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milady-pink · 8 months

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Waitress AU

Warnings: Food/baking, domestic abuse, unplanned pregnancy, cheating

Summary: Working at a dead end job, waitress Christine soon finds herself with a new problem: an unplanned pregnancy. Life is all about trying to find the sweet spots and luckily this pie genius has a new (and pretty adorkably sexy) OBGYN, who isn’t too happy at home either.

TL;DR Quirky cute and sexy Erik as a doctor, lab coat and all.

Word Count: 1904 || Graphics: @firefly-graphics

"It Only Takes A Taste "

Recipe Book

AO3

It was a dreary day with warm air, but the sun was hidden from view by a cluster of dark clouds promising rain. It’s been a few days since Christine was told about the pie contest and truth be told, she’s been thinking about it nonstop. Every moment of her waking hours have been filled to the brim with thoughts of what recipe would guarantee first place.

Different flavor combos and crust ideas was all she could think of, but nothing screamed winner to her. She felt it needed to be something really worthwhile, something no one has seen or tasted before. After all, this pie had to be worth $20,000, enough money to take her, and her unborn child, away from this town and the people in it.

It was Tuesday so Christine was currently sitting at the bus stop a short walk away from the diner, waiting to be taken home to a quiet house so she could test some of her pie ideas in peace. One such pie was baking in her head, she dubbed it “Getting Out Of The Mud Pie”.

Soft meringue, satin smooth and pillow soft…

…On top: ribbons of homemade strawberry ice cream…

…No crust, chilled overnight for an innovative take on a classic mud pie…

…Copious scoops of mocha almond ice cream, if they even make that…

“Hello?”

…I can sprinkle some bittersweet chocolate morsels on top…

“Mrs. DeChagny?”

…And some slivered almonds too…

“Mrs. DeChagny?”

The flour cleared from her head causing Christine to look up at the voice that insisted on speaking to her. “Doctor Destler, hi! What’re you doin’ here?” She asked, startled from her private thoughts. Apparently Christine was so inraptured in her thoughts that she missed the various greetings of her new doctor.

He was wearing a dark button down shirt, rolled at the forearms, and black pants that complimented his top and dark head of hair. It was a little bizarre to see the man outside of his coat that signified his profession. Now he just looked like a regular man.

Pointing his thumb over his shoulder he answered, “My car is having some trouble starting this morning, so I took the bus.” A soft, lopsided smile came to his lips easily, “I forgot how much I love riding buses. And you?” He inquired politely.

“I’m a regular rider every Tuesday night—my husband goes drinking out with the boys.” She playfully rolled her eyes at the stereotype.

Noticing her mirth he responds, with his own added awkwardness, “That must be nice…for him. Uh, that you let him—”

“Oh I love Tuesdays!” She emphasized, suddenly feeling very awkward herself. She steered the conversation away from her mess of a marriage by asking, “What part of town did you move to?”

This began a light conversation about the doctor, who lives on Stanton Grove, and who said it was a nice part of town if you like trees; which, who doesn’t? Christine asked him if he wanted to sit down next to her as they waited for their buses, when the doctor questioned about the uniform she was wearing. She told him she’s a waitress at Joe’s Pie Diner off of Highway 27, even boasting a bit by stating they sell 27 different pies. He was really blown away when she told him she made them herself, asking her if she made the pie she brought in to her appointment. That lead to the slightly embarrassing backstory that she first came up with the recipe for Marshmallow Mermaid when she was 16 and in her mythical creatures phase.

“That was probably the best pie I’ve ever had in my entire life.” He told her, sincerely.

After going on about the evils of sugar, Christine was noticeably surprised when he said that. “You tried it? Don’t worry, I won’t tell your doctor.” She joked.

But all playfulness was absent as he described to her how exactly good her pie was. “Really, it was….biblically good, it was that amazing. That could win contests, ribbons and other stuff.”

Christine told herself that the blush currently warming her face was from pride, and nothing else. “Thank you, what a thing to say,” said with little gusto since she was so unused to people saying nice things about her pies.

Misjudging her lack of excitement, he apologized. “I’m sorry, that was supposed to be a compliment.”

“I know,” Christine said, honestly, “that’s why it made me uncomfortable, m’not used to ‘em.”

Sneaking a glance at his bench mate, Doctor Destler noticed her pink cheeks. “And now you’re blushing, I shouldn’t have said that.” A moment of slight embarrassed silence befell the two, until a memory came to the doctor. “You know,” he began, “seeing you here in your uniform….Ah forgot it.”

Now interested in what he was thinking about, Christine interrogated, curious to know more. “What about my uniform? Is it not my color?” She added, cheekily.

“No, no.” He smiled, eyes glazed over from memories long ago. “You remind me of this girl I knew. Man, she’s probably middle aged with kids and a husband.” This happy sentiment made Christine smile. “God she’d be what? 41 or 42 now?” Christine dropped her smile.

“And I remind you of this 42-year-old woman?”

“Hm?” As if remembering she was there he looked over and noticed her not so thankful face. “Oh, my god, no, no no!” His face instantly dropping the second he remembered what she just said about what she was insinuating. “It’s just— she was a waitress, too!” That his reassurance gave Christine a better picture into how this man worked, and that he’s not very good at talking to people.

“She worked at this bakery, I used to go a lot cause I had a major sweet tooth in medical school. Pretty lady; small hands, nice teeth, smelled like carbs.” His lopsided smile returned as he remembered his younger years studying away for a medical degree. “I was in school, so broke, and she must have noticed me staring longingly into the window because she used to sneak me some goods like croissants and muffins. She was a real sweetheart.” He looked back to Christine, “That’s what reminded me of you.”

“Well, no one ever notices me like that,” she trailed off, taken aback by another compliment.

“Somebody did, right?” Christine stared back at the masked man, blank expression, not understanding what he meant. “You’ve got th-the, the baby so….” Before she could get a word in edgewise to be offended he continued his story. “Anywho, this other waitress used to bake the pies fresh, daily, like you! Well, not quite like you, no offense to her, but your pies are…whoo. I mean, if pies and other such desserts were books, your pies would be the Shakespeare's letters of books. Does that make sense? Probably not, sorry. What I’m trying to say is you remind me of this waitress who also baked pies, but you're way better.”

The amount of ups and downs from the, supposed, doctor’s rambling could have caused Christine to develop whiplash. She did, however, have the decency to take in what he said at the very end of his onslaught of nervous speaking; he likened her to another pie maker, but called her better. That, at the very least, warmed her up some.

“It’s like they say, ‘it only takes one taste to know when you want a whole slice’. Don’t ask me who says that, I don’t know.” He said honestly, shaking his head.

Christine broke the silence, saving the poor nut from himself. “That reminds me of something my mama used to say in the kitchen when she was teaching me to bake. She’d say, “You can tell the whole story of the pie with just one taste, Christine.’” She shared.

He popped up at her words, thankful at least one of them was a wordsmith. “That’s exactly it! I mean, when I had that first bite of your pie, it felt like I could taste every individual ingredient you used, like I could see it sitting in a pantry. Maybe it was the years of no sugar but, one bite and I wanted that whole pie to myself.” He joked, but held an underlying seriousness to his words.

All Christine could do was sit and smile to what he was saying, pleased someone else could find enjoyment in her baking than her usual customers. “Honestly, it felt like the entire room evaporated and it was just me and the pie, alone.” Suddenly, his tone got a lot more thoughtful and a little bashful, staring at the pavement in front of him as he spoke. “It even got me thinking, what your hands must have felt like, crumbling the butter, mixing the filling, rolling out the dough. Wonder what your hands felt like when they made something so…masterful.” He all but mumbled the last bit.

Because of his soft speaking of her baking process, Christine had to lean in a bit and in doing so got a very good look at what her doctor’s lips looked like; thin, but slightly plump in the middle, perfect for tugging between teeth— “One bite of pie, caused all those thoughts?” She asked, mesmerized.

Looking up from the sidewalk, he took in how close the two had become on the bench. Maybe it was her imagination, but Christine thought she saw his amber eyes look down to her lips before looking into her eyes and saying, “It only takes one.”

The pair was quick to separate and retreat back to a reasonable distance from each other when they heard the sound of squeaking from the bus’s brakes. Each sat a little dazed and tried to shake off the looming heat that must have come from the sun peaking through those pesky clouds. Realizing it was her number, Christine got up from her seat.

“Well,” she said, trying not to seem too thrown off, “this one’s mine. Nice talking with you, Doctor Destler.”

Just as she was about to step onto the bus and pay the fee, she heard the doctor call out, “Christine.” Turning around, she was again made aware how very tall her doctor was, barely hitting his collarbone. “You can call anytime, I’m here.” He said, placing a slender hand on her arm. “For all of your questions and concerns, that is.” Taking his hand away, and leaving her with one of his lopsided smiles.

She gave one of her own small smiles, and boarded the bus, going as far as to wave to him from her seat as the bus started to drive away.

The air conditioning in the bus was cold, but more so was her arm where his larger one had been moments ago. Not to mention, the small smile she gifted the doctor still remained on her face, smiling to herself as she thought back to the encounter. How the strange, new doctor likened her pies to Shakeaspeare’s letters and cared enough to wonder what her hands felt like as she made them.

Christine rode the bus home, to her little ranch house that hasn’t been redecorated since the eighties at least, that smile staying put through every bump and pothole.

Maybe being compared to a 42 year old woman wasn’t the compliment it should have been, but to Christine it meant the world.

#phantom of the opera #christine daae #raoul de chagny #erik destler #musical fanfic #erik x christine #waitress fanfic #waitress #sara bareilles #pies

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 4 years

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Ink on his heart

Summary: Here’s how Bucky Barnes got a haircut and then decided it was about damn time he controlled his own destiny - starting with a bit of ink.

Star Spangled Bingo Square: “A thoughtful gift”

Characters: Bucky Barnes x TattooArtist!Reader

Words: 7,400 Warnings: Tattoo experiences, a couple stories about war. Some swearing. Mostly lots of feels and fluff.

A/N: This one has been in my head a long time, I love tattoos and I love the idea of Bucky getting them! While I desperately wish I could draw the designs in my head, hopefully you get enough of a word picture to imagine. And yes, it is kinda long (I know, I know), but I couldn’t stop myself!

Want to find all my stories? Search #bitsmasterlist or try the link in my bio!

*****

Not that Bucky’s counting, but it’s been three days, 18 hours and 26 minutes and he can’t get over it.

In the damp, chilly hours before dawn, he sits on the floor of the tower living room, watching the marshmallows in his hot chocolate melt in white swirls. Now and then, he lifts his eyes to the windows, finds the faint edges of his reflection in the dark glass, and tilts his head. Tentative fingers scratch through close cropped hair and a slow smile appears. Even now, he expects long strands trailing through his fingers. Believes he can feel the phantom tug of a snarl.

It was just a haircut. What a simple, ordinary thing.

But Bucky Barnes has never been ordinary.

That small act triggered a startling transformation. Decades of heartbreak fell away with that dark hair, revealing the shape of a man he begins to remember, and it makes him think. About small things, about change. About simple acts making an extraordinary difference.

The last haircut Bucky remembers before the beginning of his first ending, was January 1945. The memory came back one evening, of a tent in Austria, the heavy silence of snow drifting down. He remembers Steve with a dull scissors, snipping carefully along his ear, remembers the catch of a knife gently shaving his neck. It was a ritual they shared for years. When pennies were tight and life was tough, they took care of each other.

And then? Then there was after.

After the fall, after capture, after the world went pear-shaped. Hydra wasn’t concerned with the formalities of self-care, a haircut was functional. Sharp scissors biting into his scalp, rough hands tearing his hair, a harsh slap if he considered resisting. Get it done and get it done fast. The Asset has work to do.

He despised those haircuts.

But now, here he is. No more handlers and horrors. No more running. No more hiding. No more ropes dragging him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Wresting back his independence was exhilarating.

When Steve had finished this haircut - because Bucky still preferred a Steve Rogers special to anything - he’d dusted off Bucky’s shoulders and waited. Sam stood behind him, and Bucky rolled his eyes, expecting a barrage of sassy comments.

But Sam just ruffled the freshly cut hair and laughed.

“Not bad old man. Still not as handsome as yours truly, but hey - maybe someday.”

Such a simple thing, a haircut.

It makes him wonder what else he might do, just for himself.

Fuzzy and disconnected, an old memory flickers to life. It buzzes in his brain, images and connections filtering through the cracks and Bucky lets out a breathless laugh.

“Yeah,” he murmurs to himself. “Okay.”

He closes his eyes and sips his hot chocolate.

*****

Steve yawns when he answers the door. Blond hair spikes in every direction and he rubs his eyes, looking for all the world like a sleepy, overgrown toddler.

“Hey, man. Everything okay?”

Bucky leans against the doorframe and chews his thumbnail while he gathers his thoughts.

“Sure, just - can I get a favor?”

Bemused, Steve ushers him inside and Bucky plops in the red bean bag chair Steve keeps tucked beside his dresser. Stretching out his legs, he waits for Steve to flop back into bed and snuggle his pillow, before he speaks.

“Remember back in ’37 when we were coming home from that shitty bar in Midtown, and we saw that sailor getting a tattoo?”

Whatever Steve expected, it wasn’t this. It takes him a moment to conjure the image, but when it comes he belts out a laugh.

“That terrified kid gettin’ a big heart on his arm? Looked ready to shit his pants?”

Bucky grins at the memory, a milk-faced kid with hair dark and shiny as an oil-slick.

“Thought he was gonna puke on the guy.”

“Yeah, and didn’t we stand outside that window arguing while you tried to convince me we both needed one? Something about good girls liking bad boys?”

“Hey, I stand by that statement!”

“Oh fuck off, you know exactly what your Ma would’ve said if we’d come home with tattoos.”

“Yeah,” Bucky chuckles. “God, she’d a skinned me alive.”

“Damn straight,” Steve agrees and they fall quiet, momentarily lost in shared memories of a woman with a voice of steel and a heart of gold.

Bucky leans forward and rests his chin on his knee.

“You know, all these years and I’ve never really - done anything like that,” he admits wistfully. “Gotten something done to me, I mean. Something I decided on my own. If that makes sense?”

Controlling his own destiny, choosing to do something by himself, instead of always accepting things done to him - the idea is intoxicating. He remembers the pained grimace on that sailor’s face and he relishes the prospect.

Pain you choose to feel holds a different meaning, than the torture he knows.

“S’never too late, Buck,” Steve says drowsily. “You can do anything you want.”

Bucky contemplates Steve’s words. He can do anything he wants. Heart beating fast, he takes a deep breath.

“So listen, I was thinking -”

*****

For two straight weeks, Steve works on ideas.

The floor of his bedroom is littered with sketches and concepts, crumpled sheets of paper dappled with flowing lines. Finally, after midnight on a dreary Thursday, he knocks on Bucky’s door. The moment it opens, he shoves his tattered leather portfolio in Bucky’s hands.

“So, I guess, uh - here.”

Steve crosses his arms, his toe tapping nervously, and Bucky chokes down a laugh. Some things about Steve Rogers remain comfortingly unchanged. No matter how incredible his work, all confidence seems to evaporate the moment Bucky lays eyes on anything.

—

“Give it back asshole!”

“God dammit Steve, YOU’RE the one who asked me to look!”

“Yeah well, I changed my mind, now give it back!”

—

Bucky remembers laughing while Steve chased him around their apartment. He remembers the neighbors banging on the wall, shouting at them to shut up, and he remembers the smell of their forgotten scrambled eggs burning. But most of all, he remembers that drawing - he tucked that portrait of his mother in his rucksack the day he shipped out and it stayed there, a good luck charm all through the war.

Steve had cried when Bucky told him.

Because Bucky’s opinion was always the one that mattered. Seventy years changes nothing.

Tonight, he opens the leather case, revealing three separate drawings. Outlines of black ink and a rainbow of colors paint over the curves and breaks of a human form and he pores over each page. Each drawing is utterly unique, telling the story of Bucky Barnes in metaphors and moments.

There are no words.

His throat feels suddenly thick, cotton lodged in his windpipe.

“I can redo them,” Steve blurts out. He snatches at the paper, but Bucky spins sideways, blocking the reach.

“The fuck you will. You ain’t touching these,” his voice cracks. Blinking back the flood of emotion, he looks up. “This is - they’re perfect, Steve. Thank you.”

Steve blushes petal pink and coughs to hide his delight. He fails miserably, of course, but that’s one more reason Bucky loves the little punk.

*****

One week later, Bucky stands before a demure brick storefront on a slow Brooklyn side street, the portfolio housing Steve’s three precious drawings clutched tight in a sweaty hand. Glancing at the address in his hand, he looks up to find stenciled letters curving across a glass window.

BROOKLYN INK ESTABLISHED 1973

“Here we go,” he mutters. Before he can lose his nerve, he shoves forward.

Three steps inside the tattoo parlor, he pulls up short.

Wow.

Black iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling, splashing sparkles across plush velvet chairs, rich violet and bright turquoise. The floor is an eclectic mix of reclaimed barn board, full of knots and whorls in every shade of brown. Artwork in black and white frames line the brick wall, tattoo designs, letters and fonts, photos of finished work. The entire space overflows with warmth, and Bucky feels instantly at ease.

The front desk is empty, but he hears someone rattling around back, so he takes a seat. Piled high on an end table are bundles of photo albums, full of work; he sinks into the cushions and starts flipping through.

Immersed in the images, he misses the sound of quiet footsteps.

“Are you James?”

The voice startles him and in one swift move, he manages to throw the album on the floor and tumble from the chair. Pages of photographs spill everywhere and he crawls over, hastily scooping them up and babbling one inappropriate apology after another.

“Shit! Sorry, I’m sorry! Shit, I mean I’m sorry for saying shit. Fuck, I didn’t - oh my god, I’m sorry, I’m not usually so - ”

Soft laughter greets him and he looks up in panic, a more refined apology on his lips, but the words evaporate.

Crouching beside him, graceful hands gather up the mess of photos, slipping them back into the album. Dropping it carelessly on the end table, she bounces back to her feet and offers him a hand.

“No worries,” she says with a breathtaking smile. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

Although he has no need for the support, Bucky reaches mutely for her outstretched fingers because he can’t help but take them. When she tugs, he allows her to pull him up.

“I’m, um - Bucky. Please, call me Bucky.”

“Hello Bucky,” she says. She shares her name and he repeats it slowly. Clearing his throat, he takes a deep breath.

“Thanks for meeting me so late, I know it’s after hours.”

“Sure,” she says lightly. “So, what can I do for you?”

This is the tricky part.

“On the website, it mentioned you had experience with - with tattooing around scars,” he begins carefully. “Scar tissue I mean. Is that right?”

With his question, her expressions turns serious. She observes him for a long moment.

“Yes, I do. Can I ask how long you served?” she asks delicately and Bucky acknowledges her perception with a short nod. He toys with the zipper on Steve’s portfolio, debating his response.

“Seemed like forever,” he finally says, and it’s the most honest answer he has.

Nodding silently, she motions him behind the counter.

“Come on back, let’s see what you had in mind.”

Hugging the pictures to his chest, Bucky follows, eyes saucer wide as they weave through the work area to her space. The shop smells like the woodsy smoke from the candles sitting along her table, mixed with ink and latex and an odd sterile tang. He inhales and discovers he likes it, the strange scent lighting him up.

Dropping to her stool, she gestures for him to have a seat. Bucky sits gingerly, wide eyes still staring. When she catches his eye, he flushes.

“Sorry. First time I’ve been in a shop.”

“That’s okay, there’s lots to see,” she says easily. Looking at the portfolio still clutched against his chest, she grins. “Did you have some ideas already?”

He thrusts the portfolio at her. Propping it on her knees, she flips it open and he beams when he hears her astonished gasp.

“I like the colors there, if you think they’re possible?”

“Sure, might take some extra time, but I can do it,” she murmurs, pinching her lip. Turning the page sideways, she examines every minute detail, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is exquisite.”

“I’ll tell my artist. He’s a real diva sometimes.”

“I’d say he’s earned that right,” she laughs, tracing the paper with a light finger. She flips to the second picture and tilts her head. “The grays and silvers might look nice with midnight blue for contrast?”

Bucky nods eagerly. “Yeah, I love that idea.”

She looks again, examining the intricate design.

“Can you tell me about your pain tolerance? The designs are beautiful, but they’re complex. Each will take multiple sessions to finish.”

Bucky drops his eyes. He heaves a sigh at the obligatory question.

“It’s high,” he mutters. “Very - high.”

Silence follows his admission. When he dares to look up again, he feels a twinge in his chest at the compassion he finds. He offers a rueful smile and she slowly returns it.

“Would you like to come after hours? It can get noisy during the day, if you prefer things quieter. Most soldiers like that better.”

There is a sweep of relief at her casual acknowledgement. He huffs out a shaky breath.

“That would be great. If you don’t mind, I mean.”

“Not at all. I’m a night owl anyway.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. “Me too.”

She looks back to the portfolio, carefully shuffling the pages.

The third picture appears.

And Bucky sees it, that precise moment when realization sinks in. When she realizes exactly who is sitting in her chair tonight. There is no doubt the drawing gives that fact away. Heart pounding, he flinches, steeling himself for the inevitable.

But nothing happens.

She meets his nervous gaze head on and yet - that gentle smile remains.

“Bucky,” she repeats and this time she understands. “Oh. It’s nice to meet you, Bucky Barnes. Come back tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late.”

