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lex-the-flex · 2 years

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Oblivion

Morpheus x reader

Summary: In the wake of the Corinthian’s demise, an unsuspecting visitor to his realm captures the King of Dream’s eye, so the Endless does everything he can to fulfill this craving.

Word Count: 1.1k

Warning(s): MEGA FLUFF, slight angst and sadness, descriptions of injuries, brief nudity, love at first sight + first kiss, and Dream being the most loving and faithful husband material EVER.

A/N: I just finished The Sandman and it was so good! So I thought I’d combine two requests for this fic, which are; ‘where Morpheus makes you his queen’ and ‘the reader temporarily lives in the Dreamworld due to being in a coma and shares a relationship with Dream + first kiss.’

Remnants of strong salt filled the dark sand beaches of the Dreamworld and dragged through the hilly landscapes beyond. In the dull blue sky, the afternoon spilled amongst the clouds as a single raven flew in the air, surveying the land. Flapping his wings to keep up with the wind’s current, something or rather –someone caught his eye on the pebbly sand below.

Descending to the beaches, the loyal raven glided above the cold waves, and speckles of mist covered the tips of his smooth feathers. Landing on the ground, a deep croak escaped Matthew’s beak as he slowly approached the unconscious figure on the beach.

“Poor girl.” Matthew muttered at the sight of you.

Observing your nude form as you were on your side, with your arms covering your chest, as if you were trying to keep warm. Your hair blew against your pale face and your once pink lips had slightly turned blue from the weather.

Discreetly nudging your goosebump-ridden skin, a crinkle forms between your neat brows as if you were in pain.

“I wonder how long you’ve been out here.” The raven says.

With the sound of the crashing waves, your cracked lips begin to violently shake, and you begin to mumble gibberish.

“Now don’t you worry. I’ll be back with help.” Matthew advises, stepping away to ascend back into the sky once more.

Upon returning to the Palace, Matthew informed the man of the mighty Palace. Intrigued by the news, the King of Dreams follows his raven’s lead to the beaches down below.

*****

Returning to the same spot where Matthew left you, the weather transformed from the dull blue sky to a light grey atmosphere with the tide rising on its command. Looming over your shaking form, Morpheus softly pushes a few wet strands of hair away from your face.

“She’s beautiful.” He utters, basking in your presence before him.

“Tell Lucienne to prepare some broth and fire. This mortal shall have a place in my Palace.” Morpheus orders, removing his coat from his shoulders.

Covering you with his coat, Morpheus carefully scoops you in his arms, preparing for the long walk back to his home.

Within a few weeks, you were resting comfortably in the infinite Palace, and your recovery went far better than expected. The only thing that seemed odd was when Matthew managed to pull Morpheus away from your company after he was practically glued to your hip.

“What is it, Matthew?” Morpheus asked, drawing his attention from a book that you had taken an interest in.

“Boss, I’ve been watching Y/N for a while. Haven’t you noticed anything strange about her?” Matthew says, peeking an interest in the Endless.

“How so?” Morpheus asks, closing the book.

“Well, she’s never really …woken up yet. Y/N’s been staying away for almost four weeks straight. She couldn’t have been a victim of the Sleeping Sickness could she?” Matthew explains.

“No, I don’t think so. I think something might be wrong in the Waking World. I’ll find her first, then we’ll sort this out.” Morpheus advises, standing from his throne.

Squawking in agreement, Matthew flutters his wings, and flys back out into the Dreamworld to continue his duties. Deep in the darkness of his private chambers, Morpheus picks up his Helm with cautious hands, mentally preparing for what he might find.

Donning the beautifully crafted Helm, his palms opened, causing sand to pour from his hands, and he was off. Finding himself in the Waking World once more, Morpheus’s heart started to pound wildly in his chest just as he removed the Helm from his head. His bright blue eyes scanned the bustling streets of London as the multiple pedestrians seemingly went about their days, as if they didn’t see the Endless before them.

Trekking closely behind the crowd, something spawned in the cavernous pit of Morpheus’s chest, a feeling like no other. It was like he was yearning for your company in the Waking World. But he needed to see you in person, regardless of where you were. And he knew where to find you.

St. Thomas’ Hospital.

Morpheus’ brows furrowed at where he ended up. The last place he expected you to be was in a hospital. Surely you weren’t a patient?

Were you?

The question emerged in the depths of his mind, but disappeared with a quick shake as he walked inside, determined to find you. And he did.

There you were in room 512. Hooked up to two different machines for survival, your pulse remained constant, without skipping a beat. Feeling his knees buckle underneath him, Morpheus carefully made his way into the room, hoping to get a better look at you.

Standing at the foot of the bed, the King of Dreams lowered his head, and tears began to form behind his tightly shut lids. He refused to believe this is where you were, that this was your state. Cursed to live your days in a coma without any connection to the outside world.

“No. I refuse to lose anyone else. I refuse to lose you, Y/N.” Morpheus declared in a whisper, moving to your side.

Leaning down, Morpheus took your hand and pressed his pink lips onto your pale ones. He would not let this newfound love die with the snap of a set of fingers. You were the one for him, and he was going to see this through. Letting go, he returned to the Dreaming, vowing to love you all the same.

When he returned however, he couldn’t find you for a full month. Morpheus searched high and low and there was no sign of you anywhere. Then one afternoon, Matthew flew into the throne room with some news.

“Boss! Boss! She’s alive, I’ve found her!!” Matthew shouted with glee.

“Where? Where is she?” Morpheus asked, leaving his previous task behind.

*****

The shop’s bells jingled in delight as the front door opened, bringing in a new wave of sunlight.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet.” You said with your back to the door.

“That’s quite alright. I don’t mind waiting.” Morpheus replied, with a sly smile on his face.

Turning to greet the individual at your door, you immediately dropped the small clay pot.

“Careful now. It would be a shame to waste good tea.” Morpheus said, catching the pot with one hand.

Leaping into his arms, Morpheus held you tightly, and sighed into your embrace.

“How- How did you find you?” You ask through a series of tears.

“Matthew is quite a good raven, I’ll give him that. He misses you, Y/N. The Dreaming misses its queen.” Morpheus says, opening his palm, revealing a silver and sapphire ring.

Accepting his proposal, Morpheus led you to his home beyond the Waking World, and back down to the Dreaming once more.

the sandman taglist ~

@dreamliners

@nebulosa-reina

@smolfrogz

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@raylan-c

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#the sandman #the sandman netflix #the sandman comics #morpheus #morpheus x reader #morpheus x y/n #dream #dream x reader #dream x you #tom sturridge #neil gaiman

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riddlecrux · 3 years

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Light seen through the windows: an analysis of windows as a literary tool in Elriel relationship

I would love to preface this meta with my favorite disclaimer that everything that I will be discussing is based on what I have gathered from SJM writing. The quotes used in this post will serve as a starting point for further analysis. Additionally, I will be using things such as symbolism, metaphors, and literary device methods to build up my reasoning and beliefs. On another note, this, as usual, is strictly pro-Elriel meta. If they are not your cup of tea and you wish to comment, please be civil and bring arguments supported by the text.

So many of us like to gaze and stare through the windows daily. Looking at the world behind the glass often is considered a form of tranquility that we feel. Windows are essentially doors that lead us to whatever lies behind them - the last border between being in one place and then in another. It isn't then surprising that windows serve as symbols and metaphors in literature. From the start, whenever I read a passage about windows in ACOWAR I was reminded of Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. You may ask why?

Emily Bronte used windows as symbolism in her work. They are very important for her characters and their personal arcs. They are symbols of barriers, misfortunes that characters face. Windows there are metaphors of various obstacles estranging Bronte's characters from achieving their hopes - realizing that the dreams they had will be not fulfilled. As I don't want to get spoilery with Wuthering Heights, I'm going to draw conclusions in a very neat manner. Bronte used windows as a connection to nightmares that one of the main characters was suffering from - it ties to the fact that in his nightmares he sees the person he had loved, haunting him. Because of the relationship with a said woman, the imagery of windows in this particular scene symbolizes death, an obstacle that stands between both of them. Throughout the book, we also get glimpses of how windows might be used as a metaphor for social classes and the contrast between them, and how Heathcliff and Catherine have to go about it. Along with the windows, doors are also used as a symbol of trapping someone in one place, obstructing them from achieving their dream or preventing them from reaching out to their loved one. Not to mention that during a very particular scene with Catherine, she wants the windows open - a symbolism of her wanting to feel free, to connect with something she knows, she longs for. This leads to the conclusion that windows in Bronte's novel are symbols of life and death, they are the in-between - a symbolic barrier.

On the other hand, windows in literature signalize something called "art of watching", and usually it is connected to a female protagonist that observes life, events through the window. Not to mention, the most famous association to windows such as "windows to the soul" - which, of course, is more metaphorical. It allows us, the audience, to connect with the character's inner feelings, struggles, as we are presented with the emotional aspect of said person. They are the bridge between the inside and outside. Windows are also a source of light, which we humans crave. Looking through the window one can absorb the light, which can resonate as a symbol of growth and change. Metaphorically we see the light from the window when we feel a need to light up the darkness inside us. They expose us, our inner feelings, and struggles.

When I read ACOWAR I have noticed that SJM decided to use windows, quite clearly, in the indication of two particular characters. Azriel and Elain. For the first time, when we met Elain again in the third book the window is a big issue.

"The suite was filled with sunlight. Every curtain shoved back as far as it could go, to let in as much sun as possible."

We have a clear description of the sunlit room, curtains shoved to further underline the need for light.

"And seated in a small chair before the sunniest of the windows, her back to us, was Elain."

In the brightest place in the room sits Elain, in front of the window. She is exposed to the sun, to sunlight and is absorbing that light - which is highlighted during this scene (which makes it important to note).

"Her skin was so pale it looked like fresh snow in the harsh light. I realized then that the color of death, of sorrow, was white."

The sunlight exposes Elain, its harsh light makes her pale, almost translucent. Even Feyre realizes the graveness of this picture comparing this white hue to death. As you can see the chain of events in this scene played like that: sunlit room -> curtain swept away -> Elain sitting in front of the window -> sudden comparison to death.

"She had been always so full of light. Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained."

Feyre deducts that the need for light on Elain's part is a desperate call to brighten the darkness inside her - which perfectly aligns with the metaphorical usage of windows. Elain basks in light in a helpless cry for help. The very dark void that appeared within her after being Made eats her away. It sucks her immortal life away - the one which she yet didn't get used to. On the other hand, we as readers are presented with the fact that Elain is trapped. In this Fae life, in this room, in this situation in which she grieves for her past and many what-ifs.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of emotion. “Everyone keeps saying that.” Her thumb brushed the ring on her finger. “But it doesn’t fix anything, does it?”

Sitting in front of the window - a sunny one to be precise, which symbolizes life, growth, and change, Elain is presented in a contrast to her surroundings. To show that visible barrier that her person has to overcome. She realizes that her dreams are meant to be unfulfilled, that they are unreachable.

"My stiff, limping steps, at least, had eased into a smoother gait by the time I found Elain in the family library. Still staring at the window, but she was out of her room."

The next time we see Elain she is out of her room - her "cage", but even though she left the boundaries of her entrapment she still chooses to linger around the windows. As Feyre notices, Elain gazes through the window - we are obstructed from Elain's POV and it's hard to imagine what she could be thinking about. Yet the symbolic manner of using the window as some sort of mirror, a passage that happens throughout the series, allows me to think that the metaphorical usage of windows, in this case, isn't a far-fetched idea.

"Elain didn’t turn. She was wearing a pale pink gown that did little to complement her sallow skin, her brown-gold hair hanging in loose, heavy ringlets down her thin back."

SJM uses this sentence to highlight that it isn't just a quick glance out of the window - in fact, it is constant staring through it. It is important for us as readers to note that this thing, window gazing, is an occupation that lasts for long periods of time. It isn't something trivial, it is something that showcases the importance of said windows in Elain's journey.

“What are you looking at?” I asked Elain, keeping my voice soft. Casual. Her face was wan, her lips bloodless. But they moved—barely—as she said, “I can see so very far now. All the way to the sea.”

Feyre decides to ask Elain who is still gazing through the window. Her answer is very ominous and holds a great deal of importance, but also underlines the fact that she is drawn to the window. Not to mention that what she is seeing is the sea - another vastly discussed symbol. In this situation, I believe that the interpretation can lay in a more psychological aspect of the matter rather than a literary one. In the works of very well-known psychiatrist Carl Jung the sea "symbolizes the personal and the collective unconscious in dream interpretation". So from his notes there comes this annotation that caught my attention, "The sea is a favourite place for the birth of visions."

Elain is a seer who constantly gazes through a window which symbolizes the in-between, life and death. These two are connected to one another and SJM used many things to further develop Elain's character as a powerful figure.

"Elain only turned toward the sunny windows again, the light dancing in her hair."

After the whole conversation Elain doesn't move from her spot, quite the contrary she returns to her previous activity. Gazing through the window. Once again we are reminded about the sun and light - which signalizes that Elain tries to undergo through the process of rebirth, but also tries to break free from the unhappiness that came with lost dreams.

"Something in my chest cracked as Nesta’s eyes also went to the windows before Elain. To check, as I did, for whether they could be easily opened."

Here we have an instance of both sisters realizing that Elain spending so much time in front of windows can be dangerous, as in her attempting to jump from them. Once again, the symbolism of death.

"More steps—no doubt closer to where Elain stood at the window."

Elain is still beside the window when Lucien tries to talk to her. Even alone she seeks the place next to the window to stare.

"But sunlight on gold caught his eye—and Elain slowly turned from her vigil at the window."

Elain is still by the window, for the whole scene she is there not moving an inch from it. Furthermore, the word "vigil" is also an interesting choice. There are different meanings of it, but I find these ones very telling and suitable for this instance: a period of sleeplessness; insomnia, a watch kept, or the period of this and a devotional watching, or keeping awake, during the customary hours of sleep. We can speculate about what happened to Elain while she was in the Cauldron, what made her so withdrawn from life and so desperate for the light. I want to believe that we as readers will get our answers in the next book since Elain being a seer with unknown powers makes her a perfect target for Koschei with which she has already had connections.

She looked away—toward the windows. “I can hear your heart,” she said quietly.

Again, during the whole conversation, she doesn't move away from her spot next to the window. Windows for her, start to become a symbolism of change and rebirth - the things she probably wished while being confined to her room.

Elain only stared out the window, unaware—or uncaring.

We have another mention about staring - which further highlights how important windows are as a literary tool for Elain's character. She seeks light, she wants to overcome this barrier that was thrown at her the moment she was Made. She, perhaps, watched through the window to observe the life which was stripped away from her and turned her into this immortal being. Or, maybe she just desperately wanted to brighten up the darkness that gathered inside her because of that whole situation. Another important thing to note is that this scene is a first moment alone with Lucien - her mate, which should have been very painful for her. The conversation also held a lot of weight, yet she valiantly stood by the window as if somewhere behind it she could find an answer.

“So it can’t be a perfect system of matching. What if”—I jerked my chin toward the window, to my sister and the shadowsinger in the garden —“that is what she needs? Is there no free will? What if Lucien wishes the union but she doesn’t?”

Here we have an instance of "art of watching" in which Feyre observes Azriel and Elain through the window. By watching them she comes to the conclusion that both of them are better suited and actually can comfort each other in comfortable silence. The window here is used as a barrier to showcase parallels of two couples: happily mated Feysand and unhappily in love with other people Elriel.

"But I looked to Azriel, currently leaning against the wall beside the floor-to-ceiling window, shadows fluttering around him."

And here we are start with Azriel and windows (also in ACOWAR). He is another character that has an extraordinary connection to windows. He is often mentioned next to them and somehow parallels Elain's behavior - staring through windows, being near them.

"I blinked, realizing I’d been lost in the bond, but found Azriel still by the window, (...)."

As we can see Azriel lingers next to the window without moving away from it - as the scene progresses we know that the conversation lasts a good ounce of time, yet Azriel stands in his place by the window.

"Azriel didn’t so much as turn from his vigil at the window, though I could have sworn his wings tucked in a bit tighter."

The same wording, the same imagery. Both used for Elain and Azriel. Both of them keeping vigils at the windows, staring through them as if they could find an answer through them.

"The main room of the guardhouse was stuffy and cramped, more so with all of us in there, and though I offered Elain a seat by the sealed window, she remained standing—at the front of our company. Staring at the shut iron door."

This scene is when Elain is about to confront her lover - Greysen. It is underlined that she rejected her usual spot, which is by the window, and preferred to face the door. She was trapped, she knew that a very important discussion will take a place here. She chose to look at the door rather than at the window, which in this matter could symbolize hope for a change - she stared at the door which metaphorically means transition or imprisonment.

"(...) close to Elain’s side as she and my sister silently kept against the wall by the intact bay of windows."

Another instance of Elain and her being content with being next to the windows.

"I’d seen Elain staring out the window earlier—watching Graysen leave with his men without so much as a look back at her."

"Art of Watching", but also the window's symbolism of dreams that were unfulfilled. At that moment, we can assume, that Elain realized that her dreams concerning human life and her future with Greysen would only be unattainable dreams/hopes.

“What now?” Elain mused, at last answering my question from moments ago as her attention drifted to the windows facing the sunny street. That smile grew, bright enough that it lit up even Azriel’s shadows across the room. “I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this … I think the world needs more gardens.

At the end of ACOWAR, we have this powerful moment, in which Elain gazing out of the window sees sunny streets = life. A chance of rebirth, which also beautifully overlaps with the fact that she proposed building a garden! The in-between that she balanced on while gazing through the window for so many times turned from death and misfortunes into life and hopes of the future.

ACOFAS

"Elain politely refused, taking up a spot in one of the wooden chairs set in the bay of windows. Also typical."

From Rhysand's point of view, we can deduct that even they are aware of the fact that Elain and windows are something notable. It is a place where she feels comfortable and probably spends a lot of time.

"Beyond the windows, darkness had indeed fallen. The longest night of the year. I found Elain studying it, beautiful in her amethyst-colored gown. I made to move toward her, but someone beat me to it."

In previous quotes, we could gather information about how Elain craved the light and how desperate she was to lighten up her person. Here, we can see that she also started to embrace the darkness. She is again by the window, observing the darkness as if no one else was around her. And of course, the one person who goes towards her at that moment is Azriel, a personification of darkness in the books.

Azriel strode to the lone window at the end of the room and peered into the garden below. “I’ve never stayed in this room.” His midnight voice filled the space.

Azriel went straight to the window. And not an ordinary one, but the one through which you can see the garden. Life and light. I know many were theorizing if what kept Azriel so occupied by the window was Elain, but I would love to put some of my thoughts in this discourse. Yes, I do think that what caught his attention, or who caught his attention was Elain. However, Elain at that moment represents life and light - the things that are associated with windows. And if you spin it around you have Azriel=darkness, death staring at Elain=light, life. The in-between, the very initial symbolism of window in literature. Not to mention that in this scene we have Azriel watching the light and next we have Elain observing darkness.

“No,” Azriel said, not turning from the window.

Azriel remained at the window. “Will Nesta stay here if she comes?

“I’d still be surprised if they remember once the storm clears,” Azriel said, turning from the garden window at last.

We have a whole scene in which it is so heavily implied that Azriel was constantly staring through the window, not even bothering to move away from it. We also have another highlighted thing which is the fact that it was a garden window.

There was a tiny box left on the table by the window—a box that Mor lifted, squinted at the name tag, and said, “Az, this one’s for you.”

A small thing, yet a very sweet one. The fact that even his present was placed close to the window, which starts to become an Elriel thing.

ACOSF

"She’d barely slept for fear of Elain walking off this veranda, or leaning too far out of one of the countless windows, or simply throwing herself down those ten thousand stairs."

We have a reminder that during her stay at House of Wind, Elain was a symbol of death. She carried it on her while being associated with windows that were used as a source of light that helped her heal.

"Elain stood at the wall of windows, clad in a lilac gown whose close-fitting bodice showed how well her sister had filled out since those initial days in the Night Court."

Even when she visits Nesta, she takes the place by the windows. It is something that is strictly connected to her. As if the windows were part of her now.

Elain’s smile was as bright as the setting sun beyond the windows. “I thought I’d drop by to see how you were doing.”

Light, sun, life = Elain.

“You’ve got good coloring, I mean,” Elain clarified, striding from the windows to cross the room. She stopped a few feet away. As if holding herself back from the embrace she might have given.

SJM still used the passages to underline the passage of time that Elain spent standing next to the window. It is a place in which she feels good and perhaps safe.

"They’d sat in them, before this fire, so many times that it was an unspoken rule that Azriel’s was the one on the left, closer to the window, and Cassian’s the one to the right, closer to the door."

We also get the information that Azriel always was the closest to the window - which is an odd thing to add without a deeper meaning. As if to further build up that connection between him and Elain - that both of them are aware of the fact that they are also the symbolism of the allegory of windows. I believe that SJM really researched that light and darkness trope, with which she built and she is still building up Elriel. The windows are just another tiny nugget that further envelopes both of them as one. Because while Elain transformed from death to life, she still welcomed darkness and embraced it - and Azriel opened to the life and light, seeking it. As I said, windows are a literary tool, which perhaps wasn't the main idea in the SJM text, but the amount of parallels between both of them and even the same wording applied to different scenes tells me that it's yet another connection between them.

