#he gets more freckle clusters though!
Note
Imagine Cal getting to Koboh and immediately getting a sunburn cuz he's ginger and doesn't spend much time outside in the sun (especially planets with more intense sunlight)
It's like. No freckles because of Bracca making him soooo pasty. And yeah a planet or two here and there with some sun, giving him freckles but gosh man sometimes you look paler than Merrin. Koboh is the first planet that's he's spent one, more than a couple days on and two, spent more than a couple days on while *outside.* By the time he makes it to the saloon from the Mantis on day 1, the man's already peeling.
#asked and answered#cal kestis#his complexion is not made for proper tanning he just burns#he gets more freckle clusters though!
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PICKING UP THE ———- PIECES -———
ch.4
a/n - took ages cuz school is kicking my ass. somewhat sensitive content in terms of mental health but nothing that bad, nothing big really happens this chapter, creds to cafekitsune for dividers.
ch. 1
ch. 2
ch. 3
ch. 5
ch. 6
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Your body, mind and soul are pulsating, a nauseating wave of dread overcoming you with each heartbeat.
“Come on, just fucking do it!”
“I can’t! Shit!”
“Please! Fuck!”
“I can’t…”
“Bug… Listen to me… I know it’s cruel… But you have to do this-”
“No… No, I can’t, Soren. I can’t.”
“Please, Bug… Please… I’m so sorry…”
You can still close your eyes and picture the way back to the home you shared with him. It could be a million miles far out but you’d still find the way. You’ll go back soon, trace your fingertips over the walls you scrubbed clean - place fresh flowers where he lays, if you’re able to bring yourself to.
So, just breathe in, breathe out.
Clad in the rugged clothes you are now shakily fidgeting with the ends of, you walk through the open door and merge with the scattering of people across the bar’s floor.
First time going to one of these things.
Why did you come here? What, in god’s name, were you thinking?
It was supposed to be a farewell of sorts. A final look over the people of Jackson.
They are the ones you never felt compelled to get to know. The half-healed-wounds, cuts incessantly reopened by the fragments of all that was lost in the turmoil, beared deep within. None of you will ever stop carrying those shards with you, though they cut you up from the inside-out.
The one thing that keeps you all entwined, like the roots of an aspen tree, is love and loss, heart-wrenchingly deep. But these people were capable of letting themselves be free.
You do not want to forget. You do not want to stay here, where the edges become blunt with time and comfort; you’ve become a drunkard on the pain. To be without it leaves you with deafening guilt, and thoughts so dense that they consume your mind wholly, flooding out all else.
They buzz, faces livened by the gentle orange glow of the lighting. You watch from outside the harmony and stop your eyes when they discover, among the many clusters of people, three familiar faces.
Ellie, Dina and Jesse sat at a table on rusted foldable chairs, carrying glasses of alcohol and a rhythmic laughter. She looked undeniably breathtaking, Ellie.
Your recollection of her would present the least cracks. She is the one you spent the most time with, got to know the best - in more ways than one.
But she made your chest ache. You joked and giggled, but within the depths of the interludes, you felt the sinking dread that takes over when you let yourself forget the ache. And watching her from a distance, when she was so blissfully unaware of the effect she had on you, made you feel both empty and consumed with regret, because you should not be wasting your emotions and time on such an insignificant infatuation.
She could up and leave without a second thought only minutes after making you breathless. She gently lifted you out of your thoughts and then plunged you back into their murky waters like it was nothing.
You can sit there and pretend your eyes don’t sting as you chew at the flesh of your bottom lip, but they’re bloodshot, and you’re blinking erratically.
Fuck it. Might as well go over, right? It’s not like you’re gonna get the chance to again.
So, with hesitant steps, you exit the comfort of the shadowy corner and venture out into the open, making your way through the labyrinth of bodies to get to Ellie. Her face gradually comes into focus and you notice the endearing pink tinge in the freckle-spattered apples of her cheeks as she grins. She's tipsy. Maybe that will make this easier to push through.
Shaky hands - you focus on seizing back control over them before tapping her shoulder gently. And maybe it's the sentiment of this being your final goodbye, but the warmth that radiates through her hoodie, the soft wisps of baby hairs at the base of her neck, and the dazed look in her eyes when they meet yours, woven with fine forest green threads and dilated pupils, all make your stomach churn with longing.
"Hey," her voice is barely above a whisper against the deep sound of Jesse's laughter, gentle and inviting.