He leaves the tattoo shop feeling lighter than he has in years.

*****

TATTOO 1: FOREARM

“Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.” - Jack London

*****

Perpetually early for everything, Bucky arrives at 8:45pm the next night.

The bell over the door tinkles when he enters, and she looks up from the front desk and waves. His stomach unexpectedly leaps and he thinks it must be nerves.

“Hey, Bucky,” her voice is soft.

“Evening,” he says shyly.

“You ready to do this?”

“Could hardly sleep last night,” he confesses with a grin.

Sliding timidly into her black leather chair, he watches her arrange tools on a shiny silver tray. An arm rest is attached to his right side, and he dries his sweaty palm on his jeans before easing his arm onto the cushion, palm up. When she drops onto her stool at his side, he offers a weak smile.

“You got the email I sent with all the information, right? Did you have any questions?”

He scrunches his nose, recalling the long, detailed summary she shared. For each of the three tattoos he requested, she gave him a detailed analysis of the process for creating each design; broke down how long each session would take; gave explicit instructions on the healing and care process; confirmed each individual color and how it would be applied; clarified the tools that would be used, including their brand names and how each one worked; she even provided floor plans of her shop - outlining entries and exits and bathrooms and locations of fire extinguishers.

It was a novel of information that must’ve taken her hours, and he was inexplicably grateful for the time she spent just to make him comfortable.

“No questions, I just, uh - thanks. For putting all that together. It was helpful to have all the information. Helps me keep my head on straight.”

“Of course,” she says. “So this first design should take probably 5-6 hours. Since you’re new, we’ll start with short blocks and see how it goes.”

Bucky gives a jerky nod and she pauses, pressing her fingertips against the smooth skin of his forearm.

“Here are the rules. You’re in charge, okay? We can go as fast or as slow as you need. This is not a race, and I have nowhere to be but here. Any time you want to stop, you say the word and I stop. We can take a breather, grab a cup of coffee and start again - or we can call it a night. This is your experience, Bucky. You’re in control. Understand?”

There is a fierce surge of gratitude at her words. Gratitude for her kindness, for her acceptance. Gratitude for her.

“Got it,” he whispers.

And with that, they begin.

Bucky follows each step, while she measures his arm, while she considers the contours and angles of his muscle, while she cleans and preps his skin. When she finally applies a stencil, his heart is hammering so hard his teeth are chattering.

The low buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears with a click.

When the needles touch his skin, sweat instantly beads his neck. Adrenaline drenches his tongue and for one wild moment, Bucky panics. Wonders if this was a terrible idea, because what idiot asks for pain, seriously Barnes, what the hell is wrong with you, why’re you so stupid all the -

And then - oh.

Huh.

Interesting.

Wide-eyed, Bucky follows her careful strokes, black lines appearing on his skin.

It does hurt - sort of. Obviously nothing he can’t handle; in the grand scheme of his life, this would register as a minor inconvenience, but there is a pinch.

But that spark of pain vanishes, when the raw symbolism behind Steve’s design hits him full force.

Holy shit.

How many times through the decades did Bucky Barnes die? And how many times did he rise, born again from the frozen ash of oblivion? It was simply what the Soldier did. But it was a shadow-life, nothing more. Bucky never knew how close he was to giving up, until that day above the Potomac, Steve’s bloody face beneath his furious fists. He was so far gone, so lost and forgotten, until those memories cracked the Soldier’s fierce veneer.

And suddenly he was Bucky again. Awake and alive. For the first time in 70 years he felt fire in his soul. For the first time in 70 years he could breathe.

Tears inexplicably fill his eyes.

“All okay?”

Through a tunnel, Bucky hears her voice. Hypnotized by the metaphor inking itself into his skin, his head feels waterlogged when blinks up at her.

“Sorry?”

She scans his face, her thumb rubbing the pulse thrumming at his wrist.

“Everything okay?” She asks again and Bucky feels a potent rush of euphoria.

“Yes,” he says slowly. The excitement bubbles over and he lets out an ecstatic laugh. “Yes! This is incredible. This is - fucking hell, this is amazing.”

Chuckling to herself, she bends back to her task.

“So I guess we’ll keep going?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Yeah, let’s keep going.”

Two hours later, the outline of the Phoenix is inked into his skin, crisp black lines like fresh paint. Long tail feathers are curled around his wrist, the lush feathered body splashed over his forearm, her wings spread open and curving around his arm, her head reaching toward the sky.

Born from ash. Alive again.

Bucky hates to cover it up, but she insists.

“Follow the cleaning instructions and it should be fine. We need to wait between the sessions, give you time to heal.”

At that comment, he fidgets.

“Actually, I heal pretty - fast.”

“I assumed you might. Usually I say 2-3 weeks between sessions, so how about you come back in 1 week and we can see. Let’s just make sure. Does that work?”

Bucky glances at the crisp white bandage on his arm.

“Okay, that works,” he says.

She squeezes his hand and he meets her eyes.

“You did great,” she tells him.

Bucky smiles in return. And he doesn’t stop for the next six days.

*****

When he walks into the shop for his next session, he carries a large coffee for himself and an extra large iced peach green tea for her. When he gets to the front desk, he thrusts the cup at her.

“Evening. Um, here. Saw you had one last time, so - anyway.”

“Bucky, thank you. I’ve been craving one all day.” She gives the straw an experimental bite, before taking a long drink and for some reason, the silly quirk makes his heart bounce.

After a quick check on how he’s healed, she declares him perfect and they get started, settling into a comfortable silence. After an hour of buzzing, Bucky clears his throat.

“Is it okay to talk while you work?”

“It is,” she affirms, dabbing at the ink. Glancing up, she sees hesitant blue eyes. “I’m good at listening too. Sometimes it’s nice just to listen.”

Bucky figures that’s a fair statement. He fiddles with a stray thread on his shirt.

“Do you read much?” He asks hopefully, picturing the teetering stack of books beside his bed. She perks at the question.

“I love to read. Have a pile of books on my nightstand waiting for me to find time. What about you? Are you reading anything good now? Any favorites I should know?”

Bucky swallows the happy surprise. If he could, he’d be content to spend the rest of his years with a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, and an unending supply of stories. He could talk about books for days, he just normally keeps quiet, because most people aren’t interested in that facet of Bucky Barnes.

So he begins to talk.

He tells her how Natasha lent him all her Russian copies of Pushkin and Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, insisting that reading in the original language was infinitely better. He describes how he found a copy of Rumi’s poetry at a yard sale, and what an incredible treasure it was. He flusters recounting how much he cried reading ‘A Fault in our Stars’ and says he was scared shitless to even see a clown for a full year after reading Stephen King.

He talks and talks and talks, and when he finally stops to breathe, she glances up.

“It’s nice to hear a man who’s so well read,” she says and Bucky preens at the compliment. “Do you have an all time favorite? Something you never get tired of?”

A favorite? No question.

“Yeah, I do. Something I read during the war and kinda fell in love. It’s about here, I guess. About Brooklyn.”

At the description, her mouth quirks, but she keeps working.

“Did you ever think about a book quote for a tattoo?”

Now there’s an idea. He makes a mental note to think of a quote he could add as another tattoo. Or maybe another couple tattoos. Hell, one session in and he’s already addicted.

The comment tumbles free before he realizes he’s spoken out loud. He blushes at her laughter.

“It can be addicting,” she agrees. Bucky understands completely, seeing the vibrant crimson ink soak into his skin, painting the bird’s feathers. And then she pauses, meeting his eyes with a peculiar expression. “The right words can make you feel invincible.”

Setting the tattoo machine down, she rolls her chair back a bit and sits up straight. Lifting the hem of her shirt, Bucky sees a line of gold text inked below her ribs, his eyes following the flowing cursive.

“She was all of these things and of something more,” he reads aloud.

“‘A Tree Grows in Brooklyn’ is my favorite book too,” she says quietly. There is a long, unbroken moment where they stare into each others eyes. He should say something, he thinks. Something intelligent or witty or anything, but instead he just thinks about the fact that he found a woman in Brooklyn to permanently carve pictures into his skin and she has the same favorite book as him.

Bucky always was a sucker for fate.

“That’s - that’s really - I love that,” he finally says instead.

*****

A week later, Bucky arrives with a bundle of folders and an exasperated expression.

“This is really annoying, but do you mind if I finish some reports while you work? Got behind, someone’s gonna have my ass.” Bucky raises the papers apologetically.

“No problem,” she says easily. “Let’s keep your ass safe.”

Bending back to her task, Bucky snorts a laugh. They’re just a handful of mission reports, normally he types them soon as he returns, but lately he’s been slacking, because lately he has other things he finds more interesting.

Like the scene in front of him.

Together they work, each with their own pen. Bucky writes, she colors, and the clock on the wall ticks along. After awhile, she takes a break to stretch. Rolling her shoulders, she observes him.

“Are you left-handed?” she asks curiously and it takes Bucky a moment to think.

“Oh. Uh, not really,” he says. “But I can switch. Never been a problem.”

At the confession, she raises her eyebrows.

“That’s impressive. I wish I had a talent like that.”

He ducks his head at the praise. And he keeps writing, of course. Maybe adds a bit more flair. After all, the old Bucky Barnes did like to swagger.

*****

“Well, I think that’s it.”

It takes a beat before Bucky understands what she means. Confused, he peers up at her with a dopey expression and she gestures at his arm.

He feels his heart lurch.

It flames to life along his arm, painted in vibrant ruby red and rich crimson and deep plum, highlights edged in shining gold. Mesmerized, Bucky stares down at the lines of ink and he flexes, the tendons of his arm shifting, and the bird moves. For one wild moment, he believes if he stays still, it could leap from his skin and take flight.

It leaves him breathless.

“God, this is better - fuck, it’s so much better - than I ever imagined. How did you - wow. I don’t know how you did it, but - thank you. Thank you so much.”

Unanticipated emotion makes his voice tremble. Because this is the first time Bucky Barnes chose something permanent for himself. Serums and metal arms and bullets and blades, those were always forced upon him, his pleading refusals met with violence and sneering indifference.

But this?

This.

This is all his.

*****

TATTOO 2: BACK

“Wear your heart on your sleeve in this life.” - Sylvia Plath

*****

“So, uh, how exactly does this work?”

Standing beside the leather chair while she organizes her inks, Bucky wrinkles his nose. She looks up and motions for him to turn, straddling the chair with his chest pressed against the back.

“Are you comfortable completely removing your shirt? Or would you prefer to leave it part way on? I’ll just need it out of the way for the right side of your back.”

Bucky grimaces. Eventually she’s going to see his shoulder - he knows that - but he’s not in the mood to rip that band-aid off yet.

“Uh - let’s do part of the way if that’s okay?”

“That’s okay,” she confirms and he awkwardly tugs his right arm free, baring the broad expanse of his back. Tucking his arms in front of him, he slings a leg over the chair and rests his chin carefully on the headrest.

He says nothing, simply stays still while she absorbs the sight. Littered up and down his back are a litany of scars, puckers from the occasional bullet, thin lines from errant blades, and a few other marks he prefers not to define. His voice is muffled when he warily asks.

“Are you able to - work with it?“

“Absolutely,” she answers firmly and Bucky warms at the decisiveness in her tone. Her confidence makes him feel infinitely more positive.

This is the largest of his three tattoos, stretching from the tip of his shoulder blade and flowing down to his waist. It will also take the longest, but Bucky assures her he has no issue sitting perfectly still for hours.

It’ll be worth it. He can’t wait to show Sam - he’ll get a kick out of this one.

Once she applies the stencil over his skin, she goes to work, dropping into that headspace of deep focus. She works so quietly for so long, he falls into a trance, lulled by the melodic buzz.

When she speaks, it startles him.

“What made you decide you wanted a tattoo?”

He lays his cheek along the edge of the chair so he can see her from the corner of his eye when he answers.

“S’random, but back in ’37, me and Steve were out and I remember walking by this old tattoo shop over in Midtown. They had one of those big glass windows with the chair in front, so people could stand and watch. Anyway, we walk by and there was this kid sitting in the chair, and no fuckin’ joke, he was getting a big heart on his arm with ‘MOM’ written in the middle.”

“Ah yes, the ever popular ‘mom’ tribute. I’ve done a few of those,” she says and Bucky grins.

“Well anyway, I always kinda wanted something, you know? Thought about getting one before I shipped out, but I didn’t, and then it was - “ he pauses for a moment, but she encourages him with a questioning hmmm? and Bucky bravely pushes forward. “I had lots of years where I didn’t get to make my own decisions. And there was so much - bad shit that happened to me. Anyway, I guess I thought if someone’s gonna do something to me, I wanted it to be on my own terms. You know?”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I think that makes perfect sense.”

Bucky sits quietly, contemplating. The question has been rattling around his brain for awhile and it spills free before he can stop himself.

“The whole process, it feels sort of - intimate, doesn’t it?”

He flushes at the insinuation, but intimate is the best way to describe it, he thinks, this practice of someone permanently carving their art into your skin.

“It is intimate,” she says softly, leaning closer. “It’s almost like you’re - leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin? I don’t know if that makes sense, but that’s what it’s always felt like.”

Bucky nods, watching her capable, artistic, beautiful hands as they move, slowly transferring bits and pieces of herself to him.

What a gift. He holds on tight.

*****

It was bound to happen at one of the sessions.

It’s been dark and rainy for days, buckets dumped from the heavens, the perpetual grumble of thunder always near. When Bucky comes through the front door, he feels like a wet dog. He shakes out his jacket, stomps his boots. He feels off base tonight, the result of bad sleep, bad dreams, and one particularly bad mission. He’s frustrated with himself for bringing it with him, thinks maybe he should’ve cancelled, but the thought of skipping his session - both the ink and her - was too depressing.

So instead of holing up in his room and moping under the covers, he braved the storm.

The one inside and out.

Searching for calm, he licks chapped lips.

“Hey,” he says, cringing when his voice cracks.

“Hey, Buck,” she turns cheerfully, but when she sees him squinting at her through the droplets cascading down his face, his shoulders hunched and tense, she stops. Looks him up and down and her expression softens. Beckoning him back, she digs up a towel and a dry t-shirt with ‘BROOKLYN INK’ stamped across the front, ushering him to the bathroom.

“Take all the time you need. No rush.”

Bucky mumbles his thanks and shuts the door. Gripping the sink, he glares at the mirror, at the smudge of dark beneath his eyes, at the clench of his jaw. Closing his eyes, he breathes slow and deep.

“You’re okay. You’re okay.”

He repeats the mantra, determined to settle. He’s been eager for this session all week, he’s sure as hell not ruining it because he can’t get his idiot brain to stop spinning.

When he finally emerges, he finds her arranging her work space. Halting in front of her, he keeps trembling hands stuffed in his pockets, eyes downcast.

“I’m afraid I’m poor company tonight,” he admits quietly.

“That’s okay. We can reschedule, Bucky,” she says softly and Bucky feels the disconcerting sting of tears. He rubs the heel of his hand against watery eyes.

“If it’s okay, I’d - I’d rather go ahead. Been looking forward to seeing you - uh, seeing you work, all week. It was just - “ he pauses and fights the temptation to spill his guts. No, he snarls internally, she doesn’t need to hear all your shit.

He clamps his mouth shut and shrugs instead.

She says nothing, but when she gives his hand a comforting squeeze, Bucky feels that familiar surge of gratitude. She guides him carefully toward the chair and he slumps into the seat, automatically tugging up his new shirt.

“Just close your eyes and breath. You’re okay.”

Bucky rests his chin on the edge of the chair. Troubled eyes flutter shut, and the comforting buzz of the tattoo machine fills his ears, muting the sound of the storm raging outside. When he feels the prick of the needles, he lets out a weary breath. And when he feels the easy pressure of her fingers, he begins to relax.

For hours, she works. Firm strokes, painting the story across his skin.

The dark night begins to fade before she finally sets her tools aside. When he climbs to his feet, she pulls him into a gentle hug.

Bucky sinks into her arms.

That morning, the sun begins to shine.

*****

Bucky’s been sitting for a couple hours now, eyeing the brick wall behind the chair. A question pops into his head and he feels like a jerk for not asking sooner.

“Hey - all these hours together, and I never asked you - what made you want to draw on people for a living?”

She hums at the question, and he can hear the happiness in her reply.

“Well, I always wanted to be an artist. For my eleventh birthday, my best friend Mike gave me this set of gel pens, there were a million colors. When I told him I wanted to be a tattoo artist, he let me draw pictures all over him for practice. He insisted on being the first person I inked, once I got my license. Would always tell people he was the ‘original canvas’ for my brilliance.”

When she laughs, Bucky chuckles with her; it reminds him of Steve.

“Sounds like a good man,” he says.

“Yeah, he is - he was,” she quietly corrects herself. “He was an EOD specialist in Afghanistan. Right before he left for his last tour, I drew up plans for the arm sleeve he always wanted; he planned to get it when he finished. A month later, he was in a convoy that was moving through the Gereshk Valley in the Helmand Province, when an IED hit his vehicle. He didn’t make it home.”

The story hits home like a kick in the face.

Too many soldiers, too many lives. Bucky reaches back to still her hand. He slowly turns to face her, gently tugging the tattoo machine free and setting it aside. Wordlessly, he offers his hand and she accepts it gratefully, weaving her fingers through his. It takes a few attempts before she speaks again.

“It took me a long time to get through that. One day I met a friend working down at the VA, and I heard a vet talking about the scars on his legs. He sounded so - sad about them, you know? Kept saying he didn’t recognize himself anymore. And I just stood there thinking, maybe I couldn’t help Mike, but I could still do something.” Staring resolutely down, she considers her fingers still entangled with Bucky’s. “I did some research and took some classes and - learned how to tattoo on scar tissue.”

Bucky gazes at her. He feels a sweep of pride at the way she turned her tragedy into something beautiful.

“I’m so sorry that happened,” he says and she finally looks up, meeting blue eyes bright with compassion. “But you should know, what you’re doing for people, it’s incredible. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d be real god damn proud of you.”

A tear slips down her cheek and she ducks her head, her whisper so low he nearly misses it.

“Thank you Bucky.”

*****

Hours later, Bucky hears a clatter of tools and her huff of relief.

“All done.”

Wiping her hands, she pops excitedly up from the stool and Bucky pushes back from the chair to follow. Without a thought, she grabs his metal hand, tugging him impatiently over to a set of floor length mirrors along the wall. Bucky grips tight and obediently follows, his pulse racing. When she positions him at the mirror, she adjusts the panels so he can see himself from all angles.

“There, have a look.”

Along his spine, the single metal wing bursts free, so intensely realistic, Bucky’s jaw drops. It arches gracefully up, curving over his shoulder blade and sweeping down his back, razor sharp feathers tickling his rib cage before billowing out above his waist. Made from silvers and grays and shaded hints of midnight blue, it glows in the light. When Bucky reaches toward the sky, the muscles shift beneath the ink and it creates the strangest sensation of feathers unfolding.

All the scars littering his back, a flesh and bone patchwork of memories left by vicious handlers and fights too close for comfort, have disappeared. Blending into the steel of his new wing, their only purpose is to strengthen the image.

After all this time, he’s come to terms with the metal arm so unwillingly gifted all those years ago. But it’s remained a relic of a past life, something heavy, to drag him down.

But now, he rolls his shoulder back and his new metal wing lifts him higher than he’s felt in a long, long time.

*****

TATTOO 3: SHOULDER

“I can bear any pain as long as it has meaning.” - Haruki Murakami

*****

“So our last session.”

“Our last session,” he murmurs.

Bucky thinks for a moment that she seems glum, but maybe that’s wishful thinking.

“This is a tough one,” she warns, “but I think we can do it in one session. I won’t try and cover them up, it won’t work. The best solution is to incorporate your scars into the design. Make sense?”

Bucky pictures the pattern Steve drew, bright green leaves and vines tracing the seam of his arm, melding with the thick ribbons of raised tissue. It doesn’t matter, but he timidly asks anyway.

“Will it hurt?”

“No,” she says gently. Pressing her hand to his galloping heart, she shakes her head. “It won’t hurt much there, but you need to tell me if it hurts here. You need to tell me if I should stop. Remember, you’re in charge, okay?”

“Okay,” he whispers.

Steeling himself, he whips off his shirt, balling it up in nervous hands. The cool air blowing through the shop is a relief for his overheated body.

“Do you mind if I feel the skin here? So I can make sure I approach it right?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Bucky mumbles. Staring at his hands, he waits.

Leaning close, her fingers brush over him, feeling the lines and ridges, assessing the canvas. For ten minutes, she tests his skin, lightly pushing and pressing, observing the scars and bumps where metal meets man.

“Does it still hurt?”

She doesn’t want to ask, but needs to know what she’s working with. With a grim smile, he shrugs.

“Not really. Aches sometimes, but doesn’t hurt. Can’t feel much there besides some pressure.”

Nodding, she pinches her lip. “I was thinking last night, um - would you want to add anything else into the design? Nothing big, but a few flowers? Some daisies maybe?”

“Sure, I’d like that. Any reason for daisies?” Bucky asks curiously.

Pulling out a few additional bottles of ink, she absently touches the necklace at her throat, and Bucky sees a silver daisy spinning.

“Daisies represent new beginnings. Thought it might be a nice way to end, if you like?”

Does he like it? The idea of having this small thing in common?

Hell yes he likes it.

Maybe - maybe he even more than likes it?

“Yeah. That sounds perfect,” he says softly. He swallows hard and she nods encouragingly.

