than the drawings you have seen, and you are temporarily taken aback by how red and almost angry it looks at the tip.

“Go ahead, touch it,” Anthony encourages, and with a slight tremble in your fingers, you reach forward and make contact with him.

“Oh!” you exclaim without thought, “it’s so soft, your skin, and so hot!”

He chuckles warmly at your assessment. “Indeed,” he huffs as you wrap your hand instinctively around it, feeling its weight and mass in your palm.

“This will not fit inside me, surely?” you blurt out.

“It will, I promise,” his tone mellow, tinged with understanding even as his breath staccatos when you start to move your hand, the instinct to rub inexplicable, but seemingly precisely what he wants. “Yes, perfect,” he rasps, eyes closing and tongue peaking out to lick his lips.

The odd mix of total honesty and soft appreciation between you as you acquaint yourselves with each other's bodies seems very apt, as if this is the only way such a development would ever transpire. And you realise, as you cradle his most intimate parts, that you trust this man with your very being. Despite your bickering, there is a thread of mutual respect under it that makes you feel safe, seen, and known in a way that no other person has.

“Take me now, husband,” you rattle through your teeth, watching a bead of something sticky form at the tip of his cock as you squeeze him in hypnotic, repetitive motions. The sight makes something in your body turn to fiery liquid, wanting him and that substance inside yourself in a way that doesn't make logical sense.

He growls at your words, grabbing your hand away from his cock and bringing it to his mouth, kissing the back of your knuckles as your eyes lock, a chaste, almost romantic interlude.

But then his hands grab your hips and haul you almost roughly to the very edge of the desk, your torn dress framing your splayed thighs, his trousers around his ankles as he takes his cock in hand and rubs the tip over your folds of flesh in a way that makes you moan under your breath.

“Are you certain?” he checks, even as he pants anticipatorily.

“God, yes,” you confirm, craving him in a way you have never felt about anything before. An urgent hook tugging deep inside your loins, calling to him like a siren song.

“Watch,” he murmurs darkly, his other hand rounding the back of your neck so your gaze is tilted down to where his cock nudges your opening.

So you do, as does he. Stare down to where your body meet, hissing loudly as his tip slips inside your soaked channel. Your eyes want to roll back at the sheer overwhelming sensation of it, but equally, it's such an enthralling sight that you can’t look away.

He moans loudly, lewdly, decadently as he pushes further into your heat, pausing to readjust your legs wider and tilt your pelvis more open.

“This next part may hurt, darling,” he whispers quietly, the first time he has ever used such an affectionate term for you, making your heart race.

“It's alright,” you reassure mutely in return, “I have heard as such.”

The hand around the back of your neck slides gently until he tilts your chin up to meet his tender gaze.

“You are quite the woman,” he says, almost reverential, as he leans in and captures your lips in a sweet, soft kiss.

The movement propels his cock deeper into your body, and you cry out into his open mouth at a stab of sharp pain inside.

“That's it done,” he mutters reassuringly into your lips as you whimper gently.

He stills as you adjust to the girth, the heat, and feeling so very filled.

“More…” falls from your mouth spontaneously, the want rising, hungry for a need to be met, a thirst slaked, unlike anything you have experienced.

The smile that breaks out over his face makes your nipples pebble hard in your stays, and he slides deeper as you cling to him, exhaling unevenly as he keeps sinking further into your pussy, pushing you open. Just when you think you cannot take more, he stops, and you feel his body pressing wholly against yours.

You stare at each other, eyes wild and wide, unable to form words but knowing instinctually how good this feels for both of you. He looks untamed, something urgent rippling in his being. And without breaking the gaze, he pulls his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside you, then ploughs back in, in one determined, decisive stroke.

You don't stop the decadent noise that escapes your lungs, your toes curling into the soles of your feet at how wonderful and all-encompassing that feels. Same as you don't miss the victorious smirk on his face at your reaction.

Then it’s a hungry blur of movement as your hands grab his biceps through his clothing, clinging on for dear life as he proceeds to move just like that first thrust. Over and over. Building in pace and with increasing intensity, him sensing your need for such things.

“Anthony…” his name spills over your lips again, and the impact on him is nothing short of extraordinary.

His hands clamp vicelike to your hips, branding heatedly over your skin through your dress, straining the tendons of your inner thighs as he pushes your legs open impossibly wide, his pelvis crashing into yours in a way you are certain may leave bruises. And what shocks you most is just how much you want it. Want him to leave signs of his presence, want to look in the mirror and see the outline of his digits in the globes of your bottom.

He moans your name, hot and desperate, into your ear, his pace never wavering, a drop of sweat forming on his forehead that you can't look away from when he pulls back to tilt your heads together.

“I want to see,” you stumble out, pantingly, as he takes you harder.

“See what?” he sounds almost winded, his thrusts still spearing his cock into your body.

“See you entering me,” you huff into his cheek.

His responding noise is feral and has every inch of your body alight. He bows his spine outward so your bodies only touch where you are joined, and his hand feels heated and heavy on the back of your neck as you tilt your chin down to take in the sight.

His cock, rigid and huge, ploughing repeatedly into your body, shining with a slick substance you can only assume is from within you, the sight making you shudder, but not with anything approaching disgust. It’s something primal. A need to chase a conclusion, the power of the vivid tableau burned into your retinas.

“Don't stop, please don't stop,” you petition, looking back up to his face, your hands sliding up and down his torso now, raking urgent fingernails over his clothing.

He swears, and his lips are back on yours, searing and demanding. This feels like a frantic wave you are riding together, a trickle of moisture running down your spine as you start to push your hips forward as much as you can, meeting his thrusts halfway.

“You are fucking perfect,” he snarls over your tongue, and you couldn't agree more.

Time seems elastic as he lowers you so your back rests on the piles of no doubt important paperwork, not that he pays it any mind, him hunched over you, pulling your hips out over the edge now, the range of motion it allows him making you gasp. He is taking you without mercy now, breath hot on your throat as he moans your name, his hand squirrelling between your bodies and making your vision dance with dots as he passes a slightly calloused tip over your clit.

“Come for me,” he breathes, the request both hopeful and commanding.

“What does that mean?” your question puffed into his lush hairline.

“Oh my darling, just you wait,” his voice dripping with promise even as your skin feels like it wants to vibrate off your very bones as his fingers and cock take you somewhere you never envision. An ecstasy both outside but rooted deep in your being.

He murmurs encouragingly as you struggle for air, your lungs burning, scarcely remembering to breathe, skating some kind of precipice that feels dangerous and addictive. Then, with a flick of his thumb and a gentle bite of your earlobe, you fall into an abyss. Everything all at once quiet and loud, eyes screwed shut as colours burst behind them, and every fibre of your being seems to snap and break, rearranging in a mind-shattering way. Your pussy convulsing hard around his cock that now seems impossibly large.

Then, with a deep booming cry, you feel him lance deeper than ever, his whole body tensing and jerking. A warmth spreads inside, and you vaguely realise he is reaching completion, spilling his seed inside you. For what seems like ages, your mind and body float somewhere, utterly sated, suddenly understanding why this act can be so all-consuming and there is so much written of it.

When your mind returns to the room, you are panting into each other's necks, both breathlessly stunned at how animalistic your first intimacy was. Somehow, your antagonistic chemistry transmuting into an explosive, consuming passion.

“We are going to bed right now,” his tone wrecked, rough, so damn irresistible you want to bite his flesh, even while you still recover from what transpired. Fires stoked again just by those seven words.

He pulls up his trousers haphazardly, picks you up bridal-style, and sweeps you out of his office and up the grand staircase, ignoring the shocked looks of staff at your torn dress and his roughly pulled clothing.

“We are not to be disturbed,” he barks at his valet, who blanches and leaves the room as Anthony practically throws you onto his imposing four-poster bed. Then, as you lay there, he strips naked before you, and you want to nuzzle every inch of his toned, magnificent body.

___

It’s three days before you reemerge from what is now your joint bedroom. From that day on, you are never without your husband for more than two days; such is your magnetic need for each other. And when your belly swells with the first of your many children, he confesses his ardent, undying love for you, you returning the sentiment instantly, having felt the same for what seems like forever.

A hurried, naive pact between two proud, independent souls becoming something wholly other—a loving, passionate marriage of equals. You still squabble with unerring frequency, but now it ends in lovemaking, the intensity sweeping you both into an ephemeral bliss.

A beneficial arrangement indeed.

Anthony taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @queenofmean14 @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @elizah99 @fictionalmenloversblog @debheart @malpalgalz @amanda08319 @panhoeofmanyfandoms @delehosies @m-rae23 @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @jeanfreau @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @vane28282 @kisskissshutmydoor

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vampiredecay · 3 years

Text

I Can Hear Your Heart Beat (Part 1)

A/N: heyo! this is the first part of a two parter, in celebration of hitting a little over 50 followers! this was a prompt/suggestion from @n3on-lights , thank you again so much!! originally this was going to be one part, but i realized i was at 3k words and only half way done with the story, lol. so part two will be out soon! in the mean time, hope you enjoy this first half!

rating: teen

wordcount: 3,139

warnings/notes: swearing, descriptions of being in pain, half vamp!michael, human!lost boys, the boys turn back to human, implied minor character death, goodbye max, poly!lost boys, lost boys x michael

summary: after convincing sam that he wasn't going to kill him, michael raced to the hotel to seek answers about what he was becoming. little does he know, sam has his own plans up his sleeve, leaving the boys human for the first time in years, and michael still stuck as half vampire.

“Sammy, please!” Michael cried out, hanging onto the phone cord for dear life, hoping to whatever god out there was merciful enough to put some sense into his little brother's head. Sam just stared, debating if he should really let his brother in or not. He was floating outside his bedroom window like a freak, and he tried to eat him! But when Sam looked at him, at his older brother, he could see that he looked terrified. He's hardly ever seen Michael genuinely afraid, and he looks so human, despite the obvious circumstances. So, Sam takes a deep breath and walks over to the window, unlocking it and opening it for Michael to crawl through.

Michael counts his blessings as he drops onto the floor, takes in huge amounts of air that he doesn't really need. Sam sinks down to the floor next to him, and Michael grabs hold of him, wrapping his arms around him like he'll start flying away again. Sam tries not to squirm too much.

"What's goin on, Mike?" Sam whispers, his voice refusing to go any higher. Michael is shaking slightly, breathing heavily, so Sam tries again, "What did those bikers do to you?"

That gets a reaction out of him, a low growling sound from deep in his throat. Michael can hear Sam's heartbeat quicken and he has to swallow thickly. "I don't know, Sam. But I'll sort it out, okay?"

"But what about mom-" Sam tries, but Michael cuts him off, frantic, "Just- just don't tell her anything, okay? You gotta trust me, Sammy."

Sam wants to argue, this was way bigger than getting a bad grade on a test, or getting into a fight in school. His gut reaction was to tell his mom, because he knew she would try and make it okay again. But he also trusted his brother. Plus, he had more experience with these guys, so Sam nodded, deciding Michael had it covered. “Okay. I trust you.”

Michael let out a sigh of relief, but it was short lived once they heard their moms car screeching to a halt outside of the house. The boys frantically got up, looking at each other with wide eyes. “I gotta go, Sam. Distract mom for me, yeah?” There wasn’t any time to debate, so Sam just nodded and sprinted down the stairs. He didn't know how Michael was going to sneak out, but at this rate, he didn’t want to know.

When he got down stairs, the blond teen could hear his mom calling his name, and when the front door opened, he could see his mom looking worried like crazy. “Oh, Sam!” she said once she saw him, she sounded exhausted. “You scared me half to death!”

Sam felt guilt start to stir in his chest, he didn’t mean to make his mom worry so much. And the fact that he had to lie now didn’t help matters at all. “I’m okay, mom. I was reading a horror comic and I thought I saw someone outside my window- but I just got carried away, that's all.”

Lucy stared at her son, trying to understand the excuse he was feeding her. She squinted her eyes at him. “You got carried away by a comic book?”

Sam tried not to flinch, he knew it sounded like bullshit, but it was the best he could come up with on the fly. “It was a scary comic mom. I’m sorry.”

The look on his mom's face made it clear she was frustrated. She couldn’t believe how her boys were acting, like she didn’t raise them better. “You know, I’ve just about had it with the both of you, you know that?” Sam nodded his head and looked down at his feet, and she almost forgave him then. But then her eyes landed on the kitchen, and her frustration flared up all over again. “What is this mess?”

Sam looked over to where his mom was talking about, and saw the spilt milk and open fridge door. God damnit, Mike. He tried telling her that it wasn’t his fault, but she wasn’t listening, not that he could blame her at this point. When he was done cleaning up the floor, Sam raced up to his room, pausing to see that Michael had long gone. Wasting no more time, he launched himself on his bed and called the Frog brothers again.

It took a few rings, but eventually, Edgar had answered the call. “What?” he asked, short and coarse. Sam rushed to answer, “Guys, it's me again.”

Edgar sighed from over the phone, “What, Sam? We told you to stake your brother, what more do you want?”

“Look guys, Michael and I talked, he’s going to try and talk to the vamps that got him, but there has to be something more that we can do!”

There was some vague conversation that Sam couldn’t hear, then Alan was speaking, “Do you know if he made his first kill? Can he still walk in sunlight?”