"Hey."
She pulls a chair closer and nods to it, so you sit quietly, pretending to ignore the glances Ellie sends your way. She clears her throat.
"Uh... Sorry, I left in such a hurry. I mean, I would've, you know, stayed, but- if that's what you would've wanted-"
"It's good. You're good."
God, her obvious nervousness gives you some sick sort of satisfaction.
Her lips part, and you know she wants to ask you something more, but the words die in her throat and she turns to face her laughing friends with a scratch of her neck.
“Would you have… Fuck, never mind,” she mutters, leaning forward, avoiding your gaze, but it’s okay because you’re avoiding hers too.
You hesitate, “… Wanted you to stay?”
And she finally looks at you, the quiet between you hanging heavy. She’s desperately trying to gauge your reaction.
“… Yeah… Would you?”
“… Sure.”
You wish you could talk to her about it, but talking about it is so fucking tiring - with no idea where to start or where to stop, and so much you know you’ll regret saying to the point of nausea.
She nods, a small smile playing on her lips, and you can tell she's trying to feign thoughtfulness despite her clouded mind finally being offered relief. That's a definite green light.
Between the lulls in conversation and bouts of laughter, a whole other world of unspoken affection builds between the two of you. Ellie's hand finds the hem of your sleeve and fidgets with it, fingertips grazing your skin too often to be dismissed as accidental before she eventually gives in and interlocks your fingers with hers.
Your stomach feels warm and your heart feels full, digging up the confidence to trace small, gentle circles into the roughened skin of her hand with your thumb. Maybe the blush that's deepening behind the mottle of freckles shows that the genuineness of this made it's way through your touch and to her.
You're going to miss her; you cannot deny that.
And, god, you wish that you could stay stagnant in this moment forever, but conversations drag on and the clock ticks tirelessly.
The thought of becoming attached to anyone again claws cruelly at your skull; it skews up your insides and churns up the acid in your stomach.
The thought of getting too close is terrifying; you can’t risk it, you cannot bear the loss. Never wanna go through it again. Never wanna feel this pain.
“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Soren.”
“I don’t- I can’t turn into them, Bug, please… Please don’t let me…”
You’re already panicking.
Staggered, you rise to your feet, and Ellie's widened, bewildered eyes shoot to yours when you rip your hand out of her hold. Maybe they remain on you as you rush haphazardly out of Joel's place and back to yours, but you'll never know because you don't spare her a glance over your shoulder.
Ellie’s nails are jagged and short, the skin behind them red and angry. It hurts, but she keeps biting, trying desperately to exert some of her fear.
She hopes others don’t notice her change in demeanour following your sudden departure, since even that went unnoticed amidst the festivities of the evening, and judging by the slack-jawed, barely-present faces surrounding her, she had no reason to fret.
The look on your face was deeper than discomfort, beyond the realm of any possible effects of her touch. It was pained. It was worrisome.
So worrisome, that she’s still sat in the same spot half an hour later, hunched over and chewing up her non-existent nails, in deep concentration. Maybe you felt overwhelmed. Maybe she was coming on too strong.
And she can’t bear it. So, she gets up almost as abruptly as you did and pats her jacket pockets in search of apology weed, in case she pushed a boundary earlier (it will make a piece of her die, but she’ll suggest staying friends), before she makes her way out in spite of the slurred sound of her friends calling out to her.
Ellie powers through the harsh cruelty of Jackson’s winter to get to your dingy little home. The sight of her warm breath whirling as it wafted up from her lips looks like a ribbon dance, but her mind is racing so intensely that she can’t admire it.
Eventually, she arrives at your doorstep. It’s always an unnerving sight - not a single sign of life escapes your home; from outside, it looks abandoned. Even more so than usual.
Three timid knocks to reflect her hesitation, and on the last thump, the door swings open upon contact with her knuckles.
Fuck. Still gotta fix that lock, huh.
The room is pooled with darkness that is tinged blue by the moon’s glow seeping in. But even amid the darkness, Ellie’s heart has dropped to the pit out of her stomach, because she can tell it’s sparse; all the trinkets and belongings once scattered around are replaced by designs imitating their shapes within the fine layer of dust clinging to each surface. It’s clean, too clean, and most of all, you aren’t here.
You are not here.
“Hey!”
She steps in, eyes darting around the room, hoping desperately to find you laying somewhere.
