#Left behind in the rapture <3
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requested by dumbestdumbass
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The Adoptive Son. Part 3
A pair of large, cornflower blue eyes stare across the living room of a luxurious penthouse at a nervous-looking man. The pair belong to a young teenager named Tim Drake, who, for the past few weeks, had spoken only a handful of words with Dick since Operation Honey Pot had begun.
They were waiting for Crowne to go get the surprise he had special ordered for Drake from an acquaintance
He tended to stare at him whenever he was around. Sometimes Dick didn't think Drake would even blink. It felt a little like Drake was starstruck by Dick- but he couldn't figure out what he had done to earn such rapture from Drake.
Other times, Drake would study him the same way a scientist would study a newly discovered bug- fascinated but weary, as though he didn't know if it was dangerous. So the scientist needed to pin the bug to a board and take it apart to understand it.
It sort of made Dick uneasy.
The night Crowne had brought him back, Drake happily played some video games while his babysitter- a sweet college student named Nancy- had been working on her assignment at the table.
Drake had turned to greet Crowne and had promptly choked on his own spit at the sight of Dick. Crowne had run off to cook them a meal, insisting Nancy finish her homework and not worry as he cooked.
She had smiled gratefully, turning back to her books while Drake had been rooted by the tv, with the most awe-struck expression Dick had ever seen.
Dick is a little surprised by how well Crowne treats Nancy Salazar.
Nancy is studying to be a pediatric occupational therapist. She adores children and is fascinated by the physical therapist aspect of the medical field.
Dick had learned that Nancy had been struggling to pay her Gotham University tuition after losing her job to a rouge attacking her workplace and the company deciding they needed to make budget cuts to complete the repairs.
She had also fallen behind on her bills due to her father suffering a medical emergency and the family pooling together what little they had to help him get life-saving surgery.
Her dad had been the family's primary provider for as long as Nancy could remember. Since neither of her parents could speak English, they had limited employment options. Nancy's siblings were all younger then than her, so they couldn't help much with the bills.
She had tried to take over as the eldest daughter, but soon it became apparent she was close to losing the house her parents had left their home country for to build a better future for their children. It devastated her.
She had been on the brink of becoming desperate for any job when she had run into Crowne at a wifi-cafe shop. She had seen Tim struggling to get through the door with his wheelchair and had gone to help him. (the child had seen internet videos of parkour and chosen to attempt the tricks himself. He had broken his leg from jumping from one roof to another.)
Her kind actions got Crowne attention, and he invited her to sit with them, then witnessed her have a meltdown when the owner of the cafe told her he had just filled the barista position she had come for an interview for.
It must have all piled up until Nancy couldn't hold back.
Crowne and Drake had consulted her, listening to her woes. After she calmed down, the two adults exchanged contact information to get to know each other. He had offered a babysitting job with complete benefits and a full-ride scholarship. Crowne had even gone far and beyond, paying off all her father's medical expenses and debts.
Dick knew all this because he had done a background check on her to see if she was involved in Crowne's schemes. Her story felt just a tab bit too far fetch for all the good fortune of meeting Crowne that fateful day.
She even admitted that she was sure she would have resorted to a life of crime with how desperate she had been back then.
When she came back clean- just the eldest daughter of immigrants trying to make it in this hellish city- Dick had thought Crowne was infatuated with her.
Nancy was a very attractive young lady, and it would not be the first time a rich man took advantage of a woman in finical distress. He hadn't found evidence yet, but Dick would keep an eye on her to ensure she was safe.
Her involvement was a lot easier to dismiss than it was for Drake.
"You and Danny are dating. He told me last night." Drake says after about half an hour of Scientist-looking-at-bug staring.
Dick throws on his best Wanye smile, making sure it's both charming and besotted. "Yes. We've agreed to become official. I hope you don't mind."
Drake tilts his head, looking ironically enough like a bird. "That depends."
"On what?"
"On what your intentions with Danny are." Drake puts down his Crowne laptop, which Danny had been programming and designing back when they started talking. The design is still the slimmest Dick had ever seen, small enough that it sat comfortably in Drake's school back and robust enough that it worked for all his gaming and photo developing.
It took Crowne about two months to complete what he called "modern," but it wouldn't be out to the rest of the public until Christmas when Crowne planned to reveal it to raise profits as high as possible.
The only reason Drake was allowed to have a model so early was simply that Crowne obviously saw him as a younger brother and sometimes maybe even a son. Dick certainly pick that up in the two-month undercover mission.
He must win over Drake as soon as possible for the sake of the mission. So far, he's come up with nothing incriminating, but more kids have disappeared. If the other boy can't stand him, it will seriously risk his access to Crowne's home and any clues on the missing children.
"I want to give him the life he deserves." Dick settles on. He's noticed that Drake is crazy intelligent. There was no reason to outright lie and get caught if the boy was smart enough to connect the dots.
"Danny deserves the world." Drake nods, stating the words like a fact. "Whatever you searching for, you won't find here."
What?
"Do you not want me to date Danny?"
Drake pauses, carefully turning the question in his head before answering. "I want someone to date Danny because they like him"
"I do like him."
"Do you?" Drake's eyes are practically ice, and Dick gets the sense he just walked into a trap. Carefully, he double-taps his left belt loop sending a warning sound to the Batcave. They won't pull him out yet, but it will have either Babs or Jason nearby in gear, just in case.
A soft click is heard from his right earring, and he knows Alfred is listening.
"I really do." He says in a warm voice.
Drake seems skeptical.
"Danny always had people falling for him. I had to tell him Jenny Wilson wasn't asking him for a private tour of his kitchen when she tried to get him to bring her back to the penthouse. He honestly thought she cared about his grape peeler. He's like that, you know? Though thoughtful, caring, kind, intelligent, and strong, Danny can't see that people generally think he's what they would want in a romantic partner. I think he was bullied a lot as a kid before his adoption, and it's ruined his ability to see his worth."
Dick tries not to scowl. Yes, he's suspected the same thing. He just hopes it's not why Crowne has inflicted so much pain.
He can't stand people who use bullying as an excuse. It doesn't justify anything they do, it also demonizes the victims, and they get too scared to report what they are going through. ''I can't claim to not be like the other people because I don't know them. I know myself, and I can promise that every inch of me wants to see Danny living the life he deserves."
Whatever Drake is going to say gets cut off by Crowne walking back from the elevator carrying a box. "Tim, come look!"
He settles the box on the coffee table, so Drake can reach over and open it. There is a small gasp of delight from the boy as he pulls out a well-done Robin hoodie. It's not over the top like most Robin merch, but it's not subtle either. It's so nicely done. Dick can even tell it's based on Jason rather than him.
The second Robin is Drake's favorite. The teen prices it by holding it up and cheering, "Oh my gosh! I love it, I love it! Where did you get this!?"
"One of Nancy's friends is majoring in fashion design. She overheard me say I wanted to get the second Robin merch that wasn't a blatant grab for money, and she had her friend draw up some designs. I will sponsor her and sell her work in our stores."
Crowne is wearing a Robin hoodie of his own, but this one is based on Dick, and for a moment, his heart soars at the sight of Crowne in his family colors. It's a dangerous thing.
He knows one of the pitfalls of undercover work is getting too attached to the lies. He couldn't allow himself to actually fall for someone like Danny Crowne. Nothing good would come out of it once he saw him jailed for everything he's done.
He hasn't gotten anything to show Crowne's crimes, but Bruce had enough proof for the shell companies doing strange and dangerous experiments.
They needed to figure out what the experiments were attempting to do. Still, they found small clues: systematics showed weapons that didn't intend to harm humans, half-erased research on "eco-energy," what looked like machines attempting to rip holes in reality, and glowing green liquid that made Bruce pale when Jason brought back a simple.
It made Dick angry that the liquid prompted his ex-mentor to contact Talia al Ghul to ask, but she claimed to know nothing of Danny Crowne. Bruce felt she was lying, so after asking Wonder Woman and Superman for help, the big three went to Nanda Parbat to look for clues.
Dick wasn't sure what they found, but Bruce had a surprise for him back at the cave once he finished visiting his "boyfriend."
They could take down Crowne Co. with what they did have, but there was a chance Crowne could claim that his scientists went rogue and let them take the fall. Also, they didn't have any names of the scientists. It was like the invisible man was conducting them on his own.
Dick had to wait a little longer. See the big plan and unravel it so everything can never be rebuilt.
Yes, he's only seen a good man who may be socially awkward once you get past his regal composure, and his speech may be a bit too formal. A passionate inventor who always tried to find a new ways to improve people's lives, especially in medicine.
A man who cooked because he liked feeding people.
A man who offered a helping hand because his parents were often mocked for their careers- Dick suspected they may have been prostitutes based on the small comments of people thinking "it wasn't real jobs and they should be ashamed for themselves"- but most of all, Dick found a man who seemed lonely.
Someone lost after life displaced him, desperately trying to find himself again. It made Dick feel better knowing someone like him was doing the same.
"What is your opinion, Dick?" Crowne asks, doing a slight turn. Dic can't fight the urge to lean in for a quick kiss, telling himself it was all for the mission and the butterflies he felt in his stomach were terrible indigestion.
Crowne smiled into the kiss, pressing a second one on Dick's lips before leaning back, looking a little flustered still, and over his shoulder, he saw Drake's eyes narrow.
Maybe the kid was jealous?
He didn't know, but he better keeps an eye on Tim Drake. Something told him not to underestimate that boy.
"I got you a Nightwing too. The first Robin and Nightwing are one of my favorite heroes. They make me feel safe. I know I shouldn't worry with them guarding me at night." Crowne says, and Dick fights hard not to flinch.
You have no reason to feel guilt. It's for the mission.
He hopes he finds proof soon.
(Part 1), (part 2)
#dc x dp crossover#The adoptive son#Part 3#Death Defying#Tim is catching on that Nightwing may be playing with his brother's heart#Nancy is just another person luckly enough to be under Phantom's protection#Can you guess what bruce found?#Dick is starting to catch feelings
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i hate u [abby anderson]
pairing; abby x afab!reader
word count; 3.8k how tf did that happen
cw; language, mentions of death, angst (like, so much angst), enemies to lovers, eventual smut
summary; abby has always had it out for you. the feeling was mutual.
until it wasn't.
an; hiiii, it's me, providing you with the abby content i'm devoid of. i love this buff lesbian woman so fucking much.
read pt 2 here!
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT OR I'LL CRY (and as always read it on AO3 here <3)
there were much more productive ways you could be spending your time. you could be, i don’t know—literally doing anything else other than being forced to clean these goddamned bathrooms.
it’s not that you didn’t mind cleaning, no. in fact, under ideal circumstances, cleaning could actually be fun for you. there was just a big problem with who it forced you into a room with this time. with her stupid long french braid, and her absurdly large muscles—like seriously, what the fuck was she showing off for? we’re killing scars, not for training for the fucking rapture.
“you know, if you move the mop in a back-and-forth motion, it would actually clean the floors.”
to put it quite plainly, abby doesn’t like you. you said left, she had to say right; you say go, she had to say stop—the mutual loathing was just routine at this point, it came almost as natural as breathing. surely it didn’t help that the two of you were typically sent on assignments that involved being together for far too many hours at a time. rarely was it made only slightly better by the presence of someone else, another body to diffuse even an ounce of the tension that hung between the two of you like a rope.
you scoffed at her juvenile insolence, though you started mopping again nonetheless. “trust me, i don’t want to be here any longer than i have to. i have shit to do,” you jeered, making it a point to look down at the ground, watching the soapy water spread across the tile. not at the way her muscles—have you mentioned they’re absurdly large?—flexed as she wiped down the counter with bleach.
“oh, i’m sorry, i didn’t realize i was keeping you from something!” abby exclaimed, feigning ignorance. “by all means, you run off and do whatever it is you have to do, and i’ll just finish this little punishment all by myself.”
you had to bite back a bitter laugh, instead choosing to shake your head at the ground, your mopping becoming just a little bit more aggressive with each stroke. you chose to ignore it. you almost had her completely tuned out of your mind, until you didn’t.
“it’s not like i was the one who just let that scar go.” that stopped you dead in your tracks.
abby has said a lot of things to you. a lot of untrue things. a lot of hurtful things, even. and again, it was entirely possible you could have even ignored that. but then you looked up—and you saw her stupid, imprudent fucking smirk, and it was over. “you know what abby?” you started, throwing your mop. you didn’t even have the energy to smile at the way she flinched when the wooden handle hit the ground with a loud bang. she played it off quickly, though, raising an eyebrow and leaning back against the counter. you didn’t expect the sudden lump in your throat.
“fuck you.”
the words didn’t come out exactly like you’d hoped. maybe there was a slight hesitation, the faintest crack between the syllables, a single tear threatening to spill down your cheek—but you meant it, wholeheartedly.
fuck abigail anderson.
you couldn't bother to give her even a second thought as you turned on your heel, ignoring her calls of your name from behind you. perhaps a bit childish, but you slammed the door extra hard on your way out.
let that scar go? is she fucking for real?
you were so tired of having to prove your place here to her. isaac sent you both on the same assignments, he trusts you just as much as her to do his most important jobs, but it never seems to be good enough. whether it was jealousy or stubbornness, you could never be quite sure.
time and time again you’ve tried to make nice with abby; you had actually wanted to be friends with her—the jaunty girl who never seemed to let her past slow her down, taking every opportunity to crack a sarcastic joke and practically jumping in front of bullets for the people she loved—you’d tried to spark friendly conversation, volunteered to take some of her extra assignments, even offered her a book you’d overheard her mentioning she wanted to read that you just happened to have on your bookshelf, but it was all futile. she wanted nothing to do with you, like your presence alone was a personal inconvenience. so, naturally, you stopped trying—yet, the two of you almost always somehow ended up in the same room together, whether it was a drunken night in leah and nora’s room, or cleaning bathrooms as a stupid punishment.
but one, one little slip up and that’s all it took. you took your eyes off that scar for a split fucking second, and now she’ll never let you live it down. you were furious, angry tears clouding your vision as you stormed away, down the hallway and practically sprinting up the stairs to your room.
she can clean that bathroom all by herself, you thought as you fumbled to get your keys out of your pocket, dropping them on the ground in your haste. “fuck!” you exclaimed, bending down to pick them up, searching for the small silver key on the ring.
“there you are,” a sudden voice from behind startles you enough that you flinch, dropping your keys again. of fucking course.
“go away abby,” you practically snarl, wiping away the wetness on your cheeks with your palm before she could see. despite your weak protest, you could hear her heavy footsteps getting closer as you finally unlocked the door, pushing it open and slipping inside.
“oh, come on,” abby was right on your heels, pressing a hand against the door and preventing it from fully closing behind you. your eyes felt like they might roll into the back of your head.
“i’m sorry, what part of ‘go away’ was unclear to you?” you snapped, turning around to glower at her through the small crack in the doorway. her arm strength was incredible, she was barely leaning against the door as you pushed with an embarrassing amount of effort to try and close it on her. what you lacked in brawn, you pride yourself in making up for with brains—yet another reason it was already embarrassing enough that you fucked up, now she was practically rubbing it in your face.
abby’s eyes held a look you couldn’t quite understand. no way she was apologetic, but her face held a certain softness to it you’d never quite seen before. usually her face was all rigid lines and sharp angles, clenched jaw and guarded eyes, especially with you. it was rare for her to smile around you, now that you thought about it.
“can we talk?” abby asked, and her voice was almost…pitiable. her eyes were low and her pink lips parted slightly. it was unnerving. she never asked you for anything, let alone to talk. your eyes flickered across her face, trying to make sense of what she was really trying to say, beneath the surface.
but there was really nothing to say to that. no, you wanted to scream, no we can’t fucking talk, fuck you, and i never want to talk to you again. but you said nothing, instead shaking your head and turning away, letting the door swing open against the pressure of her hand.
“why do you hate me so much?” your mouth was moving before your brain could catch up, arms crossing defensively over your chest, though you were no longer facing her.
“why do i hate you?” she scoffed, and you heard the door closing softly.
“yes, why?” you spun around to face her now—she still stood near the door, that same indecipherable expression painted on her face. you avoided her eyes, but noted the way her nose twitched ever so slightly. “ever since i stepped foot in this stadium you’ve had it out for me, and no matter how hard i try, i can’t understand why,” oh fuck, the anger was coming back up, rising in your throat like bile, “is it because i don’t put up with your shit anymore?”
“no,” abby gritted out, taking a step toward you. “listen, i—”
“because i see right through your little act?” you cut her off and wow, she was fuming now, chest rising and falling heavily as she clenched her fists together. “stop it, i’m trying to—”
but you couldn’t stop, even if you didn’t mean it, “‘ooh poor me, my dad died and now i’m stronger because of it, and everybody loves me,’” the words stung in your mouth, and in your eyes, “‘i’m isaac’s top scar killer but i have a heart of gold,’” tears falling as you stomped toward her, “well good for fucking you abby. i’ve lost a lot of people too but you don’t see me acting like i’m better than everyone.”
you couldn’t help it, you were pushing her before you knew it, right in the chest with as much strength as you could muster, and she wasn’t expecting it because she stumbled backwards into your bookshelf, a picture frame falling and shattering on the ground before she caught her footing.
you looked her right in the eyes for the first time since she had entered your room, uninvited, and all you saw was flames, burning through her blue irises like wildfire. you stepped back, wide-eyed and disoriented, her figure nothing more than a blurry silhouette in front of you. her heavy breathing was all that you could hear, it consumed you, made you dizzy as you staggered backwards, that ineffable sadness reaching into your chest and squeezing around your heart, fuck, how does she do this to you?
“for fucks sake, would you just listen?” abby’s asked suddenly. her voice was rough around the edges, chipped away by your words—you couldn’t look at her, it was too much, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it. why did you say that to her? she was reaching toward you before you could say another word, you half expected her to hit you, to strangle you, to say fuck you and never speak to you again, but then her calloused fingers were gripping your forearm.
“abby,” your voice was pathetic, broken and whiny, god, you were completely out of control. you let your arm go limp, watching as her hand practically burned an impression into your skin as she pulled you into her chest. you were overwhelmed by her scent, that fucking pine soap she always hoarded and faintest hint of bleach that burned your nose, reminding you of what started this in the first place.
no, this couldn’t be real life, there was no way you were crying in front of abby, your biggest vulnerabilities tumbling from your lips like an avalanche, but her arms were there, wrapping around your shoulders like a blanket as her head fell into the crook of your neck. you couldn’t tell whose heart was beating faster, her pulse pounding against your ear as your arms hung limp by your side. your brain was absolutely spinning trying to figure out what to make of this, a few loose strands of her braid hair tickling the side of your cheek as you shifted your head.
“i’m sorry,” her strained voice bled down your neck, sending a shiver down your spine, her breath hot against your shoulder as she tightened her grip. instinctively, you wrapped your arms around her waist, giving in to her touch, her apology washing over you like a humid rain in the summer—you’d waited so long just to hear those two little words, but it felt wrong somehow. “i’m sorry,” she repeated, quieter now, though you were probably the one who should be saying that.
“abby,” you found yourself saying again, squeezing your eyes shut as you leaned into her, feeling the tightness of her back muscles flex as you flattened your hands against her back, oh god, what the fuck is happening right now? “i didn’t mean that,” you whispered, muffled slightly against her shirt. the words i’m sorry usually came easy to you, often apologizing for things that didn’t warrant one in the first place, but the words were harder to get out somehow in this moment, pressed against the fabric of her shirt.
her grip on you loosened, her arms sliding down your back and she was gone in an instant, turning away, clasping her fingers together and bringing them to the back of her neck.
“i don’t hate you,” but she couldn’t face you, dropping her arms to her hips as she looked at the ground. you watched the anxious tapping of her foot and it felt like you couldn’t breathe—isn't this what you wanted? to be friends, or at the very least, for her to not hate you? maybe then, but not now. “i’m intimidated.” she was quiet, turning to face you. the orange glow of the lamp cascaded over her face, painting her in the softest form you’d ever seen her in.
“intimidated?” you were taken aback, furrowing your brow. “by me?” you shook your head, incredulous at her sudden confession. what could she possibly be intimidated by? “abby, you’re-” you gestured at her, unsure of what to say. “-you could probably snap me in half if you wanted to, i-i don’t understand-”
“oh trust me, i know,” abby cut you off, scoffing, and fuck, she just couldn’t help herself could she? you were mortified she’d caught you in a moment of weakness, you were angry, you were so fucking confused. your pity quickly soured, tears dried up in an instant, the disdain seeping back into your skin like a parasite—no matter how many times the two of you got close to reconciling, it always went wrong somehow. it had felt different this time, but maybe you were wrong.