#elriel #pro elriel #elriel meta #azriel x elain #elain and azriel #pro elain #pro azriel

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novelconcepts · 3 years

Note

FOUND IT!!! Consider this an official ask for 3 and 14 combined! #wheee

smiling into a kiss and play wrestling

Having a best friend again is strange. She’d gone so long imagining the phrase as a sort of neon sign staked firmly in the past: Best Friend, already spoken for. Eddie had always been it; no other volunteers need apply.

But Eddie’s gone now, out of her life, living out wherever his might go in another country altogether, and Dani finds the position has--slowly, without really planning for it--been filled once more. Not that she planned for it. Not that could ever could have.

She didn’t come to Bly looking for Jamie, and if you’d told her the gardener who refused to so much as meet her eyes, much less introduce herself, would become the most important person in her life--well. Life is full of surprises.

There is so little of Eddie in Jamie, she sometimes wonders how both could have occupied the same shape in her heart. Sometimes wonders how Eddie--who prized cleanliness, routine work hours, dinners at his mother’s once a week--would look at Jamie, if he could see her. Jamie, all tousled hair, happiest with a cigarette between her teeth and both hands buried in soil. Jamie, who has never kept a nine-to-five, never craved Sunday afternoons with her parents, never looks at Dani like she expects firm posture, bright smile, neat clothes.

They couldn’t possibly be more different--and yet, somehow, Jamie is her best friend. Unfair to think it, maybe, but she might be the best friend Dani’s ever had. Her sense of humor is dark, her vocabulary wallpapered with curse words and shorn letters; she smells of nicotine and sunscreen, dresses in wrinkled flannels and torn jeans. Where Eddie looped an arm around her shoulders, Jamie nudges her with bony elbows; where Eddie pressed his lips to her temple, Jamie leans carefully away. Different, in every measure.

And it isn’t that she likes Jamie more. That wouldn’t be fair--not after so many years in Eddie’s company. It’s just that when Jamie looks at her, eyes bright, dirt smudged on one cheek, sometimes, she feels...

“You’re thinking,” Jamie observes. She doesn’t say it the way Eddie would--the way he always pointed out when she was clenching her fist under the table, or picking at her nails, his voice edged with concern bordering on condescension. Her voice is light, her lips curved in a small smile.

Eddie never quite smiled at her like that. Or, if he did, it didn't pluck the same chord in her stomach. Not that that matters. Not that that affects the sincerity of friendship.

Not that it’s making her feel weirdly flushed this afternoon.

“Am I not allowed to think?” she asks. The sun, she thinks, is responsible for the goofy smile on her face. The heat of the day, which stretches on and on the way only early July knows how.

“Not arguing,” Jamie says. “One of us ought to.”

She’s on her knees, pulling weeds, her face shining with sweat. There’s something about days like this--afternoons where the kids are occupied helping Owen bake cookies, leaving Dani to nurse a glass of water and pleasantly-meandering conversation--that feels almost too good to be allowed. Eddie would have wanted to do something with a day like this: hike, or clear up the yard, or go visit family.

Jamie, on the other hand, pushes to her feet and surveys the bed she’s spent all day working. “Think that’s good enough for a break. Here, budge over.”

Dani obediently scoots to the edge of her seat, amused when Jamie flops down half in her lap. A year of working at the manor, and Jamie’s gone from a woman who couldn’t make eye contact to save her life to this: gangly limbs tossed haphazardly over Dani’s, sweat-slick skin sticking where it lands against Dani’s shoulder. It’s too hot for cozying up like this, but she can’t seem to convince herself to push Jamie away.

“There,” Jamie sighs, tilting her head back against the plastic of the lawn chair. “Christ, feels good just to breathe.”

“You breathe,” Dani says, “and I’ll think. Together, we make an almost-functional human being.”

“Almost,” Jamie says wryly. Her hand loops around Dani’s, teasing the sweating glass out of her grip long enough to take a sip. Dani nudges her.

“Could get you one of your own, if you ever learned to ask politely.”

“Don’t like me polite,” Jamie says with a shrug. “My brand is prickly-yet-charming, and we both know I’m your favorite for it.”

“Technically,” Dani corrects, “Flora is my favorite. Mainly because she doesn’t make me remind her to say please.”

“Please,” Jamie says without missing a beat, “keep pretending you aren’t captivated by my winning personality.”

Dani laughs. “Oh, is that what I am?”

“Mm.” Jamie takes another sip, reaches over her to set the glass down on the table, closes her eyes. “S’what you were all pensive about just now, I’m sure. How entranced you are with my witty banter.”

“Entranced,” Dani repeats.

“Beguiled. Mesmerized. Drunk with adoration.” Jamie’s face is pink, a bead of sweat neatly lining her upper lip. Dani only realizes she’s staring a fortunate beat before Jamie rolls her head to the left, peering at her with lazy amusement. “Go on. Tell me how much you love me.”

“Love how ridiculous you can be, maybe.” And how sweet, and how unquestioningly soft, though she doesn’t see a need to put that into words--or a way to do it without sounding entirely out of her head. The heat, she thinks, is absolutely getting to her.

It’s the heat, making her want suddenly to slide an arm between the plastic back of the chair and the cotton of Jamie’s tank top, pulling her even closer. The heat, making her want to displace the normal back-and-forth ease of friendship with something else entirely.

She’s had a best friend before. She’s never quite wanted to do with Eddie what she is, more and more, thinking about with Jamie curled up beside her.

Distract, she thinks, because Jamie is still watching her with that half-lidded expression she gets when the sun is particularly bright, the day’s work has been well-tended, and Dani’s shoulder is a cushion beneath her head. More and more, it’s been feeling like a dangerous sort of moment, Jamie’s face lingering near the crook of her neck. Jamie’s breath coasting down the neckline of her dress. Jamie’s smile sweeter than should be allowed, given the grumpy way she slouches around the grounds.

“Thinking,” Jamie says, her voice almost soft. Dani shakes her head.

“It’s not illegal.”

“Is,” Jamie says, “if you’re gonna just stare at me all googly-eyed while you do it. C’mon, what gives? Is today some holiday I’ve forgotten?” She sits up a little straighter, her face comic in its sudden concern. “Shit, Poppins, it’s not your birthday.”

She almost wants to say it is, just to watch Jamie turn fascinating new shades of maroon. “No--just--it’s hot.”

Jamie sags back with palpable relief. Her arm is freckled, Dani notices, beyond the norm; the summer is drawing all sorts of secrets from her skin, and it’s suddenly painfully tempting, the urge to trace her nail along these newfound constellations.

Distract, she thinks again, more urgently this time. Without thinking it through, without considering the consequences, she dips two fingers into the glass of water and flicks the still-cool moisture directly into Jamie’s face.

Jamie, to her credit, hardly jumps. She’s just blinking at Dani like their conversation has taken an unanticipated left turn into another language, water dripping from the end of her nose.

“Okay,” she says. “If that’s how we’re playing it.”

Her arm reaches across without hesitation, replicating Dani’s playbook: two fingers dipped, flicked, landing back in her lap as Dani sputters.

“You got me in the eye.”

“Cooled you off, though?” Jamie asks, almost politely. Dani laughs, and suddenly, it’s war. There’s barely enough room on the chair for the both of them to sit like adults, much less to squirm around, hips knocking, legs tangled up as the remainder of the glass finds its way--droplet by droplet--into Jamie’s face, down Dani’s neck, sometimes missing entirely and disappearing into the sizzling summer air.

Dani is ultimately the victor, an upset decided when she grasps the glass--now containing maybe two inches of water--and upends it directly over Jamie’s head. She’s laughing almost too hard to breathe, particularly when Jamie gives a firm shake of her hair, looking like a rumpled dog after a bath.

“That,” Jamie says in a low, dangerous tone, “cannot stand.”

She’s up before Dani can stop her, sprinting toward the garden hose uncoiled in the grass. Dani twists in her seat, knees drawn up to her chest, arms extended.

“Don’t you dare!”

“All’s fair,” Jamie says, almost apologetically, depressing the trigger.

They are, Dani notes somewhere in the back of her mind, full-grown adult women. They are thirty years old, gainfully employed, responsible for the upkeep of an entire house and the well-being of two small children.

They are also now chasing one another across the lawn, Dani sopping wet, Jamie laughing so hard she nearly trips over her own feet taking a corner too fast. The hose is growing more and more tangled by the minute as she dashes in a zig-zag pattern, periodically firing a jet of water over her shoulder, and Dani has no prayer of catching up--not with her shoes squelching, slipping on wet grass, her lungs clenched around a soundless jag of laughter.

Adults, she thinks, as Jamie makes the insurmountable error of trying to bolt past her like a quarterback dodging a tackle; she makes a successful leap over the tangled hose, but forgets at the last second to factor in the edge of the lawn chair. Dani has her around the middle before she can dart out of reach, the both of them tumbling over in a cackling heap of grass clippings, puddled hose water, freckled limbs.

They’re rolling, shouting wordlessly around giggles, Dani struggling to pry the hose out of Jamie’s hands. It’s harder than it looks; Jamie is small, but strong in an annoyingly wiry sort of way. Even when Dani manages to get her onto her back, the water is inescapable, dousing in short jets across her chest, down her arms, pooling awkwardly between them.

“You are,” she laughs, “a child.”

“Could a child do this?” Jamie replies, jerking upward at the hips with unexpected force. Dani rocks up with her, one hand grasping the sodden front of Jamie’s shirt for balance, and drops back down without budging from her seat. Jamie releases an oof as her back makes rough contact with the ground again, giggling too hard to successfully shove Dani over.

“Yes, actually, I think a child would be exactly that effective,” Dani informs her. Her body has never felt quite this alive, her muscles aching with the effort of an unplanned run. Jamie, chest heaving for breath, is practically glowing.

“Just want to remind you,” Jamie says, “you did start this.”

“Does that mean I win?” If she hasn’t, she can’t imagine it would feel any better than this: straddling Jamie’s hips in the soft grass, cool water seeping down her back, her dress sticking pleasantly to warm skin. Jamie allows the hose to drop from her grip at last, her head tipped back, eyes closed.

“Call it a draw.”

“What if I wanted to win?” She slides a hand up without thinking, pinning Jamie by the wrist before she can decide to take up her watery weapon again. Jamie draws a deep breath, face flushed, grinning.

“Guess you’d have to work harder for it.”

Children, Dani thinks--but suddenly, it doesn’t feel childish anymore. Suddenly, she’s overly aware of her dress rucked high around her thighs, of how short Jamie’s shorts really are, how her body is considerably less obscured than usual with her shirt plastered to her frame. Suddenly, she’s aware of Jamie’s hand flexing against the grass, pinned beside her head with a loose enough grip to break--though Jamie isn’t breaking it. Isn’t even trying.

Jamie is, instead, gazing up at her with hair mussed, eyes bright. Jamie, whose free hand is sliding up to rest along the curve of Dani’s hip.

She’s Dani’s best friend, like he was, but this doesn’t feel like it belongs in the same category as late-night stories swapped by the fire, or letting each other steal the vegetables the other doesn’t care for off their plate. This feels like a category all its own: the way Jamie licks her lips as Dani’s head lowers, the way Dani’s fingers graze the freckles painting her wrist on the way up to notching her palm against Jamie’s.

Her hair is wet, and Jamie’s face is sweaty, and there’s so little romance to the whole picture, it takes her by surprise. She’s always thought there should be talking before a thing like this, at least--a decision made on equal footing.

“I don’t have to,” she says, even as Jamie is saying, “Do you want to?”

Children would laugh again, go back to wrestling, go back to how it all felt just a few minutes before. They are not, Dani notes as she lowers her head--as Jamie shifts up at the shoulders to meet her--children.

She’s hyper-aware of all of it now: the sun beating against her shoulders, the hand Jamie is using to grip the back of her dress, the exact angle of Jamie’s mouth parting beneath her own. Her tongue is gentle, brushing Jamie’s, and the sound Jamie makes into her is anything but.

She’s smiling, she realizes, so hard, it hurts--that deep, wonderful hurt of laughing too hard for too long, of slipping in the grass and landing in a heap with someone who couldn’t help catching her on the way down. She’s grinning into Jamie even as she’s kissing her, even as she’s letting her body stretch out to press Jamie more firmly against the damp ground.

And Jamie, fingers curled between her own, making soft sounds of appreciation into the kiss, is grinning right back.

“This was your plan all along,” she accuses, brushing the hair from Dani’s eyes when they break for a breath. “Awful lot of work, for a kiss.”

“All’s fair?” Dani suggests--and she genuinely, honestly cannot decide which she likes more: the way Jamie kisses, or the way Jamie kisses and laughs at the same time. All of it, she feels, goes a country mile beyond best friends. All of it goes a country mile beyond anything she could ever have dreamed up, walking away from him the way she did.

It couldn’t possibly be more different.

#fanfiction #ficlet #the haunting of bly manor #dani x jamie #damie #physical affection tag #bit of an AU route solely to capture the Light and Airy of it all #but I'd say it suits any version of 'em

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malecsecretsanta · 3 years

Text

Merry Christmas, incorrect-malec!

For @incorrect-malec. This is the first part to a larger fic which will be updated sometime after the reveal, as the plot ran away from me! I tried to incorporate as many of the proposed likes as I could to make this an interesting and fun gift! Happy holidays, dear giftee, I hope you sincerely enjoy your present ❤️

Minor content warning for some cursing and small mentions of blood.

*****

find me here (amidst the chaos)

“Mr. Lightwood-Bane? You have a special visitor.”

Alec glances up from the spread of ridiculous red tape sprawled across his desk. An antique grandfather clock nestled in the corner behind him ticks away the idle seconds.

“Ah.” Alec leans into the high-backed support of his office chair. “Mr. Lightwood-Bane, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Magnus glides into the room, shutting the ornate door behind him with a heavy thud. “You forgot your lunch. I assumed it was all a simple ploy to trick me into bringing some for you.”

“A reasonable assumption.”

“I probably shouldn’t be indulging in such skulduggery,” Magnus skirts around the desk, his magic tidying the paperwork into neat piles off to the side. “Alas, it has been some long six hours since I last saw my husband, and I’m little other than a fool for love.”

Alec stands and sways into Magnus’ space. “It is known to be a great weakness of yours.”

“Love?” Magnus wraps his arms around Alec’s neck, soothing his fingers against the nape. “Hardly. Love is too often fleeting. You, however?” He brushes the ghost of a kiss against the corner of Alec’s mouth. “You have always been my greatest weakness.”

Alec kisses Magnus, because it says more than words ever could, because there are no words in any language that he knows which could be enough to express how he feels, how his core is alight and burning hot, how he can’t get close enough without knocking them both over, and even that wouldn’t soothe the ache.

“You didn’t even bring any food with you,” Alec points out, pressing a fleeting kiss to Magnus’ temple, lest he kiss any lower and come away with a shimmer upon his lips. His hands are broad and firm against Magnus’ hips, drawing him close until the ornate buckle of his belt is nestled against Alec’s belly button. He’s slouched, relaxed and calm.

“An easy fix.” Magnus pecks the very tip of Alec’s nose, grinning easy at the way it scrunches. “What are you in the mood for?”

“I really want to visit Sky,” Alec sighs, his shoulders drawing up. “I miss their chebureki. I’m craving their chebureki. But I have to file through this paperwork, or the Clave are going to be breathing down my neck.”

Magnus traces the love rune against the nape of Alec’s neck. “I mean this with every breadth of my soul.” He pulls back, drawn to the mirth that draws Alec’s brow together before staring into hazel eyes which have always held his own gaze with such resolve it’s a wonder he ever questioned them. “Fuck the Clave.”

Alec laughs, hearty and full. Magnus kisses the lines of his eyes, warmth cloaking him like a homemade blanket. This, right here. This is all he needs.

“Is that a proposition? I think I have a form somewhere for interdepartmental relationships, I’d be happy to sign it for you.”

Alec feigns to pull away, his hands falling to his sides. Before he can even turn his body, Magnus takes both of Alec’s hands in his own, kissing the space on his ring finger above his wedding band and the ridges of his knuckles while the other intertwines their fingers, squeezing tight and holding their joined hands against his heart - or, rather, a rough estimation of where his heart is, hidden beneath his unbuttoned silk shirt and floral blazer.

“Burn it.” Magnus insists, resting his chin on the back of Alec’s hand, still held tight within his own. “Or shred it. Do you have a paper shredder? We can start a recycling plan! Saving the planet is really something the Clave should care about. Maybe they can investigate that, and then while they’re busy saving the world - I know that you Shadowhunters love that - we can steal away and pretend you never insinuated that I would ever break our sacred marriage vows for the Clave.”

Alec leans back, tapping the side of Magnus’ sleek ankle boots. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have even joked about it.”

“I wouldn’t break our vows for anything.” Magnus pulls a face. “Suggesting I would do it for the Clave is just insulting, Alexander. I have far better taste than that.”

“Is that so?”

Magnus hums, turning Alec’s hand to kiss down his wrist. “I’m pretty sure I have a certificate somewhere that proves it.” He murmurs, tilting his head into the cup of Alec’s palm against his cheek. “Unless that’s how you tested out your paper shredder? We haven’t cleared up whether it exists yet.”

“Your environmental concerns are heard and are being considered by the Inquisitor at present” Alec teases, before adding. “I’m pretty sure that Aline has a paper shredder in her office. It’s definitely the kind of thing that Helen would have gifted. Probably wrapped in a bow, too.”

“That does sound like our Helen.” Magnus steps forward into the gap of Alec’s thighs. “I’m afraid that all I am hearing is that there is in fact no reason why you can’t take an extended lunch break.” He leans forward, teasing a kiss along the cut of Alec’s jaw. “Perhaps we can even enjoy it in the comfort of our own home.”

They would have, Alec prepared with a half-hearted protest that Magnus would just as quickly swallow, bending the pretence of Alec’s revolve before whisking them away in a portal that would have to be created on the balcony to protect the furniture. They would have enjoyed a lovely meal, and each other’s company, and Magnus would have sent Alec back with a sweet kiss and a promise of reservations for some late night ponchiki, conveniently forgetting to mention that he’s missed a button of his shirt.

Unfortunately, none of that happened.

“Inquisitor Lightwood-Bane? High Warlock Lightwood-Bane?”

Magnus rolls his eyes and steps away from Alec, although his hand skims Alec’s hip. The shadowhunter at the door seems familiar … Montclair something, maybe … yes, Eva Montclair. A sort of glorified P.A for various members of the Clave. Her sudden appearance in Alec’s doorway is not a terrible thing by nature, but Magnus has a feeling given the tightness of her knuckles around the hilt of her seraph blade that it is not good news that she couriers this time.

Eva inhales deeply, her shoulders curled in defensively. “I was told to come and tell you both immediately, I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted anything.”

“What’s wrong, Eva?” Alec asks, kind but firm.

“There’s been an instance near Piccadilly. A warlock appears to have recently come into their powers and is struggling with gaining control over them. The Head of the London Institute called them ‘rogue’, but I personally don’t think that’s fair. From the descriptions received all the magic seems to be defensive rather than offensive. The High Warlock there is currently unavailable but suggested that you, Mr. Lightwood-Bane, would be a … ‘fitting substitute’ in his absence?”

Magnus fixes a pleasant smile even as a laugh hiccups in the back of his throat. Ragnor truly says the kindest things. “If this is as you describe, Eva, I’m sure there won’t be any further problems.”

“Please alert the London Institute that we are on our way.” Alec requests. “And please make it clear to them that they are under no circumstances to harm the young warlock. This is no longer any of their concern.”

The hint of a smile toys at the corner of Eva’s mouth, and it’s then that Magnus remembers that she’s married to a warlock herself, and in fact he has met Mars on a few occasions as part of the Downworlder council. Small world.

“Absolutely.” Eva nods, curtly, and ducks out of the room.

Magnus nods towards the balcony doors. “Portal?”

Alec sighs, reaching for Magnus’ hand. “This has to be the fifth call this year alone. I’m starting to think those pamphlets aren't working.”

The balcony doors swing open with a flick of Magnus’ hand.

“Maybe the Institute Heads are just environmentally conscious.”

---

“Angels,” Alec whispers, when they come through the other side of the portal onto a wet cobblestone side-street, the air heavy with unshed rain. “They’re so young.”

The warlock couldn’t possibly be older than eighteen. Their torn jeans are stuffed into worn and muddy old boots, their denim vest is missing sleeves, torn at the shoulder, and the faded band tank underneath looks far too thin for a London evening. Thin, white lines stand out against brown skin, forming stars on their arms like tattoos of varying size, a mark unlike any that Alec has ever seen before and given the slight furrow to Magnus’ brow, it’s not a common one. Their hair is cropped short and pink, which could be a warlock mark, although Alec has his doubts.

“Their mark is glowing.” Magnus comments. “It pulses, see. It’s directly connected to their magic.”

“Is that unusual?” Alec asks, casting an eye around for anything to gain the warlock’s attention without spooking them. “Your eyes glow.”

Magnus drops his glamour. A point is being made, but it isn’t Alec’s. “The pulse is frantic, like their magic, their emotions. Their powers are so new that they haven’t figured out how to control any of it yet. Warlock marks, although rare, do sometimes come with the magic itself. That’s a lot to discover about yourself at once. No wonder they look so frightened, poor dear.”

Alec’s throat tightens when the warlock grips their head and folds over. “We have to help them. I don’t even know how but … we have to help them.”