“No, he hasn’t killed anyone, and yes, he can still walk in sunlight.” Sam said, “That means he’s only half shit sucker, right?”

Alan grumbled into the phone, like he didn’t want to be entertaining this idea at all. “Yes, so technically, if you kill the head vampire, all half vampires would return to being human.” Sam was ready to celebrate, he was about to say something like “hell yeah!”, but then Alan asked something that made him cut the celebration short. “Does your brother know who the head vampire is?”

“Uh,” Sam mumbled, "No, I don't think so."

"We can't screw around anymore, Sam." Edgar said, taking the phone back. "Kill your brother, or we'll be forced to do it for you "

"Wait, no!" Sam shouted, desperate to think of something that would help. "We just gotta find the head vampire, right? We-" as he was talking, Sam suddenly thought of something. "Actually, I might know who the head vampire is."

"What?" Edgar asked, voice high and tight. "Well, this all started when my mom started working at Max's video store."

He could hear both the Frogs groaning. "Wait guys, hear me out! He doesn't come in till after dark, he has a dog that's always growling at people, and I read that vampires have hell hounds as companions!"

"Well duh, but-" Edgar started, but Sam cut him off. "If my mom is dating the head vampire, you guys can nail him and save Santa Carla!"

The Frogs were silent for a few seconds, so Sam tacked on "Truth, justice, and the American way triumphs, thanks to you two."

That seemed to convince them, because after a few more seconds, Edgar said "Alright, we'll check Max out. Tonight. Get ready, we'll come get you in ten minutes."

Sam froze, mouth open wide against the phone. "Tonight? Can't we wait until tomorrow?"

"This was your idea, Sam." Alan said, more rustling could be heard from the background. "If Max is clean, we're coming for your brother and his friends tomorrow. Be ready." Before Sam could say anything more, they hung up the phone.

When Michael got to the hotel, it was dark and quiet. There weren't as many candles lit, making shadows dance and flicker against the walls, and the only sounds Michael could hear were drops of water bouncing around the cave.

"David?" Michael called out, walking further into the hotel. The place was eerie now, without the boys there, dancing and laughing and joking around. "David? Anyone here?"

Where the hell were they? Michael was getting agitated, a hot irritation settling under his skin as he looked around the cave. If they weren't even here, he didn't know what he was going to do. Michael needed answers, he needed to know what the hell was happening to him.

"I'm not fucking around." The brunette said to the air. "I want answers, and I want them now!"

Silence. Michael snarled at nothing and turned around to stomp towards the exit, but then he heard an all too familiar voice echoing out the cave.

"I'm right here, Michael."

David was standing at the entrance, Dwayne, Paul and Marko lurking behind him. The platinum blond gave a wide smirk as he walked down into the cave, eyeing the angry halfling. “What’s going on?”

“What the hell did you do to me?” Michael demanded, walking right up to David and getting into his face. David cocked an eyebrow as the rest of the boys surrounded him, whispering and laughing. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Cut the bullshit! I’m hungry, I’m in pain, I was floating on the goddamn ceiling-”

“Woah,” Paul interrupted, sounding amazed, “You got there already? It took me a while-” Marko kicked Paul’s leg before he could continue, making the blond rocker yelp loudly. David cleared his throat and suddenly looked deadly serious. “You drank from the bottle, Michael. You’re one of us now.”

“But what the hell does that mean?” Michael was starting to feel drained, he was so tired of going around in circles, and it feels like he hasn’t gotten proper sleep in weeks. “What the fuck was in that bottle that makes me float off the ground and makes me want to eat my brother?”

The boys all looked at each other like they were having a silent conversation.

“Take it easy, man.” Dwayne said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. He was smiling like nothing was off or weird about this situation at all. “You’ll get the hang of it. Just go with the flow.”

Michael was about to ask what he’d “get the hang of”, but Marko spoke before he could. “It’s getting late, you should probably go home.” The way he spoke and the look he gave had an air of finality, like fighting would get him nowhere. This had been a huge waste of time.

“Fine.” Michael spit, shoving past David roughly as he walked towards the entrance. He would have to find answers some other way. As much as he hated it, he might have to resort to Sam’s weird friends. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but they seemed to be the only other ones who knew anything about-

“Wait!” Paul called out, making Michael stop in his tracks. He turned around and looked at Paul, who had a weird look on his face. His eyebrows were scrunched down and he held a hand to his middle. “Do you guys feel that?”

The others looked confused, but soon their faces contorted into concern and agitation. Marko’s hand shot to Paul's arm, gripping like his life depended on it, while Dwayne and David held onto each other, as if keeping each other from falling. Marko was panting, “What the fu-”

Suddenly, Markos words were cut off by a loud screeching sound. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin as the boys started shouting and screaming, falling to the ground hard. The halfling stared at them in shock.

“What happened?! What's wrong?!” Michael asked frantically, panicked, running back over and crouching over the pile of writhing bodies. No one could answer, the only sounds coming from them were grunts and whimpers of pain. Michael could only stand and watch, horrified that he had no idea what was going on.

After what felt like an eternity, the screaming stopped. The boys stopped convulsing on the ground, completely still and silent, like they passed out. The silence was deafening now. Michael slowly walked over to David, breathing heavily, anxious out of his mind. He placed a gentle hand to his cheek, finding him surprisingly warm. He checked his pulse, then, and found a shallow, but steady heart beat. Michael then checked the other boys and found the same warmth and beat. The teen sighed in relief, they were all alive, at least. They seemed to be out cold, though, and Michael knew that he needed to move them from the cold hard ground.

One by one, he moved each of the boys to a chair or couch, trying to make them as comfortable as possible. Michael looked around, but didn’t find any stashed food or water, so he decided to hurry out and get them something to eat when they woke up. He didn’t know if they would be hungry or not, but it would be worth the try.

Michael sped on his bike to the nearest convenience store and grabbed a basket, stuffing it with random chips and snacks. He also grabbed a few bottles of water and threw it in the basket. When he went up to the counter to pay, the cashier gave him an odd look, but he just smiled awkwardly. The total almost drained his wallet, which hurt, but there were more important things to worry about right now.

The trip back to the hotel was a bit of a pain in the ass, but he managed to get there in one piece. He parked his bike and hauled the food and water down into the cave, and when he was in the main lobby, he was startled to see that the boys were awake. They were all huddled around each other, holding and touching in whatever way they could. All of them wore similar shocked, concerned and disturbed expressions on their faces. It almost felt wrong to intrude on them, but he accidentally made a noise and alerted the boys to his presence.

“Michael?” David called out, but his voice was smaller, less sure. Michael immediately walked over to them, setting the bag down as he squatted next to the couch they were all piled in.

“Hey, are you guys okay? What the hell happened?” As he talked, Michael pulled out bottles of water and handed them out to each of the boys. They snatched the bottles out of his hands and opened them like they haven’t drank water in years, guzzling down the liquid and getting it all over themselves in the process.

“Woah, guys, slow down-” But they didn’t listen, not even if they started choking and coughing. When the waters were drained, Paul crawled over everyone to grab the bag full of snacks and dig through it.

“Michael.” David said, looking intensely at his face, studying every inch he could look at. He grabbed at Michaels arm and pulled him closer. “Do you feel any different? Did you change back?”

The brunette stared at him, bewildered. “Change? No, I feel the same as before.”

David's eyes widened, and Paul stopped tearing into a bag of potato chips, mouth gaping. “Wait, he’s still half? How’s that possible?”

Marko and Dwayne gave each other a disbelieving look, and Michael scrunched up his face in confusion. “Half what? What are you guys talking about?”

No one said anything for a long moment. David sighed and ran his hands through his spiked hair. “I guess we have no choice but to tell you.”

Michael watched as David sat up straighter, a pained look on his face, like his whole body ached. He looked uncomfortable as he said, “We were vampires, Michael. And you’re one, too. Half, anyway. You still haven’t made your first kill.”

So many thoughts and questions flooded Michaels mind at that moment. His first reaction was to call David crazy, but he remembered what it felt like to fly out his bedroom window, how painfully hungry he was and how loud he could hear Sam's heartbeat, even from the bathroom. His reflection in the mirror was fading and weak. Michael couldn’t fuckin believe this.

Michael stood up so fast he felt lightheaded. “So- you’re telling me,” He started, pacing in front of the couch. The rest of the boys were no longer paying attention, too busy devouring the snacks from the bag, but David was watching him walk back and forth. “That I’m a half vampire. An actual, honest to god vampire. That’s just fuckin great!” Michael shouted, and David winced at the sound.

“Wait.” The halfling stopped pacing and turned back to the platinum blond. “What do you mean you were a vampire?”

David blew air through his nose like an angry bull. He shifted around in his seat before answering, “We have a master. Or, I guess we did. If the vampire that turned you dies, you turn back into a human.”

“Which must be why Michael hasn’t turned back.” Dwayne chimed in suddenly, still chewing loudly on chips. Michael was lost at this point, which must have been clear on his face, cause Marko pitched in with, “You drank David’s blood from the bottle, not Max’s. David didn’t die, just turned back into a human. So, therefore, you can’t go back to being human.”

Michael didn’t know which fact he hated more, that his mom's dorky (now ex, he supposed) boyfriend was a head vampire, or that he drank actual blood. A lot of it, if he remembered properly. He groaned loudly and sank to the floor, head in his hands. “So you’re saying I'm stuck like this?”

“Well…” Paul started, but didn’t get to finish. David interrupted, irritation clear in his voice. “We don’t know. We don’t know jack shit.”

The tension was thick in the air. Michael had no idea what they were going to do now. Living in a sunken hotel may have been okay when they were vampires, but it’s not gonna fly being human. He knew he couldn’t just leave them here. Michael sighed and stood back up, walking over to the entrance. It was still dark out, but he figured it was going to be morning soon. He walked back down and stood in front of the boys.

“Look, we’ll figure out how to change me back,” David huffed at that, looking less than amused. Michael rolled his eyes. “But until then, you guys are basically homeless. Why don’t you come stay with me for a few days?”

The boys froze. They looked at each other, and they looked at Michael, wondering if this was some kind of joke. They had lived in that cave so long it felt like forever, they couldn’t imagine leaving what they considered their home.

“What about your mom? And your brother?” David asked, knowing that it couldn’t be that easy, right? Surely Michaels family would bitch about them being there. But Michael didn’t look bothered. “Sam can be an ass, but he’ll deal. And my mom wouldn’t kick you guys out.”

David was still hesitant. He still didn’t want to believe he was human again, after all these years. It hurts to even think about it. He felt a nudge against his shoulder, and when he looked over, he saw Marko, shrugging his shoulders.

“What do we have left to lose?”

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joopiterjoon · 4 years

Text

Adored and Nothing More

Pairing: YoonJin Queerplatonic

Genre: PG, Slice of Life, Fluff?

Warnings/Tags: Aro!Jin, Ace-Spectrum!Yoongi, handholding, YoonJin complaining, self-discovery

Wordcount: 3k

A/n: I wrote this based on a joke with @kpopfan-antics... and then turned it into a fic.. and made it soft because what else is new.

Part of FicsWithLuv’s FWLBingo!

“Coffee?” Yoongi’s voice draws Jin out of his intense focus on the game that’s been in his hands so long they’re cramping. Jin blinks a few times before he fully registers the small man in his doorway. He leans on Jin’s doorframe, hair a mess and hoodie on despite the summer heat. It’s a typical contrast to be seen in the apartment- Jin in his boxers and a sweatshirt while Yoongi’s bundled up head-to-toe.

The most recent apartment suits them well. In college, the soft pastels of Jin’s side seemed comedic compared to Yoongi’s all-black-or-bust space. Now, Jin’s room faces the sun, while Yoongi’s faces the adjacent apartment building. Jin can look out into the day, and Yoongi’s room is kept cool by the lack of light.

Jin gives a small smile to his roommate before heaving out of the bed for the first time all day. He groans as he stretches.

“Old man,” Yoongi teases.

“Hey, that’s rich coming from you,” Jin argues as he shucks his hoodie and pulls a shirt over his head. “An old man would wish he looked this good.”

“Well, “ Yoongi begins despite walking into the living space towards the door, “You must be that good looking old man ‘cause only old guys groan like that when they stand.”

Jin frows as he trots after Yoongi’s huddled, waddling form.

“Like this?” Jin imitates the sound again while he bends to put his shoes on. “Or this?” He does it louder with his whole chest as they head out. “Or like-”

Jin stops abruptly when he sees their neighbors in the hall, startled by Jin’s noises. His ears burn as he bows deeply. “Sorry.”

Yoongi snickers, tugging Jin along with a loose grip on his hand. Jin’s amazed that in all his layers, Yoongi’s fingers are actually cold. He grips tighter to warm them.

“Hey,” Jin pipes up as they get on the street. “An old man would never shout like that either, you know?”

Yoongi side-eyes him and pulls a baseball cap lower over his eyes. He got a haircut last week, and the hat shows off his undercut well. But Jin knows how chaotic his hair is underneath. Still, somehow Yoongi looks cute with his hair fucked up and askew. “Mhm, sure.”

Satisfied, Jin bounces along next to his roommate. It’s a nice day out, Yoongi’s favorite kind. Good weather and few people. They stay quiet, taking note of the small changes in their neighborhood since the last time they left the house. Both introverts, Jin and Yoongi make a dangerously homebound pairing. If it weren’t for Yoongi’s dire need for specialty coffee, they would barely leave the house in the summer.