“abby, i swear to god i-”
“okay, okay, i’m sorry,” she softened again, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “old habits die hard, am i right?”
you squinted at her, crossing your arms over your chest defensively. “does this really seem like the time to be making a fucking joke? because the door is right there,” you made a show of pointing at the door before turning to sit on the chair behind you, bending over to take off your boots. anything to avoid looking her in the eye.
“fuck, i’m sorry, i don’t know how to talk to you about this,” she was walking towards you now, and you didn’t bother to look up. she sat opposite you in the mismatched chair, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. you looked up at her through wet lashes as you pulled your boots off, tossing them haphazardly to the side. she looked just as confused as you felt, brows furrowed in frustration—nothing about this felt normal, or okay.
“what i’m trying to say is that i’m sorry,” she started, dropping her head to look at the ground.
“you said that already,” you noted dryly, scooting back in the chair and pulling your knees to your chest protectively. she laughed, but it didn’t sound bitter.
“i’m sorry, for everything,” abby looked at you now, and your breath hitched. “for how i’ve acted around you. for the way i’ve treated you, the things i’ve said. all of it,” her eyes were full of sorrow, and it made her look a way you’d never seen before—vulnerable, fragile, empty. “right after you moved onto the base, leah told me about what you’ve been through, losing your parents and your brother, being forced into that military school, and still fighting to get here all the way from boston. if i’m being honest, i was jealous that you could take it all in stride.”
you could do nothing but stare at her, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.
“from the minute you got here, you were so calm and collected, ready to help anyone who needed it. you were constantly volunteering for extra assignments, helping out in the classrooms, doing all the work that no one else wanted to do with a smile on your face…i know we all have a past but i never could’ve guessed yours,” she let her head fall again, clasping her hands together and taking a deep breath, “and god, you’re so fucking smart, like there’s no way you learned all the shit you know about history at that dumb military school.”
your mouth fell open slightly, trying to process her words. first, an apology, and then a compliment? no smart-ass comments, no snarky look, no just kidding. you’d never even talked with her about your love of history that much, let alone your family.
“abby,” you started, pulling your knees tighter to your chest. your brain and your mouth were fighting over what to say, the years of dissention between the two of you threatening to surface—but she seemed genuine. bouncing her leg up and down, abby continued to avoid your gaze as she picked at her cuticles.
“when i first got here, i was a mess.” she cut you off. “i could barely eat or sleep, i hid in my room whenever i wasn’t out on an assignment, and i didn’t care about anyone or anything. it took me months to get past it all and then you came along, so open and easygoing, even after everything you’ve been through…i was embarrassed.”
“everybody handles grief differently,” you said quietly, putting your feet back on the ground. she looked up at you, and her cheeks were wet. you swallowed thickly. “i wasn’t always that happy behind closed doors.”
abby frowned slightly. she was quiet now, pensive as she held your gaze. your cheeks burned under the scrutiny, and you wanted to shrink into the chair. less than an hour ago you had all the intention in the world of never speaking to abby again, and now she was sat, taking up space in your room, and your mind, fuck, how was she always on your mind?
“that still doesn’t explain why you were so mean to me,” you broke the silence after taking another second to process her words, and tears were clouding your vision again.
“yeah, if i’m still being honest, i don’t really have an explanation for that either. or, not a good one, at least,” she at least had the decency to look sheepish, leaning back and scratching her neck lightly. “i guess because i was so intimidated by the way you handled yourself, i just defaulted to…jealous rage?” she sounded unsure, and you scoffed.
“wow,” you said. “you’re right, that is a terrible explanation,” you shook your head, leaning back to match her pose. she laughed again, looking up to the ceiling, and it sounded foreign.
“i’m not the best with words,” she smiled weakly, a blush creeping up her neck.
“trust me, i could tell by all your elementary insults.”
“hey, didn’t i just say i was sorry?”
you smiled back at her now, against your better judgment. the two of you had spent the past three years practically at each other’s throats, and a simple i’m sorry i was mean to you because i don’t know how to handle my emotions was supposed to fix it all?
“i meant it though,” abby said softly now, eyes boring into yours. “i’m sorry. for everything.”
you held her gaze a moment longer, but had to look away. you had to, before she could see that you were caving, that all you’ve ever wanted to hear was that—that you wanted to just talk to her without always being on guard, that you wanted to know her favorite music and what she really thought about all of manny’s sexcapades and if she ever took her hair down from that goddamn french braid and— “you don’t have to forgive me. not right now, anyways. i just hope that one day you can.”
and then she was standing up, your eyes followed up her torso as she stood, smoothing her shirt down before giving you another weak smile and heading for the door. oh god, fuck, fuck all of this, “abby, wait,” you were up and after her in a heartbeat, grabbing her forearm just as she had yours earlier, forcing her to turn around. she looked surprisedly, first at your face, then down at your grip on her forearm, which you quickly dropped when you felt your heart skipping a beat. her eyes were wild, tired and full of anguish.
before you could talk yourself out of it, you were practically throwing yourself at her, arms wrapping around her torso as you pressed your cheek into her chest. she stumbled only briefly, before you felt her arms envelope your shoulders once more. this time, it didn’t feel wrong.
it felt like coming home.
“i really shouldn’t have said that thing about your dad,” you said, but it was muffled in her shirt.
you felt her laugh rumble in her chest before she squeezed you tighter, her head lowering into your neck so that you felt her lips on your shoulder as she spoke. “yeah, that was pretty fucked up.”
you smiled into her, and god, this was all fucked up. the world was fucked up, and out of it was born you and abby—two fucked up people making fucked up choices that lead to some pretty fucked up consequences.
she pulled back from you, but kept her hands on your shoulders. you took a fistful of her shirt, looking down to avoid her eyes. your stomach was flipping, the heat radiating from her body overwhelming you and making you feel dizzy. “can you forgive me?”
and yeah, that was maybe your fucked up, roundabout way of telling abby, i do forgive you, but she seemed to understand. when you dared to look back up, she dropped a hand, and the other came to softly caress your cheek. she looked at you tenderly, the rough pad of her thumb wiping away a tear you hadn’t even noticed.
“of course i can.”
and then there was only the sound of your heart thrumming in your ears, her quickened breath as she looked at you in a way you’d never seen before. you gripped her shirt tighter, lips parting slightly as you felt the weight of her hand against your cheek. you leaned into it, eyes slipping closed for a moment.
“abby,” you whispered, your free hand coming up to hold hers in place against your cheek.
“shh,” she shushed you softly, and you could sense her getting closer. you didn’t dare open your eyes, heat pooling in your stomach as you felt her breath fanning across your face.
“don’t speak.”
her lips pressed against yours so softly that for a moment, you wondered if you were dreaming.
#abby anderson#abby tlou#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson x you#abby x reader#abby x you#abby anderson smut#the last of us part 2#i love abby anderson w my whole heart#also thank u to mia for reading most of this and reassuring tf out of me
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Princess and the King
Pairing: Russian Alpha Bucky x OmegaFem!Reader
Summary: Urged by a bout of jealousy, your Alpha fucks you from behind, his metal arm cradling your waist, his other hand gripping your hair.
Warnings: ‼️ MINORS DON’T INTERACT, omegaverse vibes, Russian endearments, p in v sex, hardcore, knotting, licking, nipping, unprotected sex, cockwarming.
Kofi ❤️ Wattpad 🧡 AO3 🩷 ASK ME 🩵
Bucky Barnes Masterlist
“Like that ‘mega?” Your Alpha panted, his balls slapping against your ass with each primal thrust. His metal arm cradled your belly, feeling where he was fucking you so deeply while his other hand gripped your nape, fingers forking in your hair.
“Alph—mhpp…” your words faded, devoured by his greedy mouth. His tongue delved inside, brushing wetly with your own. “Pl…please—ungh—hhn…"
Trembling palms gripped the hard surface of the table which was shaking precariously. Gasping and gasping, your mouth felt dry and kiss-swollen as he pumped from behind, his thighs splaying your legs wide. Your eyesight was blurry, desire making you hazy. The only thing you could focus on was the feel of him, thick and swollen, buried so deep within you that with each thrust you felt his cockhead kiss your womb.
This sex marathon had started because another Alpha had kept his eyes on you for more than normal. Said 'normal' was 3 seconds. You were shopping at the supermarket, and to add insult to injury, Bucky was standing there beside you when the Beta looked at you. That was all the more reason for Bucky to get bonkers with the puny male who had dared lay his eyes on his omega. Your Alpha was usually good at maintaining his composure but with your heat coming in a few days, he was a little more on edge than usual.
He scared off the Beta male and did not kick his ass because you distracted your Alpha with your touches, finding yourself in this delicious predicament. Shopping forgotten, he all but carried you to your apartment, devouring your lips along the way until he had you all to himself.
Worth, it. So worth it. You loved your Russian Alpha hunk, even more so when he was filled with possessiveness.
“How about you give me a third one, ‘mega?” He hent down, his chest tickling your back, his lips suckling your earlobe.
Right… he’d make you cum two times already, once while licking and fucking you with his fingers, the second on the floor with you riding him, and now, over the table, his fat cock —which seemed to never go down— spearing you again and again.
You were dripping slick, your eyes rolling to the back of your head with each glorious shift of his hips. He knew exactly how to move, how to touch and caress. Your bodies fit perfectly and mated all the more wildly.
“Close, 'mega?” He dragged his teeth over your neck, causing your walls to contract and grip his cock tighter.
Nodding, your eyes shut tightly, a moan leaving your lips.
His voice rumbled through your bedroom, rich with authority. “Look at me, моя принцесса.”
You raised your gaze to meet his, the mating bond thrumming between you, loving yet feral.
"Uhhhn, am close, so close Alpha..." you whined in desperation, unable to formulate words with his insistent fucking and the marks he left against your skin. He was everywhere, lips and teeth nipping, kissing, his hands now cupping your cheeks and splaying them open to gaze at where you were joined.
“Words.” He slapped your asscheeks. “Use them.”
“Need to… pl.. please.. a‐anghh-please, f-f-faster... need to cum!”
His cock twitched from how sweet and needy you sounded, your juices drenching his cock and balls.
With a growl, he urged you backward, tipping your head so it was resting on the curve of his shoulder. You collapsed into him while he fucked you in earnest, his warm hand playing with your sensitive breaths. His metal thumb vibrated against your clit, gathering your slick and then spreading it around your nipples.
Vision blackening, you clenched so hard around him and rode the waves of rapture that seemed to wreck you. The wet sounds of your pussy got vulgar, his husky moans joining in your own. He surged inside you with deep, frantic strokes, while mumbling praises and biting the expanse of your creamy throat and all over the mating bite that marked you as his.
“Mine." Slam. "Mine.” Slam. "Mine."
“Yours. Always.” You dug your nails into his sides and hung on as he fucked and fucked and fucked. Gods, you couldn’t take the wait any longer. You needed him to come, to knot you into oblivion.
When he finally did come, it was an explosion, his cock pulsing and erupting inside you. He fed you ropes and ropes of his Alpha seed-- it was so much it tricked down your thighs even with his knot swelling to full mast and locking you together.
Kisses were peppered on your lips while he purred and whispered words of affection and praise. My pretty princess, always taking me so well, letting me knot your pretty pink pussy and fill your greedy womb. Oh and how right he was. His cock, still throbbing and hard, caressed over all your sensitive spots.
“Feel good, ‘mega?” he asked after the cloud of desire had thinned, his hand cradling your face.
"I'm alright, Alpha."
His heart thundered against your back, just as fast as your own.
Gently he cradled the undersides of your knees and helped you back against him. Trapped on his knot, you could only whine as he lifted you against him and got seated in the nearest chair. His knot tugged at your folds but held your pussy securely. You sat down fully, your tender ass against his pelvis, your legs draped over his thick thighs. Utterly relaxed against him, you particularly enjoyed the way he cupped your breasts and pinched your nipples.
"I'm sorry. " He kissed your lips, his metal hand cool against your breast.
You whimpered and turned your head to meet his ocean eyes. “Hmm, jealousy suits you, Alpha.”
“It's not my fault for wanting to ensure that every bloody male knows his boundaries and keeps their eyes off of you.”
“So possessive. I love that about you,” you murmured, your voice a soft caress.
“Can you blame me, little ‘mega? When every fiber of my being longs to keep you as mine?”
Your lips curled into a playful smile. “I’ll always be yours, Alpha. My heart belongs to you, and you alone.”
“Моя принцесса,” he drawled, his voice a low rumble that made your pussy tighten around his pulsing knot. “Heart of my heart, light of my soul.”
With a loving smile, you reached out to brush your fingers against his unshaven cheek. “Мой король,” you whispered in broken Russian. “My King.”
#bucky barnes#Russian Alpha Bucky Barnes#bucky barnes fic#james bucky barnes#bucky barnes smut#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#james bucky buchanan barnes#alpha bucky barnes#beefy bucky#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky barnes x omega reader#Alpha Bucky Barnes × Omega!reader#sebastian stan#sebastian stan hot#bucky barnes fanfiction#james buchanan barnes#james barnes x reader#bucky barnes imagine#winter soldier#by aikaterini
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hii ari! i hope you are doing good! make sure to take care of yourself <3 your step bro fics are such faves of mine , omgg you are such an amazing writer <33 if you are doing requests, could you please write about step brother jungkook and same age reader , where the reader is sad or crying for some reason and jk ends up comforting her thru f*cking ?
hi! 💕 tysm, I love you and yes please 🥺 this wasn't very specific so I hope it's close to what you wanted <3 take care of yourself too angel <3
pairing: jungkook x reader
genre: forbidden romance, step!siblings au
warnings: allusions to violence (not towards the reader), allusions to depression, pseudo incest, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of fingering & oral sex, praise kink, rough sex (but also very soft somehow bc jk is a total simp in love), creampie
Rain trickled down the windows of your bedroom, tapping rhythmically against the glass and blurring out the night. You felt blurry too, distorted, cheeks stained from tears, the wetness stuck in your eyelashes. Grabbing your face, Jungkook tried to kiss it all away. A tinge of color spread throughout your bones. The blurriness seemed to dissolve, clearer thoughts and sensations emerging. His warmth seeped into you, melting away the frigid numbness that had encased your soul.
He moved forward, knees bumping against yours, kissing you so desperately there was not an inch of space left between your bodies and not an ounce of air left in your lungs.
It wasn't always like this.
Usually, Jungkook took his time with you, relishing in every shallow breath and every little twitch of your limbs, sucking on your neck until it bruised. He liked to switch between finger fucking you in his lap and burying his face in between your legs, until you quivered under the sheets and his tongue made you forget your parents were sound asleep in the other room. Drunk on you, he used your mouth like a toy, praising you all the way through it, thighs tense and hard dick twitching in your throat.
There was no time for any of that tonight, though. You just wanted to feel real, wanted the heat and the weight of his body pinning you down, holding you together; and as always, Jungkook was there to provide. His hands were all over you, palming your ass before he pushed you down onto your bed, lips refusing to part from yours. He unclasped his belt buckle and unzipped his jeans, aching to be inside you, to take all your pain away and leave behind nothing but his marks. You received no warning and no time to prepare; your soaked underwear was pulled aside, and the next thing you knew Jungkook filled you up to the brim, groaning lowly into your mouth.
You arched beneath him, gasping, your cunt clenching so tightly he broke into sweat. With a quiet grunt, he pulled back out, cock pulsing and leaking; only to shove its entire, thick length back inside, wasting no time in setting an aggressive pace.
You squealed, grabbing onto his broad shoulders for support, legs wrapping around his waist for no more than a moment before the force of his thrusts made them slip back down. Even so, there was no escape from his powerful frame trapping you beneath him. Not even the clothes, messed up from being tugged at, seemed to create any barrier between you. You could still feel the heat of his skin bleeding through the cotton of his t-shirt, and each ripple of his muscles as he fucked you. The rest of the world was mist; the mattress groaning beneath you, the ticking of the clock that signaled your parents would be home soon, the stress and the weight of every long day dragging on. It became nothing but a cloud ghosting through your fingers, too close to the ground to bother you. Up high, the only thing you felt, heard and remembered was Jungkook. His tongue entwining with yours, the hoarse moans bordering on whines, barely muffled by his kiss; and the hot, white rapture coiling deep in your abdomen, spreading through you like a fever.
How selfish it was of him, to drag you down into the shadows where you did not belong. And yet they seemed kinder than the harsh, blinding light you were expected to walk in, welcoming and understanding of your sorrows. And sometimes, Jungkook couldn't help but wonder what would happen if you'd decide to leave one day and make a home with someone you didn't have to be ashamed of loving. Someone much less twisted and much more deserving of you. Someone who didn't need to stain their hands with blood out of a monstrous fear of losing you.
Hopeless, he ended the sloppy kiss, eyes dark and blown out when they looked into yours.
"Pretty," he choked out, swallowing down a whimper. "So pretty. Love you, love you, love you- fuuucck-"
The way you clenched around his cock made him pound you faster, the sound so wet and lewd he couldn't stop twitching inside you. He had a feeling your hips were going to get bruised, and with the way you clawed at his back and moaned his name, god, he hoped they would.
"Come with me," he breathed, voice shaky, ringed fingers grasping your chin.
You mewled, nodding your head, incapable of providing any other answer. Pressing his lips to yours, Jungkook used his free hand to hold on to your thigh, digging into the soft flesh.
"I got you, baby, I got you."
The soothing promise melted into a deep groan, the thread he was hanging on snapping unexpectedly when your cunt squeezed him tighter, gushing onto his cock. He stilled abruptly, letting the velvet heat of your walls massage him through his orgasm, emptying himself inside you completely.
A sigh.
Not bothered cleaning you up, he disconnected himself from you just to get undressed. Even if he had the energy for it, he was much happier knowing you were full of his cum, sated, your pretty pussy wet instead of your pretty eyes. He knew you had classes in the morning; he did too, and you both needed some sleep. He also knew he couldn't stay in your bed, because soon his father would walk in through the door, your mother following right after.
But just as much as Jungkook didn't want to leave you alone, he didn't want to sleep without you either. It was two am when he sneaked back into your bedroom, doing his best not to disturb your rest.
You stirred anyway, curling up to him as he wrapped his arms around you, his chin finding rest on the crown of your head. Wide awake, he laid in the dark, holding you close to his chest.
Tap tap tap.
It was still raining. His lips brushed against your hair as he glanced down at you.
"Baby?"
You hummed so softly he almost missed it. He ran his fingers down your thigh, like touching you eased his aches too, made spring bloom in the bleak winter of his own bones.
And it did.
"I wish I could-" he tried, then paused. So many words, so many languages, and yet nothing felt fitting enough. "... Sorry I can't love you the way you deserve," he whispered. "But I'll love you the way you need."
There was no reply; only the ongoing sound of rain and the softness of your even breathing. He didn't mind. He pressed a kiss into your forehead and closed his eyes.
Some secrets and promises were better off left in the dark, too.
#yandere bts#jungkook x reader#bts x reader#bts imagines#bts smut#bts scenarios#bts reactions#bts yandere
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All Yours - Elizabethan Smutshot
Rating: Explicit || Word Count: 4.2k
Content Warnings: vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, p in v sex, fluffy smut/porn with feelings
Masterlist || AO3 Link
Beta reader: @juniper-sunny <3
The door doesn’t give its usual squeak under his hand, footfalls are achingly quiet, and the silence is loud enough for two. You don’t have to look back at him to know he’s there; only feeling.
“You should be in bed.”
Silco’s quietude is deafening, nary a response save for his low chuckle. You finally turn over the back of your chair, hooking an elbow around the wood to keep yourself and your glaring disapproval in place. He may be amused, but you are certainly not.
You want to snap at him, yell at him, glare at him until there are two searing holes burned through those damned eyes. Orange and green burned to a crisp. Ignited until ashes fall from the weary bags of his eyes.
Alas, the fiery gaze you so wish you held does not come to your rescue, and the subtle crow’s feet of Silco's smirk break you.
He watches with rapture as your head hangs and you sigh, leaving your seat to stand toe-to-toe with him. Your head arches up, craning to meet Silco’s eyes with the way he towers over you, thin frame and smug grin consuming your line of sight.