“I brought weed!”
An eternal whirring interlaces with the silence; the quiet rhythmic hum of your absence, and it’s jarring.
Then, she notices it, sitting crumpled, corner beneath the base of a book, upon your desk. A rough sheet of paper.
“ To whoever finds this,
sorry bout Star? Joey
Blossom Shimmer? the horse. ”
Fuck. You left Jackson.
And you still don’t know any of the damn horse’s names.
#Spotify#ellie tlou#ellie williams#ellie x reader#ellie fluff#tlou2#ellie the last of us#ellie x fem reader#fanfic#ellie williams fanfic#ellie x y/n#ellie williams x female reader#ellie williams x reader#ellie x you#ellie williams angst#the last of us#tlou part 2#tlou fanfiction#tlou
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Werewolf x Reader
"Kornerstone Bakery"
Myron Arches [Werewolf Male]
Word Count: 7,531
SFW
Summary: Moving to a new town without a support network can be terrifying at times, sure, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t plenty of things to do and see as you get settled in. And finding a bakery just a short distance from your home may just end up being one of the best finds so far, especially with the cute guy working the counter when you go in. Endearingly shy, you decide it’s certainly worth the effort to get to know him – and all the fresh goods are a win too.
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The moment you swing the door open you know that this bakery is about to become one of your favorite spots in town.
The chime of the gentle bell knocked by the door is welcoming in its own right, but it is nothing compared to the wave of smells that greet you – though it is a hard enough feat to beat the smell of fresh baked goods at all, you figure. Still, the glass display cases are lined with loaves of bread and other sweets. The cinnamon rolls that still have steam rolling off them having already caught your eye.
A gentle voice snaps you from your hungered window shopping and you look up to the register to meet the gaze of the man who greeted you. A lean man, with a thick curl of light blonde hair and more freckles than you could ever hope to count is standing there wearing an apron covered in flour. He even has a bit smudged across his cheek, but you cannot be sure he even notices.
He’s sunshine, very cute sunshine incarnate, you decide as you step up to meet him at the register.
“First time here?” His voice is just as soft as the rest of his features, and you almost swear that the accompanying smile makes you feel warmer than the bread must be.
“That obvious?”
“Small town, so we get a lot of familiar faces.” he chimes, wiping his hands with a damp rag before setting it aside.
You smile, nodding along and slipping your hands into your pockets. “I just moved in about a week ago, but today’s really the first day that I've been out exploring.”
This seems to catch his interest and he tilts his head as he looks you over. “Hopefully we’ve made a good first impression then – the town, I mean.” The young an seems to flush at his own words, stumbling before shaking it away and looking back to you. “Any ideas what you want?”
You hum, mulling it over and leaning back to take one more look across the display case. Though you already know what you want first. “For now, just a cinnamon roll, and I may grab a few other things before I leave.” There are a small cluster of empty tables off to your left, and that should give you plenty of time to check in with friends, and maybe check out the cute baker some more too.
The man in question steps away for a moment before bringing you one of the cinnamon rolls from the fresh batch, shooting you a quick smile as he does and waving away your offered card. “You can pay before you leave, how about that. So, if you do get anything else it’ll just be on one transaction.”
You agree before wandering over to a table while the baker turns back around to continue cleaning up the store. You almost walk right into a chair and stumble past it for a moment thanks to the way you are too busy devouring the baked treat in your hands. You choose not to turn around, least the man is watching you. Lips pursed as you stand there for a moment thinking about what had happened before finally slumping into the seat with a pleased groan.
It doesn’t take long after that to lose yourself in your own little world, with the thrum of soft acoustic songs playing in the background and a cinnamon roll that has no business being as good as it was already finished. You’re in the middle of replying to one of your friends and contemplating how many more sweets you might be able to handle when you’re caught off guard by the chime of the door, eyes flicking up on instinct. In the threshold stands a man who bears a slight resemblance to the baker, but bulkier and his hair is shaved down to almost his head, with a scruffy beard still obviously growing in. He shoots you a quick wink and you turn back to your phone instead, not all that interested. Seemingly unphased he cups his hands around his mouth, something you can still see in your peripheral, before he yells at the top of his lungs. “Myron!”
There is a shuffling from the back where the cute baker had vanished just a few minutes prior. Now he looks decidedly less amused, face in a scowl as he stares down the gleeful man. “I have a customer, Joel, please keep your voice down.”