They head toward the small coffee shop that Yoongi chose as “his” coffee shop. Yoongi had a tendency to do that. He picked something he liked and stuck with it. Like Jin, his eternal roommate. And seeing as Jin and Yoongi had similar preferences in activities and lifestyles, Jin became what Yoongi stuck with very often. Jin would tease him, but really, he appreciated it. He’s comfortable with Yoongi. Content. He frequently finds it hard to balance his affection and sincerity with friends, yet Yoongi has always seemed to understand how Jin works.

“Woah,” Jin says as they enter the shop. It’s almost empty. He checks the large, driftwood clock hanging in the back of the small space. “Yoongi, it’s 3 pm.”

“Correct,” Yoongi answers curtly. They shuffle between the little square tables for two and up to the front.

“Yoongi, I’ve been in bed until 3 pm?”

“Correct.”

“Why didn’t you get me sooner? I haven’t eaten all day!” Jin whines. He throws his arms up in distress and nearly knocks over the little, inconveniently empty case of muffins on the counter.

“I’m not your keeper, old man,” Yoongi retorts and smiles politely to their barista.

“Just for that comment, you have to come and get naengmyeon with me after this,” Jin sniffs.

“Awh,” she giggles behind the counter. “You two are always cute together.”

“Oh,” Jin and Yoongi both say. They give each other an up-down, then focus on their conjoined hands. It’s not the first time they’ve been mislabeled. It’s happened so often that they know exactly what the cashier means by “cute together.”

“Oh,” the cashier repeats, covering her embarrassment. “Are you not dating?”

Both of them open their mouths to respond, but neither say anything. They just stare, blank-faced and slack-jawed, at the barista. There’s not usually a pause here. One of them is quick to correct. The pause gives way to another pause as they both consider the weight of the first.

“I don’t think so,” Jin finally says.

“No,” Yoongi says more firmly yet still too late.

“No?” Jin’s a bit offended at how assured Yoongi sounded.

“Did you think we were?” Yoongi curls his lip in frustration. “You just said you don’t think so.”

“Yeah,” Jin agrees, his ears tinting pink. Sure, he doesn’t. But…

Are we dating? It’s a question that’s made Jin nervous his whole life. He always gets close, closer, closest to people. He feels happy, content to have someone close who knows him and values his presence. But, then, there’s always that “next step” others ask for. Something he never recognizes is there until after he confronts these kinds of situations. Situations like romance. Where someone wants him in a way that implies so much more than what he wants. The awkward moments when someone leans in for a kiss and Jin has to say explain there’s been a miscommunication.

He never thinks they’re dating. He doesn’t feel a need to date, or what people mean by date. He just likes to be close to people he cares for. Jin’s thought about it many times. Why what he wants exudes wanting more to others when he likes what they have.

He thought Yoongi felt the same. Years and years of closeness.Someone who felt good to cuddle when they watched a movie. Someone who he could always talk to. Someone who never made him worried he might want more, that something people want that Jin just doesn’t. And now... “I thought you might think that we might be what we aren’t.”

“Yeah, I get that.”

“So you do?”

Yoongi’s lip curls in confusion. “No?”

Yoongi blinks a few times, pout prominent as he becomes confused. “No what?”

They both let out a frustrated sigh. At this point, the barista slinks away to make their drinks, the slightest bit guilty for whatever she just caused. Jin turns to face Yoongi. Yoongi’s slouched against the counter, nonchalant, but his eyes dart between Jin’s trying to read him. Jin asks again, “Are we dating?”

“I don’t know,” Yoongi says, rubbing at his other arm since he can’t cross them as long as they are holding hands. He finally looks away, and Jin’s heart jumps a bit at the nerves he’s showing. “You tell me.”

“I think…” Jin startles a bit at the sound of the latte machine. He hopes for a reprieve, the noise too loud for them to keep talking, but he doesn’t get that. The quartet of grinding beans and pressurized air quickly ends. Maybe it’s a sign to keep going. He really doesn’t want to do this in a coffee shop, but… “I think sometimes we are.”

Yoongi sighs again, but he doesn’t look back up, just waves Jin off. “Well, tell me when sometimes turns to a definitive.”

“Nah,” Jin says, shaking his head, “I like how things are. Can we just keep doing this?”

“Alright then,” Yoongi nods. He drags them down to the open side of the counter as the barista cups their drinks. “Still want to go to dinner?”

“As a non-date date?” Jin asks, perking up. Whatever doing this is. That is a date usually, but it’s not a date for them.

“Jesus,” Yoongi crinkles his nose. “If that’s a date, we’ve been dating for years.”

“Maybe we have,” Jin says, blinking a few times. Maybe he’s right. If this is what they want to call it, it’s been a while. An apologetic barista slides two coffees across the counter as the two stand in silence for a moment. “That would be ideal. But I thought we weren’t-”

“Do not start this again,” Yoongi cuts him off and turns to find a table.

Jin doesn’t. He sits with Yoongi while he drinks his coffee. They check the weather to search for a time to go camping. They’ve tried to plan a trip three times this summer. Jin loves camping with Yoongi.

Late at night when they wait for the coals to cool in the fire, Yoongi talks the most. He talks about the world more when he’s not really in it. Being deep in the woods can feel like being in a different world. Jin likes taking Yoongi camping to help him gain perspective and for them to be out but with no one around. And on those trips, Jin’s thought about it. How if he had to be stuck with one person forever, it would be Yoongi.

They toss their drinks and head back out. It’s quiet again as Jin follows the GPS on his phone. He tries to focus, but now there’s an idea in the back of his head. Is it this easy? Is this… okay? Is Yoongi going to want more? He’s never wanted more all this time. Jin’s sure he doesn’t want more.

Finally, after they get to the restaurant and order their food, Jin can’t take it anymore. He talks to Yoongi about anything and everything directly. He can talk about this. They are eternal roommates. It’ll be fine. They already addressed it before. Just not as much as he wanted.

Still, he can’t find an in, a moment to clear the air. So he gives up distracting himself, which seems to be what Yoongi’s doing because he won’t put his phone down.

“Why are you on your phone?” Jin asks.

“Googling us,” Yoongi says. He misses his straw a few times while he keeps reading.

Jin blushes. “Look, if anything strange comes up about a GoFundMe from 2012-”

“That’s not what I mean,” Yoongi says, crunching on an ice cube. “It’s called Queerplatonic.”

“That wasn’t the name of my GoFundMe but it’s kind of close.”

“I don’t want to know,” Yoongi says. “This. The thing we do. Are doing. Think we might… nevermind.”

Yoongi huffs out his frustration and flips his phone over on the table. Jin leans over the rickety bar table toward his pouty roommate. At this point, Jin had half a mind that what happened before was a joke for the barista. Now he finds out Yoongi’s been pondering the same thing in his head all afternoon. “Yoongi, you do want to date me, don’t you?”

Yoongi grumbles incoherently as he scratches at his ear. Jin leans back in his seat with a sigh. Ah. “I’m telling you, it’s fine. Everyone wants to date me. And apparently everyone thinks I want to date them. You are not immune.”

Yoongi’s head pops up, irritated as usual by Jin’s ego, and reminds him, “Earlier you literally said you’d be fine dating me.”

“I’m fine non-dating dating you,” Jin says.

“Queerplatonic,” Yoongi clarifies, waving the phone.

“Give me that,” Jin takes the phone from Yoongi. It’s some stylized Wiki page. He glances up at Yoongi, ears a bit pink. “You’re sitting here deciphering us without including me?”

“You’d talk so much I wouldn’t be able to read,” Yoongi shrugs. “Plus, I’ve seen you staring at my nonstop. I know you are thinking about the same shit over there.”

“You say that like you don’t talk all the time,” Jin pauses to nod in thanks to the waiter who sets their beers on the table. Jin drinks a bit more than he should off the bat. “You even talk in your sleep!”

Yoongi petulantly purses his lips. “If you aren’t going to read, give me my phone back.”

Jin leans back with the phone close to his chest and reads through the article. As he goes, he feels tension in his shoulders unwinding.

What he’s reading in his hands, this is him. Moreover, it’s what he and Yoongi have. And some people, apparently, are okay staying this way.

“Yoongi,” Jin breathes, scrolling further. Yoongi doesn’t answer, he just keeps eating and watching Jin’s face nervously. “Is this… I think I’m this.”

“What is this? There’s like, 20 definitions on that site,” Yoongi gripes.

“I don’t know… something on this?” Jin says, scrolling again.

When he hears Yoongi put his beer down, he glances up. Yoongi’s hand is out on the table, palm up, inviting. Jin takes it hesitantly. He’s always liked holding Yoongi’s hand. There’s nothing implied. Nothing extra expected. Just touching someone. He takes it.

“Are you telling me you’ve never considered your sexuality?” Yoongi asks, wiping his mouth. Jin glances around at the other tables chattering and laughing over assortments of comfort food. No one’s really paying them much mind.

“Um, I mean, I guess I thought this wasn’t a sexuality? More of a libido thing. Not for me. I still like sex and stuff, but maybe every other month?” Jin trails off. Honestly, it’s something he’s tried to ignore thinking about.

“Well, I don’t really,” Yoongi says bluntly.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jin asks.

“I did,” Yoongi tries to sound nonchalant, but he hides behind his beer.

“When?” Jin asks, exasperated.

“Do you remember when we were watching that Avengers movie that made no sense?”

“Yoongi, for the millionth time, you can’t just choose to watch Civil War without watching any of the other--”

“That’s not the point,” Yoongi groans over Jin until he stops talking. “We were sitting there. Just chilling. And I said I liked this. And you said you, too. And then you held my hand, and I... leaned my head on your shoulder and shit.”

“That was…” Jin rubs his chin. “That was a confession?”

“I mean,” Yoongi shrugs, but he looks a bit annoyed.

“Oh.”

“I was pretty sure you were aromantic,” Yoongi continues, “or at least something of the sort. I mean, didn’t you google it?”

“I don’t google this stuff, I just deal with it,” Jin scoffs, but he feels his ears burning. He glances at Yoongi’s phone again. Aromanticism (or aromanticity) is an orientation in which someone does not experience romantic attraction. Aromanticism is often confused for asexuality, but asexuality is only a lack of sexual attraction. Not all asexuals are aromantic, nor are all aromantics asexual**. That.

He reads it aloud. “I think that’s me. Like, maybe both. But not all the time? But most of the time.”

“Okay, well, that’s cool,” Yoongi says. Simple. The simpleness of it all almost makes Jin urge to create something more. Not exactly drama. But now he’s finally talking about it, he wants to know a bit more. Especially now that he knows he and Yoongi have been on different pages about who they were to each other for almost a year. And he’s a bit overwhelmed with the fact that what Yoongi wants is to just stay how they are. It’s a bit too surreal to be reality.

Jin chews on his lip. “Do you like me?”

“I don’t like anyone,” Yoongi clarifies. He fumbles with his words a bit, frowning while he gets his thoughts together. He settles with, “But you’re okay.”

“No, I mean,” Jin takes a deep breath in. He laughs nervously. “Isn’t it scary? It feels like… I’m broken. Like I’m supposed to like you more than I do or in some, I don’t know, some other way I can’t fathom?” Jin chuckles nervously. He inhales the salty air mixed with the familiar smell of burning grease. “I didn’t expect to admit something is wrong with me and my dick at a dive restaurant.”

“Nothing is fuckin’ wrong with you,” Yoongi squeezes his hand. Jin glances away at the small compliment, which sounded more like a command. It makes him flustered. “First of all, I’m disappointed you are falling into the ploy of a nuclear family or some shit. The idea of some kind of ideal romantic relationship is commercialized and definitely benefits the economy. The entire dating culture. Don’t even get me started on gifts.”

“I already know how you feel about gifts,” Jin cuts in.

“Exactly, you know me, and I like to think I know you,” Yoongi says, his voice getting quiet at the end. Jin glances up to see something rare. Dusted pink chubby cheeks. He wants to pinch them, fidgeting in his seat.

“Jin, I like being with you, if that’s what you mean,” Yoongi sighs. “I like that we can just be us. I like doing things with you. I don’t want to put a label on it, just like I don’t want to put a label on myself. But the whole romantic thing? Not me. What we have? That fits me. I want to keep doing that. Do you want to keep doing that?”

Jin nods immediately. Yes, yes he does. He loves doing things with Yoongi. “But aren’t we supposed to do more? Get somewhere with it? I don’t know, profess our love?”

Yoongi drops back in his chair with a groan. “Jin, we aren’t supposed to anything. We can do what we want. Tell me what you want. You be you. I’ll be me. We always speak our minds, right? We just be ourselves. Talk to each other. Be, uh, together.”

Yoongi’s words start to drown into the sound of the restaurant, his palm sweaty in Jin’s. Jin smiles softly. He’s nervous. Cute. “Wow, I’m the worst. Here you are having to guide me through all this.”

“You are the worst,” Yoongi agrees. “I can deal with that, though.”

“Okay,” Jin says. He inhales and lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah, um. This is what I want. What I like. What we’re, you know, doing. Coffee and eating and living.”