“Is my little firespitter all out of fire?” His smirk is a horrible thing to look at.
Yes.
You repeat yourself, “You should be in bed,” and you’re sure Silco knows you want him out, yet he doesn’t budge.
“Why?”
Another sigh wrestles free from your chest, and you’re just now aware, vulnerable under this man, how truly frigid your room is. You cross your arms over your chest, feigning indignation as a poor disguise for how you wrap your arms around yourself.
“I am exhausted, and you shouldn’t be in my quarters–no less at this hour.”
Silco’s smirk widens, and almost in immediate contrast to such a wicked grin, his hands rise to hold your face with an unexpected tenderness.
You don’t tell him to stop, to unhand you, to never touch you again. You couldn’t tell him that even if you wanted to. The hinge of your jaw fits perfectly in his palm, the warmth of his fingers framing a precise cup around your cheeks.
“You don’t want me to leave,” he whispers. His eyes are pools of gentle tides and kindling embers, his gaze igniting a chill fever within you. “You want me to yield.”
Your lips part around a silent breath and you can’t stop the shiver that courses along your spine. The lingering promise of his touch is left to your discretion, a whisper as soft as his voice that may only rise at your word.
“I’ve said no such thing,” you counter, voice weak. You cannot stay firm against him, you wish he would relent. You wish he would yield.
“You don’t have to say it, I can see it.” Silco’s smirk fades, the arrogant lines of his face soften. You’re no longer looking at a tease, but just a man. You cannot argue with him and you don’t want to. For him to yield is the break you’ve dreamed of, the fantasy you’d thought no man could cater.
And yet, here Silco stands before you. Delicate, open, speaking a truth you’ve never heard before now. He steps closer, the edge of his nose a scant inch from yours. His eyes lower, softened gaze landing on your lips, throat, collar, lower, seeing everything that is you.
“Let me hold you.” His voice is but a subtle breeze to fan across your face as his hands ghost down your cheeks, along your neck, over your arms, seeking reverently for the heat of your touch.
“Let me hold you so that times and ages may pass behind us and only we remain. Let me shower you with the love and praises and all comforts and joys that I so desire to show you. Let me worship at your hands, your mouth, your lips, your feet; I am your servant to shape if only you say the word.”
Eyes stare longingly, a dual-toned plea that balances the delicate line between ice and fire, the crease between his brow softening all of the sharp features you had once known him for. He is reduced, sanded down, fully clothed and naked as sin all at once. Not even the many layers he wears now could hide how fully he opens himself to you, heart unraveling before your very eyes between devout verses. Yielding.
“Please.”
Silco’s throat pulses against his collar, bated breaths moving against tight frills and high buttons. Until this moment you had thought of men’s clothing as only a little ridiculous: the absolute difficulty they pose in getting one undressed. Now they seem utterly infuriating as you imagine the many steps you would have to go through just to feel Silco’s skin against your own, just to peek at the constantly tightly-buttoned column of his throat.
His fingers are still featherlight over your shoulders, not touching rather just gracing the folds of your sleeves, and you think you might go mad if he keeps his hands off you any longer. You’re not cold anymore, hands falling away from yourself, open to the soothing tenderness his hands might offer you.
“Yes.” Your voice comes out as a breathless whisper, but no matter. Silco’s mouth is so quickly on yours that you can’t even process the moment that it happens, only aware that he’s kissing you. It’s so warm, so desperate, so full of longing and eagerness; a flower of suppressed emotions and thoughts that blossom at such intimate contact.
His hands are warm on your shoulders, hot skin burning through your layers and gripping with a firmness like he’s making sure you’re real–that this is real.
Your hands claw at his lapels and sleeves, trying to rip the clothes off of him and instead having to fumble with buttons upon buttons upon buttons, with which he helps you, and you start ripping at your own clothes.
The hot, flustered burn of your cheeks spreads through you, growing into a full-bodied itch that only Silco’s lips, teeth, tongue, and capable hands can scratch. The only way you know how to act upon this feeling is to hurriedly work at your laces and buttons, pulling and loosening until you can slide your night dress most of the way off your shoulders, baring warm skin to the cool air.
Silco’s hands set you aflame, chest bared to you inch by inch as each button comes undone, more flicking open in the passionate storm of your combined fingers. It seems the both of you are caught between touching naked skin and trying to find more of it, shifting restless hands from hot flesh to damned-tight clothes and back again.
Hands push your chemise further down, exposing your bare chest to him, nipples hard from the cold air. Your lips part around a gasp as Silco’s hands cup your breasts, kneading until you open your mouth enough for him to slip his tongue between your teeth.
You’re not naïve, you’ve had men kiss you, but you never thought it would be like this. It was always about domination, power, taking. The tongue was a ruthless muscle that was forced in and never objected to–a lady should never object.
Silco never takes, he offers. His tongue darts in and recedes just as quickly, merely suggesting its use. You return the favor, tasting the burning whiskey in every corner of his mouth. At your affirmation, his tongue rolls against yours, and its precision sends a lick of heat to pulse low at your navel.
Your gown falls over your hips and to the floor, and though you’re left in absolutely nothing but your nakedness, the cold of the room couldn’t bother you less. Your skin is hot, and it grows to a raging fire when your hand comes to cup the hard ridge of Silco’s erection.
His hips roll into your palm and you eagerly steal the shuddering breath that leaves him, pressing against his body heat, wanting more and more of him.
Silco answers your silent plea, guiding you to your bed and a gentle waltz of heavy gasps and greedy fingers, clutching and holding with longing passion.
As soon as you’re sure that the bed is behind you, you fall back, waiting for Silco to come over top of you and take you. Your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, and when you don’t see Silco, you sit up, only to find him on his knees on the floor.
“You didn’t strike me as one to pray,” you say, laughing breathlessly at Silco’s strange position on the ground. His feet are tucked behind him, hands outstretched like they’re frozen in time reaching for you.
Silco smirks, the same wicked grin from before tugging at his thin lips. Thin lips that are now red and kiss-swollen, wet with the lewdly intimate mixture of your saliva and his, evidence of your own eager tongue.
“I suppose that’s what some might call this,” he says, hands moving once again. They reach for your thighs and pull your backside to the end of the bed, your bottom half hanging off and your legs hooking over Silco’s shoulders.
“Why are–” you try to voice your confusions but your words are cut short as long, nimble fingers caress the inside of your thigh, and when you look at him again, Silco is staring directly at your core.
You can’t figure out for the life of you why any man would want to put his mouth on a woman, but as Silco’s nose parts your curls and folds, you wouldn’t dream of telling him to stop.
His tongue is a slick, vicious thing, delving in and making a path for his lips that give delicate kisses to your most tender parts.
“Ah!” You cry out to him when those lips purse around the essence of sensitivity, kissing, sucking. The delicious friction of his skin against yours, working you so perfectly, tightens a cord in your belly. You’ve felt it once or twice before on your own, the exquisite band that snaps back at you and leaves you panting and light as a feather. You feel it now, the tension that has your hips squirming and your thighs closing around Silco’s head.
It’s too much too quickly, too suddenly, and, as if reading your mind–or rather, reading your heaving chest and desperate grimace–Silco leans back, the sanctuary of his mouth leaving you with an embarrassingly slick pop.
“Thoughts?” he asks, and through your lust-addled mind fog, all you can manage is a subtle nod of your head.
You can hear his smirk, a devilish thing, and his hands are soon on you once more. You think he’ll blow you away again, kiss and lick you until you’re shivering and pushing him away for breath, but he doesn’t. Instead of the sharp edge of his nose diving in, you feel the chill of his fingers.
“Oh.” You can’t restrain your gasp at the sensation, one tentative finger gently pressing against your entrance. You can feel how soaked you are, the wetness that pours from you, leaking onto Silco’s capable digit as he slowly works you open.
“Slow breath out,” Silco hums, and when you release a patient breath, his finger pushes in. It doesn’t sting nearly as much as you’d expected, and Gods does it have you shivering when Silco pulls back that finger and thrusts it inside again.
Silco rises from his knees, fingers still anchored between your thighs as he slips a hand against the back of your neck, holding you.
“You’re alright with this?” he asks, and you’re trapped by the green and orange eyes whose glows soften when they fall upon you.
“Gods, yes,” you pant, and Silco stretches you further, adding a second finger. Your hips chase the feeling, that delicious burn. Unfamiliar is the thought of someone else bringing you to this quickly-approaching peak, but it’s so addictive.
“Keep– please.” Your hoarse whisper is met with a passionate kiss, the movement of Silco’s tongue matching that of his skillful fingers. It rolls against your own and Silco pairs that delicious lick with an artful curl of his fingers. Had you known of the sensation you would have tried it yourself long ago.
A low moan spills from your open lips, eagerly taken up by Silco’s ravenous mouth. Fingers stretch out, an open-close scissor motion that makes you whine. You wish he would curl them again, and you buck your hips in a pitiful attempt to bring back that angle.
Silco’s mouth slants against yours and he leans forward, the weight of his hips on yours minimizing your frantic bucking.
“I know,” he coos, voice a honeypot drizzling onto your tongue, “but this is for the better.”
You whine again and Silco’s thumb comes up to press into your clit, engaging measured circles that make up for the less desirable scissor of his fingers.
“Is that better?” he asks, knowing full well the ecstatic shocks those fingers are sending through you. On the off-chance that the quiver of your thighs isn’t answer enough, you nod against him. The ridge of him is insistent against your hip, throbbing between the press of your bodies.
“Please, Silco, please!” You buck your hips again, the cruel tease of his fingers driving you to the brink of tears. Silco’s sharp smile against your lips is somehow even more cruel as he removes his fingers just to take that bundle of nerves between two digits. Your mouth falls open as he rolls the pads of his fingers around your clit, loose cries of his name tumbling from you.
“Oh, darling, please what?” Silco croons, the gravel of his voice–silken, sultry, sinful–sends a pleasant shiver through you, your now-gelatinous muscles twitching with every nudge and pinch of his fingers.
“Inside, please inside, your cock, Sil!” Your cry for him is almost pathetic, garbled and slurred between blurry lines of ecstasy. The sensations this man invokes are wild, possessive, gripping. His grin at your plea is all of these equally so, the sharp lines of his face carved into ragged little arches and angles of gluttonous lust and pride.
Silco hums into your ear, “My little firespitter begs so sweetly for me,” and just like that, his fingers are gone. The heat of his hand against you disappears and you’re left with the aching want that consumes your entire being and makes your body weep at the thought of him taking you.
He brings crystalline-wet fingers to his lips, capable mouth–that you know the many wonders of now–working your wetness off his digits. From Silco’s chest rumbles a low moan.
“And she tastes almost sweeter.”
Your face heats up at such a crude comment, as if the rest had been any tamer, and soon Silco is kissing you again. There’s a bizarre new tang that each swipe of his tongue brings, but you’re quickly moaning against his mouth as you realize it’s the taste of you.
Hands slide down your body, cupping breasts and waist, the smooth dip of your hips and the curve of your buttocks. The frantic pull of Silco’s fingers against his trousers are obvious and you take to running your hands inside his shirt. It hangs off his lithe frame with majority loosened buttons, a white shroud around his body that traps his heat against your fingers as you explore each line of thin muscle.
Silco rears back to take off his pants, undergarments tossed alongside his bottoms on the floor, and you cannot help the magnetic force that draws your eyes down, down, down.
Long, curved, like a scythe one might find in a farmer’s hand. One prominent vein runs up the length of it, swerving to the side with a vicious, throbbing hook. The head of him is red and peeking out through foreskin, sporting pearls that threaten to leak over. The rest is thick, and just by eye you can feel its weight.
Lords above, it might split you in half.
“I’ll be gentle,” Silco purrs from above you, and when you meet his gaze again you find a clever smirk etched onto his face.
Gentle? The Gods couldn’t be gentle with that weapon if they tried, and he knows it. But you’d die a happy woman if he killed you like this tonight.
You match his grin, a determined smile breaking onto your hot face. “Don’t you dare.”
Silco growls and grabs the backs of your knees, pressing you against the bed. Any remaining tenderness from his confession–which you had forgotten completely up to this point–is gone as he slots himself between your legs and pins you down.
“You will know my love and you will know my wrath, and they will be synonymous to you tonight, my little firespitter.” His voice is a low rumble next to your ear as you feel the tip of him press and slide, collecting your wetness. He thrusts against your curls, nudging that wonderful little bundle of nerves that he teased so deliciously before.
“May the Gods grant me a life when I know those beautiful things every night,” you whisper, pulling Silco close so that you speak into the skin of his neck. His warmth surrounding you was more than you could have ever hoped to feel from him, and you’re really quite tempted to ask that he pinch you, just to make sure the sensations of his hands on you, his cock rubbing against you, his lips kissing anywhere they can find, are all real.
“Be careful what you wish for,” Silco growls, before pushing into you.
The stretch of him is overwhelming, but you’re thankful he prepared you as he had because it could be much worse. It burns through you, and yet the prod of just the head isn’t nearly enough.
You rut your hips up, wordlessly pleading for more, and Silco thrusts forward, sending himself deeper. He nudges the deepest parts of you, pressing against your walls which clench feverishly in your tension and excitement.
You’re about to say something when Silco breathes against you, voice a ragged huff of air and need.
“Can you take the rest?” he grunts, and you’re confused.
The rest? The rest of the process, he means? Lords above, if he doesn’t finish what he started…
You nod, too concerned with the fear that you wouldn’t reach your peak around him, or his inside you, and not fully registering what he meant.
That is, until he sends his hips forward.
The feeling of fullness from before is nothing as his sharply defined hips press hard against your thighs and his cock is sent further into you than you thought ever possible. What was once a gentle nudge against your walls is now an insistent pressure, splitting you open around him in the most delicious way imaginable.
A long, low moan manages to pry itself off your tongue and your head tips back, the press of him too deep to think, too thick to breathe. It all aches so perfectly.
“The rest…” you whimper weakly, breathless with how wholly you are consumed by him.
Silco chuckles. “I should have been more clear.” His voice is rough with desire, a low rumble of sinful tones. “Are you alright?”
You nod, air rushing back into your lungs as Silco stills his movements. His hands cradle your face, a delicate swipe of thumbs against your cheeks.
“Relax,” he whispers. You do as instructed, matching his patient breathing as the tension in your muscles releases. You feel yourself loosen around him, and it doesn’t hurt as much.
“You’re doing perfectly.” His voice is a gentle, guiding hum, red and green eyes at ease. The usually sharp, angular look of his face is softened. Pristine hair falling out of place. “Just tell me when to move.”
You nod again, and his head comes to rest against your collarbone, bladed nose hooking against its outline as he breathes you in. Hands are gentle, godly things. One set of fingers is tracing along your sensitive clit, easing whatever burn of him that remains. The other cradles your jaw, thumb running smooth circles into your heated cheek.
“Move, please,” you whisper, having decided that just inside is not enough.
His hips shift back–a slow, meticulous drag against your walls–before pressing into you again. Gods, it’s exquisite. One could swear to the lords above he gets deeper every time, bigger every time, like he swells within you.
“You are so perfect,” he breathes, voice hot against the skin of your neck. His skin is feverish on yours, sweat dewing on both of your bodies and mixing at every interval of touch. “Absolutely divine around my cock…”
His head lifts and he presses a light, almost chaste, kiss to your lips, the press of his hips picking up slightly. Where you once were hard, rigged lines against his intrusion, you’re now a puddle, melted and limp in Silco’s arms as he drags his cock against your walls with slow, indulgent movements. He cradles you to his chest, the heat of him too intoxicating for you to pull even a centimeter away. Arms swing over his shoulders, holding tightly to the shirt that still hangs loosely off his form, long-since untucked from discarded trousers and now dangling around both of your thighs.
Each thrust is a long, measured glide, nestling his hips flush against you and his cock deep within. You clench tight around him and he throbs in response, a give and take of pleasure so infinite you’re not sure where you end and he begins.
“Sil–” you gasp, and he calls your name in kind, a ragged grunt.
“You take me like you were made for it,” he sighs, pace picking up against your hips. “My little firespitter…”
Every whisper against your skin sends a shiver through you, breath hot as he speaks into your ear, sweet nothings rolling from his mouth like sweets. You take them greedily, completely at the mercy of his affirmations as his hips rocks into yours.
He’s big, and it had hurt before, but now all you know is the ecstasy of him inside you and the syllables of his name on your tongue.
You roll your hips up into him, clit grinding against the hard surface of his pelvis, sending him deeper into you.
Silco’s lips are at your jaw, relishing your gasps and cries with every thrust as you begin to chase your highs, bodies melting against each other at every point of contact.
Silco pulls back to look at you—to look at what must be the ruin of your face and hair—and after you’ve a moment to look back at him, at the sweaty, tender beauty that is his face, he kisses you. His tongue claims you this time, no longer hesitant as you lose yourself to him, to his rhythm, to his everything.
You moan, and he moans back. You shift and he follows your lead. Every scratch of his skin and tug of his hair is met in kind as you grasp at each other, desperately holding on as your respective climaxes build.
“Please, dear Gods, Silco!” you gasp, the feverish snap of his hips between your legs intensifying as he rears forward, adjusting his angle to hit that beautiful spot he’d reached with his fingers.
“Perfect, beautiful little thing you are,” Silco grunts. “Let me see it all come undone.”
His fingers are talented little devils as they dance along your clit, the smooth velvet of his voice guiding to your peak and sending you over the edge.
From your lips, a long, startled wail of Silco’s name, each letter a heavenly thing to savor as he demonstrates these otherworldly pleasures. Patterns of stars and lights burst from behind your eyelids, playing across your vision as your thighs quiver and shake. Fingers hold desperately to Silco and you feel the shoulder seam of his still-remaining shirt threaten to rip at your hands.
“That’s it,” Silco groans, hips still as his climax overtakes him. “Exquisite creature, you… feel… so perfect.” Warmth blossoms inside you as his cock pulses, each strong throb accompanied by another lick of heat.
“Breathe, my lovely,” he whispers, hand splaying above your breast and feeling at your pulse. “I’ve got you.”
You don’t even realize your feverish panting until Silco points it out, and you’re quick to catch yourself before a bout of dizziness—if Silco’s enthusiasm hadn’t made you a little bit dizzy already.
He shifts and you both hiss as he pulls out, the warm essence of him dripping between your thighs. Silco pulls his arms through the sleeves of his undershirt and drapes it over you, laying by your side.
“You were incredible,” he whispers, pulling your back against his front. His sharp nose finds a home just behind your ear, and his lips deliver kisses anywhere they can manage. “My lovely— perfect— immaculate…”
He trails off, and you sigh contentedly, a smile at your lips.
“All yours.”
#silco#arcane#arcane silco#silco x reader#silco arcane#silco x you#mdni#smut#lilith writes#medic-simp
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Fractional Focus
About this: Steven/fem!reader, fingering. Daddy kink is mentioned, but not an active kink element.
For Rose <3
*
How are you meant to help it?
Steven sits at his desk with a book in hand. When you’d (long ago) come to the realization that everything about him turned you on, you still hadn’t imagined this, that even the most mundane of actions could have your mouth dry and knees shaking.
But it’s the way his lips will mouth the words he reads. It’s how broad his hand is, cradling the spine of the book with all the tenderness he uses to touch you. It’s the lines of his body when he sits back and puts his feet up on the desk to make himself comfortable. It’s the way he turns the bloody pages, the rasp of his calloused thumb against the paper as he performs the well-practiced flick.
No one has any right to have you so hot and bothered just by reading a book. Steven makes a sound in his throat and sits up, letting his feet return to the floor so that he can plant one elbow on the desk and stare down into the book rapturously. His focus is so singular, so intensely devoted. So not yours.
“Steven?” you murmur, coming to stand behind him with your hands on his broad shoulders.
“Hm?”
“Do you think you’ll read all day?”
“Course not,” he says. Your heart lifts, then stalls and free falls when he adds: “I should be finished by dinnertime.”
You frown at the back of his head. His curls are so dark and thick. One of your thumbs skims up the back of his neck and strokes the soft strands. He hums but makes no other movement—except to turn the page.
“Steven?”
“Hm?”
“Do you think you could take a break?”