Magnus grips the back of Alec’s neck, turning him until they’re facing each other. “We will.” Magnus says, firm but kind. “We are their best hope right now, Alexander, and we will help them.” He grazes his thumb along the column of Alec’s nape. “We’re good at this.”

Alec nods, rolling his shoulders back as Magnus’ hand falls away. Magnus gestures and Alec follows his gaze, towards a portable store sign advertising 25% off coats and knitwear - it’s not terribly wide or tall, but if he’s careful he should be able to hide behind it, if temporarily. The last thing they need is for the warlock to feel as though they’ve been trapped, so letting Magnus talk first and providing support without being obvious about it is their best chance at this point in time.

The first time they talked a warlock down Alec had gotten his eyebrows singed off for getting too close, too fast.

“Excuse me?” Magnus has procured a coat, probably from the store behind Alec, his hands shoved into the pockets.

To the unassuming eye, he probably appears to be a concerned citizen, his eyes glamoured once more, although there is an undeniable electricity to him that couldn’t be mistaken by those who know for a thunderstorm. There is a chance that the warlock, although presumably new to their powers, will be able to sense it as well. If that’s the case, their reaction is anyone’s guess. Alec tightens his grip on his bow.

“I’m Magnus Bane.” The warlock glances up with lightning speed, their arms wound tightly around their chest, as though doing so would keep everything in place. Alec is familiar with the feeling. “I’m not going to hurt you. I promise. I’m like you, see?”

Magnus must have dropped his glamour, for the warlock takes a step back, but they lose some of the tension around their shoulders. “May I ask for your name?” He asks, rocking back on his heels.

The warlock hesitates, the stars on their arms pulsing even faster. “Nova.” They say, after what feels to be an hour. Alec lets out a heavy breath and relaxes onto his haunches. This is good.

“Hello, Nova.” Magnus flattens his palm against his chest. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Is it okay if I ask you a few questions? You don’t have to answer any that make you uncomfortable. My only motivation is helping you if I can.”

“What makes you think that you can help me?” Nova spits out. They’re shaking. “I don’t even know what’s happening to me. The other day I was fine, I was normal and then I woke up yesterday and I have these weird tattoos on my arm and today I’m sending things into different rooms with just my thoughts - and none of it makes any sense! None of it!”

Magnus takes a lone step forward, but Nova doesn’t appear to notice. Alec feels a chill crawl down his spine. “You don’t know me, so what I’m about to ask of you probably goes against every instinct you have. Nova, I need you to trust me.”

“Why?”

Magnus takes another step. The hairs on the back of Alec’s neck stand to attention. “Because I’ve been where you are.” Magnus explains. “Lost. Confused. Angry. I was a child when I discovered my magic, what I could do with it. I didn’t have anybody to help me, and I always vowed that I wouldn’t let that happen to others, if I could help it. I want to help you.”

“What am I?” Nova furiously shakes their head, gripping at their elbows so tight little pinpricks of blood skate down their arms. “Why is this happening to me?”

“I prefer to call myself a warlock. Many of us do.” Magnus explains. He holds out his palm, letting a blue flame collect in the centre. “You can refer to yourself however you like. You can just be Nova, and nothing more, if you want.”

“But the magic … that won’t go away?”

Magnus shakes his head. “No. Take my word for it, you will only cause yourself more harm if you try. It’s not all bad.” The flame in Magnus’ hand turns into a cupcake, with a small sugary rainbow on top of the cream white frosting. “Once you learn how to control it, the things you’ll be able to do are incredible.”

“I lost a mug.” Nova laughs, a fragile thing. “It’s so stupid. I just threw it at the wall, but it didn’t smash or anything it just … disappeared. I looked for hours. It’s not even important, it was a quid or something but it … it’s gone. I did that. I don’t know how but wherever it’s ended up is because of me. What if - what if I do that to somebody? Make them … disappear.”

“I don’t think so.” Magnus is a few feet away now if that. “The kind of power that takes is … astronomical, not to mention the technical restraint. The worst you might do is cause some minor injuries, but even that is rare.”

Nova’s stars are glowing steadily. “Have you ever made someone disappear?”

“Not without the intent to do so.”

The answer seems to appease Nova. Alec stays hunched down, it doesn’t look like Magnus needs his support, although it would be nice to stretch his back soon, although he still trains from time to time, he isn’t exactly as young as he used to be.

“Magnus Bane. Step away from the rogue warlock at once. This is no longer an issue for the Downworlder Council to handle, this has become an Institute matter and will thus be handled by Shadowhunters. Your services have not proven useful, and this warlock must be subdued before any harm is caused.”

The electricity in the air gets sharper. Alec hesitates but eventually rises slowly from his crouched position. He catches the minute the Institute Head, Stephen Highsmith, sees him and the flood of blood to his cheeks and forehead. A second later, his head whips towards Nova, who is clutching at their head, their wide eyes caught between the three of them. Alec doesn’t have the time to search for the Shadowhunters positioned around them, knows on instinct that they’re surrounded, that the only way out is through talking and, if that fails, a little violent liberty.

“The warlock is a child.” He states, stalking out from behind the sign. He grips his bow tight and positions himself diagonally from Magnus, firm in his defence. “Surely you have higher morals than that, Stephen.”

Highsmith, a weasely man riding the coattails of his family name, sneers and draws his seraph blade. He’d never been too good as a Shadowhunter, from all accounts, but power is a currency and money talks. “It was very honourable of you to leave your post and flock to my streets, Inquisitor Lightwood, but I’m afraid your presence is simply not necessary. My men and I have it handled.”

“I’m sure you’re very capable of handling precarious situations, Mr. Highsmith.” Butter wouldn’t melt in Magnus’ mouth. “However, as High Warlock Fell is currently out of the country and has given permission for Alexander and myself to fulfil his duties in his place, I do believe it is a case best left to us. We don’t intend to intrude upon your delicate sensibilities, I’m sure you’re a very busy man who has much better things to do than to waste your time on such a small affair.”

“For the record.” Alec smiles with no heart. “It’s Lightwood-Bane. A simple mistake, I’m sure, but an important thing to rectify. Names carry a lot of importance and weight, you know.”

Highsmith splutters. “I do not have time for this!”

“Neither do we.” Magnus stalks closer, until he’s within arms distance from Highsmith. Alec inches closer to Nova, now bent over with their palms pressed against their eyelids. “This is a matter for the Downworlder council, and as it’s representatives, we will take care of it. The longer you argue and fight with us over this, however, the longer it will take until we are out of your hair.”

The back of Alec’s neck prickles with heat. Magnus continues to admonish Highsmith. “Neither Alexander nor I will budge until Nova is safe. Believe me when I tell you that there is nobody more equipped to handle this than us, and if you don’t take your leave quietly and with what little grace you can summon, you will be responsible for whatever harm or damage is caused.”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Highsmith’s face is blotchy and red.

“Quite easily.” Magnus twists his fingers, a white-hot blast landing at Highsmith’s feet. His shoes turn into fluffy bunny slippers. The ears flop when he pounds his feet. “Respect is earnt, Mr. Highsmith, and quite frankly you have done nothing worth receiving mine.”

A low muttering draws Alec’s attention. Nova has sunk onto their knees, the heel of their palms digging into their eyes. Alec quietly side-steps closer, holding his bow behind his back so as not to terrify Nova even more.

“I just want to go home. I just want this all to end. I want to go home.”

Alec sneaks a glance towards Magnus, still holding defence against Highsmith, who has acquired shocking green hair and a yellow high-visibility vest alongside the bunny slippers. Perhaps it won’t go as smoothly as if Magnus were the one talking Nova down, he can connect with them in a way Alec never would, but he can offer support - just as long as he can calm Nova down, draw them away from the conflict, that’s all … then they can dismiss Highsmith because there would be no ‘warlock problem’ and Nova’s safety and comfort could once again take priority.

“Nova?” Alec crouches down, rocking back on his heels. “My name is Alec. I’m a friend of Magnus’. We’re going to do our best to get you home, okay?”

Nova starts rocking back and forth. Their tattoos glow brighter than before, a luminescent blue that pricks at the back of Alec’s eyes. “I want to go home.” They continue to murmur, in a voice that takes on a warbled effect, as though they were speaking underwater. “I just want to go home.”

“Where do you live?” Alec asks. “Do you live in London?”

Nova falls to their knees. In the distance, Alec hears Magnus’ tone getting sharper, although he can’t make out exactly what is being said, it doesn’t fill him with much confidence that a productive conversation is being had. Nova keeps rocking, folded over into themselves. Blood streaks down their forearms, small droplets collecting behind their ears from where their fingers had dug into their scalp.

“Enough is enough!” Highsmith shouts. Shadowhunters spill out from the dark, armed to the teeth with all manner of weapons, seraph blades and a few staves, the odd throwing star attached at the hip. Archers are scattered across the rooftops around them, arrows notched and aimed.

“Highsmith.” Magnus’ hands crackle as blue flame licks at his fingertips, wrapping around his arms. “I’ve made an attempt at civility, but you are clearly not interested in politics. Fine. Take this as a warning. Recall your soldiers. Stand down. I cannot guarantee everyone’s safety if you do not heed this warning, and the dangerous consequences your refusal could inflict are limitless. This young warlock is frightened. Let us look after them, and I assure you, nobody will get hurt.”

“I have had enough of your whining.” Highsmith spits. “This is now Shadowhunter business. Perhaps a few days in a cold cell will teach this young warlock how to control their powers.”

It all happens in a flash. Literally, an actual flash.

Alec rushes forward to protect Nova, futile as it might be, his bow poised towards the nearest threat - a Shadowhunter only a few feet away with a seraph blade drawn and pointed at the back of Nova’s head. A static roaring fills his ears, but he pushes through, hardly aware of his own body as an arrow is sent flying into the Shadowhunter’s shoulder. His skin starts to prick and burn, from his hands up to his neck and rushing down to his ankles like a wildfire coursing through a forest. His heart beats in tune with Nova’s words, I want to go home, thud thud thud thud thud.

Alec shuts his eyes against a luminescent white light, stumbling as the ground falls out from beneath him and an echo calls out for him, a desperate plea of his name shouted underwater.

Magnus?

I just want to go home.

---

Alexander? Alexander!

---

The air smells like metal and thunderstorms. Magnus whirls on his heel, angry tears racing down his cheeks. Hell, hath no fury like a warlock scorned.

“Listen to me you weasely git.” Magnus spits. “I’m done playing civil. My husband is missing because you wanted to play hero for the first time in your poor, forsaken life. Sad you never got to play soldiers with the big boys? Well, guess it’s your lucky day. I am going to take Nova with me back to Alicante, and while I’m there, I’m going to ensure that my lovely friend Consul Penhallow is updated with everything that occurred here today. Unfortunately for you, her wife has family in the area, some of whom I am sure wouldn’t mind stepping up to keep an eye on you. I’ve seen how you conduct yourself, and if it is any indication of how your Institute is run, I guarantee it is not a position that you will retain for much longer.”

Magnus raises a hand. The Shadowhunters flanking Highsmith sheath their weapons. “Withdraw your forces and go slinking back. This is not a request. You did not heed my warning, but you will weather the consequences.”

He turns, uninterested in sparring Highsmith another second of his time. Magnus didn’t see the flash, but he recognised the sign of a portal, although … there’s something about this one that is bugging him.

Today I’m sending things into different rooms with just my thoughts … I don’t know how but wherever it’s ended up is because of me … what if I do that to somebody? Make them disappear?

“Fuck.”

Nova is sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at their hands as though they’re something alien. Magnus collapses in front of them, a mirror-reflection. They’re shaking, tremors like the ground before an earthquake.

The earthquake has come. This is the aftershock.

“I don’t know what happened.” Nova whispers, harshly. “I just wanted everything to stop. I kept wishing that I could go home, and everything got really muffled, like I was wrapped in cotton or something, but I was still here and there was so much noise, so much shouting and I was so scared-”

“Might I reach for your hand?” Magnus asks. Nova glances up, their cheeks stained with dried tears. They nod, wordlessly. Magnus turns their palms over, tracing the lines with his fingers where they glow intermittently, as though a light was shining from beneath their skin.

“You’re not mad?”

“No.” Magnus’ smile is a little thin, a little bittersweet. “Not at you. I know that Alexander is okay, wherever he is, and that’s all that matters to me.”

Nova shakes their head. “He could be dead, I could have-”

“You didn’t.” Magnus assures them. “I would know if he was, as sure as you knew when your magic appeared. Which, if I recall correctly, you said was behaving volatile today?”

Nova’s fingers curl against Magnus’. “That flash. I felt like an exposed wire. I felt…” Nova frowns. “Right as it happened, I felt really calm all of a sudden, but also … like my magic? I guess? Was being pulled out of me. I wasn’t scared anymore, though, I felt … comforted. Safe? But then I opened my eyes, and everything was the same, and all that fear came flooding back.”

Jagged pieces are coming together in Magnus’ mind. It’s a working theory, and a weak one at that, but it’s something and that’s enough for him to cling onto, to keep his sanity.

“Nova. I don’t mean to pressure you, so please do not take it that way, you are of course free to go wherever you please - I promise the Shadowhunters, the lot dressed in all black with their pointy egos, won’t cause you any harm, but … if you’re willing, I could use your help.”

“My help?”

Magnus wicks a portal into existence. The wind around them picks up leaves and twigs but in the little bubble he creates for them, they are safe. “This is a portal. I sort of invented them. I have a feeling that what you did is not all that dissimilar, but I need your help to figure that out. I hope that I’ll be able to help you better understand your own powers, and get my husband back, but only if it is something you are comfortable with.”

Nova stares at the portal in wonder. They nod, hesitant at first and then firmer with every movement. “Whatever happened … it was my fault. I know you don’t blame me, somehow, but if I can help … I have to. You and your husband were willing to do anything to help me, it’s the least I can do.”

“It only takes a word, if at any point you want to bow out, or you don’t feel comfortable or safe, your commitment ends. There’s no obligation here, okay?”

Nova nods. Magnus stands gingerly, wiping the dirt of the back of his pants and extending a hand to help pull them up. “You’ll need to keep tight hold of my hand.” He instructs. “Don’t let go until I say it’s safe, otherwise I could lose you too.”

Nova squeezes Magnus’ hand. “We’ll find him.” They promise.

“Of course, we will.” Magnus smiles, wishing he could even half-convince himself.

---

Alec focuses his landing on the balls of his feet, leaning back to distribute his weight to his heels to cushion the impact. It’s fortunate that, despite the length of time he’s spent behind a desk instead of in the field, he’s managed to keep up with his training. That fall could have wiped him out.

He takes a few seconds to focus on what he can hear, smell, see; the floor beneath him is a dark mahogany, freshly polished, the sunlight leaking in from the north facing window between drawn burgundy curtains. Outside the window echoes a busy street, tolling bells and warm chatter and … horses?

“Quite a grand entrance. Most people just use the doorbell.”

The voice, familiar in the wrong ways, sweeps under his feet and knocks him backwards, scattered along the floor. It’s only magic, which he recognises beneath its coldness, that saves him from knocking over a beautiful porcelain vase sat precariously atop an equally beautiful, engraved end table.

“Then again, I’m not sure I would have invited a Shadowhunter into my home.”

The voice belongs to Magnus, but he is … not himself. At least not the one that Alec knows. It’s rather like seeing a distorted mirror image for all that stands out to him as wrong.

The hardened glaze of Magnus’ glamoured eyes. The sneer of his mouth. The white of his knuckles curled around the top of a hardback novel. The muted colours, from his hair to his makeup-free face, to the dark pants with thin silver lines and matching suspenders over a plain black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The line of his body along the gilded lounge is carefully constructed to suggest a nonchalance which is betrayed by the tension Alec can see in the rigidity of his limbs; he’s poised to attack.

This is not the Magnus that Alec recognises, this is a stranger with his husband’s face, his history, and his memories but not his present - or, rather, as Alec is quickly coming to suspect, his future.

“I’m sorry.” Alec tries to stand up, but as soon as his hands touch the floor, they become stuck, as though someone has glued them to the wood. His feet too are rooted in place.

“Oh, no. Please don’t apologise. It’s not as though you barged into my home, my private sanctuary, with no warning.” Magnus purses his lips. “You did not pull a weapon on me. I will admit that is a nice change.”

Alec can’t feel along his back for his quiver, but he’s fairly certain his weapons hadn’t travelled with him. Magnus had cloaked them to appear when he needed them, but it’s unlikely they were spelled in preparation for a situation such as this. Not that he is 100% clear on what this even is.

“Who are you?” Magnus waves a hand dismissively. “Please don’t say ‘Shadowhunter’, I am quite aware of that much, even if your runes weren’t visible only child soldiers hold themselves with such rigid arrogance. I will concede the outfit is quite out of the ordinary, however.”

Alec clears his throat. He has to be delicate about this. “My name is Alexander.” He shifts his weight and draws his shoulders in as best he can. “Alexander L-uh, Wayland. Alexander Wayland.”

Smooth.

Magnus hums, folding his book and letting it fall onto the glass table in front of him. “I had suspected for a fleeting moment that you might have been a Lightwood. No matter.” He elegantly sweeps his legs over until both are flat on the ground, his hands clasped between his knees as he leans forward with a seamless, lethal grace. “The real question I need an answer to would be how a lanky Nephilim such as yourself made it past my wards to crash into the very room in which I had been trying to enjoy some peace and quiet. London isn’t exactly known for such these days.”

“London?” Alec echoes, without quite thinking much of it.

Despite his foolish hope that he might have been wrong, the evidence was insurmountable and quite literally staring him in the face - however it might have happened, when he’d moved towards Nova he’d been sent falling and inevitably crashing into 1884. Magnus had only stayed in London for a year, hadn’t been back since, and Alec has seen the photos of him, Ragnor and Camille, recognises the darkness in Magnus’ gaze as when he first talked about Camille, and how she had torn him to pieces, discarding him without a thought after she was no longer satisfied with him.

“Magnus, Archibald has two extra tickets for tonight’s - oh. I do not recall you informing me that you were intending on having company for the night.”

A tall, slender blonde man hovers in the doorway, staring at Alec with equal parts vague intrigue and thinly veiled distaste. Everything about him exudes taste and elegance, but there is a familiarity to his features that itches at the back of Alec’s mind. He knows the man’s face, has never met him, he doesn’t think, but knows him in the distant way that one knows legends and heroes.

“The tickets are all yours, Woolsey.” Magnus doesn’t take his eyes off Alec. “I am afraid it appears I will be a little preoccupied, I have some unexpected business to take care off. Enjoy the play on my behalf.”

Woolsey Scott. The founder of the Praetor Lupus.

This isn’t funny anymore.

“Of course.” The corner of Woolsey’s mouth ticks up. None of the documentation around him could have ever come close to capturing the real thing. Magnus had mentioned him a few times, off handed, but Alec can see how they would have gotten along. “Don’t wait up, my dear. I certainly won’t be.”

Just as quickly as he had come sweeping in, Woolsey is gone, and Alec is left to sit glued to the floor while Magnus picks him apart by gaze alone. After a few uncomfortable minutes where the distant ticking of a grandfather stirs Alec a little mad, a chair slides across the polished floor, coming to a stop seamlessly next to Alec. The magic around his hands and feet disappear. He can wiggle his toes again.

“I kindly suggest that you take a seat.” Magnus states in a tone that leaves no room for a refusal. “I have a few questions that need answering.”

TBC on AO3

#incorrect-malec #malecsanta20 #*fic20 #*gifts20

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dokoni-mo · 4 years

Text

Far Away, Together || Darth Vader x Reader (Chapter 5.5)

(IMPORTANT A/N PLEASE READ: oh boy am i nervous to post this,, hello everyone!! this is my first time ever writing smut!! this chapter is basically a continuation upon the previous chapter of the series that I have been working on. You could consider this chapter to be an OVA chapter of sorts... I’ll leave it up to you to decide whether or not this chapter is cannon to the story or not. With that being said, this chapter has very little to do with the story of the series. But, I still tagged all my normal people in the list since it is technically part of the series (if you don’t want to be tagged for things like this, please tell me and i’ll remove you!!). I also wanna give a big shoutout/thanks to @hxldmxdxwn (pls dont be mad for me tagging you,,) for giving me some advice for writing smut and being a huge inspo for me!! Thank you so much :)))) Anyway, if you are not interested in smut or don’t like smut, feel free to overlook this chapter!! Our regularly scheduled programming will be continued soon. However, if you do read on, I do hope you enjoy what you see!! have fun ;) )))

Chapter One: [x]

Chapter Two: [x]

Chapter Three: [x]

Chapter Four: [x]

Chapter Five: [x]

WARNINGS: SMUT!!!! light dom/sub references, usage of titles, fingering, force-bonding, inappropriate usage of the force, cursing, otherwise none!!

Key: (F/N) = first name

Word Count: ~4700

Much to your dismay, the song that you and him had danced to eventually met it's inevitable end.

The pair of you stood a moment longer in each other’s arms as you heard the music slowly fade into the muffled chatter of nobility and officers saying their adieu as they left the venue, the tiredness of the night creeping its way onto their bones. You felt a quick wash of sadness swim overtop of you as your ears confirmed that the song was over, making you frown slightly. Lingering your head upon his taunt chest for a moment longer, your face assumed a soft smile as you looked up at him, laced with a hint of nervousness and awkwardness as you tried to figure out what to say to him This task proved difficult, however, since you knew you had to say something, but you had no idea as to what that something would be.