It’s a sentiment that you echo in your head, your ears still ringing as you rub away at one, trying to clear up the sharp noise in vain. You look to the baker, Myron, for only a moment and he flashes you an apologetic smile before turning back to the older man. “Uncle Jess isn’t here,” he drawls, stepping forward and keeping his voice low, likely hoping to lead by example.
It doesn’t work.
Joel still speaks as loudly as he can, over exaggerating each word. “Well tell him I can’t work this Monday.”
You can almost feel the relief radiating off Myron, but Jole apparently does not – or at the least he ignores it. “You always call out after a full moon; I don’t even know why he asks you to be here for opening.”
“Because, my sweet little baby brother,” his words drip with condescension as he steps forward, pinching at Myron’s cheek as he speaks, “you’re the one who wanted to keep the bakery open the day after a full moon. And Uncle Jess doesn’t want to come in those days.”
It’s that same babying voice you’ve heard before growing up, but Myron brushes his hand away with a warning growl. “I handle it every full moon and he day after, I can do it again.” He says nothing more, turning his back on Joel before busying himself, clearly not interested in hashing the conversation out any further.
For his part, Joel seems to take the hint this time, or maybe his brother’s actions just cause him to lose interest, but he only shrugs it off and turns to walk out the door without further incident.
You’re watching him leave when you hear Myron speak next.
“I’m sorry about my brother.”
You wince, realizing your disapproval had likely been written all over your face and you wave his apology away. “I know how it goes sometimes. But” you say, trying to figure out if you want to finish your sentence, finger thrumming against the case of your phone, “do you guys need any help around here?”
“Usually it’s fine, but when you have a family business run by werewolves then full moons can get a little out of hand.”
“Can’t be worse than middle schooler werewolves, can it?”
Myron scrunches his face up in thought, and you can catch the little smile just barely visible. “I think it depends on which of my brothers gets involved.”
This does at least leave you laughing for a moment, and when you do sneak another glace you can see a far more satisfied look on the werewolf’s face. Truthfully you hadn’t even realized he was one, but there were plenty of species who passed as human at first, and most people didn’t make a big show of telling everyone. “Well, if you guys ever need a little help around here, I’m not gonna be catching full moon fever anytime soon.”
“A little bit of help with the register on those days might be nice,” he comments. “But I wouldn’t want to keep you from actual job.”
“I work from home, and my schedule can be flexible, I don’t think helping out here every now and again would do much damage.” You point to the empty plate in front of you with a grin, “I’ll even take payment in cinnamon rolls.”
Myron does laugh at that, and you notice the way his hand seems to cover his face as he turns away to do so. It’s becoming obvious that he’s a shy person, but that’s even more attractive to you. “I think we can work something out – but I'm sure you still have stuff to worry about with moving. So why don’t you call the store when you get everything squared away and we can talk more about it?”
You agree, telling him your name before finally moving from your seat to clean up and buy a loaf of bread for home. It isn’t hard to see the pink tint to his checks the entire time you’re checking out, but you have a bit of mercy on him and only buy one more loaf of bread before waving goodbye and heading home.
Maybe it’s because of how excited you are to spend a little extra time at Kornerstone Bakery with Myron (as if you had not been going down there every other day for the last two weeks under the pretense of just picking up snacks), but the day had finally come.
You had spoken with Myron again while the bakery was slow the week prior about lending a hand now that you were settled into a rhythm with your job and life in your new town. The offer still stood for you to help out three days a month: the day before, the day of, and the day after a full moon. The first two would be easy, relatively, but the third was probably going to bring a lot of cranky werewolves to the door.
Myron himself would likely be tired and wanted to focus instead on baking, seeing as it was usually their busiest day of the month.
If everything went well enough you had even offered to help out more during their busier seasons and times, but there had been little discussion of that. Granted, that was more a slightly selfish attempt at getting closer to the curly haired baker.
Over the last few visits to Kornerstone, you had quickly realized something in particular; if Myron wasn’t in Bakery Mode – as his uncle had put it – then he was an incredibly shy individual, more prone to hiding in the back flustered than shooting back any flirty remark.
His uncle Jess had actually been there the second time that you visited and had borne witness to your attempts at flirting with a far too amused grin. The moment that Myron had stuttered out an excuse and gone off to hide in the back, leaving you standing there with a confused expression, he had been quick to approach.