This has him pausing, finger moving to mark his place on the page while he turns to glance at you over his shoulder. He really should have his glasses on when he reads, but he’s misplaced them. By dinnertime, he’ll have a headache for sure. “A break? Absolutely. I’ve got about fifteen pages left in this chapter—”
You manage not to groan, but it is a very near thing. Your lips press together tightly to hold in the unhappy sound, but Steven’s eyes miss nothing, zeroing in on your minute, unhappy expressions. He raises one brow but says nothing. Something about his gaze has your ears growing warm, like you’re a child that he’s chastising for distracting him. Let daddy work, baby, and I’ll take you out for an ice cream cone later.
And oh, god, that’s a whole can of worms you aren’t ready to open.
“Am I neglecting you, love?” he asks lightly. You hold up your thumb and forefinger, the tiniest sliver of space between them. “I’m so very sorry. Good thing for you, I’m good at multitasking.”
He pats his lap. Smile brightening, you move to straddle him, ready to wrap your arms around his torso, bury your face in his neck, and nearly doze off to the sound of turning pages. But with a hand he stops you, twirling his finger to show that he wants you to sit with your back against his chest so that you are facing his book.
“Aztec History: a Captivating Guide to the Aztec Empire, Mythology, and Civilizations,” you read blandly. “Not really in the realm of my interests, Mr. Grant.”
“Well, ‘s not for you, is it?” he returns, looping an arm around your waist to draw you more firmly against him. “Now be good for me, yeah?”
You sigh as quietly as you can, lean your head back against his shoulder, and resign yourself to your fate. Steven deserves to enjoy his book. There will be other times—
His hand slips beneath your shirt to rest flat against your tummy. As warm as you are, he is burning hot in the best way. His rough palm smooths across your skin before falling still as he is distracted by the book. You can feel his lips moving soundlessly against your temple as he mouths the words.
Then his hand rises up to cup one of your breasts, holding the heft of it in his broad palm. You suck in a breath, holding it. Distractedly, he drags the pad of one thumb across your nipple.
“Fuck,” you whisper.
“Shh.”
He teases the bud into one aching point with lazy, aimless touches that have your thighs clenching together. All you want is for him to take it between his fingertips, to roll it so firmly and sweetly, to stoke the wetness between your legs.
But pulling his hand away, he reaches out to turn the page.
You breathe a laugh. “So it’s like that, is it?”
“Right?” he mutters back. “Eighty pages in and we’re finally getting to the comparisons between Egyptian and Aztec culture. Feel like I’ve been waiting eight hundred pages, personally.”
Page turned, he lets his hand fall back to rest on your lap, fingers gripping one bare thigh gently. He reads that way for several minutes, turning one page and then two until you’re just about to give up hope.
“Love, you’re squirming,” he says. “Be still for me, would you?”
You try.
His hand moves up to rest against your stomach again, immediately stilling your breaths. This time, he slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts. He cups his entire palm against your mound and just rests there. Something in the book must amuse him, because he snorts softly.
It’s degrading in the best way to be given only a fraction of his attention and to revel in it, to ache for it, to be so fucking grateful for it. Absently, he lets his fingers dip into the wet little seam between your legs, the tips of two fingers resting against your slick opening. He drags them up and right over your clit. Your entire body jerks like he’s electrocuted you.
“Still, please,” he reminds you.
“Steven,” you whine.
“Hush, none of that. This is just getting good.” You suspect he’s talking about the book, but you can’t help but agree. It takes all of your self control to stay still and let him strum his fingers, warm and wet with your slick, across your clit until the slide is smooth and frictionless. He begins to play with you without aim as if you are nothing but an outlet for his distractible energy, something he can toy with while his focus is on other things.
Just as you begin to climb that peak that has your legs already shaking in anticipation—he pulls his hand away to turn the page, pausing only to wipe your wetness on the bare skin of your thigh so that he doesn’t smear any on the pages.
“How’s he just going to skim over that?” Steven suddenly rants out loud, the fingers he’s just been using to torment you pressed against a line in the book. You couldn’t focus on the words if you tried, your brain fuzzy and blurry. “I’d read a whole bloody book about that on its own.”
He returns his hand to beneath the waistband of your shorts, rubbing those lackadaisical circles across your aching clit again and again. It becomes a race then, to finish in the space between one page in the next, in the time it takes for him to need to turn a page. He drives you upwards slowly and steadily, pausing every now and then to dip back to your hole to coax more wetness from you.
When you’re nearly there, legs shaking, you feel his hand tense, ready to withdraw to turn the page.
“Please don’t, please,” you pant. “I’m almost there Steven. Please?”
He sighs against your temple. “Turn the page for me, then, won’t you?”
Your hand trembles as you reach out. He increases the pressure of his fingers, and as soon as your own touch the page, you reach the crest you’d been climbing for the last half hour. The band deep inside your belly snaps, pleasure arcing over you like lightning, stiffening all your muscles. You only have a moment to think how you wish he was inside you before he tucks his fingers into you knuckle deep, sighing shakily at the way your cunt clenches around him.
“Such a good girl,” he says, kissing your temple. “Don’t forget to turn that page for me now, yeah?”
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[a letter from Mimi in 1975]
Discussing one of the fans and Paul: “Well, I just lose patience with such reckless stupidity. There must be reason in all things and to chase round after an aging Romeo, and worse still getting into debt to do it beats me. It would not mean a thing to him even if he knew, apart from boosting his ego, which doesn’t need any help and for Heaven’s sake, why he does these tours I can’t think. Only, of course, he may miss the publicity, which he loves. I say you can’t go back trying to recapture the careless rapture of youth, etc. etc. It could never be the same as it was when they were at their peak, the four of them. It’s nearly 12 years since L'Pool first went mad on them and then America. John may at some time feel like doing the same but I hope he won’t.”
And Ringo: “I hear Ringo has announced his final departure from this country to live in America. Announced if you please. I don’t care either way. Certainly no announcement is needed. Just go and remember where you or he got his chance, with a big slice of luck thrown in. Really such arrogance. A little less bravado would be appreciated. 3 children left behind. Financially they’ll be all right, but that’s not everything. I don’t hear anything but gather his and George’s divorces are through. I’ll try and see Ringo’s mother next time I go North and get all the news. I know she’ll be upset. Announcement indeed! It annoyed me.”
George: “As far as George and all that Harri Krishner or whatever they call themselves. I couldn’t blame Patty if she had to put up with that lot. Those screeching Jennies wandering all over the hose with their silly nonsense, banging tambourines and wailing all day long. Money does go towards softening of the head, altho between me and you, I wouldn’t mind the money and keep two feet on the ground.”
The Guitar’s All Right as a Hobby, John, Kathy Burns (2014)
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Request: Matt Murdock & Margarita on the Rocks. Cardigan by Taylor Swift
New follower. I love your work. Congrats on 2k followers!!
thank you for stopping by the bar (& for requesting blondie<3)!!!
as a reminder: margarita on the rocks means it's spicy (minors dni)!
blurb below the cut
cardigan
you put me on and said I was your favorite
The roar of the celebration inside was completely drowned out in Matt’s ears by the thunder booming inside your chest as his hands snaked higher and higher up your thighs, your dress rising up with his wrist like a curtain revealing a stage for the taking. A shuddering breath left your lips, but it wasn’t the brisk chill of November that had you shivering; it was the burning trail of Matt’s fingertips tracing an invisible map along the expanse of your inner thigh that led to his favorite treasure.
“Matty…the-”
“Shh shh shh.”
His plump lips were soft as they pressed against your neck, parting just enough for his tongue to capture a taste of your skin. Slipping his hand past the waistband of your panties, he groaned directly into your ear in pleasure at the evidence of your desire that greeted his fingers. The sound traveled straight down to your core, causing a fresh wave of arousal to coat Matt’s palm, and he inhaled deeply as he used his index and middle fingers to tease your slick folds. A soft whimper was carried away with the whisper of the wind, and your head fell back against the frigid brick when Matt easily slipped one of his fingers inside your entrance.
“Matty…we…c-can’t.”
Matt didn’t need his heightened senses to know you were lying. He could tell by the lack of integrity in your voice, the way you arched your back to push your chest flush against his, and the way your walls instinctively tightened around his finger. You could feel his devilish smirk against your shoulder as he nudged your thighs further apart with his knee, trapping you further between the wall of his body and the one of brick behind you.
“Now, we both know you don’t really mean that, sweetheart.”
As his thumb easily glided over your aching clit, your fingers nimbly gripped onto the tie woven around his neck, intending to try to push him away, but somehow you only pulled him in closer. Matt’s lips were hungry and fervent as they devoured the sensitive flesh of your neck, and you could feel the deep maroon rising to the surface, branding you as his for everyone to see. The last remaining string of your self-control was dangerously close to snapping, and if you didn’t try to reel the Devil in, even futilely, he was going to consume you entirely.
“Matty…the party…everyone’s inside-”
“I’d rather be inside my favorite girl.”
Snap.
Even though the wintry temperatures outside on the balcony were nipping at your skin, the heat from the hell he carried inside of him kept you warm. Matt continued to work you over with his fingers, gripping onto your wrist to guide your hand to his belt, purposefully brushing your palm over the irrefutable evidence of his own desire so you could feel how much he wanted you too.
“Take me out and slip me in, angel.”
Your body always seemed to follow every single one of his gentle commands, as if every word he spoke bewitched you completely. The light jingle of his belt being hastily torn open resonated louder in your ears than the seven trumpets of the rapture ever could have, and even if they were sounding at this very moment, this is where you wanted to be.
The only heaven you wanted was the one your Devil brought you from the inside.
#matt murdock#matt murdock x you#matt murdock x y/n#matt murdock x reader#matt murdock x female reader#matt murdock x fem!reader#matt murdock x f!reader#matt murdock blurb#matt murdock request#matt murdock smut#daredevil#daredevil blurb#daredevil request#daredevil smut#court's 2k follower celebration#court's 2k friends celebration
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BioFluff Week 2023 Fic #3
Title: Hey, Good Lookin’
Prompt: Food/Cooking
Summary: The one where Sinclair has a secret dinner date.
Characters: Augustus Sinclair, Johnny Topside; mentions of Sander Cohen, Andrew Ryan, Stanley Poole, Frank Fontaine, Grace Holloway, Tasha Denu, Gilbert Alexander.
Pairing: Augustus Sinclair/Johnny Topside.
Warnings: alcohol consumption; mentioned sex (no actual nsfw or ‘fade to black’ happens, but like. it’s date night, it’s gonna happen and they both know it, and also it’s mentioned they’ve banged before), kidnapping, period-typical homophobia, forced imprisonment.
Notes: Third submission for a new BioFluff Week! Here’s the response to the prompt ‘Cooking’! Take this as a sort of preview of an AU I’ve had in my back pocket for a while now. You could also say this is the first time Delta’s ever spoken in one of my fics ;3
Songs used: Night and Day, Crazy He Calls Me and Easy Living, all by Billie Holiday.
All material belongs to Irrational Games.
Fic also available on AO3.
…
It’s a thirty-seventy split on how often Sinclair cooks for himself and how often he dines at one of the many restaurants out in Rapture. He’s a capable man, ain’t one of those fellas who leaves the kitchen work to the lady of the house (and not just because there ain’t a chance in hell of there ever being a lady in his house), and he does honestly enjoy the art of cooking. Got tons of recipes stored away in his mind, some from his childhood and some adopted from his time building up his riches after he’d moved to Georgia, alongside his accent and perfect English.
But then he’s also a man who enjoys being rich, and he enjoys what he’s capable of doing since he’s rich; one of those things is the ability to afford wining and dining whenever he damn well pleases. One doesn’t get a tummy like his without spoiling themselves, after all.
Tonight, though, wining and dining isn’t an option, unless Sinclair wants the rumour mill to downright implode upon itself.
He’s humming along to the record gently spinning on its player in the living room as he prepares a sauce for the pasta he’s planning on cooking, apron tied around his neck and waist to protect his date night getup: a nice formal ensemble, complete with navy blue waistcoat and matching slacks, red tie, shiny black shoes and, embedded in the cuffs of his perfectly white shirt, a pair of gold cufflinks in the shapes of sharks that he’d bought for himself as a birthday present (and he’s sure his date will appreciate them, even if the kid’s favourite animals are actually whales; will probably see ‘em and immediately ask if Sinclair would like to hear an interesting fact about sharks, bless him).
The finely-chopped beef and onions have browned within the pan, and Sinclair’s added the tomato sauce and tomato paste; he glances at the clock to check the time - five minutes until seven o’clock - before he grabs a bulb of garlic, loosens it, then picks out three of its cloves to mince and add to the sauce. A few more seasonings, a dash of sugar and a bit of a mix later, and Sinclair adjusts the temperature to let the sauce simmer.
He grabs a tall pot from the cupboard next to his left knee and fills it halfway with water from the tap, then sets it upon a ring on his stove, flicks the temperature up and prepares to wait for it to boil.
And good timing, too - because there comes a sound at his front door.
Knock, knock, knock.
Sinclair pauses immediately, looking toward the entryway to the kitchen behind him without turning his head, waits for a second, then he slowly holds up an index finger.
Knock, knock, knock.
Second finger goes up. Wait.
There’s a beat where nothing happens, and Sinclair cocks his head, arching an eyebrow, and then…
…Knock, knock, knock.
Three fingers, and Sinclair bobs his head in a pleased nod as he grins.
He whisks his apron off and steps out of his kitchen, making his way to the front door; the knock selected for their code is finished, which means Sinclair knows exactly who it is.
He stands in front of the door and composes himself, holds out his hands and shuts his eyes, then hovers a hand in front of his face and wipes downwards in the air. As his hand moves, his grin is replaced with an irritated frown, and only once he’s confident that he can keep that frown in place does he open the door.
“For the love of God, kid!” he immediately says to the tall man standing on his doorstep, stern and purposely loud, with his hands on his hips. “I thought I informed you of the rules when yer workin’ for me: namely, that none of the folks on my payroll are allowed anywhere near my place of residence unless it’s a dire emergency!”
“Oh, I’m awful sorry to bother you at this late hour, Mr. Sinclair,” Johnny Topside says, looking so frightfully worried and embarrassed, with his shoulders lifted like he’s trying to hide behind them, clutching a pile of papers tied with string to his chest as he looks anywhere but Sinclair, “but I just…I just can’t wrap my head around this paperwork you wanted me to sort out and I-I didn’t wanna screw anything up, so I…I thought it best to bring it to you, just in case…!”
Sinclair huffs a sigh as he leans a hand against his doorway, using his other hand to pinch his brow.
“This is the third time this has happened, son,” he says, then drops his hand from his face so that he can frown sharply at Topside. “Personally, I’m startin’ to think I’m gonna need to look for a new assistant.”
“Oh - Oh, no, p-please, don’t fire me, Mr. Sinclair!” Topside exclaims, looking at Sinclair in the face now. “I-I really need this job, it’s the best one I’ve been offered! I swear, I’ll get better at it, if you…i-if you just show me how…?”
Sinclair sighs again and looks away as he considers it, then he looks back at Topside as he nods to gesture at his apartment. He steps aside.
“Fine. Get on in here, quick - before I end up changin’ my mind.”
“Thank you, sir…” Topside mumbles as he hurries into the apartment, nearly dropping his stack of papers as he goes.
As casually as he can, Sinclair glances around the hall of the Mercury Suites to check for witnesses, then he steps back into his apartment proper and clicks to shut and lock the door - and the second the door is closed, he turns on his heel, marches over to Topside, snatches the papers from Topside’s hands and nonchalantly throws them aside, then he reaches up to grab the lapels of Topside’s overcoat in his hands and pulls him down for a kiss.
Topside allows himself to be pulled in, fully expecting it, and reciprocates immediately. He settles into the smooch with one hand cupping the back of Sinclair’s neck while the other arm wraps itself around his waist.
They lock lips for several long moments, repeatedly breaking and restarting kisses, until Sinclair leans back and opens his eyes to grin up at him.
“Five star performance as always, kid,” he says, reaching up and resting his wrists on Topside’s shoulders to loosely hug his neck with his hands. “Are you sure you don’t wanna head back down to the theatre an’ tell ol’ Cohen you’ve reconsidered his offer ta go up on stage?”
“Oh, gosh, no,” Topside replies, “I’m nervous enough goin’ up on the small stage. Besides, uh,” his brow furrows as he looks away, “he, uh…he upsets me.”
“Aww. You don’t like the fella responsible for your new name?” Sinclair asks, and when he receives a displeased frown - borderline pout - in return, he chuckles and adds, “I’m just messin’, honey - and don’t worry ‘bout it, that man upsets the lot of us.”
Then he presses another kiss to Topside’s mouth.
More kisses are shared, then Topside’s breaking the pattern to turn his head in the direction of the kitchen, still so close that Sinclair is two inches away from kissing his cheek.
“Somethin’ smells heavenly, though!”
“Mm-hmm. Makin’ spaghetti.”
“Oh, goodie,” Topside says cheerfully, and Sinclair has to chuckle at his unbridled enthusiasm for something as simple as spaghetti, let alone the fact that he chooses to use the word ‘goodie’. “I’m famished.”
“Well, that’s good news for the both of us, cause I went an’ stopped by the bakery on my way home too. Picked up a li’l sweet somethin’ for dessert. An’ then after that, well…” there’s a twinkle in his eye as he smirks thoughtfully, looking at Topside from under his eyelashes, “we’ll just hafta see where the night takes us next, now, won’t we?”
He slides his hands across Topside’s shoulders and down his arms with a deliberate slowness, pressing down upon Topside’s flesh in a massage that can’t even be disguised as casual - especially not with the fact that Sinclair isn’t at all shy nor subtle in the way he rakes his gaze up and down Topside’s body.
“Could just be, chief,” Sinclair goes on, lifting his gaze to Topside’s rounded, beet-red face, “that one of your awful headaches comes around ta ruin our dinner plans, an’ you’ll end up havin’ ta stay the night…”
Smirk widening, he winks, as if Topside needs a hint on what Sinclair means, as if they haven’t done this kind of rendezvous several times already. It’s just fun to mess with the kid, that’s all - he gets all shy.
On cue, Topside gives a hard enough swallow that his Adam’s apple does a jump in his throat.
“...Just might,” he says slowly, “be feelin’ one coming on already…” then he adds, “boss.”
“Hm. Well, from my experience, I know how painful they are for ya,” Sinclair puts a hand to his heart, all humble-like, while his other hand lays itself on Topside’s chest, “and I just cannot - with my dear conscience intact - allow one o’ my finest employees to try an’ make it home on his own, in such a terrible condition.”
Topside gulps again, then nods.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Sinclair.”
“It is kind o’ me, isn’t it?”
Sinclair chuckles as he drops the joke, then leans up to press a final kiss to Topside’s mouth before he winks again and turns to go.
“I’ll go on an’ fetch you some wine, honey - you go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”
Sinclair pulls himself from Topside’s arms, starting a saunter to the kitchen, but stops when he catches sight of the papers he’d flung to the floor earlier; he’d thought they were just blank pages, but now that he takes a closer look at them, he sees they’re covered with writing and numbers.
He arches a brow, then looks to Topside over his shoulder.
“Where did you say you got these papers?”
“Oh, uh, I didn’t, but I ripped ‘em out of a phonebook,” Topside says, fiddling with his tie with one hand. “Figured it’d be the most, ah, believable - though, I suppose I should put ‘em back, otherwise I won’t be able to, ah, heh…call anyone. Heh.”
Topside moves to stoop down to pick up the papers as Sinclair sincerely laughs at the joke, then cocks his head, setting a hand on his hip.
“An’ you’re always tellin’ me you ain’t brainy, lookit you.”
“Oh, I’m not,” Topside replies with a casualness that Sinclair dislikes, head down as he straightens the pile of pages, the string having loosened when Sinclair tossed them, before he stands back up with the papers held to his chest. “Ask any o’ my old schoolteachers, they’ll tell you. Good with my hands, not my brain.”
Sinclair scoffs at the notion, then realises the record that’s been playing since he’d started prepping the meal is starting to wind down, and so before going to get that wine for the two of them, he strolls over to the player to change the record.
“Well, I’ll vouch for that first skill you mentioned,” Sinclair says as he sets the new record down on the turntable, then delicately picks up the needle to get the music back, “but I choose to politely ignore that second part.”
Topside smiles at him, then turns around to put the papers on the nearby coffee table. He pats them twice, like he’s telling them to stay, then straightens up and follows Sinclair into the kitchen.