“Okay. Remember - stop me if you need a break.”

This one, Bucky knows will be hard. It was the reason he left it to the end - the mental fortitude required here is much different.

As she begins, he contemplates the pink furrows gouged into his skin. The memory of how they got there flashes before him, a sick image of shredded skin raked bloody beneath his blunt fingernails. Faint screams of a past life echo in his ears, the smokey cry of his own voice desperate for relief from the pain.

Cold sweat slides down his face and he slams his eyes shut, but that seems to make it worse. The images glow technicolor bright, and he grunts a frustrated breath.

And then, through the thin latex of her glove, he feels her cool hand press against his pounding heart. Cracking an eye open, he finds her calm face and he focuses on her, until his breathing begins to ease. Blinking rapidly, he drinks in the curve of her nose, the shape of her mouth, the beauty of her eyes.

His heart stutters, stunning him into a different kind of breathless.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, wide eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I’m okay. You can keep going.”

When she bends back to her task, Bucky melts. It occurs to him, that perhaps if she might let him, he could be content watching her forever.

But for tonight, this forever lasts only a few hours before she’s done.

And there it is.

Shades of green line his shoulder, the vines curling and winding around his scars, blending them seamlessly into the foliage covering his skin. Spidering vines trail across his chest, and it seems incompatible in a way, something alive bursting from the stark metal, but the leaves look so real, he swears they flutter with each breath he takes. Strewn throughout the greenery, small splotches of yellow and white reveal her daisies and he sucks in a breath.

For the first time in his life, Bucky stares at his scars and a foreign word comes to mind, one he never, ever thought to use.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “They’re beautiful.”

*****

And so, after 3 months and 30 hours together, they were done.

Hands in his pockets, Bucky gazes at her. Ink on her hands, ink on his heart. It hits him then, this is it. They shuffle, making small talk, neither ready to say goodbye.

“Promise you’ll come back if you decide on anything else. Tattoos, piercings, anything,” she teases and Bucky laughs.

“Told you, I might be a little addicted,” he admits, knowing full well he means to tattoos and to her. “Soon as I can think of a reason, I’ll be back.”

“I hope so,” she says. There is a brief moment where she seems to gather her courage and then she leans in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re a work of art, Bucky, but - you were before any of this. Remember that.”

Dazed, Bucky touches his cheek.

Indelible and perfect, the tattoo of her lips inks itself straight onto his heart.

*****

When she arrives at the shop the next day, there is a new sight sitting on the front desk.

Daisies, their white petals and yellow faces as fresh as the afternoon sunshine filtering through the window. Bemused, she looks around the bustling shop and spies the card propped beside the overflowing vase, her name scrawled across the front.

“When I got home, I stood in front of the mirror for hours, staring at your artwork. Every time I told myself to go to sleep, I found something new I loved. The tail feathers on my Phoenix or the petals of your daisies. What you’ve given me is more than I ever hoped - I can never thank you enough.

But anyway, I remembered what you said - how this kind of art is like leaving a piece of your soul under someone’s skin.

Well, I won’t lie - you must have done, because I miss you already.

So at the risk of being forward (although I did break into your shop and leave this, so maybe this won’t seem that forward), would you have dinner with me?

I think there’s another new beginning waiting out there, if you’d like to find it with me.

Yours,

Bucky”

At the bottom of the note, a phone number is printed.

Brushing her fingers over the delicate white petals, she pictures him, that dark haired man with eyes like blue ink, so heartbreakingly beautiful inside and out. She feels the unconscious pull of her heart, telling her all she needs to know.

A new beginning.

She says yes.

*****

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #SSB2020 #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist #tattoos #tattoo trope

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2jaeh · 3 years

Text

day dream | bomin

the image of you - your face, your smile, your voice - is so vivid in bomin's dream, but he's never met you before.

genre: fluff, slight angst, suggestive

word count: 1.1k

author lin

Bomin dragged his long fingers against the soft, white walls of the tunnel through which he was walking. The walls bared a pillow-like texture and the white abyss engulfed Bomin, never seeming to end. Bomin's legs grew tired and he decided to take a seat.

Unconsciously, Bomin let his body fall back onto the walls of the tunnel. Soon enough, the walls swallowed him whole, causing him to kick and scream in agony. He could barely breathe as the warm, marshmallow-like material of the walls wrapped around his body. Suddenly, he felt a tug at his ankle. He was being pulled out of the wall slowly, every inch of his body letting out a sigh of relief as he was released from the clenches of the wall.

Bomin gasped for air once he was completely out of the wall, breathing heavily as he got to his feet. He lifted his head up to see you staring up at him. Your hair swept over your face and your eyes were bright and filled with with curiosity. A smile was plastered on you face, slightly showing off your teeth. Bomin couldn't recognise you, but his heart fluttered at how charming you were.

"Hello..." You greeted Bomin sweetly, the smile never faltering.

"Hi," Bomin replied gingerly, rubbing his elbow in embarrassment, "who are you?"

"______," you answered, "what's yours?"

"Bomin," he nodded before smiling sheepishly, "thanks for saving me."

"It's no big deal," you shrugged nonchalantly, "hey, do you want me to show you something cool?"

"Uh.... sure?" Bomin replied, his voice laced with unsureness.

You turned on your heels and walked down the tunnel and into the darkness with the expectation that Bomin would follow. Bomin lived up to this expectation by chasing after you until he was walking right next to you in the abyss. The two of you were completely blind in the pitch black darkness of the tunnel. Bomin jumped when he felt something brush against his hand.

"Shh, it's just me." He heard you whisper before he felt a hand intertwine with his.

Bomin made no sort of protest to holding your hand. In fact, he rather liked the feeling. You both walked hand in hand through the tunnel until you reached the exit and your vision returned. You let go of Bomin's hand - much to Bomin's disappointment - and rushed out of the tunnel.

"Isn't it beautiful?" You gushed as you spread your arms out and deeply breathed in the fresh air.

The crisp green grass was still drenched in morning dew. The flowers were blooming and the trees were abundant with fruit. Down the bank was a breathtaking river so clear one could see their own reflection in it. Birds were chirping softly in the distance. Indeed it was beautiful. Bomin stepped out of the tunnel, his bare feet pressed against the grass and his dark hair danced with the subtle breeze. He took in the mesmerizing scenery before his eyes fell onto you.

His new companion was sprawled out on the grass, your eyes closed and a satisfied smile still pasted on your face. Bomin sat cross legged on the ground next to you, unable to take his eyes off of you.

"Staring is rude." you snapped Bomin out of his daze and chuckled when you saw the colour of Bomin's cheeks turn pink.

"You're just..." Bomin started but couldn't find the words to finish his sentence.

You laughed once again, finding much amusement in Bomin's embarrassment, and it was like the sweetest melody to his ears. You sat up and faced him. Your eyes scanned him as he kept his eyes on the ground. You studied the strong and handsome features of Bomin's face and absentmindedly, your hand began to inch forward to touch him.

"Beautiful." Bomin's gentle voice brought an even bigger smile to your face as you touched his cheek.

You leaned forward, your eyes closed and your hand bringing his face closer to your own. Unconsciously, Bomin found himself closing his eyes and leaning in as well. The gap between your lips began to decrease with each small movement. Slowly, but surely, you pressed your lips against his. Bomin inhaled the smell of your perfume and melted into the touch of your hands cupping his face.

His hands shakily found their way to your sides, rubbing up and down over the fabric of your shirt. You climbed into his lap, letting your hands rest on his chest as he laid his body down on the lush grass. You straddled his waist, his hands clutching almost desperately onto your thighs as your hands danced all over his torso. A gasp escaped his lips when your cold fingers came into contact with his tummy, going lower and lower….

Bomin bolted up from his bed, the sound of his alarm breaking him away from his slumber. He reached over to his night stand and turned his alarm off. Sweat dripped down from his temple as he placed a hand on his chest, trying his best to calm down his frantically beating heart.

His dream was so vivid. He swore it felt like reality. But once he woke up, he realized his imagination had played a horrible trick on him. He had no idea who you were and he would probably never see you again...

+++++

Bomin hugged his large, black coat closer to his body as the harsh wind blew him mercilessly towards the other direction. He trudged down the pavement whilst the wind refused to let him move any further, let alone walk, but he battled it out until he reached the nearest coffee shop. He slipped through the transparent doors and they slammed behind him at the hands of the wicked wind.

"I'll have a medium sized americano please." He ordered with a smile, but his smile disappeared as soon as he made eye contact with the person at the counter.

"That'll be 1,000 won, sir." You grinned, showing off the same toothy smile that Bomin knew he had definitely seen before, despite not knowing you at all.

Bomin paid for his order, his eyes never leaving you even as he waited for his drink. He looked at the your name tag and his stomach did a flip when it read '______'.

"Uh I know this is weird but, can I get your number?" Bomin asked shyly as he collected his drink from you.

"Umm, sure?" you shrugged as you took Bomin's till slip and wrote down your number, "what's your name?"

"Bomin." He smiled and you suddenly had butterflies in your abdomen.

"Nice to meet you, Bomin." you smiled, your bright eyes making Bomin's heart race.

"Nice to meet you too, ______."

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stannyholmes · 3 years

Note

Hello! Can I request a Childe x male reader hurt/comfort?

(Hey you’re my first ask! Thank you so much and I hope you like this)

/I made this in a modern setting, hope you don’t mind/

We don’t have to talk about it.

Childe x Male!Reader (Comfort)

You're sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow, eyes red and with a sore throat.

You felt bad for showing up at your boyfriends house unannounced and in this messy state but Childe gladly took you in and buried you in a warm blanket, commanding you to relax and to go to the living room.

"Hey, Hey." He says calmly while stroking your cheek. "It's okay, come in, we don't have to talk about it. Here." He hands you the blanket. "Now go make yourself comfortable in the couch and I'll bring you some snacks and a movie, ok?"

This soft side of Childe was rare to witness, but always present when you needed it, he didn't ask for an arm wrestle match like he usually does, he just accepted you and let you in without you having to explain yourself.

"What movie does my boy wanna watch?" Childe asks you from the kitchen, returning somewhat to his normal flirty self. "Maybe a scary one?" He chuckles.

"Noooo." You complained while giggling. Getting more comfortable on the couch, you get the tv remote and scroll through the movie options the streaming service had. Childe comes in with two big mugs of what you could smell was hot cocoa. "Marshmallows included." He winks at you. "Careful now, the mug is hot, I'll set it aside for you." He lays down your hot cocoa on the coffee table next to you.

"Aah." He sits down next to you with a loud 'humpf' and wraps his arm around you. "You look like a burrito." He turns your face towards him. "Adorable." He gently smiles and kisses your forehead.

"Sorry I look so bad right now..." you half whisper smiling back at your ginger boyfriend. "What?! How dare you say that about my boyfriend?!" Childe teases while tickling you a bit, you laugh alongside him.

"Seriously though." He takes in your hand. "I love you, I know you're hurting bad right now and that's why I'm going to do my best to cheer you up." He squeezes your hand, and lays a quick yet soft kiss on your trembling lips.

"Now, how about that scary movie?" He grins while pulling you close with his arms. “Ajax!”

#childe x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin ajax #genshin childe #genshin tartaglia

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dcforts · 3 years

Text

[day 11: sharing is caring]

That’s just what they need.

It’s not enough that they’ve been digging up graves in the snow and that they’re dirty and tired and aching – the weather had to play its part and send them a storm.

From where they’re stuck in the middle of nowhere in Wisconsin, home seems far, far away.

“Do we know anyone around here?” asks Cas from the passenger seat and Dean closes his eyes and sighs.

“Yeah,” he says disheartened, “We know Garth.”

It’s not that Dean doesn’t like Garth. In fact, he likes him very much. And he’d be happy to see him. It’s been a while and his warm smile it’s never a bad sight.

It’s just that – he’s a lot. And he brings up some stuff.

He may pretend like it never happened but Dean remembers how he first reacted when he’d found out that he’d been bitten and how he acted around his family. And then there’s the fact that Dean doesn’t like bothering hunters who got out of the life. He feels that who he is and what he carries with him, it’s something that they’ve put behind them and don’t wish to see again.

Not to count the bitter feeling that surges in him everytime he’s reminded that Garth not only managed to retire and have a normal life, but he double did it. There are not many hunters, or werewolves, or hunter-werewolves for the matter, that can say that. Dean certainly can’t say that.

Still, when they call him and Garth says he’ll be happy to have them, Dean feels relief flooding over him, if not for the prospect of a warm and dry place to rest for a few hours, just enough to wait for the storm to calm down.

He can manage.

Or at least that’s what he thinks until he and Cas are huddled together on Garth’s front porch and even above the wind Dean hears Christmas songs blasting from the inside.

His eyes find Cas, who’s looking back at him, alarmed, but the doorbell has already been rung and it’s too late to back out. Garth opens the door with his patented smile.

“Guys!” he shouts above the music, “You made it!” he hurries them in the tiny entrance and closes the door.

Dean finds himself enveloped in a cocoon of warmth and lovely aroma of pine wood and cinnamon. His cheeks and hands tingle and he lets out a sigh.

Garth comes back into his view; Dean opens his mouth to speak but he has already wrapped his arms around him. “It’s so good to see you,” he says in his usual cheerful tone. He moves on to squeeze Cas into a similar hug and Cas stiffens and tentatively pats his back. Garth gives out a little laugh, “That’s it, buddy,” he encourages.

“Hello, Garth.”

Alright, Dean thinks, maybe it’s gonna be a little funny.

But then he notices the two-feet-tall inflatable Santa that’s bumping against his shins and when he looks up he’s stunned into silence. It actually takes his eyes a moment or two to register what’s surrounding them: the garlands on the doors, the tinsels around the banister, the baubles hanging from the ceiling all above them. Judging from the giant Christmas tree he can spot in the living room, he’s pretty sure the rest of the house isn’t in much better condition.

Garth himself is wearing an bulky red knitted cardigan with reindeers all over it. Seeing that, combined with the songs and the decorations, Dean feels the need to ask, “Uh – Garth? Are you guys celebrating something?”

Garth slaps him on the shoulder and laughs like he’s made a great joke. “It’s December, Dean-o! Every day is a celebration. The most magical time of the year, right?” he says beaming “You’ll have to wait for the carols but you’re right on time for hot cocoa!”

Dean feels dread creeping in. He takes a step back, “Wha- Garth, no – we don’t mean to -”

Apparently Cas is on the same page as him because he also starts saying, “This is your family time,” and steps back with him. “We don’t want to intrudr –“

Garth shakes his head vigorously, “Guys, guys, guys,” He holds up his hands to shut them up, “It makes Bess and I very happy to have you here to share it with us. Sharing is caring. And we happen to care a lot about you two,” he says making a silly voice and pointing a finger at them.

Yeah, nevermind, this was a terrible idea.

Cas throws him another freaked out look Dean can’t help but reciprocate, but Garth pays no mind to their lack of enthusiasm and shepherds them cheerfully into the living room. Dean feels even more out of place among the pastel walls and the embroidered pillows, the toys and the dolls. He tries to make himself weight less so that he doesn’t leave traces of dirt on the carpet. Everything seems soft and cozy, which is a real change from the hard leather seats and the icy wind.

“So, how was the journey?” Garth is asking Cas, as if they’re coming back from a cruise. “It’s been so long, man. Just the other day I was thinking ‘When I’m ever going to see them again?’ and then - ”

Dean gets distracted as he feels something tugging at the duffel bag he’s carrying and when he lowers his gaze there’s a blond head and two little hands trying to hold on to the fabric. “H-hey,” he says, shifting back a little to get out of his reach. He doesn’t think it’s a good idea to have clean, innocent baby hands near a bag that was in a graveyard an hour ago. But the kid takes an unsteady step forward and grabs it anyway. “This is – no, no – uh, G-Garth?” he calls, horrified.

Garth stops drowning Cas in questions and shifts his attention to the ground. He laughs and picks up his kid, totally unbothered, “Sammy, these are not toys for you,” he shakes his head, “He’s such a curious kid.”

Bess comes down the stairs right in that moment, wearing a green cardigan that matches Garth’s. “I thought I heard you two!” she says, even if Dean is pretty sure they’ve barely said a word since they’ve come in. “Garth, why don’t you bring their bag in the guests’ room? I’ll be right out with the drinks.”

There’s another round or “No need -,” and “This is really not necessary -,” and “We don’t want -“ before Garth yanks the bag from Dean’s hold with one hand.

He always forgets how strong he is.

“Of course you’re gonna stay. There’s no way I’m letting you leave in the cold and the dark. Come on! You know me,” he disappears down the hallway shaking his head and saying, “We’re gonna have so much fun.”

Bess gives them an encouraging smile, “Relax guys, take off your jackets, sit on the couch.”

So they do. Sit on the couch.

They both let out a sigh when they sink into the cushions and Dean would call Cas “old” if he hadn’t made the exact same sound.

“This was a bad idea,” whispers Dean.

“You think?”

In the sudden emptiness of the room, with It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year in the background, and the giant Christmas tree twinkling in the corner, it’s weird to just - sit there.

Dean is dirty and smelly and feels marginally better only when he looks over at Cas who seems so much out of his comfort zone that he might as well be a tropical bird.

He takes a hopeful look out of the windows behind the couch but the weather seems to be even worse than it was five minutes ago.

“Are you still cold?” asks Cas.

“No.”

“Good.”

They look away from each other again.

In the last few weeks they’ve settled in a pretty hectic routine. Find the case, drive to the case, work the case, drive home, rinse and repeat.

It’s a well-oiled machine, but that doesn’t leave much time for – well, anything else. Definitely not sitting around and relaxing – and it’s just awkward all of the sudden to be alone in a place that is not a sticky diner, or a dusty motel, or a morgue.

It sounds depressing but that’s the hunter life for you. Without even noticing you become your job and it gets easier to just put your head down and work.

After three hunts in a row, Dean realizes this is the first time they’re actually taking a break. He looks over at Cas, his messy hair and the hands folded in his lap, and he feels the need to say something conversational.

What comes out is, “Last time I was here, Garth fixed my teeth.”

Cas’ face scrunches up in confusion but then Garth comes back.

“Have you seen Cas?”

Dean blinks at him and then slowly and dubiously points at his right.

“No, I mean,” Garth laughs, “The little one. I’m so excited for you to meet him,” he says, leaving the room again.

“How do you lose a kid?” Dean asks under his breath, looking around. His attention is drawn to a group of pictures on the little table beside the couch. There’s a bunch of the family on holidays, and then a bunch of the kids. One of the frames says Castiel and, on the bottom, Always our little boy.

“Hey, Cas,” he picks it up to show it to him, “Want me to get you one of these?”

Cas glares at him and doesn’t dignifies him with an answer.

Dean smirks and shrugs, “Fine, we’ll get the one that says Sammy. Can’t wait to see his face on Christmas morning.”

Cas doesn’t look at him again but Dean sees the corner of his mouth stretch a little so he calls it a victory.

Then Garth comes back and finally sits down in the armchair across from them. “He’s asleep. I forgot he was asleep!” he rolls his eyes at himself, “Cas,” he says, clicking his tongue, “he’s the best. He’s got this look, you know?”

“Wait, who are we talking about now?”

“Him. No, uh -” Garth laughs and bangs a hand on his forehead. “Sorry, I keep getting confused. Alright, alright, lets call our Cas 'Little Cas' and we’ll call you, 'Big Cas'.”

Dean stifles a laugh.

"I don’t think-" starts Cas, but it gets drown out by Bess coming back with a tray.

From the steaming mugs comes the rich smell of chocolate and on the surface Dean can see mini marshmallows shaped like little trees. He watches as Bess and Garth pick up their mugs and toast before taking a sip and notices with a smile that even their mugs are matching. Bess’ says “Mine” and Garth’s says “Yours”. He thinks it’s cute, whatever.

But then he looks down at his own mug and realizes that there’s something written across it too. It says “Perfect” and when he dares to look in Cas’ way his whole body blushes when he reads “Together” on his.

He takes a sip of chocolate and tries very hard to avoid Cas’ eyes and stop blushing. He fails on both fronts and burns his tongue.

At least it tastes great and the sugar warms him up and makes him feel much more comfortable.

Cas drinks it too without making a fuss over molecules and Dean wonders if it’s because he’s very polite or if he’s a pain in the ass just when they’re alone.

Finally Cas meets Little Cas and Garth keeps telling them how smart he is, because apparently he’s learned how to use the remote.

Dean snorts, “That’s already more than Big Cas can do,” and Cas shoots him a deadly “Stop calling me that,” that shuts him up for five minutes. Dean agrees it was a bad idea anyway.

Kids love Cas, for some reason. Little Cas stretches his arms towards him the whole time he’s in the room and Cas just pretends he can’t see him, as if avoiding eye contact is enough to make him stop. It amuses Dean greatly.

Even Gertie, when she comes in with a gingerbread cookie, looks between them and chooses to give it to Cas.

“I only have one,” she tells Dean, who is totally not offended.

But then Cas says, “It’s okay,” with his soft voice, “We’ll share it.”

And for some reason that makes Dean’s heart flutter. It’s something in the way he casually snaps the cookie in half and hands him a piece.

Somehow it’s different than sharing a car, a motel room, a bed, all kinds of weapons and bags and just space, in general.

Dean doesn’t know what it is, but somehow there’s a difference.

Garth is fairly disappointed when he finds out that angels don’t know Christmas carol by heart just because they’re angels.