Hey, that was pretty neat? No way. There’s no way you’d be able to sleep at night if you said that.

Thanks? No! That was just rude.

Hey I really like you even though you are kinda intimidating and could totally snap me in half right here and right now but hey at least you would have touched me? This one was pretty self explanatory.

“I… I never took you for such a good dancer.” You eventually settled on saying, your cheeks reddening as your eyes twinkled up at him. It was a decent thing to say, you figured. It was in no way a lie, and you had even thrown in a friendly joke. A fine performance.

“And I have never taken you as one to accept such things.” Lord Vader responded to you, his grip upon your tiny frame not faltering for even a moment. His hold was strong, stable, supportive, solid, and a plethora of other things that started with s. Some of which, however, lingered on the… indecent side of things.

Letting a small giggle escape your lips, you made no attempt to quip back at him as you stared into the eyes of his mask. You had wished that the lenses were at least somewhat transparent within that moment. You craved to see his eyes as they burned into your own, letting you see every emotion that lingered in them as he looked upon you. If you were a braver person, you would reach up and take off the plate of metal yourself.

Alas, you were not.

After a moment of looking upon him, you let your gaze fall to the panel of buttons upon his stomach, a small smile painting your lips as you snaked your hand from behind his back to let your hand rest upon the armor of his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the outline of the square of buttons.

“I should…” you began, your eyes still locked upon the panel of buttons before you, “I should probably start getting ready for bed. We still have to… mingle in the morning, and-”

“No.” He spoke quickly, almost too quickly, as he cut you off, his voice a touch louder than it should have been.

“(F/N)...” he began, his voice sounding so much deeper than normal to you, “please… stay here. Stay with me.”

Before you could even think, you felt his arm that was wrapped around your waist slowly retreat and the hand that was in yours unlatch itself. His large hands eventually found their new home upon your ribcage just below your armpits, his grip as strong and sturdy just as before, perhaps even a touch more. Lord Vader’s hands were quite big as they rested upon your tiny body, the expanse of his palms nearly engulfing you whole. Feeling the sheer size of his hands around you, your cheeks flushed deeper pink as you bit your lip, trying to control your indecent thoughts.

“O-Okay…” you stammered out, still refusing to meet his intense gaze upon your face. Not knowing what else to do with your hands, you rested them gingerly upon the underside of his muscular, leather-bound arms, your thumbs roaming the surface of the material for any feeling of flesh you could make out below it.

After a long moment of the sith lord holding you in place in silence, you heard his breathing hitch in his respirator as his hands started to travel down your body. Slowly, so excruciatingly slowly, his strong, gargantuan hands made their way to rest upon your hips, his thumbs starting to rub the bone below your skin.

This in no way helped to coax your blush down or to stop the scandalous thoughts that plagued your mind.

Without even telling yourself to do so, you lifted your hands from their position on his arms to rest upon the large expanse of his chest, the tips of your fingers hiding underneath the plate of metal that adorned his shoulders in order to get even a fraction closer to the skin beneath. You felt your inner temperature rise at the thought of seeing the man underneath the familiar armor.

“(F/N),” He rumbled out from behind his mask, a distant purr within the depths of his voice, “Have I ever told you how breathtakingly... alluring I find you?”

You swallowed thickly at his words, your cheeks nearly reaching a boiling point in heat. You paused for a moment to make sure that you were still alive before you could respond, your hands tensing upon his chest.

“I-I find you alluring too, Vader…” you responded, still refusing to make eye contact with the dark lord. What you had said was in no way a lie. From the very first moment that you had lain eyes upon Lord Vader, you had always held an odd attraction to him. You had always wondered what it would feel like to have his hands upon you, what it would sound like to hear his voice call out your name.

This was the perfect time for you to feed into your curiosity. Never in a million years did you expect to be there in that moment, locked tight in the sith lord’s grasp, his hands on your hips. Your body was so very hot, so very in need.

“(F/N).” You hear Lord Vader say, the usage of your name sending a shiver of cold down your heated spine. Before you could register what was happening, you felt the grip on your hips tighten as he pulled you closer to his much larger body, your frame now flush up against his. Beneath your soft skin, you could feel the faint warmth of his body underneath the suit drawing you into him, beckoning for you to merge into one with the dark lord. The feeling of the leather bounding his body rubbing against your skin made the hair stand up on your arms, your legs almost wobbling at the amount of power and authority that radiated off of him.

It was intoxicating.

Exasperating.

Thrilling.

Nerve-wracking.

You craved more.

But…

“V-Vader we…” you began to say, your eyes still trained on his chest before you, “We can’t-”

“Do not try and shy yourself away from me, (F/N).” said Lord Vader, the grip he had upon you tightening in case you tried to push your body away, “I sense your desire… Your desire for me. Do not try and fool yourself.”

You bit your lip again as you nodded, still unable to look up at him. You were embarrassed, but you didn’t exactly know why.

“Besides…” he continued on, removing one of his hands from your hip. You would have been sad at the absence of his touch if he did not replace it so soon after. Finding it's new home upon your chin, Lord Vader wrapped his fingers around the bone firmly yet gently, lifting it up to make you look at nothing but him, right in the eyes.

“Are you in any position to tell your superior what he can and can not do with his subordinate, Miss (F/N)?” he asked you rhetorically, the purr in his voice rattling you to the core. Your face, as well as your entire being, was on fire at this point. You swallowed thickly but silently as your eyes were forced to look into his, your want of seeing his real ones growing and growing the longer you searched for them.

“N-No, my Lord…” you were able to whisper out as you felt your mind go blank with nothing else but need.

Pausing to inspect your face a moment longer, Lord Vader eventually removed his hand from your chin, using it instead to stroke a lock of your hair on the side of your head.

“Good girl…” he purred out, making your breath stammer as it escaped your lungs.

With this, he took his hands off of you in order to stand up fully straight, his figure looming over you as his gaze bore into your eyes. The absence of his touch upon your body making you feel cold, you looked up at him with pleading eyes, a small frown painting your lips. He was so much taller than you, making you feel so, so small by comparison. His frame engulfed you whole, and you bathed in every moment of it.

“Now, allow me to take care of you, (F/N).”

He nodded his head slowly to his side.

“Get on the bed.”

With barely a moment’s hesitation, you followed his order to the mark. Keeping your gaze down, you bit your lip as you kicked off your boots and rolled onto the bed, sitting such that your knees were slightly bent at obtuse angles and your back was rested against the headboard of the bed. Your face still flushed, you looked over to the tall, looming sith lord across the room, waiting for him to come and take you.

Sensing that you were in a good position, Lord Vader turned to face you, taking his sweet time making his way over to the bedside.

You wanted to whine and scream about how slow he was being. The worst part about it, you knew that he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

How cruel.

Unable to keep his gaze off of you, he slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, the metal and wood of it's frame groaning beneath his weight.

“(F/N),” he said, his tone deep yet somehow patient, “Are you scared?”

The question took you aback for a moment, making you stir in place. Pursing your lips, your gaze dropped for a moment before you stammered out your response.

“A-A little… It's… been a long time, since I…”

“I see.” Lord Vader responded without you having to finish.

He knew exactly what you meant.

“You do not need to worry, my sweet… I promise that I will not hurt you.” he rumbled out as he slowly shifted his weight, earning another groan from the bedding beneath. His size making you slip down so that you were laid on the bed, you noticed how his cape draped over his shoulders as he pinned you to the mattress, acting as a veil to shield you from the outside world.

A curtain of him.

The sheer size of the man on top of you made you realize just how large he was. You felt so tiny, so small compared to the mass of his arms and chest. Feeling the heat radiate off your face as you looked up at him, all you knew to do with yourself was to look dumbly into this mask, eager for his next move.

It came in and took your breath away.

“Undress yourself. Don’t stop until I say so.”

Maker, he had barely even touched you, and you were already so in need of him.

Following his command, you lifted your hands from resting on either side of your head to find their place upon the seam of your uniform’s coat. Your fingers trembling slightly, you undid the buttons of your coat, slipping it off as best as you could while being pinned underneath Lord Vader. Your eyes focused on taking off your uniform, you could feel his gaze upon you as you slowly exposed more and more of your skin to him, your ears filled with nothing but the rustle of cloth and his breath. Biting your lip, you slid your tank-top off of your torso and threw it to the side, leaving you in nothing but your bra to cover your top half. You shuddered as the cold air around you crept it's way upon your body.

With another faint moment of hesitation, you slid your hands downwards to the him of your uniform pants, curling your fingers to ready yourself to take it off.

“No.” You heard him say before you could finish the job, “I will do that part myself. You may stop.”

Obeying his wishes, you returned your hands to rest of either side of your head, your gaze returning to meet his mask. Without him even doing anything, you were already a mess beneath him. Your skin was glossed from the dew that expelled itself from your person as you heated up, your breath coming out in soft, silent pants.

Maker above did he drink in the sight of you.

You were so pretty beneath him, looking at him like that.

The best part?

You were absolutely, unquestionably, undoubtedly, undeniably, his.

And his only.

Shifting his weight over to one of his arms, he lifted up his free hand, resting it upon your stomach. Of course, his hand was humongous as it laid upon your skin, nearly stretching the entire expanse of your middle. The feeling of the cool leather made you let out a silent gasp, a twinge of embarrassment bubbling in the back of your mind. Lord Vader trailed up and down your stomach and side for a good while before traveling up further, your eyes fixated on the movements of his hand.

Feeling his fingertips poke their way under the wiring of your bra, you couldn’t stop yourself as you lifted up your hands to your face, hiding yourself underneath them as a result of your inexplicable embarrassment.

Lord Vader did not like this.

“No.” Lord Vader demanded. Without warning, you felt the ghost of a pull upon your wrists, forcing them back into their original position by your head no matter how much you fought against it. Your mind confused for a moment, you quickly deduced that it must have been him. His power.

“You will not hide yourself from me.” He continued on, stopping any movements of his hands, “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes… Yes, I’m sorry.” you gasped out in between your pants, your legs squirming for him to keep going.

Even though he said nothing in response, he must have been satisfied with the answer since he continued his movements. Through the sheer strength of his fingers, Lord Vader pushed past the wiring of our bra, cupping your breast in his large hand.

Just the feeling of his engrossing touch upon your breast made you let out a soft moan, causing you to bite your lip in surprise. You were beyond turned on at this point, wanting nothing more than for him to just keep going.

Letting out a few more soft, quiet moans as he begun to knead your breast in his palm, you finally mustered enough courage to look up into his mask. Of course, the metal offered you no way of telling what exactly he was thinking, but offered you a source to give your needy, lust-laced gaze to.

You felt so good.

You felt so good because of him.

You knew that you would want him for the rest of time.

You knew that only he would ever make you feel like this again and again.

Eventually deciding that enough was enough, Lord Vader removed his hand from your breast and out from under your bra, his removal causing the fabric to go back onto your body at an odd angle. The absence of his massages made you whine, looking up at him pleadingly to touch you again.

Your requests were eventually met as he trailed the tips of his fingers down from your breast to your stomach to the hem of your uniform pants, the gentle touches earning themselves another shudder out of you.

Wrapping his fingers around the hem, the dark lord stopped himself for a moment to look upon your face. Satisfied with your expression of want and need, he pulled down the cloth wrapping around your legs, discarding it without any ounce of care about it or where it landed. This night was surely full of surprises. You had never thought that you would ever be sprawled out underneath Lord Vader in only your bra and panties.

But, there you were.

You barely had any time to react before he made you gasp out another moan, his leather-bound fingers rubbing up and down the cloth that covered your aching, dripping core. Continuing his actions, you began to squirm and whimper for him to remove your panties. Your legs kicked and shuffled as moans and whines left your throat, making you sound so pitiful as you gripped onto his cape, the fabric soft in your fingers.

“Quiet.” He rumbled out as he stopped him movements, focusing one hard press against the cloth that covered your clit. Opening your mouth in a silent gasp, you quickly shut it as your forced yourself to stay still, not wanting to find out what would happen were you to disobey him.

Satisfied with your submission, Lord Vader must have decided that you were ready for him fully. Reaching his fingers up, he latched the waistband of the fabric around his large digits, so very achingly slowly pulling it down past your thighs, knees, and feet.

Your chest was rising and falling rapidly as you felt your panties fall off your person, earning another shudder from the cold. Lord Vader’s breath had started to pick up the pace as he loomed down over your body.

He was… pleased.

So very pleased.

Never had seen such a beautiful sight sprawled out underneath him.

Wanting him.

Needing him.

Deciding to be so gracious as to entertain your needs, he swiped his leathery middle and pointer finger up the length of your folds, the slick coming from them coating the digits instantly, earning another low, shallow moan from you. Amused by this, Lord Vader brought his soaked fingers up closer to his mask, inspecting how the liquid shined in the soft glow of the dim lighting surrounding the pair of you.

“I am most impressed, Miss (F/N),” he said to you, turning his attention back to your reddened face, “Already this in need, and I have barely even begun.”

Cue another whine to escape from behind your lips, your hands gripping and kneading on his cape.

“Vader… please... “ you whined softly, your eyes full of pitiful gleam, “I need you so badly…”

Returning his hand to rest between the folds of your core, he pressed his middle and pointer finger against your entrance, another moan shooting out of your lungs.

“As you wish, Miss (F/N).”

Slowly but surely, Lord Vader pushed the tip of his leather-bound middle finger into your core, your walls fluttering in your excitement. A flurry of moans and gasps left your person as he continued to push inside of you, only stopping once you were filled. He paused for a moment to let you get adjusted before he began to push his digit in and out of your core, the sounds of this action downright sinful to hear.

You were a mess beneath him. As he gingerly started to increase his pace, your mind started to go blank as the pleasure overwhelmed you, a flurry of moans, gasps, and pleads escaping from your lungs. All you could think about was him, how good you felt because of him.

You wanted him for the rest of time.

You wanted him to keep going for the rest of time.

Deciding that you in no way have had enough, you groaned as he pushed his pointer finger inside of you, right alongside his middle one. The stretching of your walls almost made you scream in pleasure, your nails digging in to the fabric of his cape. You could have sworn that you had seen stars.

“So eager…” You heard him say in between your moans and quiet pleads, “So ready to receive me…”

Leaning down to get closer, you unconsciously reached up and wrapped yours arms around his broad shoulders the best you could, your fists bunching up the fabric of his cape.

Turning his mask to rest near your ear, a ripple of pleasure ran through your body as you heard Lord Vader speak, his tone deeper and darker than ever before.

“Such a good girl.”

Before you could blubber out a response, you felt his fingers curl themselves inside of you, hitting right on the spot that made your whole body shake with pleasure. The rate of your moans picking up, the pace of which the finger-fucked you did as well, eventually leading him to add a third finger to the mix. Every single noise that was coming from your body could have made the filthiest porn star ever blush. Your moans were so very desperate, and the sound of your core’s juices being mixed with the rapid pace of his fingers filling the space the pair of you shared.

Reaching up with his thumb, Lord Vader started to rub circles into your clit, making you moan out his name almost too loudly. He seemed to be pleased by this, since you had noticed that his pace had started to quicken as his breathing became more and more rapid. Seeing a way to maximize the amount of pleasure you could get, you continued to moan out his name, sometimes even accompanied by his title. The usage of Lord Vader would cause him to rumble out quiet groans from behind his mask, the bass making your chest rattle.

His pace reaching a feverous state, you could feel the knot building up in your vagina grow tighter and tighter as it promised an up-coming release. This promise only made your already over-stimulated body shake and shudder with more and more pleasure, the sounds escaping your mouth proof of such.

“I sense that you are close.” Lord Vader said to you, your mind barely able to process the words.

You nodded your head quickly, a mumble of strings of pleases and don’t stops falling from your lips in place of a sentence.

“(F/N)...” he groaned, his gaze boring into the fiber of your being.

Without any warning, you began to feel a buzz from inside of you. This was different from the knot you felt growing tighter and tighter, but it felt as if it came from no where. It felt as if it came directly from your soul, the very source of your existence. Your brow flexing in fuzzy confusion, you were perplexed until you felt a new sensation. It felt as if your very soul was reaching out, making branches to do as such.

Reaching out to him.

And you felt his own reach back.

The sheer rush of it all was too much to bear. The feeling of his fingers force themselves in and out of you so quickly. The feeling of his thumb circling your clit. The feeling of his force bonding your energy and his together.

It was euphoric.

It was pure bliss.

“That’s it, my sweet,” you heard him call to you, “Let go. Let go for your lord. Let go for me.”

Your orgasm raked itself over your body in waves, making your legs shake and the grip you had upon his cape tighten, turning your knuckles white. You almost screamed out his name as your walls fluttered around his digits, coating them further in your fluids.

Oh, how he loved it.

Eventually coming down from your high, you laid there for a long moment beneath the dark lord, his fingers halting to a pause inside of you. His breath was quite ragged as he remained still, almost matching your own pants for air as he gazed upon your body.

Once you had stopped shaking from pleasure, he slowly slid his fingers from out of your core, sending one last wave of euphoria through your nerves.

You looked up at him with glossy eyes and a dumb, open-mouthed smile as the back of his knuckles brushed against your cheek, moving any stray hairs out of your face.

He would never admit it, to anyone, but the sight of you beneath him, with that big, dopey, loving smile on your face, your souls freshly bonded together, was the most beautiful thing that he had ever witnessed.

After a long pause of simply admiring your face and body, he finally spoke.

“Get some rest, my dear. We have matters to attend to in the morning.”

You were confused for a moment as you felt his weight lift off of you, the bed creaking in relief as he stood. A pang of weary sadness rippled through you as you watched him start to leave, walking over the pieces of your uniform that littered the floor. Eventually able to process what was happening, you reached out to him, grabbing on to the fabric of his cape to keep him from moving away any further.

“W-wait,” you said, your lungs still panting for air, “please, d-don’t go… Will you please stay? With me? At least until I fall asleep…?”

After a brief pause, Lord Vader turned to you, pointing the face of his mask down to your face.

Seeing the emotion in your eyes as you reached out to him rustled an old feeling that he had not known for a very long time. In a moment of self-reflection, a reel of his life prior to this moment flashed inside of his mind, reminding him of his past self, alongside every mistake he had ever made

Watching his actions play back to him, he decided something.

Even though he had left everyone he had ever loved before behind…

He would not leave you.

He would stay.

“Yes.” He said simply as he took your hand into his, holding it as if it were made of the most fragile material in the world. Walking back over to you, he slowly slid down into a seat position upon the bed, earning another groan of protest from the wood beneath. His back against the headboard, he watched as you slid your body close to his own, your warmth reaching his skin beneath all the layers of armor and leather surrounding him, a foreign feeling to the dark lord of the sith. Lord Vader draped his strong, heavy arm over your shoulder as you draped one of your own over his waist, pulling yourself closer to him.