Immediately, Sinclair fetches the bottle of wine he’d set aside for the evening - a dark, rich brand that had cost a pretty penny - and opens the drawer by his hip to grab the corkscrew.
Topside’s gaze drifts over the counter space that Sinclair has used to prepare their meal, then winces, sucks a breath through his teeth and rubs the back of his neck with one hand.
“Y’know, I’m, uh…I’m startin’ to feel a little guilty here,” Topside says.
Sinclair arches an eyebrow, stabbing the screw into the wine’s cork.
“And what would you be feelin’ guilty about, honey?”
“Well,” Topside doesn’t look at Sinclair as he speaks, still holding his neck, letting his hand hang off of it by its fingers, “you’ve cooked for me a good handful o’ times now, and I feel like I’m not…playin’ equal, as it were.”
Sinclair scoffs, a sound that’s nearly completely overshadowed by the pop of the cork coming free from the wine bottle’s lips.
“Now, that’s not true. You’ve cooked for me before, remember?” he says as he reaches up above himself to retrieve two crystal wine glasses from the cabinet, then starts pouring the wine. “I do: made me a mighty delicious breakfast each mornin’ you’ve woken up in my apartment - unless, of course, I’m thinkin’ of some other cuddlebug who I allow to lay between my sheets.”
(And what a treat that first time had been, waking up to the smell of bacon and eggs and toast and walking into his kitchen to find the man who’d made him worry about the thickness of his apartment’s walls cooking for him - and to add the bow to that present, Topside had elected to only dress in his drawers and Sinclair’s apron, like he was trying to make Sinclair’s version of Heaven a reality. He’d said it was because he was distracted by his own idea of cooking breakfast on the way back from the bathroom, and Sinclair believes him because God knows, the man’s mind moves a mile a minute, but…well. Yeah, Sinclair had been late to work that morning - and was wearing his shirt collar suspiciously high.)
Red in the face, Topside briefly gets distracted by the nickname, uttering a small “Oh, gosh…!” as he grins and looks down at his twiddling thumbs, flustered, before he clears his throat and forces himself to focus on what they were just discussing.
“But that’s breakfast, that’s…that feels a lot easier than a big dinner like this.” He gestures at all that Sinclair’s done. “Dinner feels more…more special, y’know?”
“Well, pumpkin,” Sinclair carries the glasses over to him, offering one out that’s taken immediately with a hushed word of thanks, “if we were to have these rendezvous at your place, folks would be wonderin’ why I’m suddenly so partial to spendin’ nights at my own hotel. Not to mention, the walls are a lot thinner there and, well, that’s no good for anybody involved, now, is it? Whole point of meetin’ here is so we don’t get into any trouble that we can’t afford ta be in. I dunno ‘bout you, but I’m not too keen on speakin’ in whispers the whole evenin’ we spend together.”
“Oh, I know, I just…I wanna cook for you.”
Sinclair watches as Topside clears his throat and looks Sinclair in the eye, then frowns with determination and straightens up, puffing out his chest.
“You should, uh. Lemme cook for you. Properly.”
Sinclair smiles into his wine glass at the sight of him: his fella, who’s always shy and reserved, not wanting to take up much space or bother anybody, who’s always mild-mannered and careful not to offend, with that big ol’ serious look on his face.
Only time Sinclair’s ever seen him drop the gentlemanly approach was when they first met, at the Sinclair Spirits down in Fort Frolic, and that had only been because Topside was full of booze from drowning his sorrows.
“Well - I’d never turn down the offer of a good-lookin’ man wantin’ to cook me a dinner,” Sinclair says, his words cracking the confidence Topside’s applied; he sees the kid’s face bloom bright red and his frown and straightened posture falter. “You’ll hafta share with me the recipe, though. Whole plan’ll fall apart quicker ‘an a house o’ playin’ cards if anybody spots you turnin’ up at my door with armfuls of groceries.”
“I’ll pay for ‘em,” Topside says the instant Sinclair’s stopped speaking, still frowning. “Pay you back for ‘em.”
Sinclair hums through another smile and sips his wine.
“In the meantime,” Topside says, and the confident mask falls as he rubs his neck again, “is there any way I can help right now?”
Sinclair huffs a laugh, then gestures towards the small, round, mahogany table off to the side of the kitchen, initially used for whenever Sinclair needed extra space when preparing meals or wanted a different view than the one in the actual dining room, now used whenever Topside stops by for a date.
“If it means that much to you, sugar, the table needs settin’.”
Topside looks over at it, then nods once.
“I can do that,” he says happily, then sets his glass of wine on the counter and goes off to do just that.
Sinclair titters as he turns back to where dinner’s cooking, setting his glass of wine aside for now. He retrieves his apron and ties it back around himself, then collects the spaghetti from a separate cabinet; water’s more than boiled by now. He turns down the temperature, lest the water boil over, but before he can put the spaghetti in the pot, he finds himself distracted, looking over his shoulder at his fella.
Topside’s collected a tablecloth from the cupboard he knows they’re kept in and now he’s unfolding it, then wafting it through the air to straighten it out before gently laying it over the table. He pats and smooths out creases, then grabs a couple of coasters from the pile of them that Sinclair leaves on the far end of the kitchen counter, next to the fridge, and takes them back to the table, placing them carefully down like he’s balancing them precariously. He then collects his glass and places it down on one of them, in front of the seat that faces Sinclair.
Topside shrugs off his black overcoat and the blazer he wears underneath that, then lays both of them over one of the two chairs at the table. He then pops the buttons on his cuffs and rolls them over before drawing his sleeves up to his elbows, and as Topside goes back to the cupboard he’d gotten the tablecloth from to get placemats, Sinclair lets out a soft sigh at the sight of those broad forearms.
Hell, everything about Topside is broad. His shoulders, his chest, his arms and legs; the first time Sinclair had seen him without his shirt, muscles on full display, he hadn’t hid his admiration for the shape the kid is in, and Topside had just shrugged and given a shy “I work out.”
They ain’t just for show, either: he’d lifted Sinclair into his arms no problem to carry him to his bedroom (something no man has ever done before; it’d honestly left him more than speechless), and besides, he was a diver before accidentally coming to Rapture, with the needed strength to carry one of those big suits on his back.
But the nicest thing about Topside’s physical form is that he isn’t like some of those boxers who take part in competitions down at The Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern, with their muscles so large that they look like they’ll break out of their skin at any moment, veins all popping and limbs abnormally bulky - an obvious case of ADAM usage (and maybe over-usage, in some).
Sinclair likes muscles on a man, but their kind just makes him wrinkle his nose a little in disgust; he can’t look at them without wondering how they’re so comfortable like that.
Topside, though - he did everything right when it came to bulking himself up because he’s muscular, but he’s lean as well, to the point that his muscles aren’t immediately noticeable when he’s got his overcoat and blazer on, but good God, they become noticeable after he takes off those outer layers and you can see the definition of his biceps and thighs in their respective sleeves, how wide his chest and shoulders are. All so natural that he could tell Sinclair that he’d popped out of his mother like that and Sinclair would believe him.
Besides, if there’s anything one notices when they first see him, it’s Topside’s height. Sinclair’s never met a man so tall before; Sinclair himself is a couple of inches off the average height of a man his age and he just barely reaches Topside’s shoulder, if they’re standing straight and not counting any lifts like shoes or hairstyles. A full foot over him, and he’s only seven years Sinclair’s junior.
His stature is part of why he’s ended up with the ‘Johnny Topside’ moniker: Johnny Topside was the name of the protagonist of one of Cohen’s films, a piece of propaganda for Ryan that he hadn’t dared allow Ryan to see beforehand, calling it his magnum opus. Ryan had put his trust in Cohen, and that had all been a mistake. It’d been a film about a diver discovering Rapture, falling in love with it the second his feet had touched Rapture’s floors, and abandoning his ideals and his life on (a wildly exaggerated version of) the surface entirely.
The film had been short-lived because Ryan took issue with someone coming to Rapture without an invitation, even when Cohen genuinely hadn’t meant offence, and all records of the film and its merchandise and posters had all been hurriedly hidden away somewhere in Fort Frolic. But it was too late: enough people had seen it that there were reviews in the papers and kids wanting to be ‘just like Johnny Topside’. From that point onward, Ryan saw it fit to instate an official rule that he see every piece of media produced in the city before it’s released to the public, the whole thing had been a great embarrassment to both Ryan and Cohen - and of course, Sinclair had gotten a laugh out of seeing the whole thing crash and burn.
The fella who played Johnny Topside in the movie was big too (not as big, but still big), as is Cohen’s preference in his leading men, and so when this diver had shown up in Rapture - in a suit nearly identical to the one of the character’s, with a similar build and seemingly living out the events of the long-lost film - everybody was convinced on what to ‘jokingly’ call him: this man is the real Johnny Topside. And thanks to some work from Stanley Poole and the Rapture Tribune, nearly everybody calls him that.
The only people who don’t are the ones Topside’s managed to personally befriend - because they’d been the ones to listen when he mentioned he actually hates being referred to by that nickname. Even Sinclair uses his real name, when he isn’t using the host of pet names he has for him.
And Sinclair doesn’t blame him for getting upset about it: a man’s allowed to hear his own name, after all. He personally hates it when people use any shortened form of Augustus, as the likes of Fontaine are wont to do (which is why Sinclair hates speaking with him; his name is not ‘Gus’). Besides, Sinclair saw that film when it premiered; gave it two stars at best, he’d fallen asleep during the second act and only woke up in time to see the very last scene.
Of course, Topside’s vastly aware of how big he is too; he’s always making sure he’s not in people’s personal space and trying to come off as friendly as possible from the quickdraw, so nobody gets intimidated by him. Not his fault he’s built so big, and the muscles are just used for heavy-lifting and the odd bit of DIY.
Topside’s already informed him of how he’d overheard some workers complaining about carrying a recent shipment and offered his help, thus spending a whole day down in Fontaine Fisheries lifting crates for no pay, and he remembers Topside telling him about how he’d help folks build anything from furniture to their garden sheds back on the surface - “And I’d only ask for a glass of lemonade in return.”
Sinclair had been the one to pay for Topside’s wardrobe, since the kid had come to him in a suit that was obviously too small for him (because all clothes are too small for him), and he still remembers the looks on the tailors’s faces when they’d measured Topside up.
Still, they’d worked their magic alright, and Topside’s now got a wardrobe that actually fits him comfortably. He’s come to Sinclair this evening in a black suit, patterned with white pinstripes; since he’s removed the blazer, his crisp, white shirt is exposed, alongside the dark grey sweater vest he’s got pulled over the top of it and the navy blue tie at his throat.
(Topside is also the only man Sinclair’s ever met that could make a sweater vest look attractive, the way it’s stretched over his pectorals until it’s taut, fitting but only just, in the same way that Topside’s rolled-up sleeves hug his biceps and his trousers hug his thighs.)
As he walks about Sinclair’s kitchen, collecting the salt and pepper shakers and the basket of napkins and placing them down in the centre of the table, his shiny, black shoes clack against the floor tiles. His dark hair also catches the light due to freshly-applied hair gel that he’s used to mould his hair into an impressive pompadour, like a large tube of spiralled hair atop his head, long enough that it stands out from Topside’s forehead, if just slightly, and loose enough that a few strands stick out at odd angles in a way that gives the style a little more charm. The hairstyle’s apparently all the rage up on the surface nowadays, but either way, Sinclair’s always appreciated a man who knows how to style his ‘do.
Got the body of a thug, the style and personality of a gentleman, and the gentleness of a lamb.
Could he be anymore Sinclair’s type?
The song on the album fades out. After a few seconds of silence, the next song - Billie Holiday’s Night and Day - blares and as he goes about collecting two plates from the higher cupboards and bringing them over to the table to put down upon the placemats, Topside starts quietly singing along, with a look on his face that clearly says he’s not aware he’s doing so.
“Night and day,
You are the one,
Only you beneath the moon
And under the sun
Whether near to me or far,
It’s no matter, darling, where you are
I think of you…”
There’s another thing: the pipes on this man.
Topside came to him one day, during the photoshoot for the newest line of Sinclair Spirits advertisements (the initial reason that the two of them have spoken beyond the one conversation), telling him how he’s gonna be getting up on stage down in Pauper’s Drop and would Sinclair like to come and watch.
Sinclair had elected to - and admittedly, the biggest reason for doing so was to keep the morale up amongst his workers. Topside was and still is the new ‘it’ celebrity in Rapture, and practically every business worth its salt wanted him to be a part of them for the profits he’d bring in, attaching his name and face to their products. Sinclair wanted to ensure Topside remained part of the Sinclair business family, and if taking an hour or two out of his day to listen to some singing was what it took to boost the kid’s opinion of him, then so be it.
(Not that that opinion hadn’t been high already; it couldn’t have been more obvious that Topside was carrying a torch for him.)
What he hadn’t counted on, however, was melting the second Topside had opened his mouth up on that stage. His plastered-on smile had fallen into open-mouthed shock and wide eyes.
Mother of mercy, he’d thought in awe, if he ain’t got the voice of an angel…!
He’s almost annoyed that Grace Holloway had discovered the man before he could (not that he has a music-based business, but - Sinclair Records?...There’s an idea, keep that one in his back pocket). Topside used to be the bartender in the Limbo Room and apparently, Grace had overheard him singing along to one of her rehearsals and had immediately gone out, grabbed him and pushed him up onto the stage.
Smart woman - the Limbo Room’s seen more traffic than ever. Topside doesn’t go on every night like Grace, but when he does, the place is swarming with folks who wanna come see him, either for his voice or his reputation. Almost makes Pauper’s Drop look less like a slum town - almost.
(He does wish Topside had taken his offer of getting him out of that town, but Topside had said he’d made friends there, and he’d feel like he was betraying them if he just went away like that on another man’s dime. The closest Sinclair got to convincing him to go elsewhere was changing the location of his bartending job, from the Limbo Room to the El Dorado Lounge over in Ryan Amusements; the least he can do, in the meantime, is make sure Topside’s got all he needs over in the Sinclair Deluxe. If anybody accuses him of having favourites, he’ll admit to it and point out that Topside is a dear employee of his, even if that hasn’t actually been the case for a while.)
Maybe he should be thanking Grace also, since hearing Topside sing for the first time had been the moment the ‘keep it professional’ lenses had been slapped away from his eyes, but then he could also laugh in her face about it, considering her well-known opinion of Augustus Sinclair.
Thank you, Miss Holloway, for making his life better. How thoughtful of you.
“Honey,” Sinclair says, interrupting Topside’s quiet singing as he gets back to dinner, putting the spaghetti into the pot, “when is it that you’re next showin’ your face at the Limbo Room?”
“Uhhh,” Topside says, staring into space as he ponders, clutching a fistful of cutlery and a lone fork in the other hand, “Friday, I believe. I’ll hafta ask Grace.”
He looks to Sinclair.
“Are - Are you gonna come watch?”
“Don’t I always?” Sinclair replies smoothly, eyeing the strands of spaghetti.
“Sure, but - but y’know, you don’t have to. If you’re busy, and all.”
Topside goes back to quietly setting down cutlery, adding, “I don’t wanna get in the way of your work.”
Sinclair smiles. “Please - you’re not gettin’ in the way of anything. Whole point o’ me showin’ up is that I’ve got nothin’ goin’ on worth missin’ your performance. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away - or whatever the Rapture version of that phrase may be.”
He swears he can feel the heat coming from Topside’s face because he knows Topside’s getting flustered again, and it makes him smirk.
“O-Oh, well…that’s good…that you like my singin’,” Topside says after a moment, “cause it makes me feel a whole lot better about bein’ on stage when you’re in the audience, so I can look at you. You make me feel…more confident.”
Sinclair cocks his head with a flattered smile, then stirs the spaghetti sauce as he replies, “Could help ya feel more confident on the El Dorado’s stage too. Ain’t too far from my neck of the woods (much as I could do without a stroll through Andy’s mirror maze). I figure it’s handier singin’ there when you’re up workin’ the bar too.”
“Oh - Oh, gosh, no,” Topside adamantly shakes his head, baulking at the mere thought, “no, there’re…too many people in there for me to sing in front of. I struggled enough getting up on the Limbo Room’s stage, I can’t get up there.”
“Hm. Well, I reckon it’s down to you in the long run, but trust me when I say you could bring the house down, wherever you’re singin’.”
“Oh,” Topside says, grinning bashfully at the compliment. “Well, it’s not really about my singin’, more about my nerves. But it’s okay, though! I like singin’ in the Limbo Room. It’s small and mostly quiet, me an’ Grace get to sing together sometimes, and I get to help out Pauper’s Drop. It’s a, heh, win for everybody, I guess.”
It’s quiet between them as the spaghetti sinks into the water and the table is finished being prepared for dinner, then the clacking of Topside’s shoes come closer, and then there’re big, strong arms wrapped around Sinclair’s middle and a freshly-shaven chin is rested atop his head.
Sinclair smiles at the warmth he’s suddenly encompassed in - Topside’s like a walking heater, so he’s naturally splendid to cuddle with - and says, “Careful. Don’t muss up my hair, now.”
Topside chuckles. “Always careful not to.”
It’s almost unconsciously that Topside starts to rock him back and forth, swaying gently at the hips along to the song, and Sinclair grins, shuts his eyes and leans his head back against Topside’s chest, hands coming to rest over Topside’s arms as Topside resumes quietly singing along to the last trek of Billie Holiday’s tune.
“Night and day,
Under the hide of me,
There’s an, oh, such a hungry yearning
Burning inside of me
And its torment won’t be through
‘Til you let me spend my life
Making love to you
Day and night, night and day…”
“Easy there, chief,” Sinclair says as the song ends, tilting his head to look toward Topside over his shoulder, “keep this goin’, and you’ll have me passin’ out in this dinner I’m makin’ you.”
“It’s alright,” Topside says, “I’ll catch you.”
Sinclair titters, then reaches over to retrieve his wooden spoon so that he can stir the sauce again.
After a few seconds where the only sound is of the food cooking, the record in the living room starts to play Crazy He Calls Me, another by Billie Holiday, along to which Topside starts to sing, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Sinclair that Topside gives his waist a little squeeze when he sings about moving mountains if ‘he’ wants them moved.
“Size that you are, honey, I reckon you could move ‘em easier than a God,” he says, and Topside chuckles.
After a few more lines, he interrupts his own singing to say lazily into Sinclair’s hair, “I should be thinking of what I’m gonna cook for you.”
Sinclair puffs out a tiny laugh at Topside’s sheer insistence on this meal he wants to make.
“Hard to go wrong in the food department, chief - there ain’t much I won’t eat.”
“Well, I wanna make it special for you,” Topside replies. “Maybe try and recreate one of my old family recipes or somethin’.”
“In that case, it already sounds like a treat and a half.”
Sinclair grabs for a new wooden spoon from the drawer by his hip to scoop up a small amount of his spaghetti sauce, bringing it up in the air and turning just so he can hold the spoon up to Topside’s face.
“Here, honey. Give this a taste for me.”
Topside leans forward and puts his lips to the spoon, pulling off the little blob of sauce and leaning back as he smacks and licks his lips quietly, then he hums and smiles wide. He rests his head back atop Sinclair’s, this time tilting it so his cheek is pressed into Sinclair’s hair instead of his chin.
“Now, that,” he says, “that is just heavenly. Is there anythin’ you can’t do, Augustus?”
Augustus scoffs out a laugh.
“Plenty I can’t do, pumpkin, I think you’ll find.”
“I don’t believe that.”
The music continues to croon, as Topside keeps on with his gentle swaying of them both. Sinclair feels awkward that he’s going to have to ask Topside to stop soon, so he can finish up their dinner, and to be honest, he feels reluctant.
If the public were nicer about people like them, they wouldn’t have to pretend Topside suffers with headaches just so he can stay the night with nobody commenting on it (well, Christ knows, the paparazzi would, if they caught him, but that’s what Sinclair’s paying Stanley Poole for). They could be like this for longer too, not just sharing a night together before having to separate.
Topside can be snuck into his office with the excuse of him being his ‘assistant’, they just have to think of a lie for why the door gets locked behind them, and sometimes, they can get away with going on dates in public, so long as they aren’t too touchy-feely about it. Sinclair’s taken Topside to several of his favourite restaurants, and even taken him on a special trip down to Arcadia, where Topside had fallen to his knees in near tears at seeing grass again. Sinclair had even bribed Tasha Denu to allow them to see the bees when no one else was around, and they’d each been allowed to take home a jar of honey (and that was easier to get away with, if only because Tasha’s in the same boat they are).