Yoongi nods. “Alright. That wasn’t so bad. Now let’s eat and go stargazing or some other shit. The weather’s too nice to go home yet.”

Jin smiles softly. The food comes to the table and they both separate, picking up their chopsticks, and dig in. It’s easy. Comfortable. Content.

**This information came from this website [the website will be here in a bit. Tumblr is flagging posts with links so i’m waiting a bit before inserting it]

Characters only borrow name and likeness from the members. Do not copy, translate, repost, or reuse this work.

#yoonjin #yoongi x jin #jin x yoongi #bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #hyunglinenetwork #bangtanhq #houseofddaeng #bangtanxm #boymeetsmxm #yoongi fic #jin fic #seokjin fic #bts fic #bts fluff #thekimlinenet #adored #adored and nothing more #fwlbingo

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years

Text

Mark of the Wolf Part 13

Catch Up Here!

Pairing: Derek Hale x Reader (Lastname: Markolf)

Words: 3k

Warnings: Exposition dump!

A/N: This chapter and I are frenemies. On the one hand, I love delving into lore, on the other... I don’t like info dumbing, but... Yeah. Also, I didn’t get a chance to work on some things that I had originally intended but the good news is that the action picks up in chapter 14! I haven’t proofread so bear with me.

Leave a like or reblog if you enjoyed this chapter! It helps ☺

"Vampires?" Peter huffed with a humorous chortle in his throat.

Maggie pinched the bridge of her nose, annoyed that he had interrupted her mid-sentence, "Not in the conventional Vlad the Impaler sense… but yes, for lack of a better term, 'vampire' is as accurate an explanation as I can give."

Theo chuckled under his breath, his body shaking with amusement, "Vampires. Now I've heard it all."

"Almost everyone in this room is a werewolf and you're a chimera, but for some reason believing in a well-established mythological creature just as popular as the werewolf is where you draw the line?" Stiles gawked at both Peter and Theo.

"I'll believe it when I see it," Peter folded his arms.

"Perhaps if you'd let Maggie finish what she was telling us, we'd have an easier time swallowing this 'vampires exist' pill," Stiles posited with some annoyance in his voice.

"Thank you, Stiles," Maggie said gratefully before continuing: "Okay so from what I've gathered, we know that these hunters never appear in daylight and that any effort to kill them hasn’t been successful as far as we know. And according to Derek, when you two were in the dream state, they mentioned something called the Mother Tree and one of them had a tattoo of a five-fold-knot. We also know they are warded off by burning sage."

"Oh, I get where you're going with this," Jonah plopped down onto several cushions and crossed his legs. "Sage is their garlic… right?"

"What?" Esme frowned, lost in translation.

"Because vampires can't stand garlic. So if these hunters are some type of vampires, then sage is their garlic," Jonah said excitedly. "Oh, oh, oh, does that mean that we have to whittle stakes to kill them?"

“They do suck people’s essences out of their body, don’t forget that,” Peter added dryly.

Jonah’s eyes went large and his jaw dropped, “Woah! Maybe they are vampires.”

"That's all well and good, Speedy, but that's not what I was getting at," Maggie patted his back appreciatively. "I was going to say that the Mother Tree is probably a very old Nematon and sage is an ancient ingredient used by druids for centuries, usually to cleanse negative energy and such. Naturally, this led Deaton and I to the legend of the liaths. And they in turn led us to--"

"Now I’m confused," Derek jumped in. "What's a liath?"

Maggie pursed her lips as she thought of the simplest way to explain it to them.

It was Deaton who chimed in this time, "The same way druid emissaries are a force for good and darachs are a force of evil, liaths are those caught in between. They don't really serve any one side."

Esme pulled out a scroll from a stack of papers shoved in the bookcase after Maggie whispered something in her ear. Once it was unrolled, a large portrait of several faces stared back at you from the crumbling paper. You gasped when you saw what looked to be a perfect illustration of Alyster and Astrid and that kitsune -Kaze- from before.

“Are these the guys who attacked you in the church in Mexico?” Maggie’s dark nails scrapped over the paper slightly and the noise made a few of the werewolves in the room cringe.

"That's impossible," Peter chocked on his words as he took a closer step to see the scroll better. "They look exactly as they did in your memories..."

"They haven't aged a day," Liam said in amazement.

"I thought so," Maggie popped her knuckles, bangles sliding down her arm nosily, "That is one of the few remaining iterations of an ancient order known as the Venatores -which Stiles told me you had already figured out thanks to Lydia’s translations. Over the years they’ve been called different names: Order of Osiris, Order of Sagittarius, The Solstice Hunters… it goes on and on. They've been around for thousands of years."

"Why?" you finally spoke, but your voice was shakier than you would have liked. "What do they want?"

Derek's eyes fell on you when he heard the subtle quake in your words, he instinctively took a step closer to you but then stopped himself from moving any closer. That awkward tension was still strong between you two. You dreaded the fact that you'd have to talk about the kiss... eventually.

Markus rubbed your arms to comfort you, it helped but not by much.

Maggie opened her mouth to answer you but couldn't pull through. Having sensed Maggie's distress from trying to answer your question, Esme laced her fingers with hers in a silent act of assurance.

"What is it?" you asked frantically, eyes searching the pile of notes and sketches and open books for any clues. Markus held you fast so you didn't shake like a leaf in front of everyone.

Theo exhaled loudly, his fingers scratching at his eyebrow, "Isn't it obvious. They want what they've always wanted. You. Dead. The real question is why?" He turned his attention back to Maggie, ignoring your distraught expression.

A hush fell over the room and you could see Markus's eyes squint in Theo's direction when you turned to jelly in his arms from dread.

"He's not wrong," Peter mumbled and Derek jabbed his side with his elbow forcing a cough out of Peter’s mouth.

You took in a deep breath and sat down on a chair, head in your hands as you blinked back the image of Alex lying dead on the ground and Scott and Derek being cornered by the hunters. Your life was turning out to be one great big nightmare, and right now you were beginning to resent the fact you hadn't gone with Alyster. With that thought, a tingle returned to your lips and you were reminded of the kiss. It brought with it a bitter-sweetness that kept you grounded while your thoughts bounced all over the place. You felt like you were going insane.

As though to shift the focus and clear the stale air, Deaton pushed a large, musty-smelling book towards the group and flipped it 180 degrees. His finger tapped on an illustration of an intricate compass that looked to be hundreds of years old. "Is this the device that the man -Alyster- had around his neck?"

You studied the detailed drawing and then nodded weakly, "Yeah, that's it. What is it?"

"It's called the Oculus. It grants the wearer an ability to wield the Wadjet, it is more popularly known as the--"

"Eye of Horus," Markus interjected, brows knit in thought. A few people shot him surprised looks and he just shrugged them off with a nonchalant: "I have a masters in history."

"That's right," Deaton affirmed. "Horus is associated with protection from evil spirits and he is usually depicted as a falcon, hence the reason why this Alyster's eyes change when he activates the Oculus."

"So now we're fighting ancient Egyptians? I--" Liam plopped down next to Jonah and just stared blankly at the floor. "Can someone just run us by the SparkNotes version or...?"

Esme laughed and sat atop the table with one leg dangling over the air, "You gotta brush up on your storytelling skills, hon." she smiled at the very exhausted Maggie.

Deaton cleared his throat before throwing his hypothesis out for everyone to ponder, “I think this amulet gives him the ability to track and locate the Order’s targets. I also think it’s used as an anchor to a much more powerful source of magic.”

Maggie jumped in on Deaton’s bandwagon and started breaking down what everyone knew, "Okay, so from what Stiles found out, we know that these hunters have some sacred mission linked to all their killing. We now also know they're older than dirt so… that's a plus because there’ll be a trail left behind somewhere. What we didn't know before was, just as Theo put it, why they do what they do. Until now."

Maggie placed a book identical to the one Stiles had been trying to translate in the bunker days prior, “According to this text, the Order was established by a group of druids, liaths and darachs alike. A few hundred years ago a plague nearly wiped out all shapeshifters on earth -that's why our numbers are so low despite how long we've been around. Those that were immune stopped presenting the ability to shift. Those who contracted the plague were killed by the Order. It was called the First Coming of the End of Days. The sacred duty of the Order -or Venatores- was to try and prevent a second coming. The druids on this council feared that the plague would one day return, and so they created these hunters using the sacred power stored inside the oldest focal point of concentrated magic in their village. A Nematon. And since Nematon’s have a tendency to influence the formation of telluric currents, we believe that’s where the Oculus comes into play. We think after they absorb someone’s essence, the Oculus channels that energy into the earth and sends it somewhere else using telluric currents.”

Peter ran a hand through his face, his jaw muscles tensing, "Oh for the love of- So far, all you've told us is that these hunters are very old, very unkillable and very specific in choosing their victims. None of that helps us in any way. I want to know how to kill them, and if we can't, I'd like the quickest route to the airport please." He flashed a forced smile and everyone collectively sighed.

"Scott, how do you feel about all this, you've been quiet during this whole thing," Derek ignored Peter's outburst and placed his focus on Scott, who looked to be in his own little world.

Scott stretched and turned his head up to regard everyone's inquisitive gazes, "Honestly, my whole life has been one impossible thing succeeding another and another… So what if they're vampires or if they're supposedly the first warning sign of the end of days. A few days ago, Monroe was our biggest worry, now she's dead and her numbers are cut in half. That's one crisis averted. Things have a way of balancing themselves out. We just have to maintain cool heads until they do."

Stiles paced about the room before clapping his hands together at the prospect of a new idea dawning over him, “Uh, hey, Maggie, you got a map that displays telluric currents?”

Maggie moved about the room in a hurry, but it was Markus that came to the rescue, “Here,” he handed Stiles a map he had grabbed from a trunk. “Telluric currents were a passion project of mine. I’m a bit of a nerd for this stuff.”

Stiles slapped Markus’s large arms in thanks and winced before flicking his hand at the wrist several times, “Ow, what do they feed you?”

“Kibble,” Markus joked dryly. “Why the map?”

“I’m thinking if we spot any major changes between the data on this map and a more recent one, we can determine whether this Oculus theory is accurate and maybe plot out where the fluctuations lead to,” Stiles fumbled with the map until he gave up and handed it to Scott who unfolded it with ease.

"That just might work…” Markus looked over your shoulder, his attentions shifted onto the piece of paper in front of you. “What are you drawing?"

You furrowed your brows, confused by his question and then looked down to where his eyes were focused. On the page were several pened drawings of a bow and shank of a key without a bit. To your surprise, you had been scribbling the symbol from the car ride over and over.

"I… I didn't know I was doing it," you sat up from the chair and dropped the pen like it had burned you.

"I know this symbol. Professor Tennyson ran a class on semiotics. That's the Ankh. The Egyptian symbol of life," Markus finished the symbol by drawing a line that intersected between the bow and shank of the key.

"Okay, but that doesn't explain why I'm drawing random symbols without thinking it..." you looked to everyone in the room and saw Stiles raise his hand. ”Stiles?"

"Ah, yeah, so I was possessed once by an evil kitsune's spirit and that would sometimes cause me to do things I didn't remember doing," he shoved both his hands in his pockets and started rocking on the balls of his feet, lips pressed tightly together when he noticed Jonah's jaw practically fall to the ground.

Everyone in the room took a tentative step back or inched away from you. You rolled your eyes at their behaviour.

"I'm not possessed. I think I'd know if I was possessed," you bit back.

"I'm pretty sure that's not how that works," Liam chimed in, his words muffled by his curled hand placed on his chin and lips.

"Maybe its residual magic from when Alyster was inside your head," Esme said casually as she took a bite of an apple.

"Alyster was in your head?" Markus repeated in shock. "How? When? How? And why didn't you say anything?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I was under the impression that everyone heard my conversation with Esme and Maggie a few nights ago," you glared at Derek. "Seeing as how I live in a house full of werewolves with supernatural hearing."

Peter coughed again, but this time it was to hide his grin and laughter. Derek opened his mouth to say something but Deaton's busy hands rustling through papers and books garnered everyone's attentions away from the two of you.

"What are ya thinking?" Maggie asked him.

"I think Esme is right, and I think there's a pattern we aren't seeing," he answered.

"What pattern?" Scott moved closer to the table.

"Semiotics," Deaton smiled when he pulled up an encyclopaedia. "First, Alyster mentioned a Mother Tree. Then we find out that the hunters are the closest thing to immortal as we can get and now Y/N is unknowingly sketching the Ankh of all thing. Do you see it yet?”

“These are all three very different things,” Liam nodded.

“N-no… They are all linked by one semiotic message. Life,” Deaton said, his finger pointing into the air stiffly like he was giving a powerpoint presentation. “Every spell draws power from somewhere. All magic is just an exchange of energy.”

“So what if they’re killing people for fuel?” Derek posited, stepping closer to you and the table.

“Why don’t we just ask one of them?” Theo’s bored tone swept through the room.

Stiles squinted at him, “What? Just stroll up to them and ask one of them to come over for tea and crumpets?” he retorted sarcastically.

“No, I mean like set a trap, kidnap them and then try different methods of murder until one of them sticks,” he stated morbidly.

Jonah swallowed loudly and hid half his face behind a pillow, “That sounds mean.”

“It doesn’t count if they’re immortal,” Theo smirked.