At some point he just starts playing the piano and expects Cas to start singing along.

Dean says it was a hard blow for him as well, knowing that he couldn’t play the harp, just to enjoy the way Cas rolls his eyes with his whole head.

“What about Holy Night?”

“I- I don’t know that one,” says Cas, for the thirteen time in a row and Dean would love to stay on the couch and watch him awkwardly handle the situation if he wasn’t afraid Garth would eventually try and bring him into it.

So he jumps up at the first occasion to follow Bess into the kitchen right under Cas’ betrayed look.

“What songs do you know?” Garth’s voice carries through the walls.

“Uh, I know Led Zeppelin?” says Cas and Dean almost drops the mugs as his heart expands.

Now he kind of regrets having left the room but then Garth is saying, “Oh no, silly, I mean Christmas songs,” and Bess is asking him, “Do you play any instrument?” so he focuses back on her.

Dean puts down the mugs in the sink and opens up the tab, “Uh - just the guitar – a little bit. Never had much chance to practise.”

“Oh, you should. Then you can bring it up here sometime and play for us at the church.”

Dean scoffs, “You sure they’d want to see me again, after last time?” he asks and can’t hide the genuine uncertainty from his voice.

Bess rests a hand on his arm, reassuring, “Well, it’ll be different. Last time we said, ‘This is Dean, he’s a hunter’. This time, we’ll be saying, ‘This is Dean, he plays the guitar’.”

It’s such a simple concept but it hits him like a brick. He needs a moment to try and see himself from another point of view and he really doesn’t know what to say. Bess doesn’t seem to mind. They dry the mugs in silence and when Dean looks up to smile at her, she smiles back.

Dean, he plays the guitar. It could work.

They go back to the living room and Bess and Garth duet over Silent Night and it’s only a little embarrassing.

It gets dark pretty soon after that.

Before they bring their kids upstairs they all take part in the traditional – apparently daily – lightning of the tree. They turn off the lights and when Garth says “Ready?”, Gertie says “Yes!” and he lights it up.

Only, in the dark Cas gets really close to him and when Garth says “Ready?” Dean can hear him too say “Yes,” and so he turns towards him just as Garth plugs it in and his breath catches in his throat as he sees his face light up with the colours dancing on his skin.

Bess turns on the lights again and Garth puts a hand on Dean’s shoulder and it startles him.

“Amazing, right?” he says, “Gets me everytime,” and only then Dean realizes that he’s missed the whole thing.

“Yeah,” he says.

Watching them at the table is always a jarring experience.

But just a "How’s the – dental practice going?" is enough to kick off the longest most absurd recount of Garth’s last few years and Dean finds himself laughing heartily with a hand on his chest, having forgotten all about the raw cow hearts on their plates.

They talk about things to do in Winsconsin and Dean tells them about that one time when he was a kid and got sick on cream puffs at a fair. Even Cas talks about Claire non-stop for a solid minute an a half, which is honestly impressive.

Bess and Garth want to know all about Sam and Eileen. When Dean says they’re splitting up more these days, Bess nods and says, “Yeah, I imagine you all enjoy a bit of privacy.”

Dean hears loud and clear the implication that him and Cas are like Sam and Eileen but doesn’t really know how to correct her, so he doesn’t.

He knows he can’t blame her. He’s not totally oblivious to the way they look from the outside. Working together, living together - just that would be enough to assume. But Dean hasn’t looked at anyone else in years either so – yeah. He knows how it looks.

Cas doesn’t say anything either, and doesn’t show any signs as to whether he’s picked up the implication but Dean can never really be sure with him.

That’s about around the time Dean realizes he’s shifted towards him and has an arm draped on the back of his chair.

Cas hasn’t said anything about that either. Dean doesn’t remove it.

Garth proposes a toast to Bobby and Dean loves him a little bit more and then Bess asks them what they’re doing for the holidays and looks shocked when he says that they haven’t really thought about it yet.

“But Christmas is in two weeks!”

Dean is about to say that they never really did holidays and they’re always on the road anyway, so it doesn’t matter and they don’t care, but for some reasons he settles for, “I guess – if we’re not working – then we’ll get Sam and Eileen and just -”

He doesn’t know what they’ll do.

Garth makes that face he makes when he finds him adorable.

It makes his skin crawl.

“What would you like to do?” he says and Dean feels hot all of the sudden as Cas looks his way as well.

“Nothing,” he blurts out, feeling his face reddening, “I mean, just stay at home, relax. That’d be great.”

Bess smiles, “That doesn’t sound like such an impossible plan now, does it?”

Cas softly says, “No, it doesn’t,” and Dean’s heart starts pounding.

“Next year we could get the families together,” jumps in Garth and that makes him laugh again.

From the fact that he doesn’t think right away that it’s the most horrible idea that Garth could possibly have, he realizes he’s having a good night.

And even later when he brings to the kitchen the last of the plates and sees Garth and Bess share a kiss and a laugh over the sink, he smiles. He’s careful not to make any sounds as he puts the plates down on the counter and tiptoes back to the dark living room.

Cas is standing near the tree, looking at the decorations and Dean silently joins him.

They smile at each other briefly and go back to watch the tree.

Considering how they’ve started the day, Dean thinks it’s not a bad way to end it.

The guest room is – well, like the rest of the house, colourful wallpaper, soft carpets, floral-scented bedsheets. And a Santa on the nightstands with cheeks that light up. Dean puts it under the bed first thing cause it creeps him out.

Garth says, “Are you gonna be alright in here?”

“I don’t sleep,” reassures him Cas and Dean wants to retort that for someone who claims he “just lays down” he sure knows how to steal the covers.

“Yeah, Garth,” he says instead, “We’ll be up early and leave through the backdoor.”

“Well, guys,” Garth says on the door, his eyes swelling up, “It’s been so good to have you here.”

“Yeah, thank you for everything, Garth,” Dean says and he really means it. “We had a good time.”

Garth shakes his head. “You guys make me cry.”

He pulls him into a hug and then moves to do the same with Cas.

“Come back, whenever you want. And have a very merry Christmas.”

Dean closes the door behind him and leans his back against it with a deep sigh. “If I’d walked home instead of coming here I’d be less tired, I think.”

Cas huffs a laugh as he unties his shoes.

They undress in silence and slips under the covers.

Dean turns off the lights and looks up at the ceiling.

"It’s nice,” Cas says unexpectedly in the dark, “what they have."

A weight drops on Dean’s chest.

"Yeah,” he agrees in the end, “it's nice."

After a moment, Cas speaks again.

“Dean?”

“Mh?”

“We don’t have to – go home straight away,” there’s a pause. The familiar shape of Cas shifts next to him, “We could find some cream puffs for you to get sick on.”

“That’s sweet,” Dean huffs a laugh. “I appreciate it, Cas.”

He settles more comfortably against his pillow.

“I mean it,” Cas keeps going, and his whisper is a lullaby, “We don’t have to find another case. We could just go meet Sam and Eileen in Illinois. Drive home together.”

Dean likes the idea very much.

“Yeah, we could do that.”

He feels his eyes falling shut.

“We could make it home in time for Christmas,” Cas’ voice is saying.

Dean’s lips stretch into a smile.

“Yeah, let’s do that, Cas.”

He falls asleep.

joining @bend-me-shape-me in doing this!

#SPNAdventCalendar2020 #deancas #destiel #deancas ficlet #destiel fanfic #3.6k #garth fitzgerald iv #holiday time at garth's house #fluff #this one exploded on me #but i had a lot of fun #i love these prompts !!!!#they light up my brain #domesticity is my vocation #my writing

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perseusjackson-jasongrace · 3 years

Text

Day 1: “You took all the pillows so i’m using you as one.”

It is herrrreee!!! I hope you enjoy and let me know all your thoughts.

Non-descript, non-canon-compliant AU

Jason Grace smiles as he ends the call with his sister, promising her he’ll call before she gets on her flight to another obscure place. One would think after an entire year of living, mostly, alone she wouldn’t be so worried, yet each time she goes off she has to send him a hundred messages and call him a hundred more times to make sure he’s okay. The day is dawning bright and chilly and he has every intention of snuggling up in his bed with a good book and copious amounts of hot cocoa. University has finally shut down for winter which means he has absolutely nothing to do. It is pure bliss.

He hops onto the counter, scrolling through his phone while the kettle boils. His instagram is filled with people in various tropical places, or places much colder than his little London apartment. Snow and skis, and beaches and cocktails scatter across his feed and he is equal parts jealous and excited. The kettle clicks and he sets to making his chocolatey drink, adding an obscene amount of marshmallows and some extra chocolate chips just for fun. Might as well indulge. Tomorrow he would have to make an effort to dress in something more than a ratty t-shirt and fading boxers, and interact with other people. The few of them that are still here are planning a holiday movie night complete with blanket forts and popcorn and terrible romance plots. But today, with the sky grey and weeping gently, and the world as quiet as he’s ever heard it he can just be unexciting, unworried Jason.

He launches himself onto the bed, after carefully placing his mug on the side table and snuggles deep into his duvets, sighing contentedly. There is almost nothing that could make this better. Except one person. But he has no energy to dwell on that. Because that person is gone to Montauk with their family and even if they weren’t they wouldn’t be here with him. He shakes the thoughts from his head and opens his book, ready to get lost in a world far away from this one. But just as he starts reading, a knock sounds at his door. Every bone in his body groans, like the worst thing that could have happened to them has just occurred. He agrees wholly and debates ignoring the unexpected visitor. But then he thinks about his elderly neighbour who’s always losing her keys or needing help with something on the top shelf and he sighs as he resigns himself to getting up. His book, and heart, cry when he tumbles out of bed and slips his feet into fluffy pink slippers. The knocking sounds again and he all but rolls his eyes, before flinging open the door.

As he expects Mrs Tremblay is on the other side, a kind smile on her face. “Hello Jason dear,”

“Hello Mrs Tremblay, how are you?”

“Oh just peachy dear. My wife isn’t home yet and I can't seem to locate the butter. Would you mind coming to have a look. I am sorry to be a bother on such a day that requires everything but bothering.”

He holds in a snort and closes his door behind him, “No worries ma’am. I’m happy to help.”

“Yes, well you’re very kind dear. The last tenant who lived there was a rowdy unfriendly man who smelled disgustingly of bleach and cigarette smoke.” Her nose scunches so that the wrinkles in her face deepen considerably.

He doesn’t give a response, mostly because he doesn’t really know how to reply, so instead he ushers her into her apartment and makes his way to the kitchen. After a quick squiz in the fridge he sees the butter all the way at the back of the top shelf. Getting it out, he places it on the counter with a smile.

“Here you are Mrs Tremblay.”

“Oh you are a darling! I’ll be sure to save some snickerdoodles for you.” She claps her hands, already pulling her apron over her head.

“Is there anything else you need me to help with?”

“That’s alright dear.” Distracted with her scale she waves his question away, “You’ll see yourself out, won't you?”

“Sure ma’am, have a good day.” He waves. She doesn't catch it. “Say hi to Precious for me.”

“Bye now.” Is her distant reply before she’s scaling chunks of butter and losing herself to her baking.

With a huffed laugh he escapes back to his own apartment and settles into his bed once more. This time he does get swooped into his book, travelling over mountains and sleeping in rocky valleys. Every word produces a new kind of feeling, like he is a well of all the most wonderful emotions. Sometime later, and a good portion of the book gone, he drains the last of his now-cold cocoa and decides it’s time for a bathroom break. As he finishes up another knock sounds at his door. Must be Mrs Tremblay with the cookies she’d promised.

He jogs to the door, pulling a hoodie over his head, as the wind seeps in through the cracked windows. He opens the door and the hood flops over his face.

“Mrs Tremblay, the snickers finished already?” He fiddles with the fabric and pushes his now messy hair out of his eyes.

“Uh- I did not bring cookies?” A voice that Jason hears in his dreams washes over him.

He freezes, blue eyes as wide as planets, as he takes in who stands at his front door. “You’re not Mrs Tremblay.” He blurts out.

A twinkle enters those emerald eyes, a smirk slowly takes over that beautiful, angular face. “I am not. As far as I know i’m still Percy Jackson.”

“Yes you are.” He replies breathlessly, and then cringes so hard he sees black dancing in his vision. That smirk only grows wider. “Please come in.”

“Thanks. It’s freezing out there. I’m sure all the nerves in my fingers have burned to nothing.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were in Montauk? Is everything okay with your family? With you? Here let me take your jacket.” He eases the dark denim from his friend’s hands and slings it over the chair in their little dining room.

Percy laughs at all his questions, "Everything is fine with everyone. Paul has family in Brighton, and I asked mom if I could visit you while we’re here.”

“Oh.”

That twinkle only brightens as they make their way to his room. “Yes oh.” He winks, and then sobers as he takes in the rumpled sheets on Jason’s bed. “Am I interrupting something? I can totally come back another day. We’re here for two weeks so…”

The blonde’s cheeks go crimson as he realises what his friend thought was going on. “No, no, no. I was just reading. I’ve been in bed, uh, all day.”

Percy’s eyebrows touch his hairline in surprise. “You? You’ve been in bed all day?”

He blushes harder but nods all the same. “It’s cold and I have a book. I finally have the time to read.”

A brown hand reaches up to touch his forehead, “Are you sure you’re feeling okay? The Jason Grace I know would have had his morning run, started on assignments due in two months time and volunteered to go grocery shopping for all his neighbours.”

He makes a face, shoving the black-haired boy, “I’m not such a goody-two-shoes.”

A laugh as pretty and devastating as the ocean echoes through his body. “Alright Jase,” He collapses onto the bed, waggling his dark eyebrows. “If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

That laugh catches between his butterflies and the whole world slows down. He stares at his friend, who looks so completely at home that his heart clenches a little. Black hair a stark contrast against his white covers, and earth brown skin glowing under the yellow light above their heads. He takes a deep breath in.

“Do you want to finish your book and then we can talk?” Percy asks, eyes still stuck on the ceiling, tracing the constellation of stars stuck up there.

And with that question Jason melts into the floor and thanks the powers that be that he has found home.

“If you don’t mind?” He moves to lie on the bed, already snatching up the book and paging through it to find his way.

Percy scoffs, “Of course i don’t mind.” He shuffles, eyes darting around before a gleam enters them. He promptly moves further up, and places his head on Jason’s stomach.

“What- what are you doing?”

“You took all the pillows so i’m using you as one.”

And indeed the two pillows that are usually on the bed are shoved behind his back, for the extra comfort. “Oh, uh, okay.”

“Are you uncomfortable? Should I move somewhere else?”

“No, no!” He cries, ‘I’m fine.” Even though his heart is beating a hundred miles a minute and the butterflies in his stomach had been released into a zoo.

A beautiful smile takes over Percy’s face as he settles into his pillow and closes his eyes. Jason reminds himself to breathe, as he stares at the serene face right under his nose.

“Are you going to keep staring at me or actually read Grace?” His friend’s lips twitch but those ocean eyes stay closed.

“Shut up.” He grumbles, wondering how he knew.

“Make me.”

His golden cheeks go bright red, again, and he is grateful the black-haired boy is still closed to the world. Finally his heart calms enough, and his mind goes quiet and he can get lost in his book. Percy’s soft, unhurried breathing deepens as he drifts to sleep, and Jason follows not long after. They are content. They are peaceful. They are happy.

They wake up as they had gone to sleep: Percy’s head resting against his stomach, and him propped up on pillows. Jason’s eyes open first and after he glances out the window to see the grey sky darkening he takes the quiet moment to stare, unobstructed at the boy before him. Long eyelashes brush sharp cheekbones, and a strong nose, slightly skewed from being broken one too many times, twitches. He really is one of the most beautiful people.

“Are you still staring at me?” A raspy, playful voice rings out.

The blonde about has a heart attack right there. “You’re awake?”

“Just barely.” He groans, pulling himself up, and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Jason almost groans at the loss of contact but stifles it under a laugh. “You wanna make some cocoa and we can tell each other secrets?”

“I only have one secret,” Percy winks, hauling himself off the bed and holding out a hand for him.

He takes it, but is unprepared to be launched halfway to the sun, or to topple into a hard chest. The black-haired boy catches him before they fall to the floor, and every nerve in his body narrows to the warm hands on his hips.

“What’s your secret?” He whispers.

“Take a wild guess.”

He narrows his eyes, racking his brain for any ideas, but every thought is discarded because all of them involve something he knows is impossible.

“Got nothing?” He grins.

“Not a clue.” Disappointment floods through him fast and sharp.

“My mother secretly calls me pineapples.” His friend mutters and in the second it takes him to process the words the black-haired boy is already shaking. His forehead presses into the blonde’s shoulder as he laughs and he can’t help but join in; the absurdity of the statement breaks his confusion, and disappointment.

Finally they sober up and Percy, whose hands are still on him, stares directly into his eyes. “I lied. I have one more secret.”

“Oh?”

And then Percy Jackson smiles as bright as the stars and kisses Jason Grace. What a lovely secret indeed.

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@nishlicious-01

#12 Days of fanfics #PJJG series #PJJG challenge #Jercy #Jason grace #Percy Jackson

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thiswasinevitableid · 3 years

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for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?

Here you go! I borrowed some ideas we’ve tossed around on the Discord

A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent.

Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).

Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until it’s deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. He’s never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth.

Kepler is small. Barclay hadn’t been kidding about that. He’d also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship.

He’s been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos he’s done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style.

Three “s’mores” later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he can’t find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.

A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling.

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”

A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare.

“Look here, I know you’re new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you can’t just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.” He doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling.

“I wasn’t-”

“And all this” he gestures to the food on the table, “has gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we don’t want ‘em comin’ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.”

“Of course, but-”

“You didn’t take any food into the tent, right? Wouldn’t want somethin to decide to join you ‘cause it smelled a snack.”

Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “I am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be over…” he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed.

When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined.

“Uh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.” In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indrid’s focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly.

“You...there’s a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-”

“Duck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop ‘em. But my name’s Duck.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Duck. I’m Indrid.”

“Nice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.”

“It’s alright. I suppose I’m grateful there’s someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.”

“You’re takin me bein’ a ghost surprisingly well.”

“I’ve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname ‘mothman’ in high school.”

“Huh” Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, “well, guess I better be goin’. Have a nice night, mothman.”

With that, he’s gone.

------------------------------------------------------

“Hello again.” Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, “Doing your rounds?”

“More or less. I like my job, and ain’t about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.” A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw.

“That’s incredible, it’s so realistic it’s like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.”

“Thank you.” adds depth to the leaf, “you know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.”

From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.

“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.”

“S’alright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.”

“I’m more interested in what the ‘dead guy’ wants.” Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as he’d keep talking.

Duck floats closer, “Kinda curious about your other drawin’s.”

Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, “they’re half portfolio and half travelogue. Here” he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper, covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, “this is the first tattoo I ever designed.”

“Damn. Guessin’ that means you did this one” he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indrid’s forearm (or tries to). It’s chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.

“I did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoos…”

They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town.

The conversation doesn’t end until the fire goes out on it’s own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up.

“Do you think that’s part of why you’re still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?”

“Nah.” The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, “I tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.”

“I would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.”

A sad huff of a laugh, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Just...I meant to do somethin’ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethin’, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.”

“I...what?”

“It was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-” He tilts his head up, sniffs once, “never mind. I better let you get to sleep.”

By the time Indrid calls “goodnight,” the ghost is gone.

------------------------------------------

“Please tell me you’re gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?” Leo bags the last of groceries.

“No such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.”

“At least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let ‘em do it for you. You need stamps or anything?”

“N-” A box behind the counter catches his eye. It’s at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.

“Is that for sale?”

Leo looks where he’s pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, “Yeah, suppose it is.”

“Can you ring it up for me?” Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch.

The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, “Don’t worry about that, kid. It’s yours.”

----------------------------------------------

“Duck?” Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, “Duck, I have something for you!”

He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didn’t hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while he’s asleep.

“Holy fuck.” Duck floats across the table from him, “‘Drid, where did, how did--why?”

“Leo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.”

Duck disappears and Indrid’s heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then he’s squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.

“Thanks, ‘Drid.”

From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.

“I mean, I’m up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I don’t want people avoid the forest because of me.”

Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duck’s friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.

“Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ain’t even been a year, ‘Drid. I think a lot of ‘em are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ain’t ready to deal with them findin’ out I aint fully gone. It’d be so much all at once.”

Indrid doesn’t bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duck’s statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise.

A cold front blows into town and, since he’s still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading “Ranchos” and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with “Monongahela National Forest” on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact it’s loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold.

He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.

“Hello again” he sets the bear on the counter.

“Howdy. This all?

“Yes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.”

“Yep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.”

Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, ��It was Duck’s, wasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.”

“I understand.”

“Knew him since we were kids. Hell, he’s my daughter’s godfather. Still don’t feel right, bein’ here without him.”

Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.

“What was he like?”

In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation he’s ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When it’s time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her.

“Guess you weren’t kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bear” Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno.

“Huh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.”

Indrid sets down his bowl, “We talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone I’ve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.”

The ghost looks away, “I wasn’t done tryin to help.”

“You still aren’t. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, you’ve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think I’m falling--ah, that is, you’re not done making a difference.”

Duck hasn’t moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air.

“Duck?”

Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.

He slumps onto the bench, “well, fuck me I guess.”

---------------------------------------------------

This is a terrible idea. But it’s his last, and therefore his best.

Indrid even asked Barclay’s boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didn’t know you were capable of feeling.

Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he can’t coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing.

Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards.

Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.

“Hmm, that should be fine, it’s not that dry and I don’t think sparks can go over the edge.”

“Should I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe I’ll take one into the tent, just to be safe.”

He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates.

“I know I shouldn’t leave food out for the wildlife, but since there’s no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!”

All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesn’t leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. He’s being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesn’t deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company.

He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.

Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.

The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.

“Duck? Please say that’s you.”

A low chuckle, “It’s me, ‘Drid.” The fly zips shut, “mighty peeved about that trick you pulled.”

“I’m, I’m sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.” He can’t see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indrid’s eyes’ dart about trying to pinpoint him.

“Oh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.”

“Oh god” he winces, “please, forget I said that, it’s humiliating.”

“Not all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that you’re a kinky little weirdo who’s dyin to get fucked by a ghost.”

“I, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.” He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.

“I can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.” Duck’s voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame.

“I want you, Duck.”

A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, “Want me to do what?”

“Fuck me” this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider.

That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, “That’s better. Though, if I’m rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.”

Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs.

“Yesss” he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, “yes, Duck, pleaseAHgod” the first strike stings, and Duck doesn’t let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.

Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, “Learned your lesson?”

“Mmhmm.” Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duck’s knee.

“Glad to hear it.” Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, “I’m rarin’ to feel more of you--holy fuck”

“AH!” Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right.

“God, fuck, you’re fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.” Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.

“Gaahnnyes, that’s, that’s very flattering.”

“Ain’t flattery, sugar, it’s the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercin’s and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.” He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive he’s meeting his eyes, “tell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.”

“Marks, I want marks anywhere you’ll give them.”

A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duck’s clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body.

“More, please, god that all feels so good.”

“Don’t worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but we’re gonna do somethin else while I do.” He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, “don’t go nowhere.”

Indrid’s duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes.

“That’s it ‘Drid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.”

Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indrid’s face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much he’s wanted this.

“I want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or I’ll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.”

“Only one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.” Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indrid’s still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.

“Fuuuckme that’s good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.”

“Ohgod” is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag he’s biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isn’t gentle, pounds into him like he’s nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans.

“H-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyes” he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. He’s so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back.

“You wanna cum, you know what to do.”

He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, “Please let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-” he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums it’s with a weak cry of Duck’s name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indrid’s name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass.

A final kiss to the top of his head, and then there’s no contact between them and the zipper is moving.

“Oh no you don’t” Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, “for goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.”

The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, “‘Drid, all that was amazing, but it’s all I can give you. I, I can’t...you said you were fallin for me and I can’t give you that.”

Indrid cocks his head, “Why not?”

“Because I’m a fuckin ghost, ‘Drid! You deserve to be with a livin’ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.”

He crosses his arms, “Duck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of this” he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, “suggests otherwise?”

The ghost doesn’t speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).

“If this is too much, if I’m offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.”

Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back.

“You really wanna give it a go?”

“More than anything.”

Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, “Then fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”

----------------------------------------

Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. He’s in a different section of Eastwoods, but he’s happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door.

#indruck #monster march #indrid cold/duck newton #reader request #ghost au

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softnaruto · 4 years

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Hello! Would it be alright to ask a scenario of Gaara and his s/o waking up together? Maybe she just moved in with him from Konoha as she was a civilian there when they met. Thank you in advance!

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author’s note: hello! so sorry for the late request! I have been taking my final exams and that’s been taking up most of my time. I hope you like this, this request really made my day, I love fluff! Gaara is definitely such a cutie. thank you for requesting!

pairing: gaara x reader

words: 741

genre: marshmallow fluff

warnings: you might die because of gaara’s cuteness

The sunlight seeping through the curtains ran through the bedsheet covers, dancing on your skin and slowly resting upon your eyelids. You opened your eyes, softly groaning whilst pulling the covers over your head, wishing that time would stop, and you could go back to sleep. The bed felt a little too cool to the touch, and you became confused, suddenly aware that the bedsheets were detailed with warm-toned stripes rather than your usual cool solid green.

You softly began to take off the covers, setting them right below your cheekbones, before looking around at your unfamiliar surroundings. The warm-toned room was very much different from your home, and you delicately took in the beauty of the simplicity within it. The room was adorned with a bedside table that carried a small cactus, sheer curtains, and a small mirror on the opposite side of the bed.

The unknown surroundings felt like home and rather than becoming frightened, you had relaxed at the feeling of belonging. You turned around in bed, expecting to be alone, only to find a figure beside you. His back was turned to you, and his bright scarlet hair peeked through the covers, silently bidding you a salutation. His messy hair was sprawled against his pillow, creating soft ocean waves, reminding you of those little trips you had taken with him to the lakes back home.

You sat up on your side, elbow propped against your pillow, holding you up. Your eyes trailed down his features and a soft smile appeared as you took notice of the peaceful look on his face as he slept. You had never seen Gaara like this, completely relaxed.

His eyes were shut, the dark bags under his eyes were almost completely gone, giving him a youthful look. His lips were slightly parted and his breaths were shallow and soft, almost as if he never wanted to wake up again.

He was beautiful.

Your fingers wanted to leap out and trace his soft features; run through his hair, caress his cheeks, and place tiny memorabilia of your visit.

He seemed so different from the Gaara you had first met. Rather than appearing sleep-deprived and stressed, he had become relaxed and had begun sleeping frequently after you two had met.

It was something about sleeping with someone else that comforted him; he had mentioned it once while you were both taking a stroll through Konoha, your hometown.

You didn’t get to see much of Gaara when you lived in Konoha—you would try to visit Suna as often as you could, but considering that you had your family’s coffee shop to run, you could only stay a couple of days and would often leave early in the morning, never catching a glimpse of sleeping Gaara. He would wait for you downstairs with breakfast, start small talk that was always too short, and then would let go of your hand, your presence, and most importantly, you.

The short trips were forever gone, though. The ring on your finger had permanently sealed your fate and Gaara wasn’t just a boyfriend anymore; he was your fiancé and soon-to-be your future.

As you were deep in thought, you hadn’t noticed the observant eyes of your fiancé peeking at you through the covers.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His raspy voice made you jump, creating a slight chuckle from him. You looked down at him, the soft smile that had tugged at your lips becoming wider.

“I did, but I woke up and forgot I had moved here.” You said, a small giggle leaving your lips. Gaara’s eyes widened slightly before one of his arms reached out to caress your cheek.

“Is this okay with you? To live here with me?” His voice was traced with a slight amount of worry, probably due to the fact that you had given up your life in Konoha to be with him. You leaned down, planting a small kiss to his lips before looking at him in the eyes.

“Everything’s perfect as long as I’m with you.” You felt his hand reach down to your arm, bringing you down with him. You laid side by side, looking at each other as if time was only a construct of your imagination.

Suddenly, the strange feeling of being comforted by the unfamiliar surroundings wasn’t surprising anymore. You realized something as you looked into Gaara’s eyes, those unique eyes that looked at you with such adoration, the eyes that would always make you feel safe; you were home.

#naruto #naruto headcanons #naruto scenarios #naruto imagines #gaara #gaara x reader #sabaku no gaara #naruto x reader

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just-jordie-things · 4 years

Text

Wisdom Teeth (part two) - Richie Tozier

word count: 2930 warnings: swearing summary: Richie doesn’t remember all that much of what happened after his operation... but he does have a hazy memory of a kiss and it’s driving him mad. ___

When he came to, Richie wondered for a minute where the hell he was. Because he definitely was not on his bed at home.

It only took a few seconds for his brain to wake up for him to realize he was at (y/n’s) house, sprawled out on her living room couch. The thought brought a smile to his sore mouth, and he rolled onto his side, pulling the covers back over himself as he got comfortable to go back to sleep.

But as he switched positions, he caught sight of her.

She was passed out, and it must have been unintentional, because there was no way she would have willingly slept in the living room chair. Her body was balled up and her limbs were sticking out at weird angles, in ways that he knew were going to hurt when she woke up.

But she looked so precious when she was sleeping, and he hoped that he hadn’t worn her out too much.

He vaguely remembered the events of the day before.

Getting into her car with a lot of struggling, eating jello, a kiss, watching movies-

Richie shot up from the couch, and it was at that moment he figured he probably wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

A kiss!?

Had they kissed? Had she really kissed him?

He grabbed his glasses from the coffee table and rubs his eyes roughly before putting them on.

The memory was fuzzy, and he wasn’t sure if it really happened, or if he’d just dreamed about it. Fuck he really hoped it was real, he really wanted it to be real.

(y/n) sat up straighter, all sorts of popping sounds coming from her as a result as she stretched and groaned.

“Jesus Christ,” She muttered, hands on her back as she tried to get the last of the cracks out. “What time is it?” She asked Richie, who had just been sitting on the sofa, staring at her.

“Um- did I wake you up?” He asked, but she shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so,” She answered, rubbing her eyes before turning around to look at the clock on the wall. “Oh my god it’s already noon, I hope you weren’t waiting up because of me” She said, getting up and stretching even more.

“No- no of course not, I just woke up” He assured.

He watched while she fixed up the cushion and the blanket on the chair to make it look better.

He watched her like he needed to study and memorize each of her movements. And she wasn’t blind, she noticed how weird he was being.

“You alright?” She asked, picking up her pillow.

She’d managed to bring her pillow and blanket from her room to be comfortable watching movies last night, but didn’t manage to go back to her own bed when she started to grow tired.

“Um, yeah, yeah I’m… fine” Richie mumbled back. He covered his awkward answer with a yawn and a stretch.

“And how are the holes in your mouth?” She asked, only kind of teasing.

“It’s not that bad, just dull pain,” He shrugged. “I once almost got eaten by a demon clown, so..”

(y/n) laughed, holding her pillow close to her chest.

“I’m gonna take a shower, and then I’ll make breakfast?” She offered.

“What are you gonna make that I can eat?” He asked.

“Breakfast… smoothies?” She tried.

“Babe, please don’t ruin a bunch of good and decent regular food by blending it-”

“I was going to use fruit, dummy,” She retorted. Richie shrugged, and nodded his head approval. “I’m gonna shower now”

She left the room, heading off with her pillow and blanket, and still, Richie’s eyes were trained on her.

He could just ask about the kiss, but the idea of asking her that sort of thing made the hairs on his arms stand up and a chill of anxiety go down his spine. What if it was just a dream and she thought he was lame?

Or worse.

What if it did happen, but only because she felt so bad for him, what if it was a pity kiss?

Richie scrambled up from the couch and practically dove for the telephone.

He dialed one of the only numbers he knew by heart, but only because he used to call it every day in the second grade.

“H-hello, this is-is B-Bill-”

“Yeah I know its fuckin’ you Bill you have a pretty telling voice”

“R-Richie?” Bill spoke, confusedly, through the line. “H-how’d the sur-surgery g-go-?”

“It went fine, move on Bill, there’s bigger problems,” Richie cut him off again. He didn’t have the patience to go through the pleasantries with him right now. “I think (y/n) and I kissed”

“Y-you think?” Bill repeated, obviously confused by the statement. “You d-don’t r-remember?”

“I was practically high!” Richie declared, whisper-screaming into the phone.

Bill was silent on the other end, and Richie was left to imagine the bored ‘really?’ face he was making.

“Okay, not high, but seriously, I don’t remember anything before the anesthetics wore off. Not well, anyways. It’s kinda blurry”

“Richie, y-ou’ve s-somehow remembered all the n-nights you’ve g-gotten w-wasted. I th-think you c-can re-remember if you k-kissed-”

“I can’t tell if it was a dream!” Richie cut him off again.

“Y-you’re d-dumb. J-just ask-”

“I’m dumb? Bill, I can’t just ask her if I kissed her”

“O-okay, sh-shut the f-fuck up. Y-you called m-me,” Bill snapped, tired of not getting to finish a thought. “I-I thought you l-liked her?”

“I do” Richie mumbled defeatedly.

“W-well then w-why not j-just risk it a-and ask?” Bill suggested. “M-maybe sh-she likes y-you back?”

“What if she doesn’t though? What if it wasn’t real and she-”

“I’m p-pretty s-sure she does,” Bill argued. “She w-was the one to p-pick y-you up from the hos-hospital, a-and you t-two are r-really close,”

Richie didn’t say anything, pondering the idea that (y/n) could return his feelings. He liked thinking about it, reading into the things she’d say, the way she’d call him sweet names without really thinking, and she did tend to touch his arm more than necessary.

“Do you r-really h-have to th-think about it all w-while we’re s-still on the ph-phone…?” Bill asked awkwardly. “I k-kinda have h-homework t-to do…”

“Yeah fine, bye Big Bill” Richie muttered, and placed the phone back on it’s holder.

He sat back down on the couch, trying to think as hard as he could about what happened yesterday.

“Why the hell do you want to marry me? Because I bought you jello?”

Her voice rang in his head, and he was sure that she’d said that. The confused face she’d made a vivid image in his head, too vivid to have not happened.

“You’re al’th’o very pretty”

He remembered saying that. Richie cringed at the compliment now, realizing how cringey he’d been when he’d flirted with her. Usually he was pretty smooth, or at least funny. That comment was neither.

“So!” (y/n’s) voice rang out as she came back into the room. “Strawberry banana, or mixed berry?”

Richie turned to look at her. She’d changed into a fresh set of clothes, and her hair was still kind of damp. She looked really pretty, and he’d been right to tell her so yesterday.

“Rich?” She snapped her fingers in front of her face. “You in reality, babe?” She asks, and she starts to laugh when he blinks rapidly to focus.

“Yeah, sorry. Whatever you want to make” He answers, and she’s already heading into the kitchen.

“Strawberry banana it is” She decides.

He followed her into the other room, sitting at the counter while she gathered the ingredients for their breakfast smoothies.

And he just can’t bring himself to tear his eyes off of her. Especially her lips. If he had kissed her, he knew that her lips had to have been as soft as he imagined. Like kissing a marshmallow-

Richie cleared his throat, trying to disrupt his daydreaming and get back on the right track. Remembering.

“You sure you’re okay today?” (y/n) asked, dumping ice and fruit into the blender.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” He lied with ease, but she still doesn’t believe him.

Her eyes meet his, and she studies him for a minute, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. But it’s hard, because even though she can read him pretty well, Richie Tozier’s a bit of a loose cannon.

“You’ve just been quiet,” She shrugs. “And usually you don’t shut up” She adds playfully.

Richie rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything, so she starts up the blender.

He was still being weird, but she knew that he’d tell her what was going on in time. Eventually he wouldn’t be able to hold it in, she knew, because it wasn’t the first time he’d let something bother him this much.

It was pretty easy to get on Richie’s nerves though, so (y/n) tried not to worry too much. He probably just didn’t want to tell her how much his mouth really hurt.

They drank their smoothies in peace, and the quiet wasn’t too uncomfortable. Richie relaxed as much as he could, and tried not to dwell too much on yesterday. His memory would come back to him in a matter of time, he just had to wait. And he figured spending the day with (y/n) would help trigger it.

They played games and watched movies, and she did what she could to keep his focus off of his mouth, as well as reminded him to take his pain medication.

It was nice to have a whole Sunday to themselves, just the two of them. Richie wished that he’d had the guts to spend more alone time with her, but at least he had her all to himself now.

(y/n) liked having him over as well. Even though he did whine about his jaw, and made more inappropriate jokes than usual. He couldn’t help it. However a part of her found it charming.

(Any of their friends would have made fun of her for thinking so.) ___

She drove him home that evening, since it was a school night and his parents were expecting him back.

It was a short drive, but the whole time his leg was bouncing anxiously in his seat. To the point where it started to make (y/n) nervous as well.

It got to the point where she just couldn’t take it, and reached a hand over to place it on his knee, still his leg.

“What’re you thinkin’ about?” She asked softly, glancing over to him quickly, before looking back at the road. “Are you worried about going home?”

She was well aware that Richie didn’t always get along too well with his parents, and it had been odd that they weren’t the ones to help him out after the surgery. She assumed his nerves were because he didn’t want to go home to them.

When he didn’t answer, she looked at him again.

“Richie?” She called, thinking maybe he’d zoned out. He’d been doing it a lot today, and again, she’d wrongfully assumed it was the pain.

“Sorry,” He finally spoke up, and let out a long sigh. “I can’t seem to focus today”

“That’s okay,” She said, about to retract her hand, but Richie grabbed it before she could.

She cast him one more glance at the odd action, her worry increasing, but she didn’t take her hand away.

“You don’t have to apologize,” She added, folding her hand into his. “And hey, if you want to come over tomorrow after school, I’ll kick your ass some more at Space Invaders” She added, trying to keep her tone as chipper as she could so the mood would lighten.

There was still a heavy tension in the car though, and it was completely Richie’s fault.

(y/n) wasn’t sure what was going on with him, but it was starting to make her shoulders droop and she wanted a hole to open up beneath her and swallow her whole so that she didn’t have to deal with it anymore.

When they arrived at his house, she walked him to the door, as she always did, because she was polite like that.

With a sigh, she gave him a perplexed look, a nervous smile plastered on her lips.

“You know if they’re weird or something you could come back over,” She said, rambling a bit from her own nerves. “You’d have to sneak in, probably through my window, and honestly please try to wake me up first because I will think that you’re a murderer trying to break in-”

“Okay, (y/n), calm down, I’ll be fine,” Richie cut her off because she was really starting to derail. “I don’t mind staying here tonight, it’s no big deal”

She bit down on her lip, and nodded her head.

“Alright then,” She said softly. “G’night, I’ll see you in the morning”

She forced a bright smile, before turning and heading off of his doorstep.

Maybe she just needed to go home, take a bath, and call Beverly to talk this through in order to calm her mind-”

“(y/n) wait!” Richie called, after she was already halfway down the driveway.

She spun around, a look of shock on her face from his outburst, but he continued yelling before she could say anything.

“Did I kiss you yesterday?” He blurted out before he could chicken out. “See I- I keep on replaying it in my head and I just can’t fucking tell if it actually-”

“No,” (y/n) answered abruptly, walking back towards him.

Almost instantly, Richie deflated. His heart sank to his gut and he frowned.

“That’s not what happened,” She explained. “You told me that you wanted to get married-”

“Oh god” Richie muttered, hanging his head.

“-and then you told me that you were gonna get me to fall in love with you,” (y/n) continued to recall yesterday’s events as she walked back up to him. “And then you admitted that you’d liked me since the second grade- very incoherently by the way-”

“Oh my fucking god,” Richie leaned his head back, staring up at the skies. “If you’re up there, please, kill me now”

(y/n) giggled at his antics, and stopped just in front of him.

“And then I kissed you,” She corrected, softly. “Is that what you’ve been all anxious about today?” She asked, a teasing smile on her lips.

Just like that, all the nerves that he’d passed off to her, disappeared. She crossed her arms and cocked her head to the side.

Richie covered his face with his hands in embarrassment.

“Why are you so bothered? Did you not… mean it-?”

“No! I- of course I meant it!” He said quickly, and (y/n) nearly jumped at how quickly he’d declared so. “I just- I feel bad that I… I didn’t remember”

A small smile quirked up on her lips, and she stepped forward, leaning up on the tips of her toes and pressing a light kiss against his cheek.

He dragged his hands away as she did so, revealing a pink blush on his face.

“You were all drugged up Richie, don’t feel bad,” She said sweetly. “Had I known you’d been overthinking about that, I would have talked to you about it, or something. I just figured it didn’t need to be talked about”

“Well I- I wasn’t sure and I didn’t want to uh… you know, ruin anything”

(y/n) grinned, a wide, cheeky grin.

She pulled his hands away from his face completely, and tugged on them just a little bit to pull him closer.

“Ruin?” She repeated, tilting her head to meet his downcasted eyes. “Richie, you wanted to marry me yesterday, like, more than I’ve ever seen you want anything,” She explained, her wicked grin turning into a sweet smile. “And I don’t- I don’t think that really ruins anything in my opinion,”

Bashfully, he looks at her, trying to hide his own smile.

“I didn’t think I’d get you all nervous though, Trashmouth” She teased.

“Jesus christ, fuck you,” He said, his tone too sweet for the words.

His hands pulled out of hers, only to grab onto her waist with one, and tuck the other behind her head, pulling her in close so he could lean down and slant his lips against hers.

He’d been right, her lips were soft like marshmallows. And sweet like them too.

She pulled away after a moment, and she giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I’ll take you to that church now, if you’d like” She teased.

“You’re gonna make fun of me a lot, aren’t you?” He grumbled, gazing down at her affectionately.

“Oh, definitely. I think it’s only fair, seeing as I dragged your ass all over the place yesterday. Because you claimed you couldn’t walk”

“Nah, I just wanted your hands all over me,” Richie teased, leaning down to steal another quick kiss. “I better get inside”

She bit down on her lip to keep herself from grinning like a lovesick fool, and nodded her head, dropping her hands from around his neck.

“Alright,” She said softly. “I’ll see you later then, Rich”

He winked back at her as he opened the door.

“See you tomorrow, wifey” He retorted, and went inside before she could tell him for the millionth time they weren’t getting married.