Nothing was said as you lulled yourself off to sleep, a feeling of security overtaking you as you were held within the arms of the most feared man in the galaxy.

~~~

TAGS: @spaghetti-666 , @soullesstaco , @arsonistvoyager , @robin-obsessed , @glitter-rian , @captainrexstan , @easterncryptid , @deviatedwinter , @roseangel013bf , @danicalifxrnia , @dartheldur , @finest-trashbag , @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii , @elongatedmusk-rat , @shads121

#darth vader #darth vader x reader #fanfiction #anakin x you #anakin skywalker #anakin x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars #star wars x reader #star wars x you #star wars fanfic #smut #darth vader smut #anakin smut #anakin skywalker smut #star wars smut

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bold-writing · 3 years

Text

The One With Silver Scars || 6 || Submission and Reward

Warnings: Swearing, mensions of abuse, swearing, violent thoughts.

Words: 3100+

Previous || Next

~6~

Claire refused to so much as look at Adelais.

Of course, this bothered the other blonde not a bit. She was taking the time of reprieve to lessen her headache that occasionally still throbbed behind her eyes. Marcia had returned from the washroom, clean and appearing slightly more relaxed now that she wasn’t thinking about being covered in urine. Her presence distracted Claire away from Adelais, at least.

Casey disappeared into the washroom next; but she did not shower. They could hear the tap running in the sink and the brunette had re-emerged only short minutes later, face slightly pinkened from washing it. All of her oversized clothes remained bundled around her, a shield against the rest of the world.

Hoping to distract herself, Adelais started to wander around the room again, fingers gently tracing along imperfections in the walls as she paced. She examined the door pointlessly, knowing there was no chance of breaking it down or hoping it remained unlocked. A peek through the tiny gap showed her nothing new and let her move on without thought.

The lights inside the small room had been mostly turned off, leaving only the softer lights on the far wall on while the longer, brighter lights along the side walls were dark. Outside of the room, however, was just as bright as before.

Her dried hair fell into her face when she bent, prompting her to stand up and brush it back from her face and pull it over her shoulder again. A wet spot was left behind from the water leeching out of her hair and into the fabric. The natural wave had returned to it after washing away the crimps and curls of her braid. The discomfort in her scalp from the pins had also eased. If the man had not removed them, they would probably have remained pricking uncomfortably at her skull.

Keeping her back to the other girls, she lifted a hand to her mouth and covered her lips as she remembered. He had been so gentle as he removed each pin, each section of braid, until her hair had fallen free around her shoulders. Then the woman had stroked her hair like one would a cat, soothing her into assumed sleep.

Adelais closed her eyes.

She was sure that if the gentle strokes had been continuous, she would have drifted off to sleep.

It was a dangerous addiction. To know a comforting, gentle touch for the first time. As far back as she could remember, her parents had handled her roughly. Even when she had been good, had done no wrong, the hands that guided her had been a solid as a shackle and bruised her soft, malnourished skin. The awkward but soothing hug from the monochrome man, the gentle sway as they danced, the soft caress of calloused hands along her hair and cheek—she craved it.

Did that make her a terrible person?

She desperately wanted the touch of her captor—captors?—while the thought of her parents made her skin burn with discomfort.

Little freak.

Marcia’s words returned her focus inside the room. “He was having a full-on conversation with himself.” Adelais had already explained the best reason for that, but Clair’s superiority complex extended to her knowledge as well. She wanted to be the one with all the answers, and therefore refused to accept Adelais’s. “What was that line about ‘the food it waiting’?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Adelais frowned. When had that been said?

“What?” she asked, drawing the gazes of the three to her. “When did he say that?”

Claire pinched her lips into a thin line, refusing to speak. Marcia did so instead. “When we were listening at the door, before…she came in. He said, “The food is waiting”. What could that mean?”

“Does everyone get how wacked this is?” Claire demanded suddenly, glancing between Adelais and Casey—as though anything had changed. “We need to get out of here, now-”

The overhead lights clicked on, stopping Claire’s words with a choked gasp as she and Marcia ducked together again. Casey only looked up, toward Adelais and the door, and remained in her usual, curled up position. Only this time she was against the far wall, closer to Claire and Marcia so they could talk between themselves without speaking too loudly.

Adelais only took a step to the side, freeing the space directly in front of the door. The back of her heel bumped the leg of the cot she and Casey usually sat on, halting her from moving any further. The door unlocked and swung open, revealing the monochrome man. He spared a glance at the three farthest from him, then over to where Adelais stood blocking the bathroom entrance.

Overall, he looked the same as the last time she had encountered him. Except for the grey pail he carried with him, with spray bottles and cloths inside.

Cleaning supplies.

Thinking back to when Casey had emerged from the washroom, Adelais had used the excuse of needing to pee again when she stepped into the small room and quickly cleaned up after the other two girls. She did not want to dirty one of the face cloths they had been provided, so she bunched up a small bit of toilet paper and wiped around the sink to collect the spilled water. Not wanting to risk the wad of toilet paper blocking the toilet, she tossed it into the small bin directly next to it. Then she straightened Marcia’s towel and Casey’s face cloth.

She had cleaned everything as best she could.

Do better!

Understanding his intent, she moved her leg around the end of the cot to open the way to the bathroom. Other than the shift of her legs, the rest of her body barely moved or swayed. His gunmetal eyes tracked her until she stopped, having only taken two simple steps to her left. When he knew she was not making a move to run, he left the door wide open to approach the bathroom she had opened up to him.

He passed close enough to her that she could feel the warmth of his body heat.

Stopping in the door, he took in the bathroom.

Was it obvious that someone had attempted to clean it? She was sure no bits of the toilet paper had been left on the sink, and there was not much she could do for the water in the shower. The effort she had put into this room would not have been enough for her mother; she would already be carrying new bruises if that were all she did while under her parents’ roof.

The man glanced over his shoulder, but he looked down near her hands rather than up at Adelais’s face. “Who cleaned?” he asked. So, he had noticed.

“I tried,” she admitted calmly, quietly, while keeping her focus on the wall directly across from her. She repressed the bone-deep urge to flinch at her own words.

Did I tell you to try? No! When I tell you to do something, do it properly!

Her attention tracked him in her peripheral vision without actually looking at him. Turning at her declaration, he stared at her face for a moment before refocusing on the other three. “Please, keep your area neat. An unclean bathroom is unacceptable.” He lifted the bucket and pulled one of the bottles out. “To make it simple, I’ve colour-coded these; blue is for the floor, and the pink bottle for the ceramic surfaces.”

He appeared to want to say more but stopped himself, releasing a long sigh as he glanced toward the main door for a moment. Finally, he lifted the bucket up in front of himself. He cast his gaze down to the floor, standing stiff on the opposite side of the bathroom doorway as Adelais. She heard no movement from the others, so her hand automatically reached out for the handle of the bucket.

Too long, too slow.

The frightening reflexes the man had used to snatch Marcia returned when his free hand snapped out to shackle Adelais’s thin wrist in his hold. She could not supress the jump of surprise and fright, nearly biting her tongue when her body went from placidly waiting to strung up like a bowstring. A gasp sounded from behind her, but from which of the girls she was not sure.

Initially, she kept her eyes down in the hopes that remaining still and timid would soothe the man’s anger. Yet he made no other move; not to hurt her nor release her. So, she raised her gaze from where it had been locked on the bucket to meet the hard stare being used to pin her in place. There was no way to understand what was going through his mind; he looked stern and tense by his expression, but the longer Adelais looked at him the softer his grip on her wrist became—for which she was thankful, since he had grabbed her directly over a still-tender bruise.

When he finally released her completely, she dropped her hand back down to her side. Do not take the bucket—she could understand the message.

Still holding the bucket out, he motioned with his free hand toward the other girls in a ‘come hither’ gesture. Finally, movement sounded behind Adelais as Casey rushed past her first, taking the proffered bucket. Claire and Marcia came next, more hesitant, then rushed quickly into the bathroom so as not to linger in his reach for too long.

Adelais remained where she stood.

He moved into the space of the door, blocking in the three that were now crouching on the floor around the sink. The oldest of them was left staring at the wall again, his focus turned from her completely. Was it trust that prompted him to give her such an open opportunity, or was he confident that she could not escape past the numerous locked doors?

What did it mean for her that she didn’t even glance toward the door in consideration?

“Patricia has reminded me that I was sent to get you for a reason,” he explained calmly, though she could hear the reluctance in his voice. Adelais could not begin to understand the nuances of his mind, but it was clear that he had been scolded by the woman. She was the one who claimed she could talk to him, that he listens to her. Patricia.

It only solidified Adelais’s belief that this was someone with D.I.D.

“You are sacred food, and I promise not to bother you again.”

Fighting against a frown, she continued to stare at the wall with unfocused green eyes. Food? Sacred food?

Even as he walked past her, Adelais kept her eyes forward. She tracked him in her peripheral without actually moving her gaze, noticing immediately when he seemed to shudder and halt just in front of the door. The only sound in the room was the ring of metal as he pulled a cluster of keys out of his pocket. Instead of just closing to door and sealing them in again, he glanced over to Adelais. The stiff look remained, but there was less reluctance than before as he looked at her.

“You, come with me.”

The same prickle-shiver from earlier danced across her skin.

Obeying the order, the blonde turned her back on the other three and slowly followed his path. He kept to the side so she could exit through the door ahead of him, stopping in the same place as last time while he closed and locked the door behind them. She wanted to look around again, but kept her eyes focused down at the floor instead. She still was not sure whether she was in trouble or not. A reason for his displeasure was elusive, but there had to be a cause for grabbing her wrist.

She could feel the body heat he let off when he came to stand behind her, the soft exhale of his breath shifting her freshly dried hair at the back of her skull. Remaining still was a bit more of a chore this time around, now that she knew what it felt like when he touched her.

Surprisingly gentle fingers moved her hair aside to reveal the wet material beneath, dropping the waving strands of dark blonde over her right shoulder. “Your sweater’s wet.” His voice was rough, deep, and seemed to rattle her down to her core when he spoke so close behind her. Then he moved away. “You should take if off, you’ll get cold.”

All of the blood in her body went cold.

“If I take this off, can I have my scarf back?” she requested, knowing that speaking in outright refusal might upset him. “I’ll be cold without my sweater.”

He said nothing for the longest time. If the exit had not been in front of her, she may have assumed that he’d snuck out of the room. Then her scarf appeared in her view, finally pulling her attention from the floor. It took more effort than she expected to stop her hand from shaking as she reached out to reclaim her scarf. The fabric was soft and familiar, easing her tension just a bit. Holding the material to her chest, she glanced to where he remained standing to her right.

Neither moved for a long moment, a steady pause held between blue and green as they watched one another carefully.

It was Adelais who dropped her gaze first. She stepped to the left just one pace, putting some distance between them before she draped her scarf over one arm and slipped her fingers beneath the hem of her sweater. With careful and conscious motions, she pulled only her sweater up and left the undershirt in place. Her hair remained draped over her right shoulder, blocking her neck from the man’s view, when she pulled her sweater over her shoulder and immediately draped the scarf around her neck and shoulders.

Once certain she was as covered as could be, she glanced at the man through her peripheral—trying to peek throughout her own hair at the same time. He remained exactly the same, waiting as she pulled the sleeves of her sweater off of her arms and diligently righted the inside-out appearance. Only once everything was as it should be—as though she was preparing to hang it in her closet—did she turn to the man and offer it.

He was still looking at her scarf-covered shoulders but took the fabric from her all the same.

The undershirt she had donned that morning—or was it yesterday?—was thinner than she would prefer but even then it hadn’t been her choice. Her small waist was even more prominent than it had been when he held her and danced with her. The only assurance she had was that the shirt was not see-though.

Finally, he stepped away from her and carefully draped the sweater over the chair that was situated in front of the computer.

It was there that he lingered, as though taking a moment to organize his thoughts.

Adelais fought the urge to fuss with her scarf, wanting to be certain that it was covering her throat. Instead, she let her eyes scan over him from her place out of his view. The clothes he wore were the same, she could even see the outline of the colourful cloth he carried in his pocket. The strain of muscle against cloth was obvious and she was reminded of his chest pressed to hers as they had swayed together in their awkward dance.

Was he deprived of contact, same as she had been? Did he crave a touch that wouldn’t hurt him; instead, one that offered protection behind the simple contact?

When he looked to her, she was too slow to avert her eyes to a neutral place. His gaze caught hers and held. She could almost swear the stern lines of his face softened just a fraction.

Abandoning the chair and her draped sweater, he returned to stand in front of her. She held his gaze as he moved, leaving her tipping her head back once he was standing directly in front of her. With slow movements, he carefully slipped his fingers beneath her hair and pulled it free from where her scarf had trapped it against her throat. Thankfully, the scarf remained in place. The familiar sensation of his roughened fingers glided across her jawbone, just barely ghosting the base of her hairline before he lifted the strands free.

Whether to recall her previous words or because he spotted an unknown reaction from Adelais, he asked, “Are you cold?” On the contrary, she assumed she was on fire.

Her skin was uncomfortably warm beneath her clothes, but she knew it was not from the temperature of the basement they were in.

“No, thank you.”

Nodding sharply, he let his hands linger at her shoulders for a moment more before she felt the slight pull of his fingers. Her body was prompted forward with the simple nudge. Drawn in against his chest again, her heart rate picked up. Was this anticipation? It was so different from the fear she carried with her when she knew something was coming, knew that her mother as on a warpath that day. Yet, both made her heart race, both had her skin prickling with the eventual touch.

He had not ordered her to close her eyes this time, so she held his gaze until he had moved past her view to rest his chin on her shoulder. The warm breaths of air were not as easily felt through her scarf, but she knew they were there.

Hold me.

His arms went around her gradually. Hands starting at her shoulders, they slid down her back and tightened until her arms were pinned at her sides and the hot press of his palms seemed to span the length of her spine.

This time, she could not repress her shiver. He tightened his hold on her in response, pulling her in closer until she could feel the press of muscular thighs against her thinner ones, the toes of his shoes tapping the outsides of her small boots.

Compelled by a foreign desire, Adelais let her head tip forward.

Stand up straight, what have I told you about slouching?

Her cheek came to rest on the carefully pressed material covering his shoulder. Arms remained at her sides, but she allowed herself to relax enough that she was fully leaning into him. The shift of his head was felt from where she was resting on him, then the cool tip of his nose skimmed her ear as he inhaled the scent of her hair.

“Adelais.”

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lupins-sweater · 4 years

Text

The Brilliant Birthday

Locklye

Summary: Lockwood and Co. celebrate Lucy’s birthday

Word count: about 1.2k

For the Lockwood Garden Party Secret Santa. Hope you like it, @salty-calico

“Alright.” Lockwood clapped his hands together “Listen up! Luce should be awake any time soon. The party will not start for another few hours or so; therefore, we have time to get ready for the birthday party this afternoon. It will be held in the garden. The weather is lovely and the set up can be easily hidden from her view.”

Holly, Kipps, and George stood in a line, listening intently to the leader’s orders.

Lockwood looked at each one of them as he gave them their task for the day. “Holly. Can you take care of the food? Your cooking is divine,” he said with a smile.

“Sure! I’ll get started on the cucumber sandwiches and cake!” She rushed to the pantry to grab the ingredients.

“George! You are to pick up some doughnuts for breakfast and any decorations you think would look nice in the garden. And tell Flo to bring the gift around one.”

George pushes his glasses up his nose and quickly leaves the house after taking the money from the dark haired teen.

“And Kipps! You’re job is to decorate outside and move the foldable table and chairs.”

“Okay. And what are you doing?”

“I’ll be doing the most important job: distracting Luce, so she won’t notice the preparation,” he answered proudly.

Lucy stretches after being woken up by the bright, late-morning sun. She checks the time on the alarm clock next to her bed; it read 10:17.

Still in pajamas, Lucy slowly padded down the stairs and was surprised to not smell toast wafting in from the kitchen. She was even more surprised to only see Holly in the kitchen, well the pantry actually, making food.

“Good morning, Lucy!” she greeted. “There’s coffee on the table if you would like some. George should be here with the doughnuts.”

Right after she said that, Lockwood strode in with a pink box and sat them on the table.

“Where’s George? I thought he was coming with the doughnuts,” Lucy asked.

“Oh. He just went to do some research for a small case tonight while he was already out. Hope that doesn’t bother you, Luce. It is your birthday after all!” He took a seat right next to where Lucy was pulling a chair to sit.

“It’s fine. I didn’t expect to stop getting cases just because it’s my birthday. What is the case?” she asked looking inside the box and finally deciding on a raspberry filled one.

“Just a phantasm at a popular inn. The owners used the ghost for tourists to contact it, but it craves more attention. A woman reportedly got almost got ghost touch last night,” he lied cooly. He wanted to make sure Lucy believed the made up case, to explain for George’s absence. Yes this could have been done a lot easier, but he already was too deep in the lie. He wanted to keep this party a surprise.

“That’s what you get for messing with ghosts! Honestly what people will do for money is ridiculous. Surprised DEPRAC hasn’t shutdown the place.”

She took another bite out of the sweet confection shaking her head.

“Me neither. Once you’re dressed, care to join me downstairs for some rapier practice?”

“Sure.”

——

After changing into something more appropriate for practice, Lucy went back downstairs. She noticed a wonderful vanilla smell as she walked past the kitchen and couldn’t wait for celebration after the case.

Lockwood was already swinging his rapier at Floating Joe. The twists and turns of the blade were interesting to watch; he was always flamboyant no matter the task.

“Ah. Hello, Luce! Hurry up and grab your rapier. Maybe we can practice on each other?”

“Okay.” Lucy raises her eyebrows and smiles, “Just so you know, I’m going to win.”

“What? No offense, Luce, I could take on everyone in this house with a pencil and still win.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

They both raised the rapiers and got into a fighting position.

——

Holly was putting the final touches on the two layer vanilla cake. Yellow buttercream icing stood out against the blue letters spelling “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LUCY” and the the blue trim. Putting her hands on her hips, Holly looked proudly at the neatly stacked mini sandwiches and the delicious medium sized cake.

Kipps was at the table drawing on a new table cloth for the party. He drew pictures of cake, balloons, presents, and even tried to draw everyone at Lockwood and Co. but it looked like a bunch of blobs with smiles standing next to each other.

George and Flo walked in just in time to finish decorating. The box he was holding was filled with streamers, balloons, and a banner which he gave to the red head who grumbled about him taking so long. But the party was set up within minutes; the food And present was on the table and streamers and balloons filled the garden.

“See. I told you I would win!” Lucy cheered.

“Only because it’s your birthday! I went easy on you,” Lockwood defended himself, crossing his arms.

“Yeah right. Sore loser.” She poked at him and smiled.

He rolled his eyes and said something about lunch being ready. Lucy went upstairs to her room to freshen up a bit. Before heading back downstairs, she donned the necklace Lockwood gave her a few months back. Today was a special day.

When Lucy entered the kitchen, Lockwood was the only person in there. She looked around confused. “Where is everyone?”

“Outside. We decided to take our lunch out in the garden since it’s so nice out. And it also happens to be one our most talented agent’s birthday.” His eyes kept drifting toward the necklace she was wearing. “I’m glad you like it. The necklace I mean,” he beamed

Lucy flushed as she recalled what the piece of jewelry stood for. “Yes. I love it. Thank you so much for giving it to me,” she smiled back.

“Oi! Hurry up! We want cake!” Kipps yelled from outside.

Lucy exited the kitchen and was shocked to see the garden filled with decorations.

“Surprise!” they all yelled.

Holly gave her the wrapped present and told her to open it before the cake which some people grumbled at. Lucy tore the paper off and opened the lid to see a little snow globe sitting at the bottom of the box. She examined it further to see a picture of Flo, Holly, Lockwood, George, Kipps, and herself smiling at the camera inside the globe.

“Thank you! This is so neat!” she exclaimed.

Lockwood patted Lucy on the back and announced that it was time for cake. While handing her a slice, he asked, “How was your day?”

“Brilliant! But we still have that case tonight.”

“I made that up.”

“What? So we don’t have anywhere to go today?”

“Nope. It was made up to distract you from the preparations for the party.”

“Oh. So what are we doing tonight?”

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “That’s up to you, Luce.”

#lockwood and co #locklyle #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle

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illshowyourhurricanes · 4 years

Text

In The Line Of Fire (Part 3)

Taking a break from requested drabbles for today to bring y’all the finale of this three-part series, brought to you from this prompt by sarahseleckywritingschool on Instagram. In part one, we saw Billy at Arthur’s place, and in part 2 we got a glimpse of seeing things through Ryan’s eyes (and get a glimpse into his mind). This is my first real foray into writing for Logan, and it is a doozy. He’s a beautifully written, complex character and I hope I did him and his story some justice. Parts one and two can be found in my masterlist. Please let me know what you think, I’m anxious about this one!

Trigger warning: mentions of / drug use and angst. All the angst.

Rating: R

Word count: 1649

Tag list: @obscurilicious @the-blind-assassin-12 @something-tofightfor @logan-deloss @lexxierave @madamrogers @yannii04 @gollyderek @carlaangel86 @bicevans @maydayfigment @thisisparadisemylove @delos-destinations @malionnes @thesandbeneathmytoes @crushed-pink-petals-writes

If anyone would like to be added to or removed from my tag list, please just send an ask!

Hugest of the huge special thanks fot @the-blind-assassin-12 for encouraging and convincing me an infinite amount of times to actually write this.