Esme lobbed her apple at his face, some of its fleshy interior broke off and showered around Theo’s feet in juicy sprays. He wiped the residual bits off with his jackets sleeve and a sour face.

“Don’t fill his head with such things. You aren’t helping. Out!” Esme pointed to the door and Theo lifted his hands defensively as he strode out confidently.

“Can I leave too, or are we only handing out hall passes if we say insensitive things?” Peter pointed to Theo’s retreating form. “Because, let me tell you, I have so man—“

Esme lobbed another apple but Peter’s quick reflexes caught in just before it touched his nose. He crushed the apple in his hands and made quite the show of it, “I take it that was a no?”

“Stop being an ass, Peter. Otherwise, the next thing someone throws at you will be a stake,” Derek spoke over his shoulder without looking up from the map Stiles had laid down.

“A stake…” Peter glanced at Jonah and then back up at Derek’s back. “The kid was onto something!”

“W- Who me?” Jonah bounced on the couch, happy to be included in the discourse. “About what? Vampire stakes?”

Peter rose a brow and said, “Yes.”

No one moved an inch, the only sound in the room was the passing of wind and Stiles flipping map pages like he was ripping rice paper apart.

“Think about it,” Peter wiped his hands on Scott’s shirt and Scott simply sighed. “Maybe 'vampire' isn’t the most far off explanation after all. I mean… what if we need a very specific weapon to kill these hunters? Maggie said that they were created using magic from a Nematon. And Deaton thinks the Oculus is used to traverse through telluric currents -Hell, I bet that’s how they travel so quickly too!- Maybe we need a piece of the thing that made them, to kill them!”

Esme worked her back muscles before begrudgingly siding with Peter, “I hate to say this, but maybe the ass is right.”

“Well that’s just rude,” Peter complained. “But at least you can see the obvious genius in my explanation. And look at that, I didn’t even take a whole morning to explain things to everyone.”

Markus rubbed his eyebrows, “So we find this tree and…”

“I found it! I found the spot where the telluric lines converge!” Stiles cheered by himself, fist-pumping in the air. Jonah joined along too figuring it was the more appropriate thing to do in this situation. Then Stiles’s face fell and he swore under his breath as he looked over the map on his phone and the one of the table.

Derek sighed, his teeth clenching in disappointment, “It’s in Sweden.”

The room collectively groaned.

“Well we can scratch that off the list because there’s no way we’d be able to go all the way to Sweden and back before the hunters murder everyone,” Peter sat on the windowsill looking defeated. “Come to think of it, why haven’t they found us yet? It’s been days. Last time it took them mere hours to find us after we’d crossed the border into Mexico.”

Maggie was chewing a biscuit and had to dry swallow most of it to answer him, “We’ve been taking turns burning sage pales around the property's border. I’m surprised you haven’t smelt it.”

“I just thought that was the usual smell around here,” Peter mumbled snidely.

“Actually, I don’t think we have to go very far to get what we need,” Deaton stated. “Most Nematon’s come from the same root. In theory, all we have to do is head back to Beacon Hills to get what we need.”

“Then I guess we’re going back to Beacon Hills,” You stood from the chair, spine groaning from being stretched too suddenly. “If you want to test out your stake theory, you’re going to need bait.”

“It’ll be dangerous,” Derek protested in a dark voice.

“Then you’ll just have to protect me. Like you promised,” you spoke with confidence.

“Shotgun!” Peter said loudly with a mischievous wink sent Derek’s way.

It didn’t take long for a plan to be formed. Soon after everyone was familiar with their roles, they all broke off to start packing up.

You had started packing up some of the clothes you’d found in your old drawers. You didn’t know why you were doing this but it seemed to help, it kept your mind busy. Markus, Esme and Maggie had argued for you to stay home and let everyone else handle everything, but in the end, they were left with no option but to concede. Even though it was dangerous, you were right, the plan wouldn’t work if you stayed behind.

Maggie gave you a pendant with a hollow locket filled with sage essential oils so you could stay shielded from the Order during your drive back. There was a spot on your chest that always got a little oily if the necklace stayed still for too long. You made a habit of wringing the charm along the silver chain in between still moments.

There was a rap at your door and you started from your thoughts, “Come in.”

It was Derek.

“Got a minute?” he asked from behind the ajar door.

“All I’ve got are minutes.”

He hummed before walking in and closing the door behind him, affording himself some privacy, “I wanted to talk to you about--“

“The kiss,” you said simply.

“Yeah, listen, it was a spur of the moment thing. It was a heated argument and you were so stubborn that I felt like I couldn’t get a word in,” Derek tried to explain while his hands fidgeted.

“Right. It was the only thing you could think to do.”

“Yes!” His eyes lit up.

“Like in the dreamscape…”

“Yes!” then his eyes grew serious and his cheeks went hot. “Wait, that’s not what I was getting at…”

You laughed, stuffing more clothes into your bag, though at this point the only thing left were baby booties and torn towels, “Relax Derek. I’m not going to eat you. As long as you don't make things awkward, I won't make things awkward.” You joked.

He held you steady and stared you dead in the centre of your eyes, you shivered again, your lips going numb as they remembered what it felt like to have Derek's lips over them.

“Look, I came here to tell you… It was a mistake, for me to have kissed you… in that way. I promise I won’t do it again,” he released his grip from your arms and you felt an odd sense of disappointment at having heard those words.

Derek pulled the door handle and before he stepped out of your room, he whispered, “Not until you ask me to.”

Your knees caved in and you crashed onto your bed. You didn’t know what to say or think or feel. You were left feeling dazed again. It was turning into a force of habit now. But behind your fear and uncertainty, behind your broken heart that still mourned Alex, you felt a glimmer of warmth spread through you. It felt like molten sunshine. Bright and happy.

As the sensation spread, you fought the sudden urge to smile in spite of all the devastation you had faced –and were about to face.

Next Chapter>>

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#derek hale #teen wolf imagine #derek hale x reader #derek hale imagine #teen wolf #derek x you #derek x reader #E- Waste Drive in the background of the gif kills me #ehhh... I promise the next chapter is better

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jeff-better · 7 years

Text

Smoking With The Jocks

A/N: aloha ferns. this fic is based off of @allthe13reasonswhyheadcannons headcannon that is absolutely amazing. all of their headcannons are just amazing and you should give it a read including all of their others. i have permission to write this so don’t think i’m doing something illegal or something. idk. anyway, i hope you enjoy!

Note to @allthe13reasonswhyheadcannons: i added some small things in here to keep the story flowing and just for my personal preference. i still added in things from the headcannon but i added some othert things too. i hope that’s okay. thanks again for letting me write something based on your headcannon. i hope i did you justice with this writing. i loved writing this and as always, i poured my heart and soul into it. i hope i can partner with you in the future. also, i made her home life extreme just for some plot thickness. hope you enjoy, stay street. and don’t choke. xx p.s. you’re probably gonna think y/n is a little thotty but bc i am myself i kinda made her one. oops. and this took me soo long to write. and it’s like 3K words. so, sorry about that.

SUMMARY: finals suck ass but weed comes in clutch to calm you down.

WARNINGS: drug usage,

Song(s) used/mentioned: Location-Khalid, LOVE.-Kendrick Lamar (ft. ZACARI)

finals are just bitches. everyone can agree, even the smartest kids.

today was day 2 of finals and y/n was already done. she was ready to just give up on high school at this point.

after taking her math final, she was at lunch drinking her chocolate milkshake that her brother had brought by for her when a bee flew near her table.

alex said that the bee wasn’t flying remotely near y/n so she continued sipping her drink and minding her business. but, alex wasn’t right and the bee was right beside her. she screamed and dropped the drink when the bee landed on her hand, spilling it all on her.

she knew alex only meant the best and he didn’t do it on his own, so she forgave him completely. but she was so over school at this point that she burrowed alex’s car and drove herself home where she changed and took a shower.

y/n had begun to relax and get into a better mode when her mom randomly appeared out of thin air. y/n swore she was at work but apparently she was off for the day.

her mom started yelling at her about coming home early. she told her to make herself useful and wash her clothes for the week and when y/n started to do that, she yelled at her more. she talked about how she wasn’t washing them right, how she wasn’t using the right product.

then she talked about how y/n would be better off living at alex’s place or something where people would do things for her. she called y/n names like ‘slut, whore, thot’ and things that weren’t true. she said y/n slept with all her guy friends and that’s the only reason why she goes over to their houses a lot.

when her mom kept yelling at her, y/n got so done with everything. she packed a bag of clothes and grabbed her phone charger and computer. while her mom was taking a nap, y/n grabbed alex’s car keys and drove over to his house.

school wasn’t out for the day yet but she was sure alex wouldn’t mind letting her stay over for a short amount of time. peter was home and he let her in, telling her to get comfortable and take a nap if she needed.

so, y/n did. she went into alex’s room and silently cried herself to sleep. she cried about everything. she cried out of frustration, she cried because of her mother, she cried because she thought she was a whore, and she cried because life sucked.

y/n woke up and she still felt like complete shit. she felt arms around her waist and a head burrowed into the crook of her neck, light breathing hitting her skin.

slowly, she turned around in the persons arms and was met with a sleeping alex standall. his face looked so relaxed, his lips a bright pink and his skin pale. his room was mostly dark except from the colored lam in the corner that lit the room into a neon orange.

y/n carefully analyzed alex’s face, her eyes continuously grazing over his lips. she wanted nothing more than to place her lips onto his.

y/n and alex are the best of friends. they do everything together. but, for a month now they’ve been a little flirty with each other. cuddling whenever they can, giggling with each other, kissing each others cheeks, hanging with each other the most whenever they’re with their friends, anything like that.

it all started after a drunk game of suck and blow. y/n was going to get the card from alex whenever he dropped it and instead kissed her. and that night was the beginning of the ��flirting game’.

y/n yawned quietly and laid her head onto alex’s chest. listening to his heartbeat for a second before getting interrupted by the ringing of his phone. alex groans loudly and unwraps his arms from around her waist, leaning back and grabbing his phone from his bedside table.

“hello?” y/n listens to the small conversation between the person on the phone and alex for a few before standing to her feet and stretching, making her way into alex’s kitchen. alex soon follows after her, his hair ruffled in all sorts of ways and his phone tucked in his jeans pocket.

“who was it?” y/n hopped onto the counter and started swinging her legs like a kid. alex made his way over to her and gripped her legs, spreading them wide enough for him to stand between them.

“justin. he wanted to know if you wanted for us to meet him at the ‘place’.” the ‘place’ was the guest house of y/n’s dad who happened to become filthy rich after spiting with y/n’s mom.

after everyone had found out what bryce had done, they stopped meeting at his place and went a few places before settling at the ‘place’. y/n’s dad was rarely home but when he was he was always cool with letting them go there.

“i’m down. i need to let some steam off.” y/n sighed while alex furrowed his eyebrows.

“are you saying you wanna smoke with us?” y/n had never smoke in her life. the closest she’s ever been to smoking is when she would inhale the smoke from the guys’ blunts.

whenever the guys would get high and y/n was around she would just watch instead of joining in. it’s not that she was scared or that the guys wouldn’t let her, it was more of the fact that y/n had no interest in smoking. she didn’t see what was the hype about it.

when the guys explained it to her, she still didn’t understand it. “basically, the weed helps relax you. kinda like meditation or some shit like that. all you gotta do is take a few hits and then you’re in heaven, just like that.” zach explained one night.

“yeah. i’ve had a stressful day and according to you guys, the weed helps relax you.” y/n shrugged like it was nothing, because that’s what it was to her. nothing but a way to relax.

“you sure y/n. sometimes weed will fuck you up.” alex smirked slightly and y/n did the same as they thought about times where that statement was shown.

“i’m sure alex. now, take me to the weed.” alex chuckled and shook his head in amusement. quickly, he pecked y/n on the lips and smiled once he pulled away.

“i had to do that first.” y/n blushed slightly and lightly pushed alex back so she could hop off of the counter.

“i’ll meet you in the car.”

“you wanna smoke? really y/n?” justin stared at y/n in disbelief, a blunt in his left hand and a lighter in his right.

“yes. why is that so hard to believe?” she crossed her arms and leaned back in the beanbag, crossing her legs and bouncing the one on top in anticipation.

“because. y/f/n y/l/n is a innocent girl who rarely does anything bad and for her to want to smoke is like donald trump fully apologizing for something. it basically never happens.” zach commented and y/n rolled her eyes.

“if you see what has happened between alex and i, you would know that i am not that innocent.” oh yeah, i forgot to mention the fact that y/n lost her V-card to alex and some sexual things has happened between them more than once.

“woah, okay. that’s enough. i don’t want that image in my head.” monty looked up from his phone at y/n and then to alex. he raised his eyebrow at the two before shaking his head with a small smirk on his lips. zach just chuckled at y/n who’s cheeks went a dark red.

“come on justin. i just wanna try something new.” y/n began begging. she pouted and put on her best puppy dog face before saying, “please justy?”

“oh man, she’s giving you the signature y/n puppy dog eyes. how’re you gonna resist this one?” alex teased from beside monty to which justin responded with his middle finger pointed in his direction. “Jesus. he’s watching you.”