But as she was driving home, she thought what the hell? Maybe he’s right. ___

taglist: @thegr8kush @lemonypink @darling-egg

xoxo ~ jordie

#richie tozier #richie tozier x reader #richie tozier scenario #richie tozier imagine #richie tozier fanfiction #finn wolfhard #finn wolfhard x reader

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one-piece-dumpster-fire · 4 years

Note

Hello! Please Headcanon : Kid, X Drake, Law and Katakuri with their girlfriends who have a complex with their small boobs (soft and NSFW) ;) :*

Hey love :D Aww that’s a cool idea xD! But since it would exceed my characterlimit to do both seperate sfw and dirty headcanon for this, I kind of merged it together into one headcanon hehe xD Hope that’s okay^^

here goes a warning for mild dirt ahead~!

Having a girlfriend with a complex about her small boobs headcanon

Eustass Kid

you’re not the only one who’s got a‘little’ problem with your boobs here…

jk jk, but when you first took off yourshirt infront of him, Kid was half-expecting to be greeted by some big ol'bazongas hecould bury his face inbetween… so seeing them for the first time, the pirate couldn’t help but blurt out something like „that’s it?“ god can he be an insensitive prick sometimes

it’s not the end of the world though-boobs are boobs, and whether yours are small or huge, he’ll definitely be ableto make the most use out of it! As a wise man once said, ‘the smaller the marshmallows, the more sugar you can find inside’- a wisdom Kid lives by from now on

sure, having some soft, big pillows tosqueeze and hold onto would be nice too, but your bust being a bitsmaller is actually somewhat special! Given how every woman on theGrandline is equipped with a deadly pair of water balloons upfront, thiscould actually be something different and exciting!

besides, he can even cup a whole boob of yours in his single hand! I repeat, your whole boob fits in his hand- it’s almost like they were made for it!

about your complex though… he’sreally not very helpful when it comes to supporting you and getting rid of yourinsecurities

at first Kid might even suggest for youto buy a push-up bra or get something to put inside of it (if that makes youfeel any better), only to later realize that his insensitive comments might onlyfurther push your negative perception of your chest

aaargh, woman and their sensitive body images! If nothing else works, then he’ll just be blunt and tellyou that he enjoys your little pillows, regardless of their size- andyou should too!

now, as for being naughty… there are justso many ways for the pirate to tease you, it’s like a whole new world of possibilities! Kid isused to big-busted women, so he actually has somewhat of a challengehere and needs to thoroughly explore all of his options to get max satisfaction! Oh lord, there will be so much poking and groping and slapping and squishing and rubbing….

and since they are so smol he simply loves to roughly grope them and squeeze themagainst each other, basically creating a little crack he can bury his nose in hey hey, it’s almost like with big boobs!

X Drake

this almost feels like a blessing from above, not gonna lie

look, he appreciates big boobs just as much as the next guy, but they just make the Dino so damnnervous. Like, where should you even start touching them??? When isit too much? When too little? What if he accidentally breaks them orhurts you

your smaller breasts are just so…handy. Literally. Plus, he can easily touch them while also observing yourreaction- bigger hooters often tend to obscure his vision a bit, and so Drake can never really 100% tell how his partner feels unless he lifts his head and looks them in the face… and that can really tear one out of the moment. Especially when you’re looking for reassurance rather often, like he is

now it’s not that he would particularly mind if they were bigger, but you’re just perfect to him the wayyou are! And after all, everything got its pros and cons, right?

so… he wouldn’t really understand whyyou seem so unhappy with your breasts

Drake is definitely supportive and readyto do everything to make you feel comfortable in your own skin. If it might help, then the Dino would even accompany you whenever you need to go underwear shopping! But of course he’d almost passout when you try them on and show him the garments

at the end of day you could even beabsolutely flat and he wouldn’t mind- it’s not the size that mattersto him, but the reaction he gets from touching them

…. and ohhhh boy, does he love touching them! One day, with a super flustered expression oh his face, Drake might even admit that to you- perhaps himbeing honest about how much he appreciates your body could help boost yourconfidence a bit!

in bed he’s usually a bit of anall-rounder and wouldn’t necessarily dwell on a certain body part ofyours, but with the knowledge of your little ‘complex’ he usuallytakes some extra time to tend to your chest and show you just howmuch he adores it

Drake is always trying to be very soft with your breasts. There are lots of sweet kisses and gentle sucking, sometimes he even sniffs them- it’s just so comforting to have your boobs close to his face, and more than once will the Dino need to hold himself back from just straight-up marking them!

Trafalgar Law

he’s a bit 50/50 on it- like Kid, Lawalso got a thing for rather big jingles, but your boobs being smallerin size is no real issue for him

I mean, at least you have boobs. And they’re still very pretty. What more could he ask for…?

any worries coming from you will simply beshrugged off at first. You got a wonderful body and not a single health-related problem concerning your chest, so ittakes quite a bit until Law actually catches on to the real issue and realizes just how much having small boobs bothers you

ahh yes, the surgeon can see what might be going on here- the common belief that‘a woman needs big breasts in order to be attractive’ strikes yet again

on one hand he can understand whyhaving smaller breasts, especially in a place like the boob-equippedGrandline, could make you feel less confident, but have you everconsidered this- he doesn’t care

Law has always been more about brainsrather than body, and in his opinion you actually got both. Why would he careabout your boobs not being as bloated and jiggly as most women’s are…?Infact, this actually sets you aside from the crowd!

they’re also a great example of your bodybeing 100% healthy and well proportioned, something not everyone can say for themselves on these seas. But the point Law is trying to make here is- don’t. worry. about. your. breasts.

…however if that doesn’t help and you continue to be sad because of it, then the surgeon would eventually offer you surgery. Not thathe’d want that to happen, but it’s your decision to make and Law wants you tofeel confident with yourself

in bed though, he’s… perhaps a bit roughwith them. Unlike Drake who got all soft once he found out about yourinsecurities, Law will actually use this knowledge to further tease and edgeyou on!

he’s obviously testing your boundaries and wants to push you to the point where you’ll just go ‘fuck it’ and enjoy your breasts for what they are- little pillows stored with lots of energy and desire

Katakuri

the immediate need to protect his small boobed gfis strong in this one

first time you show him, he almost bursts withadoration. Is it wrong of him to think that you are just absolutelypretty and adorable…? Every single inch of your body is perfect for him, both inshape as well as size

okay, but then again- Katakuri is basically a giant compared to you, so him finding you adorable is kind of mandatory

especially because he adores you so much, Katakuri will immediately shut down any negativity regardingyour boob size before you can even open your mouth. You and yourboobs are wonderful the way they are, so don’t even think about complaining about them around him!

however, he isn’t going to just shut you down when you’re feeling really doubtful of yourself. Perhaps getting another opinion on this matter might be helpful- we all know that most of his sisters were also blessed with large bazookas, but they all got some insecurities of their own to share as well

and hereby Charlotte Katakuri indirectly founded the Tottland self-help group therapy- a rare event where people can gather to help each other with their problems and insecurities. And he did this all to help you get over your own worries

in his eyes, small boobs are nothing to be ashamedof- look, he’s got his imperfections too, but you are by far better thanthis! So don’t you ever hide them, especially from him

he’s pretty blunt about how much heloves their soft feeling and how he can basically devour them wholeand at the same time with his mouth- oh Katakuri just loves to see you blush as aresult of his dirty words, and hopefully this will distract you or make you feel a bit better!

and if you think that he isn’t going to try out some good old fashioned foodplay on them, then you got another thing coming- as long as you’re okay with it, he’d love to use your chest and abdomen as serving tray for his donuts. In fact, he might even directly eat the sugary treats off of your skin if you’re comfortable with it- not only could that help with you overcoming your worries, but it also shows how okay he is with openly using his biggest imperfection- his deformed mouth- while being intimate with you!

not to mention aaaaaall the body worship. Katakuri ain’t gonna stop being an absolute sweetheart until you’re 100% comfortable and proud with your body, just how he likes it. After all, that’s certainly when you’re at your very hottest!

#one piece #Eustass Captain Kid #x drake #trafalgar d water law #Charlotte Katakuri #mild dirt #one piece headcanon #op headcanon #one piece imagine

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ds-ts-smut-fics · 3 years

Text

Far From Home [Chapter One]

Read on Ao3

Synopsis: When Logan, a human monk, comes across an unconscious tiefling in the forest, he nurses him back to health and they decide to travel together. Logan quickly realizes there's a reason Remus is on the road, and not one easily fixed.

Trigger warnings: NSFW, dnd typical violence, demonic possession, lmk if i missed anything!

Words: 5,379

A/N: There's some sex scenes in this fic, fair warning. Feel free to give suggestions on what to do, events, loot, etc! This is a completely homebrew world so no limits. They're currently at level 5. Claire is playing Logan, I'm playing Remus. Remus is a bard rogue.

Logan had never travelled so far between towns.

He’d been going for several days. There was nothing but fields of dying grass and thick clumps of trees. If memory served well, he was close to the Jubilex Thicket, thus not too far from a river he could wash up at. The sun was setting fast, though. If he didn’t find a place to camp soon, he’d be travelling in the dark.

In between the clopping of Juniper’s hooves, something slithered to the right of him. A rustle of leaves, a grunt of pain, and a thud.

The forest was too dark to see inside, but something rustled. Pulling up on the reins, he tries to see what's moving, hand sliding to his sword as he debates calling out to the dim area off to the side of the path. It could be an ambush, and that would not end well for me. On the other hand, it could be someone in need of aid.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

Something slithered away with a slorp sound, and the forest went still. Shivering, he pats Juniper's neck.

"That's not creepy or foreboding AT ALL…. I think we should continue on our way, maybe there's a clearing ahead."

Juniper shakes her head, moving towards where the sound was, making a soft sound. Frowning, Logan slides off, trying to see what she does.

"What is it, girl? You see something, hmm?"

Logan stared hard at the ground, where Juniper sniffed at, but he couldn’t for the life of him find anything. That was, until moonlight glinted off something on the ground— a sickle. Logan trailed his eyes to the hand wrapped loosely around the handle, up to what he quickly realized was a tiefling laying in the dirt. Deep black skin, shoulder-length hair that faded from green to black. He was covered in black clothes, a trenchcoat, hood, and a mask. With Logan’s human vision, it was no wonder he couldn’t see him.

"Oh dear heavens!" Dropping to his knees, he does a quick check for wounds, using some of his ki to heal him with a touch after moving the weapon as he doesn't want to get stabbed.

The man’s eyes snapped open— stark white and pupil-less. He sat up with a rush, then dropped one of his sickles to grip his head with a groan.

Shifting back a little to give space, he can't help but smile. "I promise, I mean no harm. My name is Logan, may I offer some water and rations? Once I make camp for the night I can attempt more healing. It is getting dark for me though, I nearly missed seeing you!"

He blinked and looked around, his eyes nearly glowing. His voice came out gravelly, painful to even listen to. “Uh… That- That’s okay. I have some. Thanks for the help.”

"You're welcome, I really must insist though, it wouldn't be right to leave you here. At least spend the night? I can build a fire for warmth, lend you a blanket?" Offering a hand, he hums softly, calloused fingers tan and marked with the practice of using the sword at his hip. "What do you say?"

The man hesitated. He grabbed Logan’s hand and hoisted himself up, then reached down to snatch his sickle. “I’m Remus. If you make a fire, I can set up a place to sleep.”

Remus didn’t have much on him. He clearly lived out of his backpack, a bedroll stuffed messily on top. His hooves were rough and scratched.

"Sounds like a deal, Remus! Oh, this here is Juniper, she led me to you." Helping him over, he looks Remus over. "Been out here for long?"

Remus smiled at Juniper awkwardly, then set his bag on the ground to pull out his bedroll. “So-so. Do you have a bedroll or anything?”

Tapping a bundle on Juniper, he nods, smiling a little as he turns to get a fire going for them. "I do. Want me to pass it over? I'll get her settled after I get a fire going."

“Yeah. Here.” Remus dug around in his bag for a minute, before taking out a paper-wrapped box. He tossed it to Logan. “Some meat you can cook. Do you eat meat?”

Catching it easily, he nods, the fire starting to crackle and glow merrily. "I'm not terribly picky so long as it's cooked. Did you hunt this?"

He tossed out his bedroll then grabbed Logan’s. “Yeah, this morning. Just glad it’s not going to waste.”

"Do you not eat meat then?" Tipping his head, he sets his pack down next to the box, turning to tend to Juniper.

“No, I just meant…” Remus laughed weakly and pulled off his trench coat, revealing a ripped up button-down in loose fabric. It hung off his shoulders and showed more of his chest than it covered. He pulled his mask down. He had delicate, round features, face covered in scars. “I almost died. It would’ve just rotted in my bag, you know?”

"Oh!" Blushing softly, he lets his eyes wander a bit, 'assessing the damage' on Remus. "You were quite injured, but I don't think you would have passed on. Shall I do another healing?" I knew I was more attracted to delicate males, but I am in trouble. He's so lovely!

He shook his head. “No, don’t waste it. I’ll feel better after getting some rest. Are you a cleric or something? How’d you… You know?”

"How'd I heal you? I'm a monk, I follow the traditions of the way of mercy. I used some of my energy to give you a little boost in health, and I can do so several more times before I rest if you have need?" Brushing out Juniper a little, he slides off her harness so she can graze.

“No, really, I’ll be fine. Thank you, though, that’s… Interesting.” He helped Logan skewer the meat over the fire, roasting it almost like he roasted marshmallows when he was younger. “Are you headed anywhere in particular?”

"Thank you." Turning the meat occasionally, he smiles. "I'm not really headed anywhere specific, are you?"

Remus hesitated, then nodded. “West. There’s a village on the coast I need to get to.”

"Would you object to some company? I was simply instructed to leave the monastery and assist others." Looking over at Remus, he smiles a little.

Remus pulled a sliver of meat from the fire and stuffed it into his mouth, showing off a row of sharp, fang-like teeth. Feral tiefling? Logan pondered.

Stick your hand in the fire!

“No,” Remus mumbled.

"Ah, excellent, then I shall accompany you to that village." Nodding, he hums. Feral or not, I did offer my assistance. He's dangerous but oddly cute.

Remus looked up in surprise, then bit back a curse. “I really don’t need any help,” he promised. “You don’t have to.”

"I don't, that's true. However, I did offer, and I truly don't have anything else to do. It would be a pleasure to accompany you if you'd like a road companion."

What, scared you’ll have to find a quick way to get rid of him? I know a fun way!

“Shut up,” Remus mumbled, then said louder, “Okay. Sure. I’ll take first watch, you get some sleep.”

He stood, then with a quick echo of fire? in his head, Remus swept his hand through the top of the flames and stepped away to find a good vantage place to take watch.

"Remus, wait! You're still recovering… If you won't let me heal you, at least let me take the first watch so you can rest and heal?" Logan frowns lightly, worried by the sporadic behavior of his new companion. Is he really okay?

Remus turned to him, pressing his now slightly-burnt hand to his skirt made of rags. “If I go to bed now, I won’t wake up on time for my shift, and I won’t be able to protect us as well. Let me ride the rest of my energy, then I’ll get some sleep. Promise.”

"Promise to wake me when your energy wanes?" Holding out his hand, he hums. "Let me heal you at least a little more as well, please?"

Remus hesitated, then sighed and took his hand. “It’s really a waste, but sure. And yes, I will wake you up.”

Taking his hand, he smiles softly, kissing the dark skin. "Mmm, thank you. It eases my mind to know you're more healed up to protect us."

Remus’ face turned bright red. “Uh… Th-thank you. Go to sleep, alright?”

Nodding, he winks, standing straight again and heading for where his bedroll is set up. "I will. I have some stretching to do first, but I'll be settling in. Thank you for watching the area, Remus."

Remus climbed up to a low-hanging branch and settled against the trunk, watching their little area.

You could always wait for him to sleep and take his stuff. His horse has taken a liking to you! She’d be easy to steal!

“I’m not doing that,” he mumbled.

Humming lowly as he works though some gentle stretches, Logan turns and clicks softly to Juniper, offering her a cube of sugar as he bids her goodnight. Remus went through his watch, enduring Adelaide’s taunts until he got tired, and finally let Remus settle into quiet.

He waited until he was about to fall off the branch from nodding off before he got down and shook Logan awake.

Waking easily, he smiles a little as it clicks who this is over him and he hums. "Remus… You waited a little longer than I thought. Did you want my warm bedroll? You look about ready to drop."

Remus blushed. “Uh… Sure. Let me just roll mine up.”

He reached for his cold one, only to land hard on his hands. He laughed it off and settled back on his knees, starting to roll it up.

Taking over the motion, Logan gently helps Remus onto his bedroll, settling his blanket around his shoulders. "Definite cue for you to rest. It'll help me wake up to get this all packed up."

Remus hesitated, but he really couldn’t help it. Logan’s blanket was warm against the freezing night air and it smelled like him. “Yeah… Okay.” He crawled around Logan to flop down onto the bedroll, kicking off his skirt and burying his face in the pillow.

Wrapping his cloak around himself more, Logan slides his hood up as he works, adding more wood to the fire. "You deserve a nice warm spot, Remus. Sleep well."

He mumbled something into the pillow, voice tight with embarrassment, and went to sleep.

Giving him a soft pat on the hair, Logan turns to making the camp set up organized, watching the edge of the light as the night passes. Hopefully he rests and heals up. I suppose I could try to sneak in another healing touch, but… He hasn't consented.

In the morning, the sun streamed through the trees and directly into Remus’ eyes, waking him up far earlier than he wanted. He pulled Logan’s blanket tighter around him and buried his face in the pillow.

Reaching over, Logan hums softly, trying to ease him back to sleep. "Shhh…."

Remus hummed at the hand in his hair and on his horns. “When d’you wanna get going?” He murmured.

"Not for a bit. It's just barely starting to lighten up." Stroking more, he smiles softly. "Not light enough for human eyes just yet."

He nodded, and started to respond, only to trail off sleepily. “M’kay,” he managed.

Rubbing over his horns, he smiles softly, getting out a little oil to rub into the chipped surface. "Sleep. I'm watching over you."

“What is that?” He mumbled.

"Oil made from pressed sunflower seeds. It helps skin and nails heal when they're dried out. I use it for when my hands are cracked from overwork. I. thought it might do your horns and hooves some good. May I?"

He blushed and peeked at Logan. “Sure. Not sure how much good it’ll do, but… Sure.” He poked his hooves out from under the blanket and presented his horns, which towered above his head. “Have you been this close all night?”

"I made a small circuit to walk every so often. As it's gotten lighter I can see further though, and you seemed to appreciate it when I was close." Stoking gently, he starts working in the oil with a soft cloth.

Remus hummed happily and stretched out his legs. “Was I talking in my sleep again?”

"A little… It wasn't a language that I know however. You did seem to settle more when I sat nearby. How are you feeling?"

“I’m good,” he mumbled. He sat up and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “We should start packing up camp. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Hand glowing a soft green, he hums. "Very well. So long as you're feeling okay." Finishing up the oiling, he nods. "As soon as we get a little food, sure."

“There should be a town about an hour from here, if you want to get something at a tavern.” He folded up the blanket and bedroll. “Otherwise I can hunt something.”

"Ah, I haven't really been out this way. That tavern sounds lovely." Helping out, he starts putting the fire out.

Remus pulled on his trench coat and mask, then shrugged on his backpack. “I can walk beside you and Juniper.”

"You sure? She can carry us both." Getting the bedrolls attached to her saddle, he hums, sliding on her tack once more.

“I don’t want to impose,” he mumbled.

Reaching over, Logan taps Remus on the nose softly. "It's not an imposition. I offered, if you're okay with either sitting behind me or in my arms in front, we can make faster time? She's faster than either of us."

“Faster sounds good,” he mumbled. “I can be in front if you can drive that way… I’ll keep a lookout for any threats.”

"Sounds good to me, that way you can be warmer too. You could do with some more intact clothes." Offering his arms, he winks. "May I lift you up?"

He blushed and hooked up his pack, then grabbed Logan’s arms.

Settling his own supplies in place, he grins and lifts Remus with a little bounce as he overestimates his weight. "Oh my, you're so light!"

He blushed. “Not- Not that light, no…”

Flexing a little, he grins. "Mmm, toned, definitely. But to my strength, you're light, my dear." Settling Remus in place, he finds a tree and uses it to swing up into the saddle behind Remus safely.

Remus held onto Juniper’s neck, face bright red at Logan’s closeness and warmth.

Grinning, he reaches over to take the reins. "You okay, Remus? You're clinging like… oh, what was that sea creature with all the arms?"

“An octopus? I’m fine.”

"That's it!" Shifting Remus up a little, he hums, easing him to lean back on his chest as he guides Juniper in a slow walk back towards the path. "Just relax?"

“Yeah… Not too much, though. I gotta keep a lookout.”

Logan’s chest was burning warm against Remus’ back, his arms closing him in. When was the last time he was so close to someone? He didn’t think ever.

"That's fair, but at least a little so you don't have to worry about tipping off like a wood plank?" Smiling a little, he chuckles. "Don't want to worry about you falling, hmm?"

“I won’t fall,” he blushed.

"Good…" Scanning the woods, he hums, clicking his tongue to guide Juniper into going a little faster. "Don't want to see you hurt again."

Remus laughed weakly. “Right.”

Letting his fingers stroke over Remus a little in the guise of keeping him steady, he hums. "You're cuter without your blood staining your skin… at least to me."

Remus felt weak. He babbled out something unintelligible, before managing, “Do you save a lot of boys from the brink of death?”

"Not recently… and none quite as cute certainly!" Grinning, he hums, leaning in close to whisper in his ear. "It was nice to feel your pulse return under my fingers~!"

Remus leaned back against him, his heart racing. He was in the middle of trying to figure out how to respond when something caught his eye up ahead.