“Don’t take it personally,” he had told you, patting your shoulder sympathetically. “You didn’t do anything wrong; he just can’t handle someone as pretty as you flirtin’ with him. Poor thing went off to hide in the back before you could see just how close to a tomato his face can get.”
You had given him an apologetic smile, hand hooked to the fabric of your top and thumbing at it worriedly. “I didn’t realize he’d react like that, wasn’t trying to make him uncomfortable, ya know?”
“I doubt you did. I came to work the day after your first visit and had to listen to him gushing about this cute person who had been in the store, ‘fore his brother had shown up makin’ a right ass of himself.”
Well, that had almost certainly been you. Given the mischievous glint in Jess's eyes and the way he would later try to get Myron alone with you each time following that visit, he knew for sure.
Jess himself was nice enough. The bakery had been offered to him originally seeing as it was owned by his parents - Myron’s paternal grandparents whom you had yet to meet - but he didn’t want that responsibility. What he did want was to help out as he wished until he was sure Myron would be okay on his own, then move out to a larger ranch. He had certainly picked up the country accent during the years he had lived away from the state, and it was sticking around. It suited him though, you realized.
But Jess wasn’t going to be there as a buffer for Myron to hide behind today, he was going to have to interact with you head-on while he showed you the ropes. After all, this was your training run, and you had been up far earlier than you had any business being in anticipation. Today was supposed to be a slow day, gearing up before tomorrow which would be the day prior to the full moon. A day most of the werewolf population started getting a bit antsy and everyone else seemed to catch a secondhand fever.
And Myron, for his part, tried his best to keep as professional as he could when you showed up at the back door. The front of the store still dark with the blinds drawn. Daylight had yet to break, but it wouldn’t take long by now, with the first hints of the sun's rays already threatening to shine just over the tree line.
“How long have you been here?” You had noticed immediately that you could already smell fresh bread and his apron was once more covered in flour until you couldn’t see the pattern.
“An hour or two – I prep as much as I can after closing, and then while the first batches are baking I keep prepping for the rest of the day.” He waved you inside, shutting the door behind you in a half-graceful attempt at a sidestep.
You said nothing about it, but it proved harder to bite back the amused smile on your lips. Having a little mercy first thing in the morning, you instead changed the subject to what you would be doing for the day. And it was simple enough. You had worked fast food before, and it was a simple POS system with all the prices and products preprogramed in. What was in warmed and sealed off display case was all the product they had, and if that ran out Myron could either give an estimate on a new batch or that was all. Though the latter really only applied to the cakes they sold – a different cake every day, and only one of each. If anyone gave you trouble then all you had to do was get Myron from the back, but he would likely be up there with you for much of the day.
After all, it was supposed to be a painfully slow day. There were only so many times you could clean the same machines or mop the floors, do the dishes. And he had assured you that more often than not on shifts like this you would both be sitting in the little office (where he could see the door) or you could help him prep.
But before the doors opened for the day, he had one more surprise for you, not that he had said it in as many words, losing his voice before he had gotten the sentiment across and motioned for you to sit.
So, sit you do, at his awkward request. He motions for you to cover your eyes and with nothing more than a raised brow you comply.
It takes a minute before you begin to realize what the surprise is, when the sweet scent of a cinnamon roll begins to grow closer. It becomes hard to hide your smile almost immediately, but you manage to keep yourself still just long enough – an impressive feat when you hear the clink of a plate against the table.
“Okay, you can go ahead and look.”
When you opened your eyes, you glanced up at Myron first, who flushes and looks away quickly from where he sits across from you with his own cinnamon roll. Yours is sat in front of you, steam still billowing off the sweet in plumes. Your grin was impossible to miss, and you knew that you were practically vibrating.
“When we met you said you’d help out for cinnamon rolls – I'm still paying you – but I thought I could make us a batch to enjoy before work.”
Your eyes lit up and you looked straight at him once more, “there’s more?”
“I made a whole dozen just for us,” he assures, opting instead to dig into his own while his face burns red, trying instead to play it off or just ignore it.
You take a moment, smiling at him and deciding on your next course of action before brushing aside teasing him for a moment. He still needed to have his wits enough to work for the day. “Thank you, Myron, this was really sweet of you.”
Your sincerity still seems to turn the flush of his cheeks even redder and he only nods, shoving one more bite of his cinnamon roll into his mouth to avoid answering and stumbling over his words.