“hush, standall.” justin turned back to y/n who hasn’t changed her face one bit. “fine. but i’ll watch you and make sure you don’t go overboard.” y/n clapped her hands in excitement and stood to her feet, walking to justin and jumping into his lap. she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly, squealing ‘thank you’ over and over again.

“alex, get your girl off of me.” justin strained out.

“i can’t control her man. you’re on your own this time.” alex smirked and shrugged his shoulders when justin glared at him. “you just gotta let time past and hope she’ll get off.” y/n couldn’t help but giggle slightly.

justin shrugged and brought his arms around y/n body. being careful not to burn her, he lit the blunt and brought it to his lips. once he passes it to alex, y/n pulls back from hugging him and resorts to staying propped up on his lap. while y/n waited for the blunt to be passed to her, she connected her phone to the house surround system and played ‘Location’ by Khalid which was the starting song to her ‘smoke w/ me’’ playlist.

yes, she made a fucking playlist.

y/n’s leg was bouncing with anticipation as the blunt finally made it’s way back to y/n. she took it from monty and held it in between her pointer finger and thumb like she had seen the guys do before.

“d’you know what to do?” justin questioned. y/n nodded and brought it up to her lips, inhaling and then blowing the smoke out smoothly. it wasn’t until she was handing it to justin when she started coughing. jamie (a/n: the black jock) started chuckling which earned him a middle finger from y/n. "you'll get used to it later" justin commented before taking a hit.

justin was completely right. after about 5 more hits, y/n stopped coughing and was used to the smoke polluting her lungs. she loved the feeling it was giving her. so much that she even took a few extra hits than the guys took.

everyone had pretty much forgotten the fact that is was y/n’s first time smoking. they couldn’t care less as they jammed out to her music. they pretty much weren’t aware of anything until about a hour later when they were all gone and legit everything was funny.

y/n was laid face down, outside by the pool. she was dangerously close to the edge, to the point where if she moved a finger it would be dipped in the heated water.

some guys were surrounding her and she was so gone she didn’t even remember their names. justin and zach were in the game room playing a game of pool, alex was laid on the couch on his phone while monty was finding food.

“monty!” y/n yelled, lifting her head to the side so her voice was better heard. when he didn’t respond, she yelled his name again. and when he didn’t respond that time, she groaned and stood to her feet. y/n made her way into the house and into the kitchen where she yelled ‘monty’ once again. this time, the brown haired boy jumped and turned around, dropping the pack of cheese in hand.

“shit. don’t scare me like that.” he held a hand over his heart as he sighed and picked up the pack of sharp cheddar cheese on the ground. y/n rolled her eyes and chuckled.

“stop eating plain cheese and make me a grilled cheese sandwich please.” monty rolled his eyes as the girl sweetly smiled and batted her eyes. he nodded and watched y/n skip away to the pantry.

he listened to the shuffle of y/n grabbing random things as he cooked the desired food for her. as she came back out with random things in hand, he handed her a plate which held the sandwich.

“here you g-is that a pack of chips?” his full attention was now focused on the blue bag of doritos sat in between the pile of food that y/n held in her arms. “yewhs.” y/n spoke through a mouthful of granola bars. as monty reached for it with his free hand, she turned her body away from him and pouted.

“mine.” she narrowed her reddened eyes at the brunette boy. “pwease?” monty tried using puppy dog eyes. when it didn’t work, he sighed and sat the plate down.

as monty rolled his neck out and cracked his knuckles, y/n watched and munched away her munchies until finally, he crashed her down onto the ground. the two wrestled over the bag for a few seconds before zach heard their grunts and wondered his way into the kitchen.

“are you two having dry sex?” he groaned out and furrowed his eyebrows.

“what?!” alex’s yell was heard from the other room over the music. y/n giggled and sat up straddling montys waist. she looked down at the smirking boy and brought her finger up to her lip and winked.

“oh my fuck, monty,” she moaned out jokingly. “right there. don’t stop.” (A/n: i need jesus and some monty smut asap. it’s sunday. i could be praising the lord but what am i doing? writing freaking fanfic.)

“oh my fucking god.” zach pretended to be disgusted. maybe not pretended. he walked out of the kitchen and mumbled something while shaking his head.

“oh god, y/n.” monty played along and let out some groans along with y/n. the two were holding back their giggles pretty well.

“montgomery de la cruz. i swear to fucking god. if you even touch her i wil-oh fuck you!” alex walked into the kitchen and when he saw the two were doing nothing but giggling to themselves.

“calm down standall. i wouldn’t fuck your girl.” y/n got off of montys lap and threw him the bag of chips.

“she’s not ‘my girl’.” alex put quotations around ‘my girl’ as he slid onto the granite counter top with ease.

“you sure act like she is,” y/n helped pull monty up and walked back over to her food, biting into the grilled cheese the said boy had made for her. “just make it official already love birds.” he made his way out of the kitchen leaving y/n and alex sitting there blushing.

“you didn’t really think we were fucking, right?” she smirked as alex blushed more and looked down, smiling wide.

“would i sound like a idiot if i said yes?” y/n couldn’t help but to stare at the dimples implanted in his pale skin. she wanted nothing more than to walk over and kiss them, so she did just that.

“you already sound like one, babe.” she replied before pecking alex’s left dimple and strutting out of that kitchen with the food in hand.

y/n spent some time dancing around justin and zach who were playing a game of pool. they danced some with her, they had to hit the balls around y/n’s body when she laid on the red table. something she called the ‘y/n round’.

it was only for those who play frequently and who are advanced. but, out of all the things she did, she didn’t share one drop of her food after giving monty that bag of chips. her munchies were crazy and she and monty basically ate everything in the pantry without hesitation. along with her dancing and hunger, she giggled at every single thing.

zachs voice was funny to her because it didn’t sound ‘asian like she would’ve expected it to’. alex’s bleached hair was hilarious because it just is, and justin’s stripped shirt was pretty much the highlight of her night.

no one thought anything of it. it was normal ‘high-time’ behavior. but when y/n was laid on the floor on her back, looking up at the ceiling that was spinning and giggling to herself, they began to get a little confused.

“what’s so funny?” zach took his eyes off of the TV screen where him and alex were playing a game to look at the girl on the floor.

“i can’t move my legs.” more giggling came from her pink lips. at first, justin was giggling with her until he realized she wasn’t kidding.

“wait. you said you CAN’T move your legs? like, not at all?” y/n shook her head.

“i don’t even think i have legs.” alex sighed and paused the game, sitting the remote down as zach did the same.

“what’s the big deal? sometimes you just get so stoned you can’t move.” jamie shrugged from his spot on the ground where he was sipping on some pickle juice.

“the ‘big deal’ is the fact that not only is this y/n’s first time getting high, her body is extremely light and the weed probably didn’t sit great with her. if she can’t walk, how’s she gonna get home? her parents are gonna question us which is gonna lead us to getting in trouble with our parents which could get us arrested for drug possession.” justin ranted shortly before inhaling a deep breath.

“actually, weed is legal in California.” justin snapped his head to the dark skinned boy who raised his hands up in defense.

“i swear to god jamie. i will snap your head in two if you make another comment.” he put his head down which everyone was pretty thankful for. justin doesn’t play when it comes to y/n and if jamie made another comment he would be dead.

“maybe we should call jeff.” monty suggested which ended him up with a chorus of ‘NO’s from the guys.

“we could just make up an excuse. here, you call them alex. they love you.” zach threw his phone to the bleached blond who sighed and clicked the home screen, his thumb print being recognized and allowing him access to the phone. he dialed the number and shushed all his friends. this is how the conversation went:

Alex: hello? Mrs. y/l/n? this is alex standall, your daughters friend.

Y/n’s Mom: oh, alex! hey! have you seen y/n lately? she left the house today and hasn’t returned any of my calls.

that was because y/n’s phone was being occupied by justin taking selfies on it all night and she was pretty sure she had some nudes on there.

Alex: oh, she’s actually here with my now.

Y/n’s Mom: could i speak to her please?

on instant, alex replied with a ‘yes’ because that’s what he would usually do.

“dude!” justin whisper yelled to the brunette after putting the phone on mute.

“sorry!” alex whisper yelled back. “i’ll just make up an excuse.” he held up his pointed finger and sighed, hitting the mute button.

Alex: uh. actually, y/n isn’t feeling too good. she can’t speak right now.

Y/n’s Mom: oh okay. i could come pick her up if you need.

Alex: no! no. that’s fine.

Y/n’s Mom: do you know what’s wrong with her?

Alex: yeah. she’s uh. she’s on her period.

Y/n’s Mom: i could come bring her medicine or tampons or something.

Alex: it’s fine. i have some for when she uh–when she comes over and ya kno. she just starts bleeding.

Y/n’s Mom: okay, thanks alex. is uh–is anyone else there with you guys? i know that zach’s there considering you called from his phone. but is anyone else there

Alex: like who? exactly?

Y/n’s Mom: like that justin kid. i get a bad vibe from him. he’s not hanging around my daughter when she’s moody, right? like, zach’s a good kid and all but that foley child i ju-

Justin: hi Mrs. y/l/n. it’s justin foley.

Y/n’s Mom: oh. hi.

Alex: anyway. we’ve got to go cater to y/n’s cramps. bye!

and then he hung up.

they all started laughing at the fact that y/n’s mom didn’t like justin but she liked zach.

“hey guys?” y/n mumbled from the floor where she was dosing off into a deep sleep.

“yes?” justin turned his attention back to the girl with the ‘cramps’.

“you know i can actually move my legs right?”

“what. no we didn’t know that.” justin stood up.

”can you stand?” he questioned which y/n responded with a head shake.

“just because i can use my legs doesn’t mean i want to.” justin rolled his eyes and beckoned zach over to help him lift you up. they carried y/n over to the couch where alex was laid and she cuddled into his side.

the two quietly listened to the sound of the guys laughing and playing games as y/n started to go off into a nap.

“hey, y/n. are you awake?” alex looked down at the sleeping girl who softly nodded her head. “i’ve been thinking about us making this official. and i was wondering if you wanted to–you know. be my girlfriend.” alex felt her smile against his clothed chest.

“sure. now can i be your sleeping girlfriend?” alex chuckled and lifted her head up with his pointer finger. “of course. want me to take you upstairs?” y/n nodded and let her eyes flutter close as alex pecked her lips repeatedly which ended up with them softly sharing a kiss.

“hey, love birds. did you finally make things official?” justin questioned as alex carried y/n upstairs. when they didn’t respond, he took that as a yes. “they did!” he yelled out which was followed by some cheers and chants.

#alex standall #justin foley #zach dempsey #13 reasons why #monty de la cruz #montgomery de la cruz #13 rw

36 notes · View notes

lukeysgirl · 7 years

Text

Relentless | Calum Hood Series Pt.2

Part T W O

Request: Being the cousin of Ashton Irwin was exciting, especially when invited to their tour to hang out with his best friends. You found yourself becoming fond of Calum Hood, who finds you annoying from your constant appearance. But what would happen if you stopped giving him that attention?

Word Count: 3k+

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this part as well! let me know what you all think and lets try to get each part to 100 notes, yeah? if they reach 100 notes, I’ll write another part. if they don’t, it’ll just be delayed. xx

Parts: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. [DONE]

I M A G I N E

LONDON, 20:00 P.M.

Night had finally arrived, and you were quickly settled in. The boys had shown you to your room, which they boasted it to be the largest room of the suite. You removed your day clothes and slipped on some black leggings and a baggy, white t-shirt. You were residing on one of the large couches with Michael while Luke and Ashton were playing ping pong nearby.

“Man, I never thought I’d see the day where I’d say this but,” Michael began, holding his clutched fist at his mouth as he looked distantly at the flat screen. The TV was on and playing a Domino’s pizza commercial. “I don’t want pizza for dinner tonight.”

“What?” Luke said, straitening his back and looking over at the bleached-haired boy. The ping pong Ashton shot passed Luke and fell to the ground, bouncing a few times until it finally decided to roll itself into oblivion.

“Michael Gordon Clifford does not want pizza?” Ashton exclaims, putting his paddle down as he joined us on another couch. “Jesus, I think I just heard the Statue of Liberty crack a bit.”

“Shut up,” Michael yawned, waving Ashton off as Luke sat on the seat across from Ashton. Everyone then heard a loud grumble that came from Michael’s stomach, having you all laugh except for Michael. “Stooop, I’m actually really hungry right now.”

“I can cook if you want?” You suggested in a mumble, having all 3 pairs of eyes instantly dart at you. Michael quickly wrapped his arm around your shoulder and pulled you closer to him. You felt your head residing at the crook of his neck as he pressed his lips on your head.

“You know how to cook?” Michael whispered, the other boys watching attentively with wide eyes. You nod, having the boys jump from their seats and dash into the kitchen. You fell slightly to the side from the lack of Michael, sitting back up once more and turning to see the boys in the kitchen.

There, Ashton was taking out pots and pans from the top cabinets that you, unfortunately, couldn’t reach with ease. While he did that, Luke grabbed the suite phone and began requesting a list of food. Your eyes shifted to Michael, who disappeared into the hallway where the rooms and stairs resided. A few moments later, the bleached head came back with white garments.

“Uh, Mikey?” You asked, pondering as to what was in his hand. But he quickly rushed in front of you and dropped them on your lap. Sifting through them, you uncovered a chef shirt and a chef hat. “You have got to be kidding me...”