He sat straight up. “Is that a barricade?”

"Hmm? Is it? I could redirect… Or try and jump it. I don't think she'd like that though."

“Don’t. We need to turn around.”

“Stop the horse!” A man demanded from behind them.

"I think that's out…" Kicking Juniper into a gallop, he swerves them to the left, not seeing anyone there even as two crossbow bolts strike the dirt behind them. "Got any ranged weapons, hun?"

Remus snatched his short bow off his bag and knocked an arrow, watching carefully for any sign of movement.

“STOP THE HORSE OR WE’LL SHOOT ITS LEGS!”

"Shit!!" Trying to see where they are and if they're a threat, he leans back a little to give Remus room to shoot as he lets Juniper guide herself, eyes searching for any more bolts. "Where are they?!"

Two more arrows shot off, one narrowly missing Juniper’s ankle and the other flying wide overhead.

Remus’ eyes narrowed as he caught their hiding place. A breeze of fabric swept behind a boulder, a head poking above a dip of land. Two crossbows rested over the cliff.

Remus snatched one of his sickles and dove off Juniper, rolling a bit sloppy but getting to his feet unscathed. Just as he landed, the arrows shot from the cliff. One landed in Logan’s upper arm, the other in Juniper’s side.

Pulling up short with a curse, Logan slides off his horse, turning to place himself between the attackers and his horse. "We're stopped! Stop shooting!”

The bandits, four of them, jumped out of their hiding spots and came closer with their bows. They stood about twenty feet away.

“Drop your bags and you can go,” one commanded.

"What proof have I of that?" Logan frowns, straightening up and using himself as a distraction for Remus, one hand sliding towards his sword.

They all glanced between each other. One of them jerked their bow. “Just drop it! Let’s get this over with!”

“No.” Remus shot his bow and hit a bandit straight in the chest.

He stumbled back with a groan.

"Gary!" One of the bandits steps out 5 feet and shoots at Remus with a shout. Another sighs and decides to take a shot at Logan. "We gave you a chance…"

Logan sidesteps the bolt, stepping in to draw his sword and swing.

The blade sunk into the bandit’s neck, blood gushing forward. The bandit dropped dead.

Remus kicked the second bandit down and brought his sickle through the bandit’s shoulder.

"Very nice!" Whipping his sword to clear the blood, Logan grins.

Seeing how the battle is going the last uninjured bandit turns to flee.

Remus raised his bow and shot, one hoof planted on the bandit’s chest— it sunk into his back, and he fell.

He pressed his sickle to the fallen bandit’s neck. “Are there more of you? Where’s your base?”

Stuttering and stammering, the bandit shakes his head, unable to get a clear sentence out.

Remus pushed the sickle closer. “Answer me or I’ll kill you now and track down your base myself.”

Setting a hand on Remus' shoulder, Logan hums. "Best answer, he means it!"

Gulping, the bandit squeaks. "There's just two more! Up the…" He points up to where there's a clear view of the road coming towards the barricade.

Remus swung, digging the sickle halfway through the bandit’s neck. He turned and stormed forward, leaping over the barricade. There were some shouts, some slices, then Remus reappeared with blood marking his arms and chest. He stared at the ground carefully, walking slowly.

Logan hums, looking up from where he's tending to Juniper, having healed her but only wrapped his own arm. He comes over to Remus, offering a hand. "All set? How are you doing?"

“I’m fine. I’m going after their camp, though. I can meet you at the town.”

Humming softly, he frowns. "I'm coming with, just in case you need backup, or you can meet me at the river. I think we both could use a scrub up."

“I’m not stopping for a bath,” he laughed, stopping to glance at Logan. “They could rob or kill someone else in the next five minutes. Tracks going this way, if you’re coming you’re coming.”

Chuckling softly, he nods, leading Juniper along. "I'm coming, and I meant after the clean up we clean up, before we get to town, dear."

Remus took his other sickle from his bag and ran his hand through Juniper’s mane. “Alright,” he whispered as he followed the tracks. “Uh… Thanks. Sorry for the…” He gestured to himself.

Reaching over, he taps Remus' nose, whispering back. "I'm just glad none of it's yours!"

He laughed quietly. “Really? You’d rather it be…?”

"Mercy where possible, but it should be acknowledged that it is not always possible. There's a reason that I carry a sword. I gave them an option, and they chose violence. I'd rather these few perish as opposed to however many they would harm or kill."

He nodded slowly. “How long have you been out here?”

"I left the monastery, hmm… I believe it was 8 days ago?" Pointing to a fork in the path, he hums, gesturing up.

Remus’ eyes widened. “Jesus. You… Do you have any adventuring experience?” Remus stopped and put a hand on Logan’s chest. “Are you sure you should be doing this?”

"I've been out on expeditions with my fellow monks. We are trained to be wanderers… and I have been on the road with my parents before I joined the order." Smiling, he takes Remus' hand, kissing it. "I am quite capable, my dear, but thank you."

Remus’ face turned bright red. He stumbled over his words for a moment, before taking his hand back and continuing along the tracks.

Grinning, he follows, watching for clues to where the camp is. While Logan didn’t find any tracks, the path they were on was not intentional, made from years of kicking away and flattening foliage. They trudged deep into the woods, silent and crouching the entire way.

Remus saw it before Logan did— Stilts of wood going between trees, a clear barrier. Remus narrowed his eyes and gestured for Logan to wait. Arching an eyebrow, Logan pauses, waiting to see how Remus procedes forward.

Remus misses seeing a wire settled near the ground as he moves forward, only feeling it when it presses against his ankle before it shifts quickly, slicing a little as it pulls a rope around his ankles and a net scoops him up into the trees.

“Fuck!” Remus hissed, scrambling around for his dagger.

There's some rustling in the area where the stilts lead up to, the trap having set off a silent alarm there as well.

Logan curses softly, heading to the area to see if there's a rope he can cut to help lower the net to the ground. "Calm yourself, don't thrash too much, you'll tangle yourself more!"

Remus slashed a hole in the net and it dropped him towards the ground, Logan darting forward to catch him, with a small smile.

"Got you, darling!"

He sets him down carefully, letting Remus get settled with the knife now properly stowed and brandishing his sickles as footsteps raced towards them.

Logan steps in front to shield him from the oncomers, sword out and ready to swing even as he's calling out to the people coming. "Prepare yourselves!"

Remus fought back the blush to focus. A bandit jumped out of the foliage and slashed at Remus with a scimitar, digging into his shoulder and wetting his coat.

Logan curses softly, touching Remus to heal him some with a ki. Stepping in prepares to attack the bandits at the next opportunity. One bandit with green hair kicked Remus away and took another slash, just barely missing. A half-orc stepped out of the foliage to Logan, bow held up. He shot, the arrow nicking Logan’s ear.

A half elf slices out at Logan with his scimitar, slicing into his side and making Logan shout out in pain. Remus growled and snatched his dagger only to throw it, sinking it straight into the half-elf’s eye and taking him down.

The last bandit pales a little, deciding to attack the taller human that they'd gotten a hit on rather than the scary looking black-horned demon, swinging wildly at Logan and missing terribly.

Logan turns, taking two swings at that cowardly bandit, hitting both times and making him choke on blood as he falls to the ground.

The half-orc in the trees shoots another bolt off, and it stuck into the tree above Logan’s head. Remus snarled and whipped around, throwing his hand out.

“You fucking coward!” He snapped, casting vicious mockery.

The bandit flinched and dropped his bow to hold his head, groaning.

"Want to do the honors of finishing the coward off, dear, or let him come down to face us?"

The half-orc reached for his scimitar, stumbling forward with a red face and narrowed eyes. Remus stormed forward and decapitated him with his sickle.

He sheathed them and groaned, holding his shoulder. “Fuck, that hurts.”

Logan frowns softly, reaching over to examine him, using a ki to heal him when he sees the damage.

“Goddamn,” Remus sighed, pressing his forehead to Logan’s shoulder. “How much of that do you got?”

Smiling a little, he gives Remus a gentle hug. "I can do that twice more today."

“I’ll try not to make you need it. I have a greater healing potion for emergencies, so don’t-”

“HEY!”

Remus froze.

“You pieces of shit done yet?!”

“Hide,” Remus snapped, crouching and diving into the foliage.

Freezing a moment longer than Remus, Logan makes for some bushes on the other side of the oath, having to take a moment to find one big enough to hide his bulky frame. Big footsteps fell along the ground.

A goliath bandit captain stepped around their camp, bushy eyebrows knitted into a deep frown. “Hello?” He grunted.

Remus squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily, then snapped them open and sprinted out of hiding.

The goliath whipped around but Remus was faster, slashing the sickle along the goliath’s waist. The goliath hissed in pain, turning to Remus in surprise.

Stepping out, Logan attacks the goliath's back, slicing in deeply with a chuckle. The goliath stumbled away from them, face bright red.

“You killed my men?” He roared. “YOU KILLED MY MEN?”

He grabbed his great axe and charged Remus, his rage steering him wrong and missing wide. Remus jumped out of the way and brought the sickles down on his ankle, both missing.

“Fuck me!” Remus snapped.

"Maybe later, dear?" Logan can't help but quip as darts in to try a hit of his own, missing as well.

The goliath let out an unearthly cackle. “You murder my men and you can’t even get a hit in? Pathetic.”

He brought the greataxe down over Logan’s head. Logan ducked away but the axe still managed to slice through his robes and crack open his leg.

“Logan!” Remus narrowed his eyes, rage bubbling in his chest. He whispered menacing threats under his breath, Adelaide coming in with his own excitable suggestions.

The goliath looked around in panic, his eyes watering. He almost dropped his great axe, then shook himself out of it.

Grinning a little, Logan steadies himself, attacking once he's steady on his feet again with a wide grin, slicing into the goliath's arm. The goliath dripped blood, a steady trail along the ground. He was looking pretty beat up, but was still steady on his feet, grinning.

“You really think you two will walk out of here alive? A human, and a little devil? Defeating me?”

Remus braced his sickles. “I’ve killed more than you before.”

"Together we are stronger than alone!" Logan grins as he watches Remus move.

He glanced around the camp, taking in the mountains of supplies, the barrels and crates that clearly held corpses. He yelled angrily as Adelaide helped him hit, slicing his sickles into the goliath’s midsection. The goliath groaned and gagged as his stomach dropped blood and skin, dropping down to one knee.

Taking a step in, Logan swings twice, eyes hard. "You shall receive your just reward for the life you have lived here."

He looked back at Logan, eyes hard. With the realization that the two unlikely martyrs weren’t going to leave without killing him, a second wind rushed through him. He pushed himself to his feet. He slashed at Logan, opening a large cut in his chest and ripping away some of his robes.

Remus’ eyes landed on Logan, heaving for breath, limping. He rushed over and touched his face, black energy pooling around Remus’ hand and dispersing along Logan’s body.

Leaning into the touch a little, Logan smiles slightly as he steadies, dripping less blood as some of his injuries heal up. "Thank you, dear."

Turning back to the goliath, he frowns, stabbing him harshly. "I liked these robes. Blue is my favorite color."

The goliath howled in pain. He kicked Logan’s weapon away and turned to Remus. The greataxe lodged into Remus’ side. He doubled over as fire erupted along his side, sucking in a breath of pain.

“Fuck,” Remus choked out.

Adelaide’s laughter echoed in Remus’ head. Remus’ eyes glowed red, and purple flames surrounded the goliath.

When they melted away, the goliath laid on the ground, charred to a crisp.

"Wow…" Letting himself sit heavily, Logan laughs softly, a bit dizzy and mesmerized by the colors now that the danger has gone away.

Remus’ red, pupil-less eyes flicked to Logan. He grinned, blood staining his teeth. “You didn’t think I’d let him break my favourite toy, did you?”

Logan's eyes widened and he frowned. That was not Remus. From everything he’d learned from the monks… A demon was speaking to him. "Remus is not a toy. Release him please." Please don't make me fight him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He knows, Logan knows. Don’t make things worse. Please don’t make things worse.

“Don’t whine, darling, it’s unattractive.” Adelaide sighed and straightened up. That same black energy that healed Logan danced along Adelaide’s fingers, pressing it to his own forehead. Some of his wounds closed, but he still looked pretty beat up.

"Frankly, I don't care about being attractive to you. Remus' reaction is my concern. Who are you and why are you here…" Slowly pushing up, he retrieves his sword, using a ki to heal himself in case he has to fight this creature possessing Remus.

The demon laughed. He turned and headed back into the forest.

Where are you taking us?

“You were heading towards that village, weren’t you? We can have some fun. Don’t you miss it?”

Reaching for Remus' hand, Logan hums, gently commanding. "No."

Adelaide turned to him in surprise. “Sorry, was I talking to you? Or would you like to join?”

"I'm not sure what you're planning, but I have intuition that Remus doesn't agree with the plans. I'm standing up for his wishes. You can't just bully him like this." Keeping a firm grip on the dark arm, he straightens up to his full 6' 2" height and hardens his eyes.

A smirk curled over Adelaide’s lips. “And what will you do to stop me?” His voice echoed. “Remus likes it here.”

Stepping in, he hums, other hand sliding over the dark cheek, smearing a little blood. "Well… I'm willing to give Remus a kiss if he comes back. We had planned to wash up after clearing the bandits. I'm sure they have some clothes he could better outfit in."

Adelaide rested a hand on the side of Logan’s face. He pressed their foreheads together. “It’s cute how you think Remus has a choice in this,” he whispered.

His eyes rolled back and he fell.

#far from home #intrulogical #logan sanders #remus sanders

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lovemalecforever · 3 years

Text

Chapter 11

A Reunion to Cherish

Alec woke up to the sound of the television playing in the stillness of their home. He blinked a few times to adjust to the brightness. When he was back in his senses he realized that they fell asleep on the couch while watching the movie and his warlock was sound asleep making his chest as a pillow. A blanket was covering both of their torsos. He looked around and realized it was around midnight.

Reaching for the remote, he switched off the television then tried to move his warlock without disturbing his sleep but failed in doing so. He sighed then reached for his stele and activated his strength and flexibility runes, then carefully wrapped his warlock in his arms, picked him up, and went to their bedroom.

He placed him on the bed, then got on the bed and wrapped his arms around Magnus' waist tightly, cuddling as close as possible, feeling the warmth of their bodies which he knew will miss the next few days. With that in mind, he dozed off within minutes.

______________________________

Alec woke up with the feeling of the most gentle feathery touch around his temples, he bit the inside of his cheeks to suppress his smile knowing really well what his warlock's doing. Even though he knows it's wrong to let Magnus think he's sleeping whenever he plays with his hair, he always loves it whenever his warlock does that. But this time he wants to be a tease.

"Love doing that with my hair?" He said in a husky and sleepy voice, eyes still closed.

Alec slowly opened his eyes slowly only to find a deep red blush creeping on that beautiful makeup-ridden face. He smiled helplessly, that was the most beautiful sight he had ever woken up to.

Magnus quickly buried his face in the pillow, too embarrassed to say anything when he felt a tender touch and a gentle kiss around his neck.

"Morning, love," Alec said in a rough morning voice. When Magnus didn't respond, he tried again. "Don't feel embarrassed, Magnus. It's okay. And honestly, I liked it."

"How do you know?" Magnus asked, face still buried in the pillow.

"Know what?"

"That I'm feeling... embarrassed." He whispered.

A light smile crept on Alec's face as he stroked his soft black hair and whispered in his husband's ears, "It's written all over your face, Mags." Then kissed him on the nape of his neck.

Magnus raised his head from the pillow then looked at his husband who had pure love and reassurance filled in his eyes. "Not fair, Alexander." He pouted.

"Hello, there!" Alec smiled and locked their lips in a soft, gentle yet passionate kiss. They broke their kiss after some time and Alec wrapped his arms around his warlock tightly. Magnus was happy to oblige but confused as well.

"Don't you have to be at the institute?"

"Not today, as I have to leave for New York. Cat and Madzie will be here at 11 o'clock, we'll leave from here only."

"Oh!"

Alec looked at the clock only to find that it's just 8 in the morning. He looked at his husband whose face was now filled with longing and hurt. He sighed knowing that look really well. Scooting closer, he left a feather-light over his temple.

"Hey... I know what you're thinking. I can't force the thoughts out of your mind, but I can reassure you that I'm going to be completely fine. Please, don't worry about it, about me. I love you and you know that. I'm going to miss you." He said and gently pecked his lips.

Magnus gave him a light smile. He knew Alec had promised him that he wouldn't go on any hunts, but the feeling of losing him while he was away was building up strongly in his chest. He didn't know what this feeling was, couldn't put his hands on it, but it seemed like something bad is about to happen. But he didn't want to ruin the moment they were in.

"I know, I'll miss you too. Now, you go get freshen up while I start preparing breakfast." He was about to get up when Alec grabbed him and made him lay down on the bed again, snuggling close to him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Umm... Alexander, breakfast..."

"That can wait! We still have time, Mags. I want to spend time with you, cuddle with you as much as I can before leaving. So you're not getting out of this bed anytime soon. Now, come here!" Alec ordered and who was Magnus to say no to his shadowhunter. He simply nodded, snuggled closer, and buried his head in his husband's chest.

________________________________

It was around 10:30 in the morning, the husbands were in their kitchen preparing breakfast and Alec was all ready to leave for New York. Magnus prepared a pancake with caramel and chocolate syrup and hot chocolate with marshmallows dipped in it for his shadowhunter; one of Alec's favorite, and a simple pancake with chocolate syrup and hot coffee for himself. They were eating their breakfast when their doorbell rang. Magnus waved his hand to open the door.

Before either of them could greet their guests, a soft voice echoed their whole house.

"Maaagnus!! Aaallec!" Madzie ran towards their living room calling their names loudly again and again while Catarina was walking behind her smiling at the little ones' excitement.

Alec and Magnus walked out of their kitchen to greet the little package of excitement.

"Hey, sweet pea!" Magnus bent down to hug his favorite warlock then picked her in his arms.

"Maaagnus! I've missed you!" She said enthusiastically.

"I've missed you too, sweet pea!" He said and rubbed their nose softly, making her giggle.

Alec was standing there listening to their interaction with a wide smile as his husband had a look of genuine happiness after a long time.

"Aalleec!" She said while outstretching her hands towards Alec.

"Hey, my favorite sorceress!" He walked towards them and pecked her on the cheeks, making her giggle again.

"Aalec, you stay too please, we will all party and enjoy." She said in a sweet and pleading voice.

Alec looked over at Magnus and Catarina, then spoke softly. "I wish I could, sweet pea. Your Mom and I have some important work to complete and we'll party once I'm back. Okay?"

"Okay." She said in a sad voice.

"Hey sweet pea, don't get upset. We both will enjoy and party," Magnus said while swaying her in his arms, then whispered to her, "and your Mom won't be here to make complaints, neither Alec, we'll enjoy and party every day."

"I heard that Bane!" Catarina said sharply.

Magnus looked at her then to his husband who raised his eyebrows at him, clearly showing that he heard that too.

"I better not find this home covered with glitter when I'll be back, or I swear I'm gonna make you clean that without using your magic!" Alec said in an authoritative voice.

"Why are you both taking my class!? I don't break rules or make a mess!" Magnus protested.

Alec and Catarina exchanged a look then looked at Magnus making him gulp with nervousness, while someone was enjoying this a lot.

"Hey! Stop laughing sweet pea." Magnus put her down on the floor. "We've prepared your room, go and have a look at it, you know where your room is!" Madzie ran towards her temporary room leaving the three adults in the living room.

"Come on now, don't give me that looks both of you!"

Alec and Catarina sighed in unison.

"You better not spoil Mads behind my back, Bane!" Catarina said and hugged Magnus finally.

"Trust me, I won't! By the way, what's that?" He said, pointing towards a huge bag Catarina was carrying.

"Oh, That. Clave requested some ancient books. I don't know the reason though." She looked at Alec to take over.

Alec was confused at first but quickly understood that it was the book they will be needing for the ritual.

"Even I don't know, Jia's the only one who has information regarding this. She said she'll give the information at the time of the meeting itself." Alec said praying to the angels that Magnus will buy it and Thankfully, he did.

"Oh! All right. How long are you both gone, though?"

"2-3 days max," Alec answered.

"Alec, we should leave now. It's time." Catarina said knowing that the sooner they'll get this done, the better.

Alec nodded in response, then Catarina opened the portal for them. Alec gave Magnus a quick goodbye kiss, before stepping through the portal.

__________________________

The portal opened in front of the institute's gate, and they stepped out of it. Alec took in the scent of a familiar environment he was inhaling after a long time. It was only Izzy and Simon who knew about his visit to New York, for everyone else it's going to be a little surprise.

"I'll go to my apartment here and check more about it," she raised the book she was holding "and you go meet your family. Call me when this needs to be done while I finish my other business in the meantime."

Alec took a deep breath and nodded. "Thank you for your help, Cat. It means a lot."

Catarina gave him a warm smile and left. Now it's all on Alec. He took a few deep breaths then knocked on the door of the institute. He expected Izzy to open the door as she knew about his arrival but when the gate opened, the reaction of the other person was priceless and worth witnessing.

"ALEC! Wha... how... oh god!" Jace stuttered which was unlikely of him and hugged his Parabatai tightly, having a warm glow of happiness in his mismatched eyes.

"J... Jace! I can't breathe!" Alec tried to speak while trying to loosen the grip his Parabatai held him in. "J... Jace!"