Such is the way down here, no matter what Ryan believes.
“I missed you today, Augustus,” Topside says quietly.
Sinclair glances over his shoulder at him.
“You saw me just yesterday, sugar,” Sinclair replies.
“I know, but…” Topside gives a small sigh, struggling briefly with his words, before he goes on, “It’s just…I see tons of faces every day - at the bar or up on stage - but…I still always feel real lonely when you aren’t around, y’know? You’re one of the few people down here that I feel comfortable around, and...the only person I feel like I can just be myself around. Maybe I’m just bein’ foolish, but…it’s how I feel…”
Sinclair is briefly left at a loss for words; Topside’s the first man to ever see it fit to wax poetic to him. The few men he’s taken to dinner had been upfront when they’d asked him out, and he likes that, but none of them had made him feel all…fuzzy and warm and…loved like Topside does. Like he’s brought the colour into Sinclair’s life.
It’s a little overwhelming at times, but he’s getting used to it, and more importantly, he enjoys it.
“Well…if it’s foolish, then they’ll call us both fools,” Sinclair replies, turning in Topside’s arms to face him, planting his hands on Topside’s chest, “cause I’ve been missin’ you as well, pumpkin. Lord knows, you’re the only fella in this city that I can stand ta spend any personal time with, outside o’ bein’ cooped up in a meetin’. Well - ‘cept maybe Gil.”
“Gil…? Oh. That fella you’re working on that…project with. The machines an’ all.”
“Mm-hm.” Sinclair shrugs a shoulder. “But you don’t see him with an invitation to my apartment, so I guess you’re just a special case, aren’t you, puddin’?”
He winks, and Topside smiles extra wide, looking at Sinclair in such a way that Sinclair can picture cartoon love hearts floating about his face. The thought’s amusing enough that it makes it extra disheartening when Topside’s smile falls into a thoughtful little frown.
“...You’re makin’ living in this city worth it,” he says quietly.
Sinclair’s face falls.
Predictably, Topside never got used to living in Rapture; it was the entire reason Sinclair found him nearly passed out on the bartop of Fort Frolic’s Sinclair Spirits. Of course, Sinclair doesn’t blame him for still having his misgivings about the city. After all, they all came here of their own volition, while Topside…well, if they’re all completely honest, they essentially kidnapped him.
It hasn’t all been bad, even setting their relationship aside - that trip to Arcadia they’d taken and how close Topside now is to sealife are the big standouts.
The first time he’d seen a whale up close had been in the middle of the night, and he’d excitedly woken Sinclair up, telling him to come look, quickly. Sinclair’s been here for far longer than him, so whales are no longer anything he fusses over, but Topside was glued to the wall-sized window beside his bed, nearly reduced to tears when hearing the whale sing, and then waving goodbye and wishing the whale safe journeys as it swam out of view. As a diver, he’d said, he’d never been allowed to get that close to the bigger sea animals; that whale had been near enough for him to touch, if he’d had his suit.
But Sinclair knows that no matter how many happy moments Topside has down here, if someone offered him the chance to go back to the surface, he’d take it in a heartbeat, and he’d hesitate only because he’d want Sinclair (and perhaps his other friends) to come with him.
“I’m still worried of what Mr. Ryan thinks of me.” Topside confesses.
“Now, don’t get yourself all worked up about that,” Sinclair says, leaning up on tiptoe to press a kiss to his mouth.
Ryan’s been questioning Sinclair since Topside’s image went up with Sinclair’s name slapped beside it, like he wants Sinclair to act as some fucking double agent, to find out what Topside ‘intends to do with Rapture’. Sinclair could only spew lies that Topside is just like his namesake: he loves Rapture and wants no harm to come to it, he’d hated his life up top, he’s a working man and a responsible employee who just wants to make his way down here. Anything to dissuade the paranoid bastard’s ideas.
He doesn’t hide his distaste for how often Ryan is choosing to talk to him, either - he misses when Ryan would swear they wouldn’t speak again, then call him up two months later because he had a problem he wanted Augustus to solve. His evident irritation at having broken his own word just…tickled Sinclair something silly.
Topside looks away, then adds, “He scares me.”
“Andy?” Sinclair gives a dismissive scoff. “Honey, he’s nothin’ but a kitty cat playin’ at bein’ a lion: can’t even muster up a roar when he wants ta.”
Topside looks him in the face.
“Yeah, but…he’s got the most influence in the city and all, so…”
Not accordin’ to some, Sinclair thinks, then shrugs a shoulder and reaches up to cup Topside’s cheek.
“Sure, but you know someone else who’s got some influence in this town, kid - and that’s me. More’n you think I do, even. I can getcha new jobs and another place ta lay your head, but most importantly, I offer protection from the other big names lookin’ to snatch you up - includin’ Ryan. So don’t waste time thinkin’ on him, sugar, cause you’re on my side now, and I’ve got everythin’ covered. Just stick with me, kid,” he gives a wink, “an’ we’ll be goin’ places, just like I told you.”
Cause I would sooner see Ryan rot down in Persephone than I’d see you doin’ so, Sinclair wants to add, but then he’d have to explain what Persephone is, and then…this date and this relationship would be over.
Topside stares at him for a moment, then nods.
“Nobody else I ever wanna be with,” Topside replies with a bashful smile, which makes that fuzzy feeling spread all over Sinclair’s body, and the two lean in to kiss.
Sinclair wraps his arms around Topside’s neck, hand carefully cupping the back of his head so as to not disturb his hairstyle, and one of Topside’s arms encircles Sinclair’s waist, while his other crosses over Sinclair’s shoulder blades, holding him nice and close; one little pull upwards, and he’d be taking Sinclair off his feet.
They hold the kiss for several seconds, then break it to begin another, and then another and another, until Topside’s starting to run his hands down the slopes of Sinclair’s waist and Sinclair’s feeling heat bubble in his lower tummy, then Sinclair forces himself to pull back.
“Oughta go sit yourself down, chief,” he says with a small grin, “otherwise I’ll never finish cookin’ this here food, and we’ll be mussin’ up both our hairstyles ‘fore we planned to.”
Topside chuckles happily, and Sinclair’s hesitant to use the word ‘cute’ with anything another person does, but…his laugh is real cute.
Topside starts to pull back from him, but not before briefly cupping Sinclair’s cheek in one of his big hands, and Sinclair puts his hand over Topside’s and nuzzles into it with a warm smile, kissing the palm. He lets Topside go so that Topside can go and sit at the table, elbows atop it and resting his chin on the backs of his folded hands.
In all the conversation, Sinclair didn’t even notice the song had ended, and Billie Holiday’s Easy Living starts to play (what can Sinclair say? He’s a fan). They were distracted long enough that most of the instrumental beginning is done with, and when Miss Holiday soon starts to sing, Topside sings with her.
“Living for you is easy living
It’s easy to live when you’re in love
And I’m so in love
There’s nothing in life but you,”
Sinclair looks over at Topside as he graces Sinclair with his dulcet tone and he could just melt from the soft, adoring look Topside’s giving him as he sings. He’ll choose to blame it on the heat of the kitchen, though.
Focusing now back on dinner, Sinclair turns off the heat under the spaghetti, then uses a pair of tongs to transfer the spaghetti to the sauce, letting it cook the rest of the way in the pan instead. With a tablespoon, he takes some of the pasta water and mixes it into the pan alongside the sauce and pasta, to help get the sauce to just the right consistency. He ends up using about eight scoops of the water, then reaches for the butter to add a small pad of it to the pan as well to ensure the sauce becomes good and creamy.
He’s distinctly aware of Topside watching him and occasionally looks over at him as he mixes the pasta into the sauce, giving him little amused smirks as he sees Topside looking at him like he’s some master chef from whom Topside wants to learn.
Silly, really, cause Topside’s already proved himself a good cook. Those breakfasts he’d made Sinclair had been heavenly.
When the spaghetti’s fully cooked and good and covered in sauce, Sinclair flicks off the heat entirely, then tells Topside to bring the plates over.
Topside does so, muttering about how silly he’d been to put the plates on the table when Sinclair would obviously need them, and Sinclair gives them each a good helping of spaghetti before dumping his tools into the sink to be washed later and throwing off his apron.
Topside’s a gentleman and takes both of their plates to the table, setting them back down on their respective placemats, and Sinclair gives him a thanks as he collects his glass of wine. They then sit opposite each other at the table.
Sinclair stuffs a napkin into the collar of his shirt to protect his clothing and goes to pick up the pepper shaker, only to stop himself when he sees Topside clasp his hands together in a prayer, shut his eyes and press his forehead to his hands, whispering grace.
Laying one arm atop the other, Sinclair doesn’t join him, simply waits until he’s done.
The first time they ever went to dinner together - a business dinner, mind - Topside had tried saying grace too, and Sinclair had turned wide-eyed in a second, nervously looked around, then scrambled to stop him. Of course, Topside hadn’t understood, just politely told Sinclair it’s fine if he doesn’t want to do it too, this is just his faith, but Sinclair had quickly explained that they don’t…do religion in Rapture, and that Topside could get them both in serious trouble if he continues.
Predictably, Topside had gotten upset, muttered how he’s not even allowed his religion down here, but relented with a slight huff and told Sinclair he’d make amends later, in the privacy of his hotel room.
Here, in the safety of Sinclair’s apartment, Topside can do whatever he pleases, so Sinclair stays quiet and lets him get on with it.
Once he’s finished, Topside lifts his head and gives Sinclair a grateful smile, then Sinclair reaches for that pepper shaker.
“Oh!”
Sinclair looks up, lips a perfect ‘o’ in surprise.
“Your cufflinks!” Topside says, staring down at Sinclair’s arm. “I didn’t even notice before - they’re sharks!”
“Oh,” Sinclair says, tone just dripping with fake wonder. “Why, they are, aren’t they? I just,” he waves a hand dismissively, “ended up throwin’ on these old things.”
Topside grins at him, then.
“Do you wanna hear an interestin’ fact about sharks?” he asks.
With a smile, Sinclair goes through with sprinkling pepper on his spaghetti, then twirls his fork into his noodles, wrapping up the prongs, then lifts it to his lips.
“Lay it on me, honey.”
#My writing#BioShock#BioShock 2#biofluff 2023#biofluff#Augustus Sinclair#Subject Delta#Johnny Topside#Deltaclair#Topclair
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Beautiful (PG13)
pairing: hwang hyunjin x f!bodied muse
rating: pg-13
genre: romance; pining; angst during the time skip
wc: 1.7k
warnings: minimally edited, artistic nudity mentioned, sensual touching, soft boy hyunjin being so in love he's absolutely floored at he got that lucky, ANGST BELOW THE TIME SKIP. Feel free to end the story before if you want something a little fluffier :3
a/n: well hey it's been a second! Here's my second fic, this time with the lovely Hyunjin! It's a little short one but that's ok with me :) for the third time, please be aware there's some angst in the time skip so if you aren't ready for it... feel free to end it before then ^^; I just couldn't help myself; i love pain :')
Inspiration. "You're beautiful... I know but... You were everything..."
Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction that does not intend to portray the true feelings, actions, nature and emotions of the Stray Kids members. Please not redistribute this piece of fiction in any form. Copyright @ wulfgaang / callsign-marlie (tumblr; 2024)
--
Hyunjin was enraptured.
It was a different feeling than of the others he had before when he saw you like this. His brain was fuzzy and covered in cotton candy while his gaze slipped over every pore, stretch mark and mole on your skin. How soft it all looked, draped in the shimmering gossamer fabric that barely covered the shading of the peaks and valleys of your hips! You were a feast indeed.
Hyunjin saw you as effervescent; a star in the nighttime, glimmering and glowing, a constant flicker of ephemeral gorgeousness under his single bay window. The afternoon light had dimmed to dusk and left more shadows than he had originally started with. You were the perfect model as per usual, holding your expression at the same point for hours with just a giggled “I’m fine, my love, go back to work” whenever he came to give you sips of water or drop grapes into your mouth. He wished the juice that dribbled down your chin onto your chest stayed long enough for him to paint it.
A Cleopatrean idol, you are; a person worth every luxury, every greatness he could ever give. The way his heart soared for you at every glance, jumped at every touch, melted with the sound of your voice! Oh, he would have moved mountains if you asked him to just to ensure a frown never creased your lips. He would make sure that sweat never fell from your brow if he could help it, if you weren’t ever so stubborn to allow him the pleasure to serve your beck and call.
You were a salve on burns left behind by a world that didn’t care about him. That didn’t care about anyone other than itself. You gave him a soft place to land when life was too true to believe. You gave him comfort when pins and needles pricked under his eyes. You deserved to be memorialized over and over again as the subject of all grace, humility and rapture for everyone to witness. Mine. Aren’t you jealous? They’re mine, all mine, and all you can do is praise them as I do. Give your everything to them; you’ll see it too.
He was focused now, his eyebrows pinching slightly together with his stern gaze peaking over the top of the canvas. He memorized the trace of the curve of your hip and translated it to his paint. His brush moved the acrylic languidly, flicking at the ends to taper the lines to nothingness of shadow. He had been the epitome of a professional for each and every session, guiding your movements with a soft voice and gentle fingertips to make minor adjustments. The angle needed to be just where he wanted it; just where he wanted you.
He would ghost his paint covered fingers over the top of your skin, feeling the electrical shock of his touch bring the hairs of your arms to attention. Butterfly light touches of his lips to the spot under your jaw unlocked the hummingbird caged in his heart, the ghost of your breath like a memory from ages past; sweet and delicate. You smiled at him with sparkling eyes in the amber of sunset. Sunset.
“You must be exhausted, my muse,” Hyunjin murmured, kneeling against the side of your seat to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. You smiled and preened, the arch of your back high against the velveteen chaise lounge. “You’ve done so well for me today.”
You attempted to playfully press your face closer to his, but Hyunjin was fast to move backwards from you as a coy smile graced his lips. You pouted with furrowed brows. “I can’t even receive payment for all of my hard work, monsieur l’artiste?”
His eyes twinkled mischievously before he let his mouth crash to yours, the softness of flesh pulled a light moan from the bottom of his chest. Kissing you was sinful; the way he perfectly meshed with you felt like blasphemy. There was no way that whatever gods existed created someone so perfect, so lovely, and happened to place them right in his path to love and cherish forever. The way your hands carded through his hair was biblical. The way you moved against his chest required reconciliation. For what? He didn’t know. Forgive me Father, for I have sinned… He would rather be sent to hell than be one day apart from you a single moment.
As the air was pulled from his lungs, he broke the passionate connection to let his lips dance to the tip of your nose, tapping them to each of your eyelids, and finally, let them linger on the crest of your forehead. “A tip,” he muttered. “For making my most favorite model think she wasn’t even worth payment. Who do you think I am, a con?”
Your giggle was soft, a blush of heat draped across the bridge of your nose. He wished he didn’t call it quits already: it would have gone perfect with the warm color palette he had chosen for this scene. He would have to add it later in post editing. Hyunjin wondered if the more rosy tone was suited for the color palette or should he darken it to match the shadows of the background? But then again, the blue of the sky hit just a point-
“You’re beautiful, Hyunjin.”
Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. He blinked owlishly. “Hm?”
“You’re beautiful,” you said again, moving the gauzed sheet from your lap to stand. Your bones and ligaments groaned for a moment as you unfurled from your position on the couch with a sigh. Your peaked nipples stood up against the cold while you languidly reached for the silk robe on the side table. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Hyunjin tsked quietly, his drying palette suddenly more interesting than the flames licking at his cheeks. “That, my love, is where you’ve got the whole picture backwards. You’re the beauty here.”
“I don’t think so,” you harped, slinking around the side of his easel to face him again. You pushed the palette down gently, your fingers stuck in the cold terracotta paste left behind. “You may paint the picture, sweetheart, but the audience are the ones to appreciate and interpret it, aren’t they?”
“I suppose, but-”
Your lips had found him this time as your sullied hands wrapped around his shoulders. Your chest was pressed to his, your hips rocking perfectly against his groin. His palette scattered to the floor while the excess paint Pollocked the draping sheet beneath his canvas. His hands didn’t know where to hold as you let your lips cascade lower and lower, down the throbbing pulse of his neck, to the tips of his collarbone and finally placing a harsh bruise over his heart.
He moaned.
“Let me show you what I see.”
3 years later… (Angst time)
Felix was enraptured.
The way the ring lights of the gallery bounced off of the texture of the oil paint of this particular piece fascinated him in the most peculiar way. He didn’t think that Hyunjin had the ability to make something so soft and fragile in his repertoire! From the details of the gauze over the model’s lap to the soft flick of charcoal at the inner corner of her glimmering eye left him speechless. Every stroke was cared for and thoughtfully placed; so unlike the rough textures of the charcoal his friend was so known for dabbling in. Each shadow had a highlight that balanced it. The composition of the woman’s figure was simply spectacular. He wondered how much time he devoted to this one; it was clearly the centerpiece of the exhibit.
“So?”
Felix jumped a moment at the velvet voice behind him. The man of the hour, Hwang Hyunjin himself, had crept up behind him silent as the graves themselves. His friend was dapper in a black suit and tie while his hair was slicked back, fringe airly framing his face. He looked the part of the artist well enough and if Felix didn’t know better, he would say he looked like he was having fun. The earthy smell of tobacco followed him, however: a telltale sign of the evening’s stress and his friend’s discomfort.
“This one in particular’s stunning,” Felix mused, turning back to the painting. “She would have loved it, seeing it up close like this.”
“I invited her. I texted her, but she never responded,” Hyunjin whispered. He paused, the champagne flute in his hands suddenly more interesting than his closest friend. “I would have thought she would have wanted to see them.”
Felix’s gaze ran around the wall of the gallery. Each painting held a familiar curve, a similar wave of femininity that would pass the common viewer’s eye if they didn’t focus closely enough. He knew that this gallery was for you; that Hyunjin’s work was for you. When you left him two years ago without a trace, the hole in his friend’s chest festered into a sinkhole of obsession. It was as if the more he drew you, the more he painted your moles, your scars, and your curves, that he might be able to summon you back from the depths that you ran to, like Orpheus singing to free Euridice. That you would be in his arms again and all would be right. He could stop worshiping for just a moment and finally celebrate that his heart was whole again.
But Felix knew better. You were in the arms of someone else now.
“The night’s still young, Jinnie, she may come still,” he responded, rapping Hyunjin on the shoulder. “Don’t give up hope just yet.”
“I never will, Felix,” Hyunjin said. He gazed up at the painting with tears on his lashes threatening to fall. “I can’t. I won’t. Not until she knows I’m still here for her. Wherever she is, wherever she goes… I’ll always be thinking about her. She’ll always be a part of me.”
Felix gave a sad smile and hugged his friend tight to his chest. “I’ll let you finish up here for the night then. Get home safe, lover boy. Call me in the morning and I’ll help you pack everything up with Chan.”
Hyunjin nodded dumbly. His eyes never left his painting.
—-
Felix traipsed down the steps of the gallery, his phone pinging as soon as service was restored.
>> How’d it go?
He smiled softly as his thumbs tapped away at the glass screen.
> You were everything, my love. Just everything.
#stray kids fanfic#stray kids fanfiction#hyunjin reactions#hyunjin x reader#hwang hyunjin x reader#hwang hyunjin oneshot#hwang hyunjin reaction#what else do i tag this thing man???
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The Farthest Sea
Word Count: 1249
Characters: Levi x Hange, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, Jean, Sasha, Connie
Canon universe
The giant salt lake lay before them, surging and rippling its blue flanks. Masses of white clouds were draped above, leaving only tiny windows of sky to spill shafts of light upon the scene. The water shimmered where each golden spear struck its surface. Amidst the cry of gulls overhead came the wild roar of the waves. Hange watched as a great crest rushed towards them, charging with all the ferocity of a thousand white horses. As the cavalry neared their position, they stumbled and collapsed into foam upon the sand. The swirling mass of water melted away as the tide dragged backwards, only to swell once more as though in preparation for a fresh assault.
Amazed, Hange dropped their boots behind them and walked until the soft, warm grains which clung to their feet became earthy and moist. They rooted themself firmly at the water’s edge, relishing the pleasant squelch of sand around their toes. As a flood of ice water lapped around their ankles, Hange gave a scream of delight.