The rest of the day goes by rather uneventfully, and it isn’t hard for the pair of you to fall into a a simple flow. With a hiccup here and there, that Myron is quick enough to dispel with little issue, the day is at a close faster than you can even realize.
You’re in the middle of finishing taking stock of any items left when Myron steps up behind you almost silently. His ability to do so keeps surprising you and when he clears his throat to catch your attention you jump, spinning around on your heel in surprise.
Myron apologizes, backing up for a moment. “I'm about to close up if you want to head home.”
“You don’t want help after I finish this up?”
He shakes his head, sliding the pages of inventory that you had set aside so far. “One of the other shop owners is going to stop by and grab whatever’s left and hand it out to anyone who needs it. I’m just gonna stay here and prep. But you’re going to want to go back home and get some rest, tomorrow this is really gonna pick up.”
You nod, finishing up what you’re doing before bidding him farewell and heading out so you can once more make your way home.
But on the way down the sidewalk you stop in your tracks, glancing over at the dim lights of a small bookshop you’ve passed regularly.
Jess had mentioned it in passing, giving you a little nudge as he spoke, that Myron devoured books like he needed them to breathe.
Swaying in place for a moment you almost continue your way before the thought gets the better of you and you’re turning right back around, making one small glance to the hours on the door just to ensure that they were open before slipping inside.
It’s a quiet and rustic little shop, illuminated with dim, antique lamps along the walls and shelves. “One moment,” you hear an elderly woman calling from somewhere you’re unable to see. Only a heartbeat later she appears from around the corner with a warm smile. “How can I help you today?”
You point your thumb behind you nervously. “I was just passing outside, and I wanted to stop in and see what you guys had in stock.”
“A little something for yourself or someone else, dear?”
You could feel the smile on your face before you even spoke. “A gift for someone else. Uh, Myron at the bakery is letting me help out a bit, so I was thinking about getting him something.” You shrug, slightly embarrassed at your admittance. “You know, for the upcoming full moon. I've heard they suck.”
The older woman before you seems to have a knowing smile as she nods along, and the moment you finish it becomes clear why. “So, you’re the little thing that Jess was telling me about – he said you might stop by.”
It feels like the tables turn when you can feel the heat rising to your cheeks.
“Do you know what you’re looking for or need some help?”
It was then that you realized you had little information about what genre he would even be interested in, or what he did not already own – which was quite the collection from what you understood. “Some help, if you could. Yes, ma’am.”
“Lucky you, Jess comes here to try and steal my homemade cookies, and that man tends to run his mouth over everything. He gossips more than my teenage grandchildren. Oh, and that sweet boy, Myron, he shops in here so much I already know what he has his eyes on.” She talks while wandering behind the counter. You can hear her shuffling items around before pulling a book and sliding it across for you to see. “It’s the next book in a series he reads, I hid it when I got it in waiting to see if you’d come inside – he likes buying his books in the store too much to order them online.”
You run your finger along the spine, turning it over to skim over the summary, before you look over to the woman in front of you. She still sports a self-satisfied smile and a knowing look in her eyes. You thank her quietly, tucking the book close to your chest and fishing your form of payment out. Leaving the store in a mad dash, too embarrassed to stick around past your quick thanks.
It won't be tomorrow that you give it to him, but it does seem like the perfect gift for the day after the full moon to pick his mood up.
When you arrive at the bakery the next day the sight is almost enough to turn you right back home and go grab it, because Myron looks miserable when you walk through the door. You find him sitting in the dining area, arms crossed and head buried between them.
Jess is diligently kneading the next batch of bread and glances up at you, only shaking his head before continuing with what he is doing. He himself isn’t looking too hot.
You knew plenty of werewolves before, but you hadn’t really been close to any of them and as such had never really seen the effects a full moon had on them. It sucks, you don’t have to ask them, it’s clear as day on their face – and tomorrow is apparently supposed to be even worse.
Slowly you make your way over to where Myron is resting, and he lifts his head to look up at your approach. Despite his lackluster state of being he still gives you a small smile and straightens up to greet you. Giving him a sympathetic smile, you take a seat across from him. “Morning sunshine.”
He at least seems amused by it. “Morning, ready for your first real day?”
“Ready as I think I can be.”
He seems to brighten up just a minute before finally pushing himself to his feet, motioning you to follow.