The orange flame coming from the light blue lighter Logan held in his large hand reflected in his dark, glossy eyes. Leaning back in his chair, his feet crossed at the ankles and propped up onto his solid wood Scarborough desk, his gaze rose to land on the small baggie of white powder lying just to the right of his feet. Logan Delos was deep into his latest relapse, back off the straight and narrow illusion of a filthy rich, capable, responsible mother fucker and heir of a multi-million dollar empire. No, Logan had hopped onto another wagon, one that took him to places nothing or no one else could touch. He was in love with what it did to him, the instant rush of euphoria, being on top of the fucking world with his ego swelling with confidence and purpose—the rush followed by the numbing of the bullshit and the descent into the reprieve of the constant buzzing in his brain. A warmth spread through his veins and he knew that he was Logan Delos: untouchable, desirable, anything he could ever wish for right there at his fingertips for the taking.

He was Logan Delos, a man that others chased and craved like he chased and craved the drug there at his feet. A fuck, a needle, sleep, repeat; Logan lived a lavish, hedonistic lifestyle and he was in control; he decided when he’d do the drugs, how much he’d indulge in how often. He decided.

That point in his life had passed. Logan was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a liar, not even to himself. He was a failure, a junkie, the regrettable piece of shit his father had no qualms reminding him of. Here you are, Jim. Take a look at your son.

Logan’s lip curled in disgust at the mere thought of his father, and the only reason he let himself think of that wretched bastard as his father was strictly biological. He had never and would never be a “dad”; he didn’t have the capacity. “You’re a disappointment,” he muttered, words James Delos had directed toward Logan so many times, he should be desensitized by now. Should be. “You’re a piece of shit, Logan. This company will never be yours. You’re a junkie.”

A junkie. Logan flicked the light blue, plastic Bic lighter on, lifting his thumb seconds later and extinguishing the flame. He was mesmerized by the immediate lighting and extinguishing of the flame, allowing himself to get lost in the simplicity and complexity of creating fire with one finger. The spoon he used for cooking the powder down into a liquid was right there by the baggie Logan was considering. Fuck it, he thought, and he tossed the lighter onto his desk carelessly, feet hitting the floor and propelling his chair closer toward the table.

One large hand scooped up both the baggie and silver spoon— Logan relished in the fact that one of Jim’s overly expensive, custom made silver spoons was a constant in his heroin kit— a whisky tumbler half-filled with days’ old water, and a hypodermic needle. Leaning down closer to the desk’s mahogany surface, the baggie was unzipped, spoon perched between his thin and index finger on the ready. The tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration, he tapped the plastic bag until he was satisfied with the amount of white powder that spilled out into his spoon. Baggie set aside, traded out for the needle, he drew up a small amount of water, slowly filling the spoon, the remaining water shot out into the garbage can kept under his desk.

He needed that lighter again, and he carefully reached for the spot it had landed when he’d tossed it, the far corner of his desk. He balanced the spoon precariously as he retrieved the lighter and an expression of arrogance and pride passed over his features, vanishing just as quickly as it had appeared. Logan was ritualistic in the way he used heroin, and preparing it was a big part of that. This was one of those times Logan preferred not to experience; his craving had turned into a need, an essential substance with a vice so strong, it brought with it an overwhelming anxiety. His hand trembled as he held the lighter beneath the spoon. His palms were damp with sweat; he was agitated and his arm itches like he’d been covered in fire ants. The Delos estate could have been on fire and Logan would remain sitting with the task at hand. Nothing else mattered.

Finally, the heroin was liquified. Eagerly, he dipped the tip of his needle into the shallow solution, slowly drawing the drug into the syringe. He dropped the spoon with a clatter, turned the needle point upward and tapped on the side of the syringe. Tiny air bubbles appeared atop the solution and Logan slowly, carefully, tediously applied pressure to the plunger until a drop of the solution dripped from the needle. Any air had been evacuated. It was time.

Logan was shaking, both from anticipation and need. Small beads of sweat were beginning to appear at his brow. With his sacred drug—his lifeline— he pushed his desk chair back, standing and taking long strides to reach the other side of his expansive bedroom.

He didn’t even pause as he flipped the light switch to illuminate his walk-in closet, full of expensive designer casual wear, but mostly with suits— Brioni and Gucci, Tom Ford and Burberry. Neat rows of impeccable shoes were lined up perfectly by shade and style. But Logan noticed none of this. He had tunnel vision, and he went straight for his tie rack. He needed a silk tie, easy to knot yet strong enough that it wouldn’t break while serving its purpose.

Snatching a tie he knew would do the trick, he allowed it to unroll itself as he left his closet. Holding the capped syringe between his teeth, he used both hands to hold each end of the necktie to his upper arm, at the halfway point of his elbow and bicep. Deftly, he knotted it around his arm securely, but with enough give to unknot easily when it was time. An authentic Stefano Ricci, Jim. 100% silk. Easily over $1500. Your junkie, ticking time bomb, fucking failure of a son doesn’t skimp on the details: designer ties as tourniquets to shoot up his pure, white heroin. Only the best for a Delos. Right, dear old dad?

He felt his lip curl in disgust as he sat back in his chair, syringe still held between two rows of perfectly straight, startlingly white teeth. Pumping his left fist several times over— open and squeeze, open and squeeze— he watched as his skin below the tourniquet began to discolor. With two long fingers of his right hand, he struck his forearm several times, barely noticing the very visible track marks at the crook of his elbow, the newer one that was halfway up the inside of his forearm. He was looking for a vein.

Bingo.

There it was, popped out and bulging, an inch below the crook of his elbow, a long patch of skin free of any track marks or puncture wounds. Not for long. His teeth gave way as he reached for the waiting syringe holding the one thing in his life that gave Logan back the love he felt for it. If— when— it killed him, he’d die feeling un-fucking-touchable. His only regret would be missing the opportunity of Jim Delos’ horrendous smile at the sight of his only son’s corpse.

It was miraculous the way Logan could manage to steady his shaking to inject. He bit at the orange cap over the needle, spitting it off to the side. Holding the syringe precariously like a cigarette between forefinger and middle finger, he dipped his head to hold a dangling part of his tie between his teeth, just as he had the needle.

With one sting of the needle puncturing his pale skin, Logan yanked his head back, the loose knot he’d tied in his RIcci necktie unraveling and falling away. It was a deep red, the color of ox blood, and a bitter laugh escaped from low in his throat. And then, Logan pushed the plunger.

By the time he finished and tossed the used needle and syringe to the side, Logan was only able to lick the residual drop of blood from his arm when the rush began. There was the familiar warmth coursing along with the circulation of his blood, from the core of his body down into the tips of his toes and fingers. Without a warning, Logan felt and indescribable euphoria that nothing could hold a candle to, not even an almost violent orgasm causing his entire body to quake.

Heroin was a paradox. With the euphoria came a sense of calm and a heaviness of his body. With the pleasure would come the pain. Everything eventually collided, but Logan relished in the crash. He needed it, and he accepted that. The only thing he could rely on was something that would never refuse him what he sought out. The only thing that wouldn’t pulverize his heart and his pride, wound him with a hole too deep to heal.

The heaviness and calm gave way to any sense of strength, Logan’s head falling back and rolling from side to side at the back of his leather desk chair until it fell slightly to the right. He was unable to keep his eyes from closing, long hair falling over his forehead as he nodded. An amalgamation of jumbled, broken thoughts floated through his mind, past the fog of disorientation that would inevitably fade into sleep: Wrong… this is the wrong door.. where’s the fucking.. it’s the wrong world. This is all an illusion.

#in the line of fire #part 3 #itlof3 #logan delos #tw: drug use #my writing

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searlaitflanagan · 3 years

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i’ve tripped and i’m falling but i’ll stop tomorrow → solo.

TAGGING — Charlie Flanagan. Dakota Shaw ( NPC ). LOCATION — Charlie’s apartment ( mostly ). DATE & TIME — March 23, 2021; evening. NOTES — An unexpected trigger sends Charlie down the path to relapse. WORD COUNT & TRIGGERS — 2,141. Descriptions of drug use, anxiety & panic attacks.

The sun’s setting somewhere far beyond her apartment windows when she stirs on the couch-- calculates her ascent into wakefulness by taking stock of her entire body; she takes in the steady rise and fall of her own chest-- the pressure there likely Indy having curled up there when she fell asleep-- a thought that’s confirmed a few moments later by the sandpaper tongue brushing across her cheek as Indy greets her-- seeming to realize she’s awake before she’s as aware of herself as she’d like. “Hi, sweet boy,” Charlie mumbles, voice still thick with sleep as she buries her fingers into the shaggy fur along Indy’s neck-- a low, rolling laugh spreading through her chest as her cat begins to purr in earnest from the simple touch.

She stays there, eyes half-closed against the dim light shining through her curtains, takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of contentment spreading through her-- curling into a warmth in her chest, a lightness in the sluggish pause of her ordinarily anxiety-ridden thoughts.

She feels good.

Settled.

Comfortable.

She runs through the adjectives to describe her mood to herself-- the way her psychiatrist is convinced will help if she really does it in earnest when she wants to parse out her emotions in any given moment and it does work-- Charlie enjoys the bemused frown Dr. Kaplan gives her when she’s being particularly difficult but she appreciates the older woman’s patience and advice all the same. Indy shifts against her chest into a long stretch that draws both Charlie’s attention and another throaty laugh as she reaches up to scratch under his chin and accepts another lick or two against her fingers before he begins to knead her skin happily just above the hem of her t-shirt and she’s gingerly moving him into her lap as she sits up-- watching his wide amber eyes as she goes. “Lemme go get a sweatshirt before you go crazy,” She says patiently, snorting when Indy butts his head against the edge of her wrist as though offended at what she’s suggesting but he pads away easily enough when she slips off of the couch and down the hall to her bedroom.

There’s an old UCLA hoodie somewhere in her closet she hasn’t worn in months but it’s comfortable and large enough that Indy’s claws rarely even pierce the fabric so he can show her affection to his heart’s content and she can relax without monitoring cat scratches for any period of time. She knows why it’s in there-- wonders as she pushes into her room if it’ll smell musty or like Katie’s perfume considering she was the last one to wear it before—

Charlie shakes her head hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to breathe until she closes her eyes and counts backwards from ten and tries not to think about the crescent shaped marks that might as well be tattooed into her palms as she unclenches her fists and ignores the sting she leaves behind. “It’s not gonna smell like her,” She says under her breath, shifting onto the tips of her toes to retrieve the box she’s certain the hoodie is hiding in-- one of the few things she’s never bothered to unpack. She’s not positive as to the its contents— it isn’t labelled but the dark blue sleeve flopping out of the side is all the confirmation she needs that it’s what she’s looking for. It doesn’t smell like anything at all when she raises it to her nose and she sits with the lump in her throat-- the pit in her stomach-- the fingers of disappointment that slip up the length of her spine only to seize her heart in a full grasp that leaves her choking on it.

Calm down, she thinks. Calm down. Calm down. Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown.

Inhale.

She can’t remember what Katie’s perfume smells like. Flowers? Something softer?

Exhale.

She’s going to throw up. Her fingers are trembling and her throat is stinging and she’s going to lose it.

Inhale.

She’s okay. It’s okay. Smells go and it’s okay. She doesn’t need to remember everything. It’s okay.

Exhale.

She can breathe and she reaches for the hoodie with a tremble in her lips-- a quiver in her chin that gives her away to everyone she knows when she’s going to cry-- even herself. She blinks-- eyes wide and pink rimmed already-- watches the slow tumble of a note from one of the pockets and stares at it for a long moment as if it’s going to explode. No, Charlie thinks wryly, that’ll be my job. It’s probably a grocery list or a note she’d written to herself years ago that got lost in the flurry of packing she’d done between LA and Providence Peak and her shoulders slump as she unfolds it-- her anxiety abated for a fraction of a second before her brow furrows deeply at the sight of handwriting she’s so close to having forgotten she can feel the blow of remembrance like a club to the base of her skull.

A watery, rough laugh tears from her throat and it isn’t happy and it isn’t warm and it seems to saw through her as it goes-- a hollowness in the expression of mirth she doesn’t feel when she’s staring at Katie’s handwriting on the page:

VOWS TO MY LITTLE BEAR :)

Charlie chokes on her next breath-- shoves the sweatshirt and the note away from her frantically, head spinning, crashing hard into her desk chair when she stumbles back and scrabbles for a hold on something she knows she won’t get. She feels herself unraveling-- like she’s a bundle of yarn and all the universe has ever needed was the right tug at the right time to send her reeling. She chokes again-- a wracking, sharp cough the only indication her body gives that it’s protesting anything she’s feeling and she feels herself moving as though through knee deep snow, slow and labored and when she crashes to the ground in front of the toilet and vomits it doesn’t feel like enough.

Impulses she doesn’t want to feed flare to life in an instant and she vomits again to the roaring chant of ‘go get well, go get well, go get well’ thundering in the back of her mind with a force she wants desperately to counter. Her hands are sweating when she reaches for the knob on the sink-- when she spits water and what’s left of her dignity into the drain her eyes are cold and hollow, her skin pale and flushed in a measure that doesn’t make her feel anything but a growing desire to make the world quiet. When her trembling eases and she can take a step without wondering how likely she is to fall down she hurries to her bedroom again-- rifles through her desk until she finds her medication-- Adderall, to start-- it’s always to start. With trembling fingers Charlie breaks two of the capsules open and arranges the powder inside into neat lines with steadier movements than she thinks should be possible when she’s throwing her entire life down the drain with a cold cackle that she only realizes is coming from her after she’s snorting the second line and relishing in the soothing lightheadedness that hits her a few moments later.

It’s not going to end with that and she knows it. She knows it never does and never has and never will and she’s hardly looking as she shoves her feet into her shoes and texts a number she hasn’t looked at in her phone for months and still remembers like she’s been using it in the nine months since her last relapse.

[ text to → Kota ( DO NOT TEXT ) ]: hey, dude. you got anything good? losing my mind a little. need something.

[ text from → Kota ( DO NOT TEXT ) ]: daaaamn if it isn’t my favorite girl. i got’cha, babe -- ten minutes? my place?

[ text to → Kota ( DO NOT TEXT ) ]: cool. see ya.

Dakota’s apartment is an equally shitty downtown building to the one she calls home but it’s familiar and even with her size she doesn’t balk in the face of the drunken cat-calls being tossed her way as she slips into his building and takes the stairs two at a time-- the high she’s still chasing already fading as she raps on his door and flashes him a crooked, fake grin that she knows he won’t recognize as anything but sincere when his half-lidded eyes are raking over her eagerly the way they always do and she’s slipping around him-- careful to brush her fingers along his forearm as she passes by.

“You miss me or somethin’?” He asks, his voice is airy and sluggish in equal measure and she hopes, absently, that he isn’t too high to give her what she needs.

Charlie shrugs, turning on her heel to face him with a smile she knows is just enough to keep his interest-- but Kota’s always been easily swayed by the way she smiles and she’s always been aware enough to take advantage of him for it. Another sin she’ll apologize for when she’s in the ground. “It’s been a while,” She says mildly, a feigned interest in her expression while she watches him. “So. You gonna help me out?” There’s no desperation in her voice and she notes it with satisfaction-- to him she must sound calm and collected-- to herself she sounds like the snap of a thread she’s been trying thicken day by day, moment by moment and knows she won’t come back from snapping any time soon.

She can step back out of his apartment and walk home and cry for an hour and forget she ever texted her former drug dealer for anything at all but when she casts a glance around the apartment and finds what she’s looking for spread out along his coffee table-- when her heart kicks into a gallop that’s half-high and half-nerves-- she knows she won’t be leaving without it and the gnawing ache of disappointment she so desperately wants to shove away only makes the craving worse. Only makes the space beneath her skin buzz with a ferocity she wants to quell with the warmth and silence that the high offers. Even if it doesn’t last.

She knows it won’t.

“How much you need?” He asks as he sits down, dark hair flopping into his eyes in a way Charlie might have found cute if she wasn’t as uninterested in him as it was possible to be.

She fishes her wallet out of her pocket-- counts her tips under her breath and raises an eyebrow in Kota’s direction as she waves two hundred dollars at him lazily, “Gram to start? Coke and some smack if you have it.”

Dakota whistles in a gesture she thinks might be appreciative as he measures out the agreed upon drugs and passes them to her in exchange for the money-- something just shy of concern in his expression as he passes them to her. “Don’t hurt yourself, baby girl.”

Charlie rolls her eyes, already turning away as she tosses a wave over her shoulder, “That’s kind of the point, babe,” She says as she goes, head down and nerves singing as she follows the alleys between buildings home and pushes into her own apartment-- breathless and trembling all over again, the fading high of her earlier slip-up already making room for the excitement of numb relief. She’s moving without conscious thought as she shrugs off her coat and makes her way back to her room-- closing the door behind her with a quiet click as though there’s anyone else to worry as she settles down in front of her desk and flicks the lamp on with a roll of her shoulders-- her heart in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers to the empty air in her bedroom.

She still doesn’t know who she’s apologizing to. Or what she wants to be sorry for.

Knows it even less as she portions out a line that’s equal parts cocaine and heroin and is likely going to hit her like a ton of bricks when it settles into her system; her stomach churns roughly at the thought and she takes a moment to Google how to call 911 if she can’t speak before she hunches over the drugs like she would a difficult project and inhales them in a sharp motion that makes the back of her throat sting as things settle.

She leans back with a soft, slow exhale.

She feels the world slip away in bits and pieces.

“I’m sorry,” She whispers again.

She doesn’t know what she shouldn’t apologize for.

#「 charlie — communications 」 » solo threads.#「 charlie — general 」 » searlait flanagan.#「 charlie — communication 」 » threads.#drug use tw #anxiety mentions tw #panic attack tw

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hamlets-ghost-zaddy · 5 years

Text

st. jude (the patron of lost causes)

Part 8/8

Donald Malarkey x Reader

A letter arrives in Paris a day after you do.

Constance, having impersonated you to the British mail officer, waves it as a white flag of truce, charging through your newly assigned convalescence hospital ward. “Mail from Austria!” she sings, snapping your eyes up from the young officer you’ve been ordered to keep special watch over, changing out the cold compresses for hot ones over his hollowed eye-sockets. You blink once, twice, pretending the boy’s incomplete face hadn’t morphed into Don’s the longer you looked. Though, you think, I’m grateful for a reason to look away.

Thrust under your nose, you have nowhere else to look but at an envelope scrawled with blue-ink letters, messy and nearly-illegible and absolutely perfect. You savor your name on mailing address, Don’s on the return, lettering too large initially before turning thin and cramped. In your imagination, Don’s warm laughter tickles your ears, his smile sheepish, and he offers weakly: ‘What do you want? I can’t help it if ‘convalescence hospital’ is too long to fit on the envelope!’

Accepting the letter with careful fingers, touching as little of it as possible—perhaps to preserve the sanctity of mail, you so rarely received any, or to preserve the sanctity of his handwriting, the first sample of it you’ve seen—you slide a nail along its lip and draw out the letter inside. Your fingers are shaking; you’re not sure when that started.

“I wish Eugene would write to me,” Constance says to the air above your head.

“Did you ask him to?” you ask, distracted as you recall how to read, your eyes caught and stuck on the first words (“my love”). Sure you’ve misinterpreted the words, sure your mind only conjures what it desperately wants (needs) to read, you begin again. But no. It reads the same.

“Well, no,” Constance prattles, “But the implication was definitely there when I said goodbye to him.”

You’re not listening—how could you possibly with the world held at range, muffled by a shining ring that pierces your ears, bright and yellow but maddeningly loud?—to her, not comprehending the flustered patter of her worries. You’re not doing much of anything: not breathing, not blinking, not moving, all in fear that the letter might disappear, might be spirited away back to him, as if he didn’t mean it and could take it back from five hundred miles away.

“What—?” you finally croak, when you reach the last line of the letter, when Constance has long-since petered into silence, frowning at you in concern. Swallowing past a dry throat, you try again: “What does this mean?”

“What does what mean?” Constance asks, practically.

You read to her: “‘I’m coming to you in Paris, so you’re not allowed to go anywhere. I’m coming home.’”

Paris in July is a riot of color, of life, and the wet heat blanketing the city—making sheets stick at night, your uniform during the day—makes you wonder if Bastogne or Haguenau truly existed. If they happened. The cold, a freeze you thought so deeply seeped into your bones that your blood would never melt, is distant in the joyous jubilation of Paris in summertime, Paris in victory.

But death fills your nostrils, ghosts haunt your sight, and when the long days on duty at the convalescence hospital inch to an end, your muscles are limp, your body is weary, and your soul tired. You appreciate Constance inviting you out to the dance halls, the jazz lounges, and the USO shows with her various beaus, but there’s an unspoken understanding that it’s all a courtesy. You wouldn’t accept, couldn’t accept, not when the war was over but the greatest horror had been saved for the end in that little, damned German town.

You’d come alive, you know as you mark off the calendar hung up in the nurse’s sleeping quarters, when time brought you July 23rd and a train from Austria brought you Don Malarkey. You ignore that line in his letter—that one you and Constance can’t make sense of—because you can’t stand the thought of him coming here, to Paris, only to be ripped again from your arms, bound for the States and Oregon. Bound for a life without you, ocean liner ticket in his back pocket and a suitcase of opportunities in hand. Opportunities that didn’t fit you. So, you ignore it. (Or, you try to, but the minutes before sleep, or as you bathe before a shift, or take a meal break, are too quiet and your brain insists on filling it with thoughts of what if—what if—what if—)

And, on the twenty-seventh, when the morning shift ends, and you hurry for the metro and Gare de l’Est without bothering to change from your nurses’ uniform (as if every slight offering could tempt the clock faster), you wait for energy to surge through your veins, to blossom across you skin and in your chest. But, you only rush faster as if the wind will fill your hollowness.

Those sunken gaps where eyes should be, those skeletal men in the camps where laughter should live, those ghosts where living boys used to stand—

You plunge into the train station’s crowd.