“It’s freezing! I-incredible!”
There came a howl over to their right where Connie was hurling handfuls of saltwater into Sasha’s eyes. Jean, tired and thirsty from the long ride, reprimanded them both.
“Why do you two always have to act like such idiots!” he seethed, stooping over the glistening water and cupping a handful of it to drink.
On Hange’s left side, Armin stood open-mouthed. It was as though the young Scout had never fully allowed himself to believe in the existence of such an entity. He had long dreamed of discovering the sea and yet, now that it lay before him, it seemed to astonish him with its indisputable materiality. He drifted towards it with the rapture of a sleep-walker. Behind him, Eren and Mikasa held their boots out of the waves’ reach, unsure whether or not they should follow.
Only Levi remained by the base of the cliff.
“Woo hoo!” Hange cried. With unrestrained delight, they plunged their arms into the cold sea and flung handfuls of water over their hair and face. Hange gave a wild shake of their head and wiped their mouth. The substance had left a bitter tang upon their lips.
“Wow, is this actually full of salt water? Huh…” For their attention was immediately seized by a dark object lurking in the shallows. Through their smeared glasses, Hange struggled to discern the identity of the creature. Cylindrical in shape and no longer than 3 inches, it was certainly unlike any fish Hange had ever encountered. The organism seemed to drift lazily with the current, giving every impression of being dead.
“Hmmm. What could that be?”
“Hey Hange!” Levi called out from the sanctuary of the cliffside. “You shouldn’t touch it. It might be poisonous.”
Only partially registering what had been said, Hange waded out further into the water. They lifted up the mucous creature and held it out before them. Its body had a greyish hue and was covered entirely with tiny holes. It dilated like a long sigh, oozing foam in their hand.
“Wow!” Hange gasped, swinging around to Levi with their discovery. “Look!”
Levi, who had not stirred, narrowed his eyes in disgust. “The hell is that? Titan shit?”
Hange had hardly opened their mouth to correct him before he relented. “I know, I know. Titans don’t defecate…”
“Oh good. Looks like I finally taught you something!” Hange bent down to the water once more, then brought the bizarre creatures closer in an effort to scrutinise them. “I’m not sure what these are though… could it be horse shit?” Levi’s mouth was pulled into an indistinguishable line.
“How have you got two of them?”
“I think they like me!” Hange grinned.
“They think you’re one of their own,” he quipped at them. Hange had their back to him, absorbed in their study. Despite himself, Levi drew a step closer to the water before planting his feet firmly into dry sand.
“At least the air here is clean…” he conceded. “…and the view isn’t bad…”
Hange gazed over the endless expanse of ocean. Sea and sky merged into an immeasurable translucent plain. The journey to the beach had been long, but it was incomparable to the notion of crossing these waters. How could one ever hope to reach the other side of the sea and survive? Hange turned to Levi but found his eyes were upon them.
“…it’s incredible, isn’t it?,” Hange answered finally. Then a smile crept across their face. “You should see it from here!”
“I’m fine where I am,” Levi remarked coolly.
His protest was to no avail, for Hange swung around to face him. Levi grabbed at their hands, prising them away from his arms. Undeterred, Hange seized a handful of his green cloak, urging him forward. “Come on Levi! This research is for the good of humanity!”
“Like hell it is!” Levi snarled as they grappled, “you just want to torture me with that stuff!”
He conceded by one step before quickly unlatching the metal clasp at his shoulder. Hange, who had been tugging at the material, stumbled over backwards with his cloak in their hands.
“I’m holding you responsible for getting that cleaned, Shitty Glasses.”
Hange stood, the cloak now clouding the water at their feet, and clung to Levi’s wrist. He attempted to writhe out from the grip of their icy fingers, but Hange’s grip upon his arm tightened. Their free hand sought his shoulder, steering him ever closer. Levi shuddered as seawater soaked through his shirt. Then something cold and slimy touched the back of his neck.
“Huh?! Get that filthy shit away from me!”
Hange’s breathless laughter was in his ear.
“So Levi, what do you think?”
“I think I’m going to drown you in this damn lake,” Levi snarled.
“Ah, but do you really want to risk being in the water for that long, Levi? It only takes one piece of poisonous horse shit to touch you…”
He refused to answer them. Either his anger had peaked to such a degree that it had rendered him speechless, or he had somehow become both awed to his new surroundings and startled by the very notion of being awed. Hange’s laughter slowed. Their hands were still on him.
“Mmm?” Hange glanced to their right. Eren had waded out into the water, ahead of Armin. He was pointing to the horizon… to where, according to Grisha’s memories, their enemies lay. Hange dimly wondered how their world might be perceived by someone waiting from across the farthest sea. Did these same divisive waters appear as blue and beautiful to them? Did they ever look upon the island of walls as a prison filled with innocents? Or were they forever fearful that these caged beasts would one day escape their long entrapment…?
Hange weighed these same thoughts years later, from where they stood upon the dockside. This time the waters looked different. The sea stretched out before them, an infinite plane of blue burnished with red light. A few feet away, the hydroplane was grounded and bathed in heat. The island stood a little beyond forever. Hange had never before recalled feeling so far away from home. For now, it was a place they would never return to.
Hange turned, their cape whirling about them as they strode away. They were slow, dragging footsteps at first before becoming quicker, more urgent… until the drumming of their boots drowned out the thudding of their heart.
#happy birthday Hange-san :)#hange zoë#levi ackeman#levihan#levi x hange#eren jaeger#mikasa ackerman#armin arlert#jean kirstein#sasha braus#connie springer#attack on titan#snk#my writing
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ooooooooooooooh you wanna talk abt how s2 of empires is haunted by s1 soooooooooo badddddddddddd -your good friend ostinato who is still thinking about your tags on its post <3 (bullies you (affectionate))
ok so the first thing you need to know me is that i love when things are haunted and i love ghosts and i love haunted houses. this is a vital thing for understanding me and how i analyze media, and empires allows me to be awful about this exact topic in such a perfect way.
first of all, sausage. i feel like i don’t need to elaborate on sausage, but i will anyways.
not only is his goddess what became of his dead best friend, not only is he literally haunted by wither roses and the long dead friends who come with them, not only is the half of himself he left behind a thousand years ago crawling out of their grave to kill him, NOT ONLY ALL THAT! but he’s made friends with people who are horribly reminiscent of every long gone friend. they share names. some of them share faces. some of them share personalities. none of them share memories. he’s watching the ghosts of his friends walk around, alive, like they never died, because none of them have any way to know. it’s almost like sausage is still dead, like he’s the ghost haunting all of them, unable to move on.
second, we've got to talk about the ancient capital.
pix literally lives in the remains of a long dead city, empty of all but himself. he resurrected extinct animals to keep him company. he maintains the mausoleum of a man who died a thousand years ago, with a mural of a goddess few seem able to name, where he dug up another long dead king, expecting a skeleton and finding a man. and then more recently, pushing aside the mural and finding an artifact 1,000 years gone. all pix seems to know about it is the rules, not what came of it. it holds a story, of where it was when the rapture occurred. how did the crown find its way from the smoking ruins of the grimlands to here? maybe we’ll never know, but here it is. reminding us all of the long dead rulers who once wore it.
i started writing the pix section last night and now today, pix is literally a ghost. no one lives in the ancient capital but ghosts.
third, the evermoore.
shubble is quite literally haunted by ghosts of the past. the gnomes, eradicated by xornoth, haunt her home, stealing souls and whispering from the dark, and she’s giving them new life. shubble is restoring the forest of the gnomes to it’s former glory, giving them a chance at the lives that were cut short.
when the gnomes look at her, all they can see their daughter who made it out. do you think that’s why the evermoore welcomed her in the first place? because the ghosts so desperately hoped she was their long lost child, their one escapee? how long did they believe it could be her? did they know immediately? or did they hold onto hope until she asked the air, asked them, who’s shrub? how do you live like that? you’re the ghosts haunting her house and she’s the ghost haunting yours, and she doesn’t even know it.
fourth, joel’s whole deal.
joel’s building monuments to long dead gods who’s names he doesn’t even remember. he just has vague memories of the people who used to be his friends, his family, and he’s building monuments and sending prayers to gods who will never hear.
there’s more i could say here and i know it, but that’s all that’s coming to mind right now, so we’ll stop here and probably come back to elaborate later, lol.
#empires smp#empires season 2#mythicalsausage#shubble#pixlriffs#smallishbeans#IM SO NORMAL ABOUT THE PIX DROP TODAY LOL
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👉👈 can you tell us more about the fnc angel/demon au? 🥺 pretty please?
oh CAN i? okay first things first. this is entirely because of good omens s2 and particularly uses concepts from episode 3 about "angels/demons who go along as best they can". also canon gillion and chip are very azi/crowley coded to me (cmon, gill's a literal paladin sent to the oversea to portend the rapture that he's now doubting the need for and chip is a mischievous little bastard with too much charisma and until recently no concrete stake in anything except for protecting his crew) so yeah. anyways the information will be delivered in bullet points for each person
CHIP
was an angel. a pretty young one, at that. possibly came to existence around the 3rd millennium of mana's society
pretty mischievous and self interested for an angel. lets just say he fucked around and found out, and for it he was kicked out of heaven and fell into hell, but managed to crawl out like the stubborn bastard he is
the form he fell and crawled back to earth in was a young human looking boy. involuntarily, of course. but he often struggled to change his form in the past, instead letting it be dictated by his emotional state (another fairly chaotic and unangelic thing to do), and right now he feels small, weak, and vulnerable
he's picked up by the black rose, and, desperate to belong, he goes along with their assumption that he's just a normal kid, too weak to use much power or even change his form. for the couple years he lives with the crew, he doesnt grow. (this is chalked up to malnourishment.)
unfortunately, now that he's a demon, he has an Energy. and that energy attracts things. in particular: bad shit, and other demons. niklaus takes notice of this crew claimed by a seemingly inexperienced demon and decides to sink it for fun and to see what chip will do.
chip washes ashore on another island with two thoughts: one, he doesnt think he's allowed to be attached to anything good anymore without poisoning it, and two, he needs to be scarier in order to not be fucked with.
so he spends ten years hanging around ruben price, a man who acts so comically, stereotypically evil that chip occasionally doubts how mortal he is, but it seems like price just Like That. a handy trick of being a demon now is that chip can Sense types of energy- positive, negative, etc. what's scariest about price is chip gets nothing off of him, which is why he's the perfect person to watch
things come to a head when price forces chip to kill a man. and, well, its kind of what he's supposed to do, as a demon- but he hates it. in particular, he hates not feeling in control, and it angers him enough that hes finally able to use some demonic power to set price's warehouse ablaze and disappear into the night. (his hands are now blackened from where they caught fire and he now has a tail, being so unused to using magic that using it burnt away his human form to reveal the true form beneath it. he cant really disguise them back to normal because, again, bad at form shifting)
he sets sail on the sea and lands on an island where he follows a particularly strong negative energy to a tavern where he meets...
JAY
girl who's family basically run the navy.
her older sister was just mysteriously murdered around a year and a half ago, and she's going through it
by which i mean, She's Pissed. she wants whoever killed her to be found and brought to justice, preferably with the business end of her own pistol, but her father (an admiral) has fucked off to gods-knows-where and there's not really any leads at home beyond being surrounded by what her sister left behind... she's getting desperate.
she's bartending at her mom's tavern one evening when a guy her age walks in but he's.. wrong. somehow. there's dozens of lanterns and candles in the room, and yet he seems to cast a long shadow behind him no matter where he turns. also his hands are dark claws. she's pretty sure he's a demon honestly.
she's getting desperate and she wants leads. his appearance makes her feel almost irrational in how suddenly she remembers she needs to find her sister's killer.
so, with some part of her screaming that she is being very, very stupid, she offers a deal. vengeance for her sister in exchange for her soul. the demon looks weirdly surprised at this and tells her that her soul won't be necessary, that he needs a crew on his ship and all she needs to do is travel with him. so she accepts, they shake hands, and jay tries to ignore how much her instincts are screaming this is a bad idea.
they set sail two days later on the demon's dingy little ship and begin sailing towards where jay thinks the next largest navy outpost is, and on the way they meet...
GILLION
gillion is an archangel. he's pretty young, all things considered. he's not sure when he came into being, but he's pretty sure he's a replacement for.... someone.
gillion has a destiny, that's for certain. the heavenly council has been training him since his creation for some kind of destiny, though he hasn't really thought to ask what it is. he's sure it's good, though. the heavenly order would never mislead him into committing morally reprehensible acts in the service of a greater cosmic good, right?
his "life" is pretty rigid though. all training, no play, and certainly no contact with the mortal realm, that is, until he follows some of his superiors on their way to bless some admiral of some mortal navy. except... this guy is evil. its written in his the fake smiles, his body language, the way he listens to them with greed in his eyes.
and gillion was destined to smite evil, so he attacks him.
heaven, of course, doesn't take kindly to this, but instead of kicking him from heaven outright, they propose a test of faith: be stripped of most of his divinity and fulfill his destiny within a year in the mortal realm. it's not like he has a choice, so they kick him down to mana with only his sword and a little bit of armor.
he falls into the sea, deep, deep into an undersea trench, where the first thing he sees are a couple tritons. and, yeah, tritons seem pretty cool. so with the last vestiges of whatever divine energy he carries, he becomes a triton and uses his wings (oh thank gods he still has his wings) to propel himself to the surface of the sea.
for a while, he floats adrift, taking in the feeling of being wet and having the sun burn his body where it rests above the waves and the taste of salt on his tongue and the dark spots in his eyes that appear every time he stares too long at the sun. but that's fine. it's.... nice. he can almost forget it's a punishment.
after a day of listless floating, Something appears on the horizon, and then grows closer. its large, and brown, and honestly kind of shabby looking. but it looks cozy, a bit more hospitable than the ocean, and he sends out a dozen silent prayers and thank-yous when the ship suddenly changes course and begins heading Directly for him.
a man pokes his head over the railing of the vehicle and asks if he's okay. his hair is a really pretty color. his eyes kind of remind him of the fires lit to burn sacrifices that he's seen humans make a couple times. a blackened, clawed hand reaches out to grab his, and when they touch, it the crackle in the air feels like the moments just before a smiting lightning strike. he feels forbidden. but gillion's beginning to appreciate the idea of a rebellious phase, so he grips him tightly and lets himself be pulled onboard.
ITEMS OF IMPORTANCE
chip knows what gillion is, gillion does not know what chip is. chip is completely fine with this and is deciding to use it to his advantage in order to do minor devilish activities
what follows is basically the same plot until episode 14, though chip leans a lot more heavily into trickery and temptation
when it's revealed What chip is, gillion is not only Pissed but afraid for jay's soul, convinced that chip has been traveling with her in order to prey and feed upon it. he and chip duel, and gillion wins, as good so often does against evil— but before gillion can smite him and send him back to whence he came, jay steps in and stops him long enough for chip to slip away below deck. she tells gillion she made a deal with him and he blatantly refused her soul, which is why she's travelling with him instead. gillion, now hopeful that he can redeem chip, lets it slide, but. has chip promise to cool it on the demon shit.
the reason why gillion couldn't sense chip being a demon for so long is because he, for some reason, doesn't feel fiendish to him. unfortunately, gillion is too stupid to further entertain this train of thought.
both gillion and chip regain power at the same rate, though their progress is accelerated whenever gillion feels they did something good, and when chip is feeling angry. (this will eventually change)
chip is very bad at being a demon, to the point where he's begun talking jay out of vengeance entirely because it makes him feel bad about making her worse. gillion, ironically, says she should hold herself to her principles and seek justice, in a comical subversion of the angel and devil on her shoulders. they have many an argument about this.
nobody knows chip is Fallen. its one of the main sources of his insecurities and hed rather not have gillion judge him harder, thank you very much.
when chip is offered to have a memory removed by blangus, he attempts to remove his memory of being an angel. this doesn't work, because the memory is a core part of What he is and forgetting that would unmake him. he decides to give up killing a man instead.
gillion's destiny is to bring the rapture. kind of a bummer! gillion's a little in denial about it and the longer he spends with humanity and witnesses their good and their bad and the hope they all carry within them, the more reluctant he is to fulfill his purpose. (it's fine. he has 6 more months to decide. its fine. it's fine. time goes painfully slow for mortals)
eventually the truth of chip's past is revealed, and gillion is Pissed, though not at chip. in hindsight, it's obvious that he was created to replace chip when he Fell, meaning if not him, chip would have been the one to end the world, and that thought sits worse for him than imagining himself doing the deed. perhaps when he gets back to heaven he will demand chip's status be reinstated.
chip is caught between encouraging him to forsake his destiny (he likes humanity, and he likes fucking with heaven's plans) and going along with his destiny to not get kicked out of heaven. falling is painful and awful and he cant imagine gillion playing any role other than good, and he doesn't want him to, because if you're not With heaven, you're a victim of the rapture, and he doesn't want that.
gillion is already halfway on his way to letting himself fall on purpose the more he spends time with jay and chip. he wants to be with chip as long as he can be but every time they touch gillion gets the feeling hes skating on thin ice.
jay is the safest pirate on the sea in terms of other demons and angelic presences trying to fuck with her, both gillion and chip have a deal to smite her father next time they see him.
in chips solo mission with price, he ended up sending him to hell instead of giving him the eye. it is not at all disconcerting that chip can do this
edyn is an angel who helped raise gillion and gave him an immortal soul as a pet. when he was sent to earth it manifested as a frogtopus, and after gillion was sent away edyn followed him to earth and settled down in allport to keep tabs on him through the navy
caspian is Lizzie's guardian angel
anyways theres more but thats the long and not-at-all short of it. hope you like!
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Transcript:
At 15 minutes
Good to see that enthusiasm, keep it up, Stanley! Just 3 hours and 45 minutes left to go!
At 30 minutes
Ok, so clearly you're in it for the long haul, although I find it hard not to believe you're simply running a program to click the button over and over automatically.
Which kind of ruins the point of the game, don't you think? Wouldn't that take the art out of it? You can tell me in your post-playtest analysis.
At 1 hour
Just popping in to say hi. I hope you weren't expecting more regular intervals of commentary from me. But that's not why you're here, is it? You're here for the game!
For the art! For the endlessly spiralling sense of pointlessness and despair! Yes, this is what drives your every action! Keep clicking that button! For hope! For freedom! For science! For love! Don't ever, ever stop!
At 2 hours
You know, I've been spending the last 2 hours here embroiled in thought, and it's occurred to me: this game is incomplete! It's missing something, it still doesn't have that... oomph.
What is it, I thought to myself, what could possibly be missing from this incredible experience? And then in a moment of rapture, as though delivered by angels, it came to me.
Before this moment I was blind, but those days are behind us. I now understand the true manifestation of this game. It needs... a puppy!
(wall opens to reveal a puppy)
That's right, this puppy is being lowered toward an aquarium filled with nothing but piranha! Now you have to click the second button to avert the puppy's death in addition to the baby's!
This is it Stanley, art! I did it! Video games are art! Ah, but you have good 2 hours or so to go, so I'll just let you get to that. No time to waste when there is such a meaningful game to be played. Bonne chance, mon ami!
At 2 hours 30 minutes
Ah, good to see both the puppy and the baby are still alive. It warms my heart to see how deeply the message of this game has resonated with you.
I can only imagine the joy welling up in your chest, the sheer joy of such pure distilled life essence flowing through your veins.
It must be amazing! I'm jealous of you, truly, I am. No seriously! I'm deeply envious of your position at this very moment.
At 3 hours
Ah, the joy of artistic expression must be even stronger now! Drink it in, Stanley, few people on this planet will ever get such an experience.
Peer through space and time, the universe unravels itself at your feet. This is the one true meaning of life!
At 3 hours 20 minutes
I know we said this would go for 4 hours, but what if... you never stopped? Think about it, you could just keep going forever!
Visitors would come from around the world to see the man who never stopped pushing the buttons! You would be famous! That's what you've always wanted, right? To be famous?
That and the surging power of artistic beauty to flow through you for all of eternity. You could have both of these things! We'll talk about it when you get there.
At 3 hours 40 minutes
Have we really been doing this for over three and a half hours? Goodness, how the time flies! Wouldn't you say it's flown? Oh no, you don't have to answer that, I understand you're quite busy. Just keep at it! Almost there!