“I am as serious as one can get about food, Y/N,” Michael hummed, insistent on the outfit as you sighed. Standing up on your two feet, you reluctantly put on the outfit. Michael took the chef hat from your hands and firmly placed it on your head. The sudden closeness was surreal, but nonetheless insignificant as it was just Michael. “You look like the perfect sous-chef, Y/N!”

“I’m the one cooking though,” you comment, rolling your eyes as Michael placed his index finger on his chin. Luke and Ashton chuckled at his supposed ‘trace of thought.’

“Yeah,” Luke agreed as he hung up the phone and shoved his hands in his pockets. He was fishing for something as he shook his head. “Ya dumbass.” Michael shoots him two middle fingers before he on the couch you were previously sat on and laid down.

“Okay so... what do you guys want?” You asked, wiping your hands on your thighs before joining Lashton in the kitchen. Ashton and Michael became stuck in thought as Luke leaned against the wall by the front door.

“I’m in the mood for hamburgers, honestly,” Ashton admits sheepishly, shrugging a bit as you all turned to Michael.

“D’you know how to make sushi, Y/N?” Michael asked eagerly, his mouth practically watering over the Japanese cuisine. Before you could say anything, Luke interjected.

“I sorta already ordered stuff for some pasta though...” Luke says awkwardly. You all turned to him and laughed a bit, seeing how pale Luke became as though he made a mistake. You reassure Luke by patting his arm.

“It’s fine, I can make some pasta,” you hummed, arranging the pots conveniently for your prep. “You got bread as well, yes?” Luke nods, having you smile as you begin to fill a pot with water. “Mm, then leave it all to me! You guys can go watch TV or something.”

“Oi, Michael!” Ashton called out as he moved around the counter and left to the living room. “Let me spank you in a game of pool, yeah?”

“Oh, you’re definitely on!” Michael accepted the challenge, bouncing up from the couch and dashing over to the pool table that was next to the ping pong table. As they did, you began washing your hands. Luke walked over to you and bent down a little so his lips were just a few inches from your ear.

“Calum’s favorite is Italian,” Luke informed you, smiling deviously as your heart began to race. “I ordered all the ingredients on purpose so you could try and win him over. Maybe he’ll be less of an ass once he tries your spaghetti?”

“Th-thank you so much, Luke,” you mumbled softly, turning to Luke and giving him a big smile. He smiles back before joining Mashton in their game of pool. You were happy to cook for the boys, and with Luke’s insight, you were especially ecstatic to make some for Calum.

It made you blush to even think about the Maori boy. Especially when he already requested for you to stay out of his way right when he met you. It was really embarrassing, but you were blown away by how he’s grown. Facial hair, big biceps, tattoos... Calum has changed big time and you weren’t sure if you were ready for it.

But you’re certainly willing to know what he’s like now.

Knock knock! The door of the suite sounded, with a man yelling “your order is here!” Luke rushed over to the door, grabbing all the bags from the 50 something year old man and placing them on the counter before you. You began to unpack the bags as Luke paid them. You watched from your peripheral vision the few hundred dollar bills Luke offered.

“Jesus, you guys make lots now, huh?” You pondered, impressed by how much money those boys were making from their passion. Luke nodded, blushing a bit before telling you how he doesn’t like boasting about his money. “Mm, I understand. I’ll be cooking now!” You exclaimed as you began taking out the fresh tomatoes and basil from the bag.

“Finally!” You chirped quietly, turning off the stove all the way. Grabbing your baking gloves, you carry the pot of spaghetti and place it carefully on the counter. Steam danced from the pot, with the lovely scent of fresh herbs and garlic produced from it. Wiping your forehead, you remove the gloves and go search for plates.

“You need help, Y/N?” Ashton called out, having you yell a weak ‘yes’ as your cousin came to your rescue. He joins your side, opening the top cabinets to reveal the glass plates stacked nicely in it. “Mm, for the 5 of us.” As he took them down, you turned off the oven and got your gloves back on. You removed the garlic bread from the oven and place it cautiously on the counter by the pot.

“Holy shit, that smells amazing,” Michael exclaims, rushing into the kitchen while Luke slowly trotted behind him. Eyeing the entire thing with his green eyes, he began licking his lips with desire. “Holy fuck, I want to eat it so bad.”

“Can someone get Calum down here please?” You asked quietly, blushing as Michael began for the hallway. But Luke quickly placed his hand on Michael’s chest, halting him for a moment.

“Wait for it,” Luke says, fanning the pot with his hand to allow the steam to travel around the suite. In just a few minutes, you all heard footsteps go down the stairs. Your heart stopped when you saw Calum stood at the hallway, staring at all of you with an expressionless face.

“Is that pasta I smell?” Calum asked gently, having you all nod as he walked closer. He was changed into more comfortable clothing as he was wearing some grey sweats and a navy blue t-shirt. He then stopped, eyed you up and down and snorted a bit. “You look like an idiot.”

“Woah hey!” Ashton began, getting in front of you as he scowled at Calum. “Don’t say that to Y/N, alright? She’s not only my cousin, but she’s also our honorary guest so don’t be a dick to her.” You slowly began to remove the chef hat from your head.

“Yeah!” Michael joined in. “Especially when she was the one who--” before he could say anything, Luke shoved him gently and crinkled his nose.

“How about we just eat already, yeah?” Luke suggested. You nod, flushing as you nervously began to prepare everybody’s plate. It went in the order of Ashton, Michael, Luke, and then Calum. After the first 3 got their plates full of spaghetti and garlic bread, you nervously began to load Calum’s plate. It was evident that you were shaking because you didn’t want to mess anything up.

“Can you hurry up?” Calum rushed, having your heart speed up as you placed 2 pieces of bread next to his spaghetti. You placed a spoon in the spaghetti, having Calum blink twice. He always ate his spaghetti with a spoon, not a fork. It was the little things that you recalled that made you realize how genuine your crush over Calum was as you guys were kids.

“H-here,” you stuttered, offering the plate as Calum snatched it from you. You flinched, watching as Calum turned around and began walking to the hallway. As he did, you looked over at the cups that Luke helped get down as well and gulped. “Wait, Calum, don’t you want a drink as--” but before you knew it, you heard a door slam.

The boys looked over at you with sorrow, knowing how hard you try to not upset Calum. It has only been 7 hours and it would seem that Calum despises you. You looked down to the ground distantly, unsure as to how to react. Before you knew it, Michael ended up in the kitchen with you and began serving your plate.

“Oh, Michael, you don’t have to--”

“Mm, I want to,” Michael mumbled, putting pasta on your plate delicately before putting two pieces of bread beside it. He then grabbed a fork and placed it in the pasta before handing it to you. “Come eat with us.” Nodding, you joined the other boys in the living room as they were watching a bit of Looney Toons.

“Don’t feel so beat up about it, okay Y/N?” Ashton said softly as he slurped a noodle into his mouth. “I don’t really get why he’s so crabby with you, but it’s probably just him feeling nostalgic or something.”

“It’s been years since he’s seen you,” Luke adds as he takes a loud bite of his bread. You nod, appreciating the boys in giving you sympathy. You began to eat, smiling that your food was actually quite tasty.

“Forget him, Y/N. This pasta is literally to fucking die for!” Michael exclaims, his voice muffled from his mouth from of pasta. You giggled as the other boys nodded in agreement.

“It really is fantastic, Y/N,” Ashton says, smiling at you as he began twisting some spaghetti in his fork. They then exchanged looks, making you confused and slightly nervous. Were they exchanging some sort of Morse code or what? Before you knew it, they all looked at you and smiled.

“Thank you, Y/N!” They said at the same time, having you blush from how sweet they were being with you.

“It’s honestly no problem you guys,” you admit as you all continued to eat the dinner. When you all finished, you decided that it was the perfect time to make you and the boys some lemonade. You squeezed all the lemons, added a fair lot of sugar, and stirred slowly. Finishing it, you pour it into the glass cups and tell the boys to come and get theirs. You then grabbed one of the remaining two and began for the hallway.

“You going to bed, Y/N?” Michael asked, his voice holding a hint of sadness. You shook your head, holding the cup gently.

“I’m giving some to Calum,” you inform, escaping into the hallway to go up the stairs to Calum’s room. Your feet treaded on the red carpet as you stood in front of Calum’s door. Letting out a shaky sigh, you knock on the door and wait for a response.

“What?” Calum called out, having you flinch from his sudden voice. You gulped, sighing once more before responding to him.

“I made some lemonade, if you’d like,” you said sheepishly. “I’ll leave it on this table here if you want it.” Gently placing the cup down, you fled from Calum’s door and joined the boys again in the living room.

“Did he take it?” Luke whispered, having you shrug before joining Michael on the long couch again. You noticed all the dirty, but clean, plates ornate on the coffee table as everyone was too lazy to bring them back to the kitchen.

“I left it on the table outside,” you inform, criss-crossing your legs as you slouched a bit. “I wonder why he’s so unhappy that I’m here.”

“Nah, I doubt he’s unhappy,” Ashton says as he picks at his teeth. “Like I said, it’s probably nostalgia plus all the pressure for getting this next album released.”

“Yeah, Calum writes most of the songs, remember?” Michael asks, nudging you softly as you nod. You recalled how Calum and his song book were practically inseparable. It was always in his bag, surely, but he always had it everywhere he went. He always claimed that he’d ‘never know where you’d get inspiration from.’

“He was always very passionate about his music like you guys are,” you say, thinking fondly about skinny, lanky Calum and his active dream to pursue music.

“He was, though, salty about having to convert from guitar to bass because Luke and I already played guitar,” Michael says, laughing loudly as Ashton and Luke joined him. “Holy shit, it was like he changed from one religion to another like they were polar opposites. It was fucking hilarious.”

“Though,” Luke began as he began playing with his nail. “Now Calum is better than us, still, at guitar and bass. So I mean, who really wins here?”

“That’s so true, oh my gosh!” You laughed, having the boys join you before a long yawn escaped your lips. “Alright, I’m gonna go hit the hay and get some sleep.”

“What if the hay hits you back?” Ashton asks, acting as though it was a completely philosophical question.

“I’m already one with the hay,” you comment as you began for your room.

“But you get to hit it!” Michael yells.

“It deserved to be punished,” you joke, having Michael crack up as you escaped into your bedroom. You took the time to wash your face, moisturize and do a bit of stretching before dropping dead on your King sized bed. Slowly, but surely, you entered into a deep and gentle slumber.

8:27 A.M.

“Ashton, can you attend to the eggs for me real quick?” You asked your cousin. Getting a nod, you hand him the stirring spoon before going into the living room to fix it up. You straighten the pillows and flattened the waves of the leather created by you and the boys last night. Grabbing all the dirty dishes that the boys obviously didn’t take to the sink, you place it in the sink and allow the water to run on it.

“Is that bacon I smell?” Michael asks, his voice raspy and his eyes squinted as he stood at the doorway of the hallway. You giggled, ruffling a bit of his hair before going to Luke’s room to get him awake.

“Good morning, Michael!” You called out from the stairs as you went up to Luke’s room to get him up as well.

“Good morning, Luke! Breakfast is almost ready!” You called to him, hearing a loud thump! proceed. Before you knew it, the door was opened and you were introduced to a tired and messy-haired Luke. “Jesus, your hair is definitely not done naturally, is it?”

“My hair has its own separate net worth,” Luke croaks, having you giggle before getting a whiff of his bad breath.

“Yuck, go brush your teeth and then some downstairs,” you demanded, watching Luke pout a bit as he slouched. You gently reached up to give his cheeks a few light slaps to get him away. “Just go so you can eat and then get ready for your busy day.

“Where are you off to?” Luke asked innocently.

“Waking up Calum, of course,” you said, humming a bit as you jogged up the stairs. You swore you saw a smirk on Luke’s face as you made it to the third floor. Going to Calum’s door, you stopped to look at the table outside of his door. Your heart even began to flutter a bit at the sight.

Calum’s completely clean plate with the now empty glass that previously held lemonade.

He... enjoyed my food. You silently cheer yourself on before swooping the dishes into your hands. They smelled of bathroom soap, having you giggle from Calum’s use of his items. You used your more free hand and knocked on the door gently.

“Morning, Calum,” you called softly. “There’s breakfast downstairs if you’d like. No rush, okay?” Finishing your words, you giddily rush down the stairs and present the clean dishes in your arms to all the boys. They all smiled at you, knowing how content you were as you took over kitchen duty and began serving the plates.

But all you can think about is Calum’s lip print on the cup of lemonade you served him.

please do tell me if you liked this part or not please! > ASK. Thank you so much, ah <3

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fayes-fics · 11 months

Text

Second Son

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

Warnings: none really... mild angst, family dynamics, love at first sight.

Word Count: 2.9k

Authors Note: Request fill for anon here, about Benedict being the second choice for everything.... until his love turns up. Thanks for this request; I hope this is angsty enough for you anon. Im not sure about it tbh. Sorry that it's taken more than three months to get to it on my WIP list. Unbetaed. Enjoy <3

Benedict Bridgerton was born into privilege and can have few complaints. Except perhaps that he is always second. The spare. The just-in-case option. Being a familial insurance policy lends one more freedom than the burden of being the titled first son, perhaps, but it also feels like your whole existence, in some respects, can seem like a contingency plan.