The crush of humanity tosses you in its mad current, and you allow it to drag you along, only breaking for air to squint at the chalkboards announcing arrival times, delays, and departures; only turning on your heel to pace the ruler-measured straight train platforms when you reach one end, hurrying to retrace your sentry path. The great clock in the station’s lobby, luminescent and gold, ticks on. The chalkboards announce a train from Strasbourg—his train—but where—?

Arms are tight around your ribs, a chest is hard against your back, and a laugh is low and warm against your hair.

You kiss him before you see him—the surest way to check he’s real, he’s there, because the war has taught you not to believe your eyes. If you did, you’d suffocate from the weight of the horrors, the depravity—but ah, he’s kissing you, his nose bumping yours in his eagerness to tilt his jaw to match your jaw, to kiss you so your lips will slide and lock into place. As if he kisses you well enough, for long enough, nothing could break him from you, or you from him. You taste the sweetness of coffee with sugar on his mouth, smell the sweetness of fresh showers and fresh laundry, touch the sweetness of his downy soft curls, his sun-taut skin, his double-blessings of double-icons.

When you break away, he kisses your fingers clasped in his, devoting time to kiss each knuckle, the basin of each palm. Then, those earth-brown eyes meet yours and thank God they’re still there, there are no more ghosts than when you last saw them, that light shining past phantoms still flickers in those brown irises, strong and stubborn. “Thank God you’re here, that I’m returned to you,” he whispers, his voice caressing ‘you’ with a tenderness that paints pink onto your cheeks.

You squeeze his hands, words flown from your mind. He doesn’t seem to notice, too busy marveling at your hands in his, your face holding a smile for him. Occasionally, he presses more kisses, soft and vague, to the pads of your fingers, your nose and cheeks, as if to assure himself you still breathed from one second to the next. Finally you muster, “How is it possible that the three weeks since I got your letter felt longer than the whole war?”

His grin, opening like a flower for you, dominates his face. He kisses you again, assuring against your lips: “It’ll be worth it, I promise.” Yet, he pulls away suddenly, your lips chasing his a few inches, askance for more kisses. “But can you lead us to a church? Maybe Notre Dame?”

You restrain yourself until the bridge connecting Paris to its religious heart, the Île de la Cité, and Notre Dame’s graceful spires rise above you like the fragile arms of a ballerina, reaching heavenwards in holy praise. “Don,” you begin shaky, nibbling your lip. “Don, I—” Your voice falters, fails; if you ask the question, you’d have to hear the answer. Do you want that? Do you want to know what he meant when he said he ‘was coming home?’ If he boarded a ship for Eugene, Oregon tomorrow morning; could you stand knowing?

“Yes?” he prompts.

“I—” you try again, sucking in a deep breath, and knowing you have to stand knowing. “I was wondering if you’re going home, to Eugene?”

“Well, uh, of course,” Don replies, stretching out the word, blinking at you. His eyes sweep around—to the neat, pale Parisian townhouses capped with black shingles and dotted with spilling flower boxes, to the men on bicycles and the women with little dogs—and he says, “As much as here is nice, I’m sure, I’m going home.”

“Oh,” is all you muster.

He notices how you deflate, how happiness evaporates from your eyes, and he frowns. “Why? What do you mean ‘oh’?”

“It’s nothing, nothing at all,” you insist, feeling foolish. He meant what he wrote, and meant precisely as he worded it: he’s coming to Paris and then he’s bound for home. You should have expected as much; he has every reason to crave the familiarities of home, to seize them the first instance he can and—

He pulls you to a stop, cradling your face with both hands, his thumbs rubbing away the stray tears that slipped the gate and managed to leak from your eyes. “‘Nothing’ she says while she’s crying,” he teases gently, his mouth quirking, his eyes betraying his worry. They’re not soil now; they’re something more solid, ancient, and buried deeper in the earth. Something unmovable, and maybe that thought prompts you to admit:

“It’s just what you wrote in your letter, that you’re coming home. You’re going home to Oregon soon, and just stopped off here, and of course I’m happy for you, but—”

His laughter interrupts you, confuses you, and before your mouth can pop open in protest, he’s kissing you anew. Gentle at first, but then he’s nibbling your lip, biting it, exploring how your body—flooding with heat and your throat squeaking involuntarily—responds to each new sensation. He delights in your reactions, delights in knowing they’re his doing, and when he breaks from you (you suspect your mouth matches his: red and swollen), he says, “Eugene is the place I call home, but my home…” he shakes his head as if in correction, “My life is you. You battled away the ghosts, you fought back the gray, and revived this.”

He places your hand on his chest. Under your palms, his heart beats, jackrabbit quick.

A pause. Then, he pulls one of his icon necklaces from under his uniform. Checking the image briefly, he pulls it off only to thread over your head. “I know it’s not a ring, but there is a church—” he gestures and you squint up at Notre Dame. You hadn’t noticed you are stopped in the great square in front of her, hadn’t known she witnessed your foolishness “—we exchanged symbolic things, if you know what I mean, and . . .”

And you had fallen in love with him, your spirit and happiness married to him, since a supply tent in Haganau.

You nod, breathing, “Yes, I do,” because you know what he means; you’d swear to it. You kiss him now, and when your forehead rests on his shoulder, you find your fingers turning the new icon around and around. Holding it up to the bright July light, you squint, asking, “Who is it?”

“Anthony of Padua.”

You kiss the icon, kiss Don, and feel as though you could kiss the day itself or kiss Paris in all of its riotous color and wonderment: what you knew you lost hadn’t been found. What you didn’t know to need, had been given generously, abundantly.

Life finds a way.

#band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers fic #donald malarkey imagine #donald malarkey #donald malarkey x reader #last part cha cha cha #hurt/comfort #my writing

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zacharybosch · 5 years

Text

Playing God - chapter 5

in which something else is served for dinner

chapter 1: tumblr / ao3

chapter 2: tumblr / ao3

chapter 3: tumblr / ao3

chapter 4: tumblr / ao3

read Playing God chapter 5 below or on AO3

“You, uh… You got any more of that steak?”

Will had not been able to stop thinking about the meal he’d shared with Hannibal, brooding over it late into the evening for the past several days. All reasonable people were in bed at such a late hour, but of course Hannibal picked up the phone when Will called. Hannibal was not reasonable people.

“I’m so sorry Will, but I believe we ate the last of it.” Will could hear the smile in Hannibal’s voice, the smug, satisfied curl of it. “But if you wanted to come round, I’m sure I could find something else for you to eat.”

“Isn’t it a little late?”

“Not for you.”

Hannibal’s ‘something else to eat’ turned out to be himself. Will should’ve seen it coming; in fact, he had seen it coming, the numerous other times throughout his life when people had tried to pull a similar stunt. But Hannibal seemed to have an uncanny ability to blind Will in a way no-one else had ever quite been able to.

It sounded so simple and easy when Hannibal said it. Just a quick bite, an innocent little taste. For a few seconds Will even allowed himself to believe it, before common sense came crashing back into his brain.

“I can’t. They’ll know.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Hannibal said, as if this were all just some amusing game.

“It’s not just that. I’ll be different. Warmer, brighter, stronger. I’ll look alive. They take measurements with every feeding. Next time I come in, they’ll see something’s different. They’ll know.”

Jack had, in fact, already dropped some very unsubtle hints that Will should bite Hannibal if he thought it would help ensnare him. But Jack didn’t know the full extent of Will’s rules around feeding, and why they were there in the first place. Like everything else surrounding Will, it was a need-to-know basis, and Will’s Keepers had decided that Jack didn’t need to know. They told Jack that there was to be no feeding under any circumstances, and assumed that would be enough, not counting on Jack masterminding a secret entrapment plan and deciding that the “no feeding” rule probably wasn’t that important.

But Will knew how important it was. It wasn’t the blood itself that was the problem; he drank pretty much every day and didn’t crave more than what he was given. What he craved was the heat of it pumping fresh from the source, a warm body pressed against his, and the choice to take one sip and be done or drain a person dry. That was what the no feeding rule was about: it wasn’t about feeding at all. It was about Will’s self-control, and ensuring he wouldn’t be in a situation where it would undoubtedly fail.

Hannibal was so willing, and he didn’t even realise what it was that he was really offering himself up for. Or perhaps he did, and that was the thrill of it, the thought that Will could drink him entirely.

“I could lose control,” Will said. “I could kill you.”

“I know.”

“It doesn’t frighten you?”

“No.”

“It should. It frightens me.”

“I’ve not yet heard a ‘no’, Will. Tell me no and I’ll not ask again.”

Will moved his mouth and found that the word wouldn’t come out. He was so ready to sink his teeth in, could feel the strain in his jaw as he fought to keep his fangs from extending. If they came out, it was all over.

Jack knew the dangers. Will had tried his best to explain why every single part of his plan was a bad idea, and Jack had listened carefully and then pushed forward with it anyway, convinced it was the only way to get results. He wanted a quick play and a neat end to the very un-neat situation he’d put Will in.

Hannibal wanted to draw Will more closely to him, and to experience the thrill of having death itself eating out of the palm of his hand. So to speak.

And what did Will want? Will just wanted to bite.

Perhaps everyone could have what they wanted.

“Go sit on the sofa,” Will said, looking anywhere but at Hannibal’s gleeful face. “You need to be able to hide the bite mark, so before you even think about asking, your neck is completely out of the question. Take off your jacket.”

Hannibal obeyed without question, and Will sat down heavily next to him. He was really going to go through with it. He hadn’t had willing blood for… he didn’t want to think about how long it had been. “I’ll do it on your arm, inside the elbow. Just don’t roll your sleeves up too far for the next few weeks, okay?”

“Understood,” Hannibal said. He began to unfasten the cuff of his sleeve, but Will stopped him before he could reveal more than an inch of wrist.

“How attached are you to this shirt?”

“I would have little trouble obtaining a replacement.”

“Okay. Good. There needs to be as little skin-to-skin contact as possible, so I’m going to bite you through the shirt.”

“Is that really necessary, or is it due to your own personal hang-ups?”

Will levelled Hannibal with a withering look. “Stop talking about things you know nothing about. It’s for your own safety, and mine.”

With no further ceremony, Will took up Hannibal’s arm and bit down into the yielding flesh. Hannibal hissed and jerked his arm involuntarily, but Will just tightened his grip and sucked. He’d become so used to his clinical subsistence appointments, the tube pressed directly down his throat and the anaemic, joyless trickle of blood, that he’d forgotten how good it felt to have hot, rich, free-flowing blood flooding his mouth, salty and metallic and messy.

The heat swept through Will’s body like fire over gasoline. He could feel his bones strengthening, his skin thickening, sparks racing across neurons and nerve-endings. The fabric of Hannibal’s shirt sleeve was becoming soaked, and it was in the way of the only thing that mattered in that moment, so Will tore it open. The first hungry press of his lips against Hannibal’s slick, blood-dark skin felt like biting into the heart of God himself.

Will was vaguely aware of something at the very edge of his consciousness, an alarm or sudden movement or something else that didn’t matter to him at all. He began to move bodily over Hannibal, caging him in with arms and legs, biting deeper, sucking harder…

And then suddenly Will was on his back on the floor, head swimming and pinprick stars clouding his vision.

***

Will found Hannibal in the downstairs bathroom. He had replaced his ruined shirt with a clean sweater, and was carefully applying neat strips of tape to the edges of a bandage. The sink was splashed with pink.

“I should’ve taken you seriously,” Hannibal said, not looking up from his bandage.

“Yes, you should. I’m not going to apologise. I tried to warn you.”

“But I’m glad I disregarded your warnings. You were breathtaking.”

“That was nothing.”

“I can only imagine what kind of savagery you must be capable of. Such possibilities I never dared dream.”

“Maybe you won’t have to imagine. If I told you I was going to kill you, I don’t think you’d try and stop me.”

Hannibal looked positively starry-eyed, staring at Will in the mirror. “Never.”

“It’s easy to give yourself up for death. No consequences.” Will crowded into Hannibal’s personal space, pressed his chest into Hannibal’s shoulder and continued low into his ear, “You’d die for me, but would you let others die in your place?”

Hannibal said nothing, just watched Will’s reflection in the mirror as he pointedly let his gaze drop to the fine skin of Hannibal’s neck.

“What if I told you I was going to kill someone else, would you stand aside and let it happen? If I was to kill a friend, a colleague?”

“Yours, or mine?”

“Is the distinction important?” Will said, barely more than a whisper breathed into the shell of Hannibal’s ear.

“Perhaps.”

Will said nothing for a long moment. He’d known murderers, serial killers, too many violent people to mention; the common thread that ran through them all was the desire to be acknowledged and congratulated for their power and cunning. Dismissal was unbearable. Will had already decided that presenting the meat as evidence wasn’t viable, for a variety of flimsy reasons that he didn’t want to look at too closely, so in the absence of any other evidence, getting Hannibal to confess was his only option.

He stepped away abruptly and said, “You don’t even know what it is you’re saying. You have no idea.”

And there it was, the irritation flickering over his face, there and gone again. Hannibal wouldn’t be so stupid as to come out with it right now and say that actually, yes, he knows exactly what he’s talking about because he’s killed however many hundreds of people in a variety of fun and clever ways. But the desire to do so had undoubtedly crossed his mind, and that was good enough for now.

After that, it was almost too easy. The slight bruise to Hannibal’s ego left him wanting to prove something, and Will took full advantage. Blood-drunk as he was, even after only a small amount, Will let the vestiges of his human persona slip away as the wave of his vampire nature rose up to consume him.

It was a simple thing to stalk back over to Hannibal, to turn his body so his back pressed against the sink, to hold him hard and kiss him harder and murmur against his lips that there were so many things he could tell Hannibal, so many delights and horrors spanning his long life, but he didn’t give his stories out for free and wouldn’t Hannibal give him something in return?

Hannibal could’ve said anything, up to and including a full, detailed confession, and Will wouldn’t have heard it. The mere act of asserting himself, of caging someone in and knowing that in that moment he held the entirety of their life in his hands, gave Will such a heady rush that all he could think about was the next move he needed to make in order to get Hannibal more pliant, more willing, more ready to offer himself up.

But he didn’t have to think about it very hard. If it were anyone else, Will would’ve called it a pathetic, desperate display; but on Hannibal, the act of sinking to his knees was so sweetly submissive, so uncomplicated in desire and intention, that Will couldn’t help but place his hands on Hannibal’s face, cradling his cheeks, stroking his lips.

I don’t even need to turn him, his teeth are sharp enough already, Will thought to himself, and then stopped. Had the thought of turning Hannibal already occurred to him? And why was he even entertaining the idea? But then Hannibal’s hands were on him, gripping him through the fabric of his trousers and tugging at his waistband, and Will couldn’t remember what he was thinking about, couldn’t remember why he was here, couldn’t remember the last time someone had done this for him.

Will put a hand on the back of Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s mouth was impossibly hot, and Will could feel it burning him even through the layers of fabric that still separated them. When Hannibal did eventually peel Will’s clothes away and applied his mouth directly, it felt just like it did when Will had put his mouth on Hannibal; that same sudden fiery rush, like being engulfed in a great wall of flame. And Will knew that the feeling would never let up: no matter how long Hannibal stayed down there on his knees, taking Will’s cock into his mouth, the sensation would never lessen. It was always going to be the absolute most, the very edge of what Will could handle, like his mind and body were constantly shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, over and over.

Will had been revered as a god a small handful of brief and brutal times throughout his life, but he had never truly felt like a god until Hannibal was kneeling before him. It wasn’t about greed or control or power; fearful scrambling and sycophantic devotion had never done much to excite Will or curry his favour. It was Hannibal’s simple, lucid decision to bend before him, to anticipate what Will wanted and to deliver it perfectly, to honour him as one god bowing to another.

It was a feeling that was shared between them. Will’s shattered, gasping pleasure stoked the fire in Hannibal, and spurred him on to open his mouth further, to take more of Will inside himself; he’d finally found someone to sit beside him at the top of the food chain, and now he was going to eat him.

Hannibal let his teeth drag against Will’s cock, harder than any human would’ve enjoyed, but Will’s eyes rolled to the back of his head and he began to move, fucking into Hannibal’s mouth, meeting every downward swallow with an upward thrust. He was breathing again, heavy and ragged, and Hannibal thrilled to think that Will was breathing at all, but specifically breathing like that, because of him.

“Fuck, Hannibal, fuck, I’m gonna--” Will pulled his cock from Hannibal’s mouth and jerked it roughly with his own hand. Hannibal remained where he was, mouth open and tongue dripping. He pressed his tongue against the shaft of Will’s cock and his rapidly moving fingers, then dragged it along the length in a hot, wet stripe. Will screwed his eyes shut and came, spilling himself like a baptism all over Hannibal’s lips and tongue and teeth.

They stayed there for a while, Hannibal panting on the floor with Will stood over him, grasping the sink for balance. Eventually, Will lowered himself until he was level with Hannibal, and slowly, purposefully, swiped two fingers through the come that was still splattered over Hannibal’s mouth.

“Will--” Hannibal began, but Will shoved his fingers into Hannibal’s mouth, and whatever he was about to say was forgotten.

#hannibal #hannibal lecter #will graham #vampires #vampire au #my fic

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believerindaydreams · 5 years

Text

iv. saccharin

New Orleans, early 70s

tagged for suicidal idealisation. Tuco’s not doing too well on his own. Or too good, perhaps...

Blondie's not here. Tuco's just about sober enough to know that much.

He hasn't seen his partner for a year, or heard a word from him in months, but that doesn't stop him needing the only person who'd understand what's wrong with him tonight. Instinctively he reaches for the Duluth, before remembering it's not here. It's parked in a storage locker halfway across town, part of this whole attempt to pass. It should have worked.

It is working; he has somewhere to sleep at night, he's fed, nobody wants to arrest him for anything. He'd even picked up a girlfriend along the way, a waitress at the hotel where he washes dishes. Katie's tall, too tall for him, and redheads aren't his preferred flavour but she's a better class of woman than he's ever dared for before. Any man would count himself lucky to have her.

He's shaking. The prosecco's left a sour aftertaste in his mouth, and he wonders vaguely about pouring himself a glass of water, but moving off this bed seems more effort than he's able to muster. It takes as much as he can handle, just to dig a pen out of the bedside table drawer and start rummaging for a paper to write on. Something to do right this minute, that he can transfer to a post card when he's sobered up a little.

"Dear Blondie," Tuco says aloud. It's taken him several moments to remember that's how you start these things, and he doesn't want to forget before he starts writing it down.

The drawer's neat, organised, not like he lives here at all (he doesn't, it's just somewhere he's been renting). Bible. Keepsake earring, Katie had laughingly let him have that after losing the other one on a sight-seeing expedition into the bayou. Several little pink packets, the saccharin she's always coaxing him to eat- healthier, she says. And you can't taste the difference.

In his addled state, the notion of writing on those makes as much sense as anything; he rips one open, lets the small grains trickle down onto his tongue. Doesn't make any difference, if he can't be cheered up by straight sugar he's more broken than he thought-

all that's coming out of this pen are ink smears. Tuco throws it across the room, reaches for another one, realises he doesn't have any others.

Duluth. Passing.

That's it. He's done. Forget hanging on until Blondie has a chance to reach him, forget staring at the Golfo de México until the soothing lap of the water and the stink of dead fish had driven him back to life- he just hurts so much and doesn't know what could even bring him pleasure anymore-

(it's not even the pain, it's the flat-edged quality of the despair- jesus, he's only been like this once but there was reason for it that time, not like now which is inexplicable, but must be his fault-)

it's a bad sign that his body is letting him move now, to sit up and pull a shirt on and take his keys. Because he knows where he wants to go now, what he wants to do- it's taken him four days and far too much wine to dull his instincts enough, but he's managed it now. No more piddling around with water. He owns a gun and he knows where to find it.

When Tuco reaches for the doorknob, the door suddenly springs to life and smacks him, knocking him ass-flat on the neatly patterned carpet. He yelps; that'd hurt. A lot, actually-

and maybe it's gone straight to his head and broken something there, because he'd swear that's Blondie. Standing over him with that indefinable mystique, compassion in there but it's half something else-

pure smugness, part of his mind supplies. The part that resents being saved.

"Came as soon as I could," Blondie says. "Pablo didn't wait to forward your postcard this time, he looked up the address and called me straight. You feel like getting up?"

"No."

"Okay." His partner sits down next to him, with casual indolence- that's something he'd taught Blondie, years back. Not too many white boys who know how to sit on a floor without looking nervous about it, they make such a meal of squatting down.

If he put out his hand, he'd be close enough to touch that smooth blue expanse of leg. His choice. Blondie won't touch him first.

"He knew it was that gonna be that bad, huh? That's more than I did- I guess my brother knows me pretty well."

Father Paul, though, what does his brother care about being taken for something he isn't; and his whole body cringes.

Blondie ignores him, in favour of removing a cigarette from a pack and lighting it. Not a cigarillo. The smoke drifts over him as Blondie breathes out; his body craves it suddenly, urgently, but he fights down that urge the same way he's managed to do for the last two months. If he takes it maybe that will mean the same as coming back to life, a signal he's unwilling to give...the pain's wearing off. It'd reminded him what real hurt feels like, but he's forgetting just as quickly.

"He wasn't sure," Blondie says at length. "I was sure. That's why I'm here."

"You want to help, you could get me a gun." It might be superstitious, to doubt if he'd be able to hold to his intent after feeling the familiar weight of that pack on his shoulders again, but he'd rather not take the chance. "Just let me have it. I'll do the rest."

"If you want to die so bad as that," Blondie says, in his quiet drawl, "might be better all around, if I just took care of it for you."

And Tuco jolts backwards, away- hating Blondie for this, that his partner knows him inside and out and exactly what buttons to press to make him live-

"You try, Blondie. You just try-"

and he lets loose then in a torrent of Spanish and English curses mixed, their sharp and heavy mouthfeel such a contrast to the politeness he's been living with. Every insult and invocation and scatalogical comment doing its part, drawing him in, until he's run out of words and rests exhausted, with his head on his partner's lap.

He weeps for a while, after that. Gets spit and tears and snot all over Blondie's jeans, knows it doesn't matter. It's okay.

"Feel better now?"

"Yeah."

After that they're quiet for a while. There's always this to be said for Blondie, a silence with him will never be uncomfortable.

(Not like Katie, who liked to blab bad as a hustler herself, as if pauses scared her.)

"So she broke up with you?"

"I broke up with her," Tuco says. "After I said- after I said it-"

calling ciao, because he didn't grow up in the neighbourhood for nothing-