At the end
(room begins to shake)
Nearly there Stanley, art itself is about to burrow into your skull. Aren't you excited for spiritual immortality?
For transcendence and oneness with the beauty and essence of all beings? Just a few seconds now, here it comes...!
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Boonies - 3- Locals
For the @deanobingo 2023 event!
Prompts: Will Johnson - "Oops"
Wanted - Will Johnson x female Reader
3985 words
Summary: Will accompanies you to the market and gets a taste of the locals. He opts out of another invite, but when you come home drunk he's left with more questions once again.
CW: Alcohol use, drunken behaviour, mention of pain, mention of prior injuries, mention of scars, mention of antibiotics and Tylenol, mention of desired sexual activities, discussion of unwanted sexual attention (not noncon/SA), suggestive physical contact and kissing (T rated, dubcon).
Prev parts: 1, 2
Will woke in the blue hour light of pre-sunrise, the smell of freshly baked bread the first thing he registered.
The market, right.
He remembered your comment about having an early morning and rubbed at his eyes, wondering how long you’d been up.
Stretching as he got out of the bed, he winced when his body reminded him of the leg injury he was supposed to be babying.
He wondered what the market setup would entail.
Probably nothing too strenuous.
The idea of sitting behind your table doing nothing already made him feel stir-crazy, but he had decided the night before that he wanted to go with you, if only to get off your property and clear his head a bit. He still wasn’t sure if what he’d seen was real, or if he was hallucinating problems now in addition to thinking of them constantly.
He cleaned up in the ensuite and got dressed, then wandered toward the kitchen in hopes of scoring a breakfast that tasted as good as the house currently smelled.
“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” Will teased, though the groggy rasp of his voice turned what he’d meant as a playful greeting into a tired one.
You wrapped a cooled loaf of bread in cling film, smiling as you looked over your shoulder.
“Nothing at the moment. You hungry?”
Will grunted, walking over to lean against the counter near where you were standing. Various baked goods had been packaged up for sale.
“I don’t want to put you out. Seems you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, I was.” You smiled, satisfied with your own efforts.
“Oh, here-”
You moved to pull a plate closer, revealing three cinnamon rolls.
“I had one earlier, but these are for you. You don’t have to eat them right aw-”
Will took one off the plate before you could finish your sentence, brows raised and scruffy cheeks dimpled by his grin as he started ripping it apart.
“Chur.”
“Well, hold on, there’s frosting, too.” You stepped away to grab a bowl from the fridge that you placed on the counter for him. “I wasn’t sure if you liked yours heated up, or what…”
“Beauty.”
You watched as Will slathered a thick layer of frosting on his roll before continuing to pick it apart with his thick fingers. It wasn’t a refined way of eating by any means, but the rapturous look on his face forced you to forgive him any lack of manners.
Will thought to himself that he might get fat staying here, but he didn’t care if it meant eating like this.
The sun finally rose above the horizon, bathing the kitchen in a golden glow as it shone low through the windows.
Will looked up to see you looking outside in the direction he’d seen the figure the night before and swallowed.
“Do you get many trespassers?”
“What?”
“Well, you’re-” He gestured. “Out in the wops, don’t have the best fences. Get many people on your land?”
You let out a laugh.
“No, you’re the first squatter in my coop so far.”
“No theft, or- anything like that?”
“Nope.” You flashed him an easy grin.
“Safe as houses. So relax.”
Will’s brow furrowed, keeping eye contact.
“I know you checked the locks last night. But I promise, nobody’s out here but us and the hens.”
He hesitated, still unsure.
If he told you he thought he’d seen someone, that would either scare you or make you think he was crazy.
He forced a false laugh into his voice, turning his attention back to his food.
“Right.”
You watched him for a moment, wondering what had happened to make him so vigilant.
Possibly related to those scars…
You pictured his naked torso, the image of him ripping out your fence the day earlier still fresh in your mind. He was fit and strong despite his injury. You had no doubt he’d be capable of defending himself against most people. Then again, something had clearly torn through him in the past.
Must have been something bad.
--
Will leaned back in the folding camping chair you’d offered him, enjoying the fresh morning air as people milled about in the paved area being used for the farmer’s market. He was subtly watching the crowd, knowing rationally that nothing was likely to happen, and trying to appear relaxed.
It hadn’t taken long for you to set up your table, batting away Will’s attempts to help. You had done this the same way every Saturday for months now, and you had a system. You had even packed you both coffees in travel mugs to keep you warm.
You looked over to him, thinking he looked every bit like the rugged outdoorsman he was. You could see him sitting exactly like that, relaxed beside a campfire somewhere. As you looked over his strong frame, you wondered if the chair would support both of you if you decided to sit on his lap.
I bet he gets really worked up after a hunt; all that testosterone…
You forced yourself to look away, scanning the booths and noting all the familiar faces as you pushed the idea from your mind. Your life was here, in the boonies. His was in Dunedin.
Will sipped at his coffee, thinking idly that he looked forward to eating another cinnamon roll later.
You turned to him again, dropping your voice so nobody would hear.
“Thanks for coming, eh? It can get a bit boring sitting alone.”
“Nah, no worries.”
“Oh, but- feel free to look around, too.”
Will hummed, not really interested in the wares and trying to ignore the pain in his leg. He had taken the antibiotics, but no Tylenol that morning, and he was starting to regret it. Without work to distract him he was over-aware of the swelling and thrumming of his skin.
Maybe I overdid it yesterday.
Not that he’d ever admit it. He’d just be sure to take something when you got back.
Soon you were trading greetings with customers, selling them roughly the same things they bought every week, or at times trading wares with another vendor who you had arrangements with. Will kept quiet, but offered polite smiles to anyone who looked his way.
Eventually Pete walked over, his large frame making his presence somewhat overbearing.
“Mornin’ love.”
“Morning.”
He gave a nod to Will.
“You keeping off that leg?”
Will gestured at it from his seat.
“More or less.”
Pete’s gaze turned to you.
“And all’s well?”
You smiled.
“Mmhmm.”
Pete narrowed his eyes at Will.
“And you’re not giving her any trouble?”
“Pete-”
Will raised his hands defensively.
“It’s like staying at a bloody hotel. I told her not to fuss, but-”
“It’s no trouble,” you argued, slight irritation in your voice. “Just chill.”
Will snickered, shrugging at Pete as though to say ‘my hands are tied’.
Pete hummed, thinking the two of you were getting chummy, but saw to his business with you rather than pressing the issue.
“Busy day.”
He tucked the loaf of bread he’d bought into a tote bag and scratched at his cheek.
“Mac wants me to shave before the dance. Speaking of- Pick you up at the usual time tonight?”
“Tonight? I thought it wasn’t til the fifteenth?”
“Today is the fifteenth, love.”
You checked your phone to see the date displayed above the time.
“So it is.” You tucked some hair behind your ear, feeling embarrassed. “Where’s the month gone?”
“Well, I suppose when you have company, it can be a bit distracting,” he teased, raising a brow at Will to make it clear what he was implying he thought was going on between you.
“See you both tonight.”
He gave a pointed look to Will, then walked off before you could say anything to confirm or deny his implication.
You turned to Will and smiled.
“You should come with me. It’s always a hoot.”
He grinned at your phrasing.
A hoot.
“Once a month, everyone dresses up nice and we have a big dinner and dance.”
Will sucked in a breath, pretending to be disappointed.
“Aw, and here I didn’t pack my suit.”
You laughed.
“You don’t have to dress formally. We just do it for fun. You look great just as you are.”
Will chewed his lower lip, tearing his eyes away from you to try to think rationally.
He had an uneasy feeling he couldn’t shake, and he wasn’t sure if it was from the odd encounter the night before, or the idea of being in an unknown place full of strangers. He knew he’d spend the evening eyeing exits and sizing up every person who came within a hundred feet of him.
“Still, I think I’ll give it a miss, if it’s all the same.”
“Of course. Sorry! I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, I just-”
He shook his head at your apology.
“All good. Not my scene, that’s all.” He patted his knee. “And I reckon I should rest this so I can get out of your hair.”
You pursed your lips.
“Fair enough.”
You couldn’t deny being disappointed, but he was dealing with enough without being forced into awkward social situations on top of having to stay with you when he clearly hadn’t wanted to.
“You gonna dance with Pete?” Will asked teasingly.
You laughed.
“Not likely. I think his husband will eat up most of his dance card.”
Will raised his brow but nodded.
That explains who ‘Mac’ is.
“Kia ora, beautiful.”
You both turned to face the man who had walked up to interrupt you.
Will first took note of the out of place attire.
While most people were milling about in casual clothing, the tall, spindly man standing at your table was in an expensive looking suit. It was perfectly tailored, and, paired with the flashy watch and sunnies he was just removing, he looked like someone you’d find in Auckland, not the wop-wops.
“Mornin’, Dan,” you greeted him casually, though your voice didn’t hold nearly the level of interest that you’d been greeted with.
Will glanced your way and took note of the placid smile on your face, a stark contrast to the way Dan seemed to be undressing you with his eyes.
“Always good to see you.”
Dan turned his attention to Will, tilting his head.
“Though I don’t believe we’ve met.” He put out his hand. “Dan Coates.”
Will sat up straighter to shake his hand.
“Will Johnson.”
“You new to town, Will?”
“Ah- no.” Will gestured dismissively. “Just visiting.”
Dan glanced between the both of you.
“Oh! Family?”
“No. Will’s a chicken coop enthusiast,” you answered lightly.
Will laughed while Dan tilted his head to figure out what that could possibly mean.
“I’m imposing on her hospitality,” Will corrected.
“Not even! I’m very happy to provide three square meals in exchange for free labour.”
Will narrowed his eyes at you playfully.
“Maybe you’re taking advantage of me, then.”
When you snorted, Dan shifted and cleared his throat.
“It’s not often you have visitors,” Dan remarked.
You shrugged, uninterested in elaborating.
“I hope you’re still coming tonight?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“And Will?”
Will met his gaze.
“Think I’ll give it a miss. Don’t want to impose.”
“That’s a shame,” Dan lied, relief washing over his features.
He gestured to your stock.
“I’ll get a dozen eggs?”
You replied with the price, and made no particular fanfare as you accepted it and said a quick thanks.
“See you tonight.”
Dan winked, then walked off, head held high.
Will waited until Dan was out of earshot to lean over.
“That jafa seems to like you.”
You furrowed your brow in confusion as you tucked the money in your cash box.
“What’s a jafa?”
Will laughed under his breath.
“Uh- nevermind. It’s not a nice thing to say.”
You raised your brows and turned to him again.
“Dan Coates is a pillar of the community,” you began, in a mock-chastising tone. “And I’m told - repeatedly - that he is sorely lacking in a wife.”
“Must be ‘cause he blends right in.”
You covered your mouth to try to silence your laugh, and Will found himself smiling as he took note of the way your eyes wrinkled at the effort.
“You’re terrible,” you whispered, pulling yourself together as another customer made their way closer to your table.
Will smiled to himself as you seemed to light up for this new person, and he thought idly that Dan must have been dense to think you were interested in him given how your demeanor had changed so drastically when he’d shown up.
He looked out into the crowd and spotted him chatting up an older woman who was practically fawning. The man seemed to have everyone else eating out of the palm of his hands, so maybe it just didn’t occur to him that you’d be any different.
When you were alone at the table again, Will drummed his fingers against its edge.
“Why don’t you fancy Mr. Coates, then?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
You’d already forgotten about him, and was surprised by Will bringing him up.
“If he’s such a fine, upstanding man?”
You rolled your eyes.
“He is, you know? He’s very good to everyone. I don’t dislike him, exactly. He’s just not my type, that’s all.”
“Oh, you have a type.”
“Well- No, that’s not- I just…” You winced, shoulders raising in discomfort. “I dunno, he doesn’t do it for me.”
“And what does?”
The air was thick between you as you met each other’s gazes.
Oh, you know… Piercing blue eyes and golden curls and thick muscles… The kind of man who can rip out fence posts while recovering from a leg injury and still feel restless. Someone who would rather hunt to provide than pick out luxury sunglasses to wear to the farmer’s market…
Will’s eyes darted down to your lips and back, and you licked them unconsciously. He tilted his head the other way, but just as he parted his lips to say something, another customer appeared at the table.
“Kia ora!”
“Oh- g’morning.”
You shifted in your seat and forced a smile that slowly became genuine as you chatted up the woman who was picking out baked goods.
Will leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee, reminding himself that it was probably better he drop that particular line of thinking.
---
Late that afternoon, you stepped into the living room after having gotten ready for the evening.
Will stilled at the sight of you, momentarily rethinking declining your invitation. You looked almost like a different person, your hair perfectly styled, sporting smokey eye makeup and false lashes, and looking completely out of his league in the backless dress you were wearing.
“Pete and Mac are on their way to pick me up. Dinner’s in the fridge, and help yourself to whatever,” you greeted, worried he wouldn’t eat without your insistence.
He blinked as though coming out of a daze.
“Uh- yeah, ta. Will do.”
You caught the way he was looking at you and chewed your lower lip.
“Is it too much? Should I change?”
“No! No, you look skux.”
You scrunched your face in confusion.
“Skux? Is that a good thing?”
He laughed under his breath, hanging his head and shutting his eyes momentarily before looking up through his long, pale lashes.
“Yeah. You look great.”
He shifted and licked his lips.
“Pete’s a lucky man.”
You laughed.
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said so.”
He chuckled but shook his head.
“Oh, no, don’t.”
He looked you over again and raised his brows.
“I bet Dan Coates will be all over you,” he teased.
“Oh god.” You rolled your eyes and groaned. “Probably. What a drag.”
He snickered, secretly relieved that you thought so.
You pouted playfully.
“You sure I can’t twist your arm into coming? You’d save me a lot of trouble.”
He contemplated it, but shook his head.
“Nah. Not my scene.”
You sighed dramatically.
“Well, alright then. It can’t be helped.”
You both perked up at the sound of a vehicle on the gravel road.
“That’ll be Pete. See you tonight!”
---
Will heard the crunch of a vehicle on the gravel road, but frowned when he realized it didn’t sound like the truck you’d left in.
He got out of bed still naked and walked to the window to peer through the sun-faded curtains.
A shiny red sedan pulled up the driveway out front, and he saw you get out the passenger side as Dan Coates opened the driver door.
He watched you gesture dismissively at Dan, looking grumpy and out of sorts as you made your way to the house. Dan simply stood watching, finally climbing back into his vehicle as Will heard you unlock the front door.
He let go of the curtain and returned to the bed, wondering if it would be odd of him to greet you. He sat in the dark, listening, but after several minutes, you still hadn’t made your way down the hall to your room.
He huffed.
It wasn’t like he was going to be able to sleep now anyway, too many scenarios running through his mind.
He took a pair of grey joggers from his pack and pulled them on hastily before opening the bedroom door.
The kitchen light illuminated the end of the hallway, and he could hear you making some unfamiliar noise there. As he approached, he realized what it was.
He stepped into the room to see you leaning against the counter beside the sink, an open beer in one hand, and the other pressing at your face as you cried quietly.
“What’s wrong?”
You dropped your can in alarm, beer spilling over the tiled floor.
“Jesus-”
Will moved to deal with the mess, righting the can and throwing the kitchen towel from your oven handle over the puddle.
He gazed up at you from his crouching position by your feet.
“Oops. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“No, I-” You sniffled, wiping at your face. “I just forgot you were here. Sorry.”
How you could have possibly forgotten about the dreamboat houseguest for even a moment, you weren’t sure. And now he was wiping the floor clean for you in nothing but joggers, looking like he lived here.
As if.
That would be lovely, but you told yourself not to be deluded.
You moved away, pulling a clean towel out of a cupboard as he placed the sullied one - and your half-empty can - in the sink.
When you both were done, he stood before you, his impossibly blue eyes searching your now-reddened ones.
“What’s wrong?” he repeated.
“Doesn’t matter.”
He shrugged, a smile playing on his lips, eyes soft with affection.
“Tell me anyway.”
You sighed, hugging yourself as you looked away.
“It’s just- There comes a time in the night where everyone just… pairs off. So I’m standing there, alone, watching all the old couples dancing…”
You shut your eyes as you trailed off, wincing as you recalled how awkward you’d felt and what had happened next.
Will hummed.
“And you with no date of your own.”
“That was part of it.”
You shrugged, feeling stupid. You’d gotten wasted in an attempt to ease your discomfort, but it had just made you ornery.
Will stepped over to the boombox that sat on top of the sideboard buffet. He pressed play, unsure what to expect when the CD whirred to life inside.
You laughed when Michael Bublé’s version of ‘Put Your Head on My Shoulder’ started playing.
“Oh god, Aunt Macy…”
But Will stepped over to you with his hands out to invite you to dance, his expectant expression telling you he was serious about the offer.
You took his hands and swallowed as he guided one to his shoulder so he could grip your waist on that side, your other hands held fast, palm-to-palm.
You let him lead you in slow, careful steps on the uneven kitchen tiles.
“You’re a better dancer than I would have thought,” you murmured.
Especially with a leg injury.
Will smiled sardonically.
“Picked it up cuz chicks love to slow dance, and loads of guys won’t do it.”
You snickered, moving closer to hug him close like you did at school dances as a teen.
Lost in the euphoria of pressing against his bare torso, you shut your eyes to stop the room from spinning.
You could feel his body radiating heat, warming your bare shoulders and arms as you tried to identify what he smelled like.
“It’s nice,” you murmured.
You wanted to stay like this for a long time.
He swallowed, moving his hand up your back to hold you close. It happened to find the exposed skin, and he wondered suddenly if this was alright.
You were clearly drunk, and you barely knew each other. He thought again about how vulnerable you’d made yourself, letting a strange man into your home like this, knowing what other men might do in this situation; how they might hurt you.
His hand twitched against your bare back and he pressed his chin to your shoulder, his beard tickling your skin.
You should know better, he thought. You should be more careful.
Of course, you weren’t at all concerned about him being a threat.
You were completely comfortable in his hold, despite only knowing him a few days. Blissed out, your sour mood had completely dissolved thanks to his kind gesture. To you, Will was just further proof that the world could be good to you if you gave it a chance.
You pulled back a bit, moving your head to try to meet his gaze. He mirrored your actions, tucking his lower lip under his teeth briefly as you searched his pale blues.
“You should have come,” you lamented. One of your hands moved up to cup his scruffy cheek. “I would have liked that much better.”
He frowned, still unclear what exactly had happened to upset you.
Then you tipped forward, catching him off-guard. He stilled as your lips met his, his eyes closing as he kissed back automatically before he could think straight. It was only when he identified the taste of alcohol in your kiss that he stopped.
Fuck, what am I doing?
He pulled away suddenly as the song ended and hit the stop button on the machine. He wiped his mouth with his hand as he took a deep breath, then turned to face you again.
“We should get you to bed,” he suggested.
You pointed at him, then stepped closer to boop his nose.
“I will get myself to bed.”
Will nodded, tense with discomfort.
That had more or less been what he meant, but he understood that you may have taken that as him trying it on.
“Good.”
“Thank you for the dance.”
“My pleasure.”
“Good night Will Johnson.”
“Night,” he nodded. “Oh! Bring your water bottle.”
“For bed?”
“For the hangover you’re going to have tomorrow.”
You gestured dismissively.
“Pahhhh.”
Still, he pulled your bottle out of the fridge and pressed it into your hands before watching you stumble down the hallway.
Your nonchalance made him question what you’d been thinking when you’d kissed him.
Were you too drunk to realize?
Though he couldn’t deny he’d wanted to kiss you for days now.
A conversation for tomorrow.
He shook his head, smiling to himself, but after a moment he leaned against the counter and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.
His mind raced with impossible scenarios; Kel Morrison and his men surrounding the cottage, trying to get in. Trying to get him. Or you.
He winced at the pain in his leg - maybe dancing had been a bit ambitious when it had already been giving him grief - but knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he checked all the doors and windows again.
---
A/N: The WIP currently has 8 parts so we'll see how that goes (usually the stories grow as I write them... oops). Thank you so much for reading this if you did! ♥
Tags: @laurfilijames @i-did-not-mean-to @the-butterfly-blues @the-poldarkian @fortheloveofdurin @spngingerbread21 @ichoosechoasandbeingqueer @missihart23
As always, please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed from a taglist (for everything, for specific characters, etc.)
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