"Sorry! Sorry! It's been a long time, bro!"

"I'm aware, now can I come in, or I'm not allowed anymore!?" He teased, earning a smack on the head from his Parabatai.

He glared at him then they walked into the Institute. As soon as they entered he heard a loud scream and shook his head.

"JACE HERONDALE! WHERE THE HELL DID YOU DISAPPEARED!?"

He exchanged a look with Jace as he entered the orbs' hall noticing the change in the place that happened over the years.

"Can you not shout at me and ruin my day, Izzy!" Jace said, slightly annoyed with his sister.

"Care to expla- ALEC!" She squealed and ran towards her brother, hugging him tightly.

"Did you forget that I'm coming, Miss Head of the Institute?"

"Well..."

Alec looked down at his sister, noticing mischief in her eyes, and he smacked her lightly on the back of her head. "Someone's that busy!?"

"Ow! Hey!"

He looked down at her while having a bright grin then kissed her on top of the head.

Jace was looking at them, mouth agape with a priceless expression on his face yet again.

"Izzy! You knew he was coming?"

The siblings broke their hug and looked at Jace.

"Yeah, I knew."

"Where are the others?" Alec interrupted, not wanting them to argue over something this small.

"Si is at his apartment, Clary is in the training room, Mom and Luke will be here in an hour, Max by evening, but Dad won't be able to come. I tried but he was busy. Catarina?"

He sighed. "At her apartment, running errands while I talk to you all. I hope dad can make it too."

Izzy gave him a reassuring smile while Jace listened to their conversation, a deep frown forming on his forehead.

"Okay, what is going on? Alec, why didn't your husband tagged along with you this time and why is everyone coming here!?"

Alec looked at his Parabatai then to his sister then to him again and sighed heavily before speaking. "Because there is something I want to talk about which needs all of your presence!"

#asaab #angst with a happy ending #angst #fanfic authors #alec lightwood #fantasy #fanfiction #fanfic #lightwood bane family #malec forever #malec fic #happily married #malec #magnus bane

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sleepless-in-starbucks · 4 years

Note

if anon hasn't swung by yet, i'm here to ask what happens when remy realizes when he's in love with patton

Yes hello!! Welcome to: so you’re a gay bastard who’s just met a literal ray of sunshine who’s as fluffy and soft and sugary sweet as a marshmallow. falling in love’s inevitable, but how does the gay bastard recognize when it’s happened to him??? come find out!

set in the Mindscape because I Said So

Remy exists as a function of Thomas

Most functions just live in the Imagination but he’s active enough he gets his own room with the sides

(Technically it’s just a guest bedroom that’s in Thomas’s house- Remy took the memory of it and put it in the mindscape to use, which is why Thomas can never accurately remember the room or its layout when he’s not in it sjdbfhjsd)

That’s not super important but I wanted to say it

Anyways

Remy interacts with the other sides, of course

He doesn’t always get on amazingly with all of them, though

As a technical ward of the Imagination, Remy feels… slightly awkward dealing with Roman or Remus extensively. It’s not like he can’t, it just feels off

He and Virgil can be snarky and sassy together but they also clash a good amount when it comes to bedtime for Thomas

He’s not really ever up against Logan or Deceit, and they get on well enough, but it’s not like they click like natural friends or anything (shocking, I know, given my losleep agenda, but shhhh I haven’t gotten to the good part of this bullet fic)

Patton, however, is the exception

Sure, Remy may not be a happy-pappy optimist like Patton is, but surprisingly enough… he appreciates Patton’s brightness, his sunny outlook, his big smiles and sweet offers

And Patton is surprisingly accepting of Remy’s snark and sass and snap. He finds them amusing, enjoys entertaining his quips and returning them with puns and wordplay and giggles

Their friendship’s a quick-formed one, one that’s usually found chatting in the kitchen while Remy abuses the coffee machine and Patton bakes, but also in the Commons watching various shows you’d never expect them to watch, and in each other’s rooms when it’s late and they should be sleeping but they can’t for one reason or another so they waste the time sipping hot cocoa and talking together instead, and more

It’s good. They’re good.

Remy really should have seen this coming

He has a lot of chances to fall in love with Patton

And he takes all these chances very happily

But there’s only one where he realizes that he’s fallen, and fallen HARD

There were many moments that could have been ‘the one’

Like one of the few times he chose to bake instead of just watch with his coffee, him complaining about the mess while Patton laughed and showed him how to do it

They always ended up with something edible smeared on his face- chocolate or frosting or cookie dough, just a touch normally dashed against his chin or cheeks

And that always ended with Patton carefully wiping away the substance (and once or twice, on more memorable substances, kissing it off- normally when it was a smear of Patton’s favorite cookie dough)

One of those times, when Patton and Remy’s faces were stupidly close, Patton tenderly wiping away whatever mess was left on Remy’s face, Remy’s sunglasses useless to hide his gaze when this close, eyes both on each other, would have been a perfect time for Remy to remember that he was very gay and Patton was very cute

But he normally only remembered the ‘very cute’ part without any context, and another day passed with him left in self-ignorance

He could have realized it one of the times a movie marathon of cheesy romcoms (Remy and Patton both loved the cheese for different reasons) ran long and Patton fell asleep against him, head against Remy’s shoulder and body tucked against Remy’s side

He only got closer to Remy the longer he was asleep, but that was okay. Remy knew a sleepy Patton was a cuddly one. He just wrapped his arm over Patton and held him closer

Patton was always mumbling something when he was sleeping, which was cute, Remy had considered, cute how he scrunched up his nose as he thought before spilling out nonsense words and phrases

Cute how he would smile at whatever his sleepy thoughts were

Cute how sometimes he’d just… happy wiggle. Remy wasn’t sure why, but one minute Patton would be pressed against his side and the next he’d be doing a lil wiggly-shake and then he’d be back to trying to meld his body with Remy’s. It was cute.

Eventually, Patton would open his eyes, just a little, looking tired and sleepy, blinking blearily at Remy but not trying to move away from his side

He’d ask what had happened, when he’d fallen asleep, and Remy would just chuckle quietly and run a hand through Patton’s hair and say it’s alright, go back to bed, he’d take care of it

And Patton would just nod and lie his head against Remy again and be asleep almost immediately

And soon enough Remy would slowly, carefully, gently pick Patton up and move him to his bed, staying just long enough for Patton’s blankets and sheets to warm up and mimic his own warmth- hence making Patton willing to release him- before leaving

And if he lingered a moment in the doorway before leaving, wishing he could stay, could curl up with Patton and kiss his forehead and fall asleep with him?

Well… Patton was warm and cute and cuddly. Who wouldn’t want to sleep and cuddle with him? That was a Normal Friendship Thought to have. It didn’t mean anything!

And once more, His Sunglasses Make Him Oblivious Remy strikes again

Incidents similar to the baking ones and the sleepy ones continue to happen

Remy spends a good two hours doing nothing but trading horrible puns with Patton because they make Patton giggle and chuckle and LAUGH and for some reason Remy just realized he could listen to that laugh for weeks and if puns causes it… then puns he shall tell

He learns to do basic sewing because Patton accidentally rips his catigan a lot and yes Patton can sew and he does fix his own tears but Remy likes to sneak in and fix them when Patton’s busy (Patton always gets excited, later, having decided that he’s got some sort of guardian angel looking out for him but unsure who. Patton’s happiness over the whole thing’s enough for Remy- he never admits it’s him)

When Patton’s doing something/is distracted, Remy will sneak up behind him and pick him up and spin him in a half-circle and Patton will giggle and Remy will never feel more alive than he does every time he does it

There’s a lot of moments like these, where Remy turns into an absolute sap over Patton doing something as impressive as Smiling, and yet Remy throughout it all, Remy refuses to just realize ‘oh hey shit I’m in love’

Finally, however, not even Remy’s thick dark sunglasses and mindset of ‘what is love (baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more)’ can stop him from realizing how lost he is on this boi

It all happens one late night

Remy’s sleepless and up and wandering

He notices, eventually, that the light’s on in Patton’s room, and he figures, hey! late-night buddy, let’s say hi

The hi was well-timed, but not for the reasons Remy had hoped

Remy peeks in the crack and finds that, yeah, Patton’s up, but he’s also hugging a body pillow and his eyes are a little red and there’s a tiny bit of sniffling and okay someone’s not having a good night and for once it’s not Thomas as Virgil slowly goes through decades-old memories

Remy had been looking for someone to goofy off with at two am but now it is Comfort The Fluffball time and he is READY for this mission

He doesn’t go in immediately- pulling away and quietly making his way downstairs first, quickly making two mugs of hot cocoa, putting in plenty of mini marshmallows in Patton’s (and bringing the bag of them as well, for when Patton inevitably wants to snack on them)

Then he goes back upstairs, lightly bumping Patton’s door with his foot until he hears a loud sniffle and Patton hastily whisper-shouting to give him a moment

Remy waits, listening to the shuffling noises, well-aware that Patton’s cleaning his face off, trying to hide his self-perceived sin of feeling bad

Eventually, the door opens, Patton’s eyes still red as he refuses to meet Remy’s, aware the function has likely already guessed he’s not doing amazingly

His eyes light up, a bit, however, when he sees the cocoas and the marshmallow bag beneath Remy’s elbow and Remy’s gentle ‘I’m here’ smile, and Remy feels his heart light up at that

Patton lets him in, taking his mug and the bag of marshmallows from Remy as he does so, moving back on to the bed and leaning against the body pillow he had been crying into a moment ago (Remy can tell because the top of it’s damp) and he gestures for Remy to join him

And Remy does, sitting down right next to him, pressing against his side and resting his head against Patton’s

They don’t speak, just sipping their cocoas and being close

They’ve talked about it before, Patton’s tendency to repress his bad emotions and isolate himself from help

And Remy knows Patton’s trying

Patton letting him in is trying

So Remy’s not going to talk about it, because that’s not what Patton needs now. He needs to be able to be safe with someone. To be comfortable, to be un-judged despite the tear tracks on his cheeks

Remy’s halfway done with his cocoa when he lightly bumps Patton’s foot. He’s wearing bright mis-matched socks whereas Remy’s got black ones with coffee cups on them, the steam coming out of them in the shape of z’s (Patton gave them to him, and ever since, Remy’s always worn socks at night)

A smile twitches onto Patton’s face as he bumps Remy’s back

It’s small

It’s important

Eventually, they finish their cocoas

Patton places his mug on his bedside table, automatically accepting Remy’s and moving it there too

He takes the marshmallow bag, then, pulling a few out and squishing them between his fingers as he pops a few in his mouth

Remy smiles, watching Patton amuse himself with the marshmallows for a moment before asking, softly, ‘do you want to watch some tv? or do you think you’re ready to go to bed?’

‘bed’ Patton answers immediately. he knew the question was coming. Remy always asked it on nights like this.

‘of course’ Remy answers easily, beginning to stand up, moving to take the mugs away and part with a few words of reassurance and a reminder that Remy’ll find someone to cover making breakfast in the morning, please, Patton, sleep in

He’s stopped when Patton grabs his arm, just lightly tugging on his arm and pulling Remy back to sitting beside him

‘please stay’ Patton asks, quietly, but still fiercely, as if if his voice wasn’t strong enough, his want for this not there enough, Remy would say no (Remy knew he never would’ve so much as dreamed of saying no)

‘of course’ Remy repeated as the moral side tossed the marshmallow bag onto his bedside table. ‘how long do you want me to stay?’

‘until- I mean- until I fall asleep?’ Patton settled on, hesitantly

Remy frowned as he gently reached out, cupping Patton’s cheek with one hand. he didn’t press, since he knew Patton wouldn’t tell him what he really wanted if pressed. he’d clam up and stick to his lie. he had to be given time.

Patton leaned the slightest into the touch, letting the silence hold for a moment before he said, quietly, ‘I don’t want to be alone’

‘you won’t be’ Remy murmured back, easily coazing Patton into his arms, happy to let the moral side fold into his chest, pressing himself ever closer to Remy as Remy held him ever tighter

He slowly tugged Patton over, pulling Patton’s duvet over the two of them as he settled them down amongst the pillows of Patton’s bed, the lights in his room turning off at Remy’s mental urging

Patton moved with him easily, happy to be held, snuggling close against Remy and tucking his head beneath Remy’s neck and tangling their legs together and more or less enuring that Remy wouldn’t be getting up until he did (not that Remy minded)

Soon enough, they were still, Patton breathing deeply, very quickly falling asleep as Remy rubbed circles into his back

‘hey, Remy?’ Patton asked, words slurring as he fought the call of sleep to say whatever he had to say

‘yeah, babes?’

‘thank you, for... for everything’

Remy smiled, a stupidly sappy smile, safely hidden in the dark. ‘of course, Pat. always happy to help.’

Patton hummed in agreement to that, nodding a bit against Remy’s chest. when he didn’t say anything more, Remy thought he had fallen asleep, until Patton said one last thing,

‘I love you’

It wasn’t that surprising- Patton had said it before, and so had Remy, normally after Remy had complimented Patton’s cookies or after Patton showed a complete lack of shame for a rather terrible pun- but he had never said it like this before, so quietly, so simply, so meaningfully

It took him a moment to collect himself enough to respond, and by then Patton had fallen asleep, but it didn’t matter, because Remy still said it,

‘I love you too’

And that, dear reader, is when Remy realized just how heavy the weight behind those words was

That’s when Remy realizes he’s in love

Anddddd because I’m a bastard (and also tired and said I’d post this today) that’s where this ends, even though I now remember the question was ‘what happens when Remy realizes he’s in love with Patton’ and not ‘how’ he realizes, but shhhhhhh enjoy what I gave you

And like,,,, I’m not saying I’ll give this a part two if y’all want to see what happens after Remy finally comes to terms with the fact that he’s in love with the sun, but like... I def will just hmu sometime sdfjsvfsdf

#also no editing whatsoever we die like men #hope y'all like this dfhsjfds #sleepality #ts patton #ts remy #ts sleep #the cryptid speaks #the cryptid answers #dani

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marinaaniseed · 4 years

Text

Death on the stairs

Song: Death on the stairs from the album Up the Bracket by The Libertines.

Summary: After a mission where you pretend to be Bucky’s wife, it turns out he’d like to romance you for real.

Characters: Fake dating female reader x Bucky Barnes, fake dating Wanda Maximoff x Steve Rogers

Length: 1,441 words

A/N: Smut, broken bones, child trafficking, bisexual Bucky, suggestions of a poly relationship, implied Stucky, being high as a kite on painkillers. See here for what this is all about.

***

The dilapidated tower block you’re based in for this mission is less than ideal. Bucky had even described it as being ‘Worse than Bucharest’. That might be an exaggeration on his part. But, you needed to be close to the target, and this certainly was close. Closer than you would’ve liked, given that they lived above you.

Trudging up to the apartment you’re sharing with Bucky, under the guise of husband and wife, you pass a little boy in a stairwell who says “I hate people like you.” Welcome home, you think sarcastically.

Bucky is making a matchstick house on the coffee table when you arrive. He’s trying to get used to his vibranium arm, or more specifically, his vibranium fingers, so he practices delicate tasks to learn how to manipulate the digits and how much pressure he needs to apply.

Sometimes, at night, you let him practice on the delicate parts of your body.

Steve probably lies there in the room beneath you, grinding his teeth when he hears you trying to stifle your groans of pleasure.

In the apartment below, Wanda is masquerading as Steve’s wife. You doubt they even pretend to sleep in the same bed, Steve being a gentleman and taking the threadbare settee.

You make cheese omelettes for dinner. A change of diet would be pleasant, but you need to keep up the pretence of being poor. You know the two supersoldiers aren’t really eating enough, but they never complain.

The evening is quiet. You can hear cable TV coming from upstairs, but nothing untoward. The occupants are suspected of trafficking children to experiment on, just as Wanda was experimented on. You were surprised, at first, when she volunteered for the mission, but you understand now that she wants to ensure that what happened to her and her brother doesn’t continue.

Changing into your cornflower blue chemise, you ask Bucky if he’s coming to bed.

“Yes, give me 15 minutes,” he says but you watch as he taps, ever so gently in Morse code on the coffee table. No. Something wrong. You sleep.

That’s not a great sign, but you trust him. If something was desperately wrong, he would tell you to stay up, or he would tap against the floor for Steve to hear. He can be quite twitchy at times, his heightened senses picking up the smallest of changes.

***

Bucky hears them before you do. Of course he does.

He could’ve chosen a more strategic position for this face-off, but he chooses to wake you. Flesh hand over your mouth as the vibranium fingers tap against your ribs. Go. Balcony.

You know you only have seconds, no time for a weapon or extra clothes. Through the threadbare curtain, through the sliding doors, as quietly as you can. There’s no way you can make the jump left or right, the only way is down.

This. Is. Going. To. Hurt.

You clamber over the balcony to the side, swinging and hoping that you’ve judged it right, otherwise you’re going to land a lot further down than you’re likely to survive.

There’s a horrible crack when you land. Your right ankle won’t be going dancing anytime soon. Only through instinct, adrenaline and sheer force of will do you manage not to scream. It’s too far to drag yourself to the sliding door, but you manage to haul yourself up on your left leg, using the railing for support. Banging on the window, waking Steve, just as all hell breaks loose upstairs.

Wanda is launching him up to your balcony before he’s even had a good look at you. Then you, too, are being transported by her powers, onto the settee by the window where Steve had been asleep.

“Go,” you tell her. “Get them before they get to me.”

Guns are going off, other residents are screaming, the distinctive sound of vibranium - arm or shield, you’re not sure - clanging into things.

But these things are all secondary.

You’re in the good bit, the adrenaline, the shock, your body trying to protect you, to help you survive. The pain will come, in time, but for now you’re just numb.

Feet aren’t supposed to face that way, you know that.

Maybe you’ll get a vibranium ankle. That’d be cool. You and Bucky could be vibranium-limbed twins.

Surgical steel is much more likely, sadly.

Your chemise doesn’t offer much protection from the stiff breeze that blows through the open door. You hope it’s over soon, one way or the other. Give me a duvet or give me death.

***

Everything is warm and fuzzy when you wake up. You’ve got your duvet, and apparently some excellent drugs. You can’t feel a fucking thing, and it’s great. The mattress is a giant marshmallow, letting you sink into your own soft-focus, soft-feel world.

“Hello, Sleeping Beauty,” a voice says to your right. It’s Bucky. You glance at him. He looks soft and warm and fuzzy too. Not like a dangerous assassin. You want to squish him, but you don’t have the coordination to move any limbs.

“You’re in a hospital,” he tells you. That makes sense. “I know you’re pretty spaced out right now, so blink once if you want Wanda to try to read your thoughts so we can communicate without you trying to talk.”

It takes a while for your body and brain to sync, but eventually, you manage to blink.

“She wants to know where we are, what happened?” Wanda’s disembodied voice comes from the end of the bed.

“We’re home,” he tells you. “We got you on the quinjet and we got you home. They found us, realised who we were. Or more accurately, realised who I was. I guess my beard wasn’t that great.”

You laugh at this. Laugh like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard, which at this point, it is.

“She’s laughing because you could be talking about the beard on your face or the fact that you were using her as a pretend wife to hide your relationship with Steve,” Wanda clarifies.

“I was not!” he insists, blushing deeply. “What?” he asks Wanda, exasperated.

“She wants to know if you really wanted to do those things or if you were just trying to stay in character?”

You can’t see Wanda, but you can tell she’s blushing. A scarlet blush, for the Scarlet Witch. You can barely focus on Bucky, but you’re grinning dopily at him, and he wishes they’d just sedate you again.

“I’ll answer that when you can actually remember the answer. Anyway,” he continues. “You dived off the balcony in your nightie, breaking several bones in the process, but you managed to alert Steve and Wanda. It was fine, we took them out, rescued the kids they were abusing. Found some leads that we’re looking into, trying to find the rest of their network. You’ve got some metalwork, but all the best people do.”

That’s good, you think. At least I helped. At least I didn’t break my bones for nothing. I wonder if everyone else was unscathed?

Wanda relays that question to Bucky. You’re not sure why she isn’t answering herself, but that’s alright. Bucky’s voice is soothing. Soft and warm.

“Nothing as dramatic as your ankle. Steve was pretty traumatised by seeing you in your babydoll, babydoll,” he answers with a grin.

You don’t have anymore questions for now, so you lie in silence, taking in the wonder of all the bright lights above you, and Bucky’s soft, warm, fuzzy face.

He starts tapping on the mattress and Wanda goes to get them both coffee. The tapping stops when Bucky realises you have no idea what he’s trying to relay to you, your brain’s as soft as your pillow thanks to all the painkillers they’ve pumped into you.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he whispers against your ear. “I do want to be with you, properly. Those noises you make when I touch ya… shit doll, makes me hard just thinking about the noises you’d make if I was actually inside ya. When we get you outta here, I’m gonna show you all the things I think about doing to ya.”

It’s hot and breathy and probably would be arousing if you weren’t as high as a kite. Your brows knit together in confusion.

“I don’t need Wanda to translate that,” he says with a smile. “I only didn’t wanna tell ya in front of her, thought she might explode. And as for Steve… he don’t mind sharin’, if you don’t?”

A warm hand rests on yours, and you can feel yourself slipping back into sleep.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” he tells you.

#366songshots #wanda maximoff #Winter Soldier #husbandandwife #Female reader #stevebucky #steve rogers #scarlet witch #captain america #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #james buchanan barnes

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