____

His stomach swoops with excitement as the arrow pierces the target dead on the bullseye. And on his first ever archery lesson, just after his twelfth birthday.

He turns around to see if anyone is there to witness his triumph, but it goes unmarked. All his young siblings gathered around Anthony, patting him on the back for his achievements in doing the same moments before. Being a good shot is an essential skill for the next Viscount indeed. The fact that he has been receiving instruction for months already and this is Benedict’s first lesson hurts a little.

But he doesn't bother to bring attention to his arguably more impressive feat. It seems pointless now. Wordlessly he shrugs and walks towards the target, plucking out his arrow and starting again. Perhaps next time, they will notice.

____

“Is that the new Viscount Bridgerton?” Benedict hears a young girl murmur as he sweeps into the first societal event of the season, the spring following his father's death.

“Oh no, my dear, sadly not; I believe that is one of the brothers,” her mother replies, acting as if he has no sense of hearing, even trying to ignore it as he is, surveying the crowd.

“Such a shame,” the young girl huffs, “he is so very handsome.”

“Yes, dear, but sadly not titled. We can do better,” her mother chides, moving them along out of earshot.

He will never get over how cutthroat the Ton can be, a part of his tender seventeen-year-old heart sinking. Not that he had a potential interest in that girl, more the principle that he will somehow be rendered as an also-ran, at best a consolation prize, for the rest of his life.

What is most galling, perhaps, is that, when his mother needs their presence the most on a night like tonight, the new VIscount is nowhere to be seen. Has not even bothered to show his face, running off to some spurious gambling den and brothel, spending the night indulging himself rather than facing society.

So here Benedict is, stepping up to play the dutiful son that his elder brother should be. Being the support their mother so desperately needs at her first event as a widow, her arm looped heavily through his, her whole bodyweight seeming to use him as her literal pillar of support. As he escorts her around the room, he is filled with admiration at her brave face. He can see the overwhelming sadness in her eyes every time the word dowager is invoked, and his heart cracks a little at the loneliness he can feel emanating from his mother’s very soul.

“Tis a shame the Viscount did not deign the first event of the season worthy of his patronage,” she states pointedly as she sips champagne.

“I am sure he has very good reasons for his absence,” Benedict replies soothingly, covering for his errant brother, attempting to shield their mother from the truth of his philandering ways. Benedict knows it is Anthony’s way of dealing with the responsibility of the title of Viscount being thrust upon him so young. But sometimes, just sometimes, Benedict wishes he could escape his grief in such a manner, Anthony taking his turn attending a stuffy ball and playing guardian to a grieving woman. Their burdens may be different, but the wish to escape them is often not, Benedict realises.

____

She catches his eye at a garden party at Aubrey Hall. She is a pretty young lady, maybe eighteen to his twenty-three, with bright eyes and a sweet, happy face. She makes his palms slightly sweaty. He watches her from a distance, uncertain how to approach or what to say, feeling a little tongue-tied, even.

Just then, Anthony materialises at his shoulder.

“Who is that pretty young thing?” Anthony asks, tracing Benedict’s line of sight.

“Miss Bradstreet,” he replies, watching as she turns to face the sun, closing her eyes, basking in its warmth. The light captures her cheekbones perfectly, and he itches to have his sketchbook and capture her likeness. He would very much like to get to know her better.

“Let's go provide a warm welcome,” Anthony smirks, clapping a hand on Benedict’s shoulder and practically dragging him across the lawn.

Benedict reluctantly follows, a flutter of excitement as her eyes land upon them as they approach.

“Miss Bradstreet,” Anthony swaggers. “Viscount Bridgerton at your service; I am so very pleased to be your host today,” he bows.

Benedict's stomach plunges as he watches her practically melt into the lawn right there, virtually swooning at Anthony’s feet.

“Oh, and this is my brother, Benedict,” Anthony adds, almost as an afterthought.

She flicks her head to the side briefly to politely acknowledge Benedict before returning to Anthony. All of her undivided adoring attention on him as he regales the story of his latest hunting triumphs upon her insistence. Benedict heaves a sigh and watches as yet another young lady he likes chooses his brother over him. He is almost used to it now, but it doesn't stop the sting every time.

____

Your world grinds to a halt as you see him. He is descending the stairs with what you assume is the rest of his family. He is very much in the middle of a tight circle, walking behind what appears to be his mother and perhaps older brother. Quite the most beautiful man you have ever seen, your heart pounding in your ears, your throat suddenly dry despite the lemonade in your hand. You assume they must be the hosts, seeing as they are the very last to enter the ballroom here at Bridgerton House, and there is no announcement of their name.

“Who is that?” you whisper, leaning towards your elder sister. She has been out among society for a year and knows the Ton better than you.

“That is the Bridgerton family, of course,” she replies. “Illustrious in the extreme. Our hosts for this evening. The Viscount there is the most eligible bachelor of every season… and every season, he has resisted a match. So I wouldn't bother if I were you,” she sniffs.

“Which is the Viscount?” you check, your eyes unable to leave the beautiful man with a cravat tied in the most unconventional fashion.

“The one with his arm looped with their mother, the dowager Viscountess, naturally,” your sister rolls her eyes as if patently obvious.

“And what of the others?” you inquire keenly, realising the man you admire cannot be the one your sister is referring to. “Do you know their names?”

“I do not,” she admits, “such things are not really important when one is looking for a titled husband,” she points out airily.

You nod, knowing the responsibility your sister must carry as firstborn to find a suitable match that can provide for your widowed mother and, indeed, perhaps yourself and your younger sister should neither of you be able to find a husband. You don’t envy her position one little bit.

You are, however, desperate to get closer to the most beautiful man you have ever seen. And so you spend your evening working towards them, in as polite of a fashion as you can, your stomach in knots of excitement to know him.

“Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton, it is an honour and a pleasure to meet you,” you curtsy, heart pounding as he now stands a few feet away, unable to look at him so close by.

“Hello, my dear and you are?” she asks politely.

“Miss y/n y/l/n, it is my very first season; I am so honoured to be here,” you explain. “I must provide the apologies of my mother, Mrs y/l/n, who could not attend tonight due to a cold, but she is so very thankful for the invitation.”

“Oh, of course,” the viscountess smiles. “I am so sorry to hear of her illness; please pass on my best regards… Anthony!” she turns to her side to grab the attention of a man. The viscount’s head whips around from where he is in discussion with another. “Come meet Miss y/l/n,” she needles pointedly. “Miss y/l/n, this is the Viscount Anthony Brdgerton, and he is so pleased not only to make your acquaintance but also for your presence here tonight,” she welcomes on his behalf, and you do not miss the subtle nudge in the ribs she gives him.

Then his regard is drawn to you. He is handsome certainly, and you appreciate his polite but absent-minded greeting. His attentions are obviously elsewhere, but then you cannot fault him as yours are the same. Your gaze strays over his shoulder to the man who first captures your attention. And your breath is stolen by how his hazy blue eyes stare intently at you.

____

Benedict is twenty-six years old when he is struck by lightning. Not literally. But that is the sensation that runs through his body when he first lays eyes on you—politely introducing yourself to his mother and thanking her for your invitation to this ball.

He thought he knew what attraction was until this point. He thought he knew the depths to which one could fall in love in an instant. He was an utter fool. He looks at you, and at once, everything is so quiet and loud all at once. He is desperate to know you in a way he has never felt. To grab your hand, take you somewhere, and ask you a million questions to get to know your soul. He also wants to kiss you so much that his lips tingle. And inside, his lungs want to scream as his mother does the natural thing and introduces the beautiful, polite young lady to her most eligible son… Anthony.

Then his heart jolts as your eyes stray from Anthony and meets his, your pupils dilating in a way that makes his lungs too small to inhale air. It is the first and only time a young woman has had Anthony’s full attention and has looked away from it. And to him, no less. The tidal flood of chemicals in his system makes it feel like he is vibrating in his very shoes.

____

You try your best to be polite and look at Anthony as he speaks, but your sight is drawn to this other man like a moth to a flame. From appearance, the second son, as you are the second daughter. A flare of understanding and sympathy in your chest as to how that is. You want to grab his hand and run away with him.

“My lord,” you find your voice and snap your eyes back to the Viscount, “would you do me the honour of introducing me to the rest of your wonderful family?” your ask, almost timid.

He looks temporarily taken aback, as if mystified why anyone in the Ton would care about the status of anyone beyond his mother and himself. You smile at him expectantly and do not miss, from the corner of your eye, how the beautiful man’s face is awash with surprise at your request.

“Oh, most certainly,” Anthony seems to snap out of his temporary stupor and turns to introduce his siblings in attendance. A tall, baby-faced young man stands to attention as Anthony moves from left to right. “This is Colin; he has just returned from his travels in Greece,” you nod and smile politely, knowing nothing of the subject. “And this is my sister, Eloise; it is her first season, and she is not in the slightest bit happy about that,” he adds dryly, and you can't help but giggle and feel a kinship with the spirited young lady who returns your wry smile. “My eldest sister, the Duchess of Hastings, who is visiting us,”

You curtsy and bow your head. “It is an honour, your Grace,” you add, and she smiles sweetly at you, her arm looped in her mother's.

“Obviously, you have met my mother,” he continues, and suddenly he is the last in the line. You feel your palms clench, sweaty in anticipation of learning his name “... and this is my brother, Benedict; he hopes to be an artist.”

You are finally brave enough to meet his eyes again. He is so achingly beautiful that the rest of his family, indeed the whole ballroom, melt away from your view—he is all you can see.

“Oh, I adore art,” you stutter, mesmerised, offering your hand to him, the first and only person in the family you do so to. Unseen by you, your gaze only on one man, Anthony’s mouth drops open in surprise.

Nothing can prepare you for when Benedict’s gloved hand gently touches yours, him bowing to kiss the back of your hand. You catch a woody citrus scent that makes your mouth water as he does so. And then you feel the warmth of his lips through your glove, and you are utterly undone.

“Miss y/l/n,” he rumbles quietly, the sound making your insides melt even more; it's deep and resonant and makes every inch of your body tingle.

“Please call me y/n,” you murmur, moving closer, knowing how scandalous that might be, but seemingly unable to stop yourself. He has a hypnotic hold over you that you don't want to fight.

“Only if you shall call me Benedict,” he breathes, and it takes Anthony clearing his throat to make you spring apart, suddenly remembering where you are.

____

His lips touch the silk of your glove, and he is gone.

Already planning a future, his mind supplying images of you at his cottage out in the country, the lady of the house. Tending to the herb garden, reading happily curled up in front of the fire in the drawing room, fearlessly plucking a bow as you stand in front of joint archery targets gently teasing him for losing to a girl, and finally, the image that truly knocks the wind out of him, you naked under him, desperately moaning his name as you move together, entwined in ecstasy.

He hears your sharp inhale, and his heart skips at the idea you feel it too. That you are the first woman ever that sees him and not Anthony. Really sees him. Not as the second son. Not as a consolation prize.

And when your body seems to sway towards him, he is already mentally asking his mother for a betrothal ring from her grandmother, which she said she is keeping just for him.

____

“Benedict,” his name feels wonderful in your mouth, like a gift from the heavens. “Please, may we take a turn around the gardens?” you implore, the boldest you have ever been in your whole life.

“It would be my very greatest pleasure,” he responds.

And you know with absolute certainty you have met your husband, the father of your children, your very future.

____

“It is not as if this is my show….” he sighs.

“You should not do that, darling,” you say affectionately, ruffling his hair as you move to fix his cravat; it definitely needs to be more jaunty, in your opinion.

“Do what?” he breathes, his wedding ring catching the light as he places his hands gently over yours and stills your motions.

“Think of yourself as second,” you argue, running your hand over his cheek. “This gallery opening may feature others' work too, but you are the star of the exhibit,” you reassure, tilting his forehead down so it rests upon yours.

There it is again. That look that always floors you. Even now, a year later. Like you are the most wondrous creature, and he can scarcely believe you are his.

“Never forget, you will always be first to me,” you utter fiercely, watching his eyes soften with devotion. “And not just me….” you guide his sizeable warm hand onto the swell of your belly, “to us. We love you so much, Benedict,” your tone is ardent, wanting him to believe he deserves this recognition, that he should believe in himself the way that you do.

“I love you, too,” he responds quietly, reverentially. “So very much. Both of you are my whole world,” his voice choked with emotion, and you throw your arms around him and squeeze hard, wanting to telegraph just how much he is the very centre of your universe.

An hour later, you clutch your hands over your chest as you watch him being brought onto the raised stage and introduced to the crowd as they applaud him and his work rapturously, awaiting to hear him talk of his art. As he does so, you stroke your belly unseen under your cloak, beaming with pride for your wonderful husband.

____

He sees your face in the crowd, and as ever, it calms him, especially at this landmark moment. So as he finishes the speech that he has rehearsed for days now, he decides to do something perhaps unconventional but something he seems unable to resist.

“Lastly, before I allow you back to your champagne,” he jests, finally at ease with the attention and recognition. “I want to thank my life’s inspiration, the very reason I stand before you today. My wonderful wife. Thank you, my love, for being the light of my life; for always making this second son your first choice. You will always, always be my first choice. I love you.”

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @mlovesbridgerton @m-rae23 @last-sheep

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