and Katie had turned, waved, called back to him. "My gorgeous Italian lover!"

then he'd just fallen to pieces

"She didn't mind, even, she told me that. I'm crazy. I told her, go fall in love with a spaghetti-eater and never talk to me ever again. I quit my job- Blondie, I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Think of her as a mark," Blondie says, the picture of calm. "You took her in with a hustle, and she fell for it. That makes her stupid. You don't want to go with a girl who's stupid."

That's not a fair way of putting it, Tuco knows that (she's smarter than he is, working on a college degree by correspondence course)- but it's a version of events that fits with who he is, and gives him back some dignity. A story he can live with.

"I want to fuck you. But later, not now."

"We'll do that." Blondie stubs out the cigarette on the carpet, where it'll leave a burn. Lights another one, takes a drag, places it between Tuco's lips.

It's good. It's very good. He finds himself sucking up the smoke with eager pleasure.

"Where's your pack?"

"Bus station locker. I was trying to go straight, prove to myself I didn't need it anymore."

Blondie snorts. "You still want to do that?"

"No." He misses it; and besides, when Blondie's around he always needs to be ready for a crisis. "We can go pick it up tomorrow before we hit the road. I don't want to see this city again in my life."

"That suits." Blondie stands up with graceful ease, looks around the place with that quick, assessing glance- such a sexy way he has of doing it, maybe later on he'll mention that. "You should eat something, you look like you need it- what the hell's this?"

This being one of the pink packets, which Blondie holds between thumb and forefinger like it's some sort of poison; and the contrast between the delicate package and his furious demeanor is so ridiculous that Tuco nearly falls over laughing. Too much, probably. But he hasn't laughed at anything in four days, he's catching up.

Blondie waits for him to stop, with tired patience.

"Something she left," Tuco says, when he's recovered. No need to explain which she. "She said it was healthy. Better for you than sugar."

"Well, that's all nonsense-" (Tuco's always enjoyed this, his partner getting hot and bothered about something that is in no way either of their faults.) "This is just chemical sludge. It's useless. Tastes sweet but that's all it does, it won't feed you."

"She said-" Tuco says, and then stops, his mind working out the implications faster than he wants. Suppose he'd gone out on the road again, without knowing that. Hungry and anxious and not knowing why the coffee isn't doing anything for him, thinking it was all in his head- he expects lies when people have something to gain or something to lose, but this? This is something else again, and he doesn't understand it at all.

"You see," Blondie says. "She was hustling you, too."

Not the way it happened; but between them, that'll be good enough. Giddiness rolls over him in waves. Too much shock today, too many changes, his body feeling ill-used and cheated. "I'm hungry."

"I thought you might be. Come on, you get cleaned up and we'll go out somewhere. I've got money to burn right now."

"As long as it's not spaghetti. Or a goddamn pizza. Or-"

he has a wide and extensive knowledge of Italian dishes and starts methodically cursing out every last one he can remember, while Blondie chuckles and lounges on the bed. It's a good thing, to have his partner back like this.

(The whole night, it never once occurs to him to ask what Blondie's been up to.)

#70s au #the good the bad and the ugly #blonco #whump #sorry for doing this to Tuco #he's my fave and I am rough on him

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sofreakinmanyfandoms · 6 years

Text

The Nice Guy - Clint Barton X Reader college!AU - 1/6

I don’t remember if it was @rogue-barnes-16 or @cryforfandoms who inspired this, but it was one of them. Plus, I’m having so much fun writing Clint in NCNR, and also I’m sick of the trope of unrequited love actually being requited. (You’ll find out as you read it.) So, here you go. My first Clint Barton fic.

EDIT: I apparently accidentally removed the “keep reading” before posting. Sorry to everyone who found that before I fixed it.

Word count: 1453

Warnings: Mild angst. A tiny bit of commentary on my opinion of the traditional idea of masculinity.

The small party was in full swing when you arrived at Clint and Natasha’s new place. They had used Christmas break to move into their off-campus apartment and had invited your core friend group over for a New Year’s Eve bash.

The three of you had grown up together, and although your friend group had expanded once you were in college, you were still each other’s best friends. They had invited you to join them when the apartment hunt had started, but you’d just been upgraded to a solo apartment at your residence hall and were looking forward to not having roommates for once in your life.

“Hey, there she is!” Sam called out as you entered. “Riley! Your girl’s here!”

Your boyfriend, Sam’s roommate Riley, emerged from around the corner.

“Hey baby,” he greeted you, leaning in to give you a kiss and taking the grocery bags from your hand. “What did you bring?”

“Three bags each of nacho cheese and cool ranch Doritos for us normal people,” you grinned, pulling out a yellow bag. “And, of course, one bag of plain Doritos for the weirdo.”

“I heard that,” Clint said, swooping in from somewhere to grab them from you. “I’d be mad, but I’ve been seriously craving nachos all day. Thanks, Y/N.” He shoved a few dollar bills in your hand and bolted for the kitchen.

“Y/N, can you make sure he doesn’t light our new microwave on fire?” Nat called to you from living room. “He forgot to take the plastic off one of them last time.”

You winced and called back your agreement, giving Riley a peck on the cheek before following Clint.

“I can’t believe you can actually crave nachos with a recipe like that,” you teased Clint as you entered the kitchen.

He looked up at you from where he was peeling the plastic off squares of American cheese. “Says the lactose intolerant chic who wouldn’t know good nachos if they did the salsa in front of her. I don’t know how you stand that vegan cheese stuff.”

“At least I’m not dropping sandwich squares of cheap cheese on a plate of boring chips,” you shot back. “Have you ever considered, I don’t know, adding something with flavor? Taco meat, or salsa, or something? Heck, even flavored Doritos would make that stuff better.”

Clint dropped his plate in the microwave and shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with simple. Besides, I’m in college; I’m taking advantage of the expectation I won’t know how to cook. I have to learn enough stuff in class already, so no way am I trying to cram more kitchen info into my brain when I can survive just fine on this stuff.”

You sighed and shook your head. “You’re hopeless, Barton, you know that?”

“And you love me anyway,” he grinned, dropping an arm around your shoulders.

“Whatever lets you sleep at night,” you laughed, shrugging off his shoulder and wandering back out to the party.

Clint watched you leave and sighed. Having you and your boyfriend hanging off each other in his apartment was going to test his self-control all night. This was going to be a long party.

----------

You settled in next to Nat, who was curled up in her boyfriend Bucky’s lap. He was talking to Sam and Riley, leaving her free to converse with you.

“How are you two enjoying the new apartment so far?”

“It’s so nice being off-campus,” she admitted. “Clint’s a great roommate, too, when he’s not melting plastic in the microwave. Are you enjoying living alone?”

“Gosh, yes,” you sighed, “it’s perfect. No one leaves dishes in the sink overnight or their coat on the couch.”

She laughed and shook her head. “You always were a bit of a neat freak.”

“Hey, Nat?” Bucky shot you a look of apology as he cut into your conversation. “Can I get up, doll? I’d like to go with the guys who are picking up some pizza.”

Nat pouted at him, but you could see the smile she was trying to hide. “But I’m comfy,” she whined.

“If all the guys all go, we’ll get a few minutes of girl time,” you offered.

Bucky gave you a grateful smile when Natasha sighed and stood up. He, Sam, and Riley gathered their coats as Steve came up with his car keys.

“Hey, Barton, wanna join us?” Sam called. “We’re gonna go get pizzas and drinks. The girls are staying here to do who knows what girly stuff. We’ve got one more seat in the car.”

“Nah,” Clint said as he came around the corner, nachos in hand. “I’m gonna stay and finish these.”

“He’s practically one of the girls anyway,” Nat teased. “It can still be a girl’s night.”

Riley leaned over and kissed you on the cheek. “We’ll be back in an hour, baby.”

“All right,” you smiled up at him, “see you then.”

-----------

“What the hell?”

At Sam’s exclamation, the three of you looked up at the guys who had just tromped in with the pizzas and a few cases of soda.

“What?” Clint asked innocently.

You and Natasha were seated on the floor facing each other, painting each other’s toenails. Clint’s were already finished; he was leaning his back against the couch and reading an article from the latest issue of Us Weekly aloud as they dried.

Sam gave his feet a pointed look. “Your toenails are hot pink.”

“The color,” Clint informed him, “is called Bachelorette Bash. Nat’s are Russian Roulette and Y/N’s are Loot the Booty.”

Riley made a choking sound. You shot him a glare.

“Pirate booty, Babe. Treasure. Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Man,” Sam shook his head, “you’re crazy.”

“Told you he was practically one of us,” Nat laughed.

You grinned up at your boyfriend. “I’d be happy to do yours next.”

“I think I’ll pass,” he said with a smile, bending over to kiss you on the top of your head. “Maybe Sam’ll take you up on the offer.”

“Like hell I will,” Sam muttered, drawing a laugh from his roommate.

“I’ll take mine in mint green,” Bucky announced, flopping down on the couch.

Nat blew on your toes as she finished the last one and reached for a bottle of base coat. “Do you mean Chillato, Mint Candy Apple, or Bon Boy-age?”

“The first one.”

“Dibs on…” Steve scooped up a bottle and read the color title, “Leggy Legend.”

“Shoes and socks off,” you laughed as you took the bottle from him. “Do you want base and top coat too, or just the polish?”

He looked at you like you were crazy. “Duh, base and top coat too! Gotta help that color last as long as possible.”

Sam shot a look at Riley. “We’re surrounded by crazies.”

“It’s just polish,” Bucky scoffed. “It’s not like having colorful toenails puts your manhood in jeopardy.”

“You could learn a thing or two from us,” Clint said with a nod. “We have attractive women fussing over our feet.”

“If you’re concerned about people seeing the color, I have some nearly invisible sheer polish you’re welcome to use,” Nat informed them, finishing the basecoat on Bucky’s second foot. “It doesn’t even have a girly name.”

“Shine makes your nails look healthier,” Steve teased.

“I’m good, really,” Sam insisted with a shake of his head.

“Same,” Riley agreed.

The two of them passed around sodas and slices of pizza to those who were stuck in place while their toenails dried. By the time the ball dropped on TV, everyone’s polish was dry and people had resituated themselves around the room.

“You know, we’re in New York,” Steve remarked dryly. “We could’ve gone to see the ball drop in person.”

“Yes, but the apartment is warmer,” Clint pointed out.

“Touché.”

The singles in the room cheered as the ball dropped, while the two couples kissed.

“Happy New Year, Baby,” Riley whispered.

You smiled back. “Happy New Year.”

----------

Well, that could have gone worse, Clint told himself as he lay in bed, the party long over. He’d gotten an hour with you and Natasha without Riley around kissing you every few minutes. He’d had to glue his eyes to the TV for your New Year’s kiss, but as hard as it had been to see you happy with someone else, he did like to see you happy. Maybe if he hadn’t been a coward through high school, you’d be happy with him instead.

He rolled over and curled himself around his extra pillow. As he slept, thoughts of you kept drifting through his head. Your smile, your laugh, the way you lit up at his stupid jokes….

Yeah, he definitely had it bad.

#the nice guy #clint barton #hawkeye #reader #avengers #au #college #college!au #fic #fanfic #fanfiction #clint barton x reader #masterlist #i still suck at tagging

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boyfriendshua · 6 years

Text

→ Daytime | Kim Mingyu

genre: slight angst, fluff

warning(s): none

word count: 2,493

a/n: I really liked this one it’s so soft, thank you for requesting!!

The streets of the city were oddly quiet, the scraping of dead leaves against the pavement skimming along your eardrums, paired with the small gusts of wind that blew through your hair. Clouds clung to the skies overhead, fluffy and greyish-white, covering up the sunlight that tried to creep through. You shoved your hands deep down into the pockets of your jacket, not because you were cold, because it seemed like the correct thing to do in this situation. You craved comfort, warmth, and yet you didn’t quite want to go home. Curling up in your soft blankets back at your dorm didn’t seem like the right thing to do, not at that time of day. But did you ask to be dumped at noon on a wednesday by some guy who was really only using you to get a jealous ex back?

You sighed, shaking your head and listening to the quiet patter of your shoes as you walked along the sidewalk. Left, right, left, right. Your head was hung downwards, and you weren’t exactly sure where you were headed. There were no more meetings after class, no spontaneous coffee dates. That boy was nothing anymore; so why did you feel so empty, so alone?

You supposed it could have been worse. You could have been in a more serious relationship, a longer one too. But for nearly two months he had occupied your mind, brought you out of boredom, gave you something to look forward to as you sat in your boring classes, motivation to get out of bed and do something. It was nice; you were going to miss that.

You eventually stopped when you heard the sound of automatic doors sliding open, another set of footsteps meeting against the concrete just ahead of you. These footsteps were heavier, faster, for they knew where they were going unlike yours. You paused your movements, slowly looking up to glance at the only other person on the street.

Soft brown eyes met yours, gazing across the distance between you. His eyes held worry, concern, for he had noticed the tears dripping from your eyes, cascading down your cheeks. They fell jaggedly due to the winds, and a few strands of your messy hair that fell around your face were caught in the tracks they left behind. His large frame was carrying a few bags out to a delivery truck parked in front of the store on the road, and though they looked heavy, he didn’t seem to be struggling under their weight.

“Are you okay, Miss?” he called out, curiously, caringly. You only managed a shaky nod, sniffling as you wiped at your face with the heel of your hand, covered by the ends of your sweater’s arms. You blinked a few times, looking back down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to walk forward, past him. You heard as he opened the doors to the back of the truck, placing the bags inside before closing it. The truck driver drove the vehicle away, the sound of it fading down the road for half a block before turning and disappearing into the sounds of the windy day. The tall boy was suddenly in front of you, placing a large hand on the back of your head.

“Come inside with me,” he requested, turning to stand beside you. His hand trailed down to your back, gently urging you forward alongside him. He eased you towards the bright lighting of the store inside, and only when you noticed the various displays of pet toys at the front did you realize that it was a pet store.

“Sit here, please,” the boy told you after bringing you over to a counter on the left side of the large room, easing you to sit down on a stool. You obeyed, bringing your hands out of your jacket to place them in your lap, nervously fiddling with your fingers.

“I’ll be right back.”

And then he was disappearing into a door behind the counter, leaving you to sigh softly once again. You waited patiently, mind clouded over with sadness, and yet so overwhelmed with one single word that stemmed off into so many other doubts, so many questions; why?

Something warm and fuzzy was suddenly placed into your lap, drawing you out of your thoughts at the small puppy happily writhing around in your lap.

Your eyes widened as it licked at your face, your tears disappearing as you wrapped your arms around the small bundle of fur, happily yipping at you. You looked back up at the tall boy, who was now nonchalantly sifting through a stack of papers, but a happy smile tugged at one corner of his pink lips.

“You looked like you needed some cheering up,” he told you through a shy little laugh, your cheeks turning pink before you looked back down at the puppy. You gently grasped onto its blue collar, the word ‘Happy’ engraved onto its golden name tag.

“My name is Mingyu, by the way,” he spoke. He still hadn’t looked up from his papers.

“I’m Y/N,” you said softly, tucking some hair back behind your ear. Mingyu paused for a moment to allow your name roll around through his thoughts, and he shuffled the papers back into one neat stack before finally looking up.

“You don’t have to,” he began, reaching over the counter to gently scratch behind the puppy’s ears. “But if you wanna talk about what happened, I’m a better listener than most of our dogs.”

You had almost forgot that the whole reason you were here was because Mingyu had managed to catch you crying outside a mere few minutes before that, nothing but the goal of making you, a stranger, happy set in his mind as he pulled you inside.

“Oh, that,” you drawled slowly, a little quieter. Mingyu pouted a little, quite adorably, you might add, and not because you didn’t laugh at his joke.

“You don’t have to tell me-”

“No, no,” you cut him off, readjusting yourself and the puppy on the stool. “I’ll tell you. It’s the least I can do, right?”

And so, you told him all about the story between you and the boy your friend, Soonyoung, had spontaneously hooked you up with. You told him about how he had led you on into thinking it was going to be a lasting relationship, all until he broke it to you that he was only using you, that his ex had called hours earlier and told him that they wanted him back. And what did he do? Of course, he went back to them, leaving you empty and wandering the streets without knowing what else to do. And that was when Mingyu found you.

“I’m not so bummed out about him, really,” you insisted, rubbing your sleeve against the itchy tear stains left behind on your cheeks. “It’s just- it gave me something to, I don’t know, put time into, something to occupy me. What am I supposed to do now, without all that?”

Mingyu pondered your question for a moment, glancing up at the lights in the ceiling before looking back down as he spoke, an excited smile on his face at the sudden thought. God, he really was cuter than any puppy you had ever held.

“Why don’t you get a job here?” he suggested happily, as though it was the greatest idea in the world. Your eyes widened again, eyebrows raised at how elated he was at the thought of you working there as well.

“What?” you wondered.

“Yeah! It’ll be so fun! You can work here with me, and afterwards, we can go and grab dinner or coffee or something together!” he explained, a wide smile on his face that had brightened all the more ever since you first smiled at him. However, you were still sat there with a surprised look on your face. Did he know what he was suggesting? It almost seemed like he was asking you to go on dates with him, someone who took better care of you in the short half hour you knew each other than your now ex boyfriend had in those two months. Mingyu’s face fell a little at your expression, transitioning into something more calm, hopeful.

“You’d like that, right?”

And who would you be to deny his bashful smile, the sweet words hanging from his lips? He had been nothing but kind to you, did nothing but wish you the best and provide you with all that he could in hopes of lifting your spirits. And, either way, it would save you so many hours of sulking before finding motivation to get back on your feet again. And so, you smiled softly, giving him a little nod. His own bright smile returned instantly, and he instantly scurried off into the back for the application, placing it and a pen down in front of you on the counter. He held Happy as you filled out the blanks, moving around the store to restock some shelves before you finished.

“I’ll run this by my manager when he gets back from his lunch break, but there shouldn’t be any problems,” he told you reassuringly, handing you the puppy in exchange for the yellow piece of paper. Just as he said those words, the sliding doors at the front were opening not with a customer, but his manager.

“Ah, Seungcheol-hyung! Can I talk to you?” Mingyu called out, hurrying over to the man. They were far enough away from where you sat to where you couldn’t hear the words they spoke, obviously about you, and you instead focused your attention back to the pup in your lap, gently stroking the fur on its head and back as it napped, the softest of snores leaving it and causing you to smile. You looked back up when you heard two sets of footsteps approaching you, Mingyu smiling happily behind the boy whom you assumed was the manager.

“Hello, Y/N, I’m Seungcheol,” he said, shaking your hand. “So, would you like to start the job now?”

Your eyes widened in surprise again, Mingyu practically jumping with glee at his success of talking Seungcheol into giving you a job there so quickly. He was so excited to begin working with you, and you couldn’t help but nod at his offer.

“Perfect. I’ll leave Mingyu to show you the ropes,” Seungcheol spoke, giving you a smile before heading to the front to help customers. Mingyu came closer with a shy smile, cheeks pink as he glanced down at the floor before looking back up at you.

“Thank you,” you said to him, and he nodded happily. He gave you the worker’s half-apron to tie around your hips, telling you that he would place an order for a uniform in when he got the chance. He walked you around the store after placing Happy back in the playroom, showing you where everything was and even walking you through how things were stocked. Time blew by quickly, and soon enough, it was the end of Mingyu’s, and now your, shift.

“Are you walking home?” Mingyu asked as you stepped outside, backsides illuminated by the store lights inside as the cool of night embraced the rest of you. Only half of your faces were drenched in the yellowing light, the rest shrouded in the darkness from the lack of moonlight thanks to the skies that were still blanketed by those clouds.

“Yes,” you told him. Your car rarely left your college campus’ parking lot, seeing as your classes and your dorm weren’t too spaced apart. Today wasn’t an exception, and now you would pay the consequences of not bringing the vehicle with you on your journey. You weren’t even sure if you really knew the way back.

“Let me drive you home!” he offered. “Ooh, and if you’re hungry, we can get dinner on the way.”

There he went again, getting happier than a puppy when their owner finally returned home after a long day. It was refreshing and endearing, and you could already feel yourself being pulled out of the depressing and lonely rut you would have been stuck in had it not been for this boy. You smiled at him, but he was already dragging you towards his car excitedly before you responded with a simple ‘okay’.

He took you to a small little restaurant that served a little bit of everything, tucking the two of you into a small booth in the corner together. You got to laugh at him as he awkwardly adjusted his long legs beneath the table, pouting at you, but his face eventually melted into a grin as you hid your giggles behind a hand over your mouth.

You talked for what seemed like hours, speaking as though you had known each other for years, and yet discovering so many new things about each other. There were no feelings of being self-consciousness, no specific need to impress him. He had already seen you crying over some boy while stumbling down the street, so you guessed it couldn’t have gotten much worse than that.

Mingyu was absolutely taken with you; your laughter when he would tell you a funny story, the blush that coated your cheeks when he would give you a compliment. He remembered how his heart had sunk when he saw you standing outside the store, and he never wanted to see your lips tug downwards ever again, never wanted to see you cry over somebody like that boy who didn’t know what he was missing out on. You looked so beautiful beneath the lighting of the lanterns inside the restaurant, the candle between you. He even paid for the meal despite your offers to at least split the bill, but he only shook his head and handed over his card with a smile on his face. He drove you back to your dorm after that, getting out of his own seat to walk you up to the entrance.

“So… I’ll see you tomorrow?” he wondered, cheeks dusted a soft pink. “We start work at one, don’t forget, okay?”

His cheeks burned into a bright red when you suddenly pulled him down to kiss his cheek softly, eyes wide before you pulled away.

“Thank you, Mingyu. Really.”

Mingyu could only nod, words caught in his throat as you stepped away from him. He wanted to pull you closer again, feel your lips on his cheek one more time before he left, but he couldn’t find the words to say that.

“I-I’ll pick you up after your classes,” he stuttered. “Just text me.”

You waved to him from the doorway as he sat in his car, and he waved back before you went inside. He leaned back in his seat, smiling up at the roof of his car as he bit his lip.

He couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

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#seventeen #seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #kpop scenarios #mingyu #kim mingyu #mingyu scenarios

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