It becomes the start of what you can only define as a... tense two days. When you had been warned that most of the town was going to be crabbier than normal you hadn’t realized just what that entailed. Most got angry over the prices being the exact same thing they had always been and tried to bully you into a discount, thinking they could do so since you were little more than a new hire.
Jess had stepped up to help you for a moment when one patron raised his voice and began to cuss, but you had only asked him to step back before you had turned right back around and ripped into the first werewolf that gave you an issue. Snapping back until you could imagine the man’s tail between his legs, he apologized. It seemed that nobody had expected such a response and even Myron had poked his head out as soon as he had heard the commotion begin. In stunned silence Jess had just nodded his head in approval and gone back to hiding in the back with his nephew. Better to leave you alone for the most part, despite what Myron had initially hoped – wanting to check in on you. But there was no call for concern, you took up the role easy enough and despite the slew of angry customers that tried to get their way, you handled all of them without real issue.
Almost all of them.
One woman in particular had stopped you in your tracks. She was pretty, sure, but the way she held up her nose at you and seemed to snap before you even had the chance to greet her had you barely suppressing a glare. “I want Myron to take my order, he always does it.”
“He’s busy baking, but I would be more than happy to assist you.” it was probably the sweetest you had sounded all day, but it didn’t deter the woman before you.
“Just go ask him, he’ll do it.”
The dismissive tone in her voice had you clenching your teeth and narrowing your eyes. “No.”
The words didn’t seem to register with her for a moment before she turned her full attention to you. “I told you to go get Myron.”
“And I told you he was busy. I was brought on to assist during the full moon; today at Kornerstone Bakery you order with me or you step out of line and allow the people behind you to have their turn.”
She seemed surprised for a moment before she laughed, a faux over-sugared laugh that grated your ears the moment it began. “Oh, you just don’t know who I am-”
“I don’t care who you are,” you had snapped. You knew Myron didn’t have a partner, or sisters, and this woman certainly wasn’t his mother. Jess had told you all as much and let you know that none of their family stopped by the bakery on these days – more than happy to avoid the raging hormones. “Please order or I'm going to need to ask you once more to step out of line.”
You might only be a human, but you could bet you were putting the werewolves of the town to shame for a moment with how you were growling out the words, tensing as you looked up at the taller woman. You were ready to pounce if push came to shove.
Too busy staring the woman down – who was returning your look just as fiercely – you failed to register the quieted murmurs spreading through the line behind her.
Noticing the questionable lull outside, both Jess and Myron stuck their heads out, before Myron just as quickly ducked further out of sight, hoping to go unnoticed. He would have headed all the way back, but the drive to keep an eye on you seemed to win out and he stayed put, barely noticing Jess petting his shoulder as he stepped out.
“Abigale, always a pleasure to see you.” he offered, walking up next to you.
She ignored his greeting entirely, skipping right back to her former demand. “I want Myron handling my order.”
Jess only sighed and shook his head, motioning to you. “Our newest worker is perfectly capable of taking your order. Myron is busy.”
You hold your tongue, but you can swear that if looks really could kill then woman before you would have dropped by now.
She seems to coo at him before shaking her head. “I’m not moving and I'm not ordering until he comes to at least say hello like a gentleman.”
Jess looks uncomfortable with the idea, and from the corner of your eye you can see Myron hiding, seeming to go pale at her words. Before the man before you has a chance to speak you interrupt; against you better judgment, this still isn’t your establishment. But this lady gives even you the creeps, and it’s painfully obvious neither of the men you work for wants to give in to her demands, though Jess looks about to fold just to get rid of her. “Move out of the line or I’m going to remove you myself.”
That certainly draws everybody’s attention.
“Excuse you?”
“Leave.” Your tone holds no chance for argument, and you straighten up, looking her dead in the eyes as you cross your arms. “Myron has work to do, this establishment has money to make and people to serve, and you, ma’am,” you hiss, “are actively hindering those objectives.” If there was one thing that corporate email had at least bothered to teach you it was articulation. “So, once more, leave.”
“You sure you’re gonna have a job after this little outburst, sweetheart?”
“I am here because I wanted to be of assistance, this job or the lack of are in no way a determination of my living situation or a hinderance of my income.” You tilt your head down but hold your gaze, leveling her with a look your mother would weep in pride upon seeing. “I don’t know how they do business here normally, but I do not tolerate disrespect like this. And as I am the one taking orders, I am telling you now that your order is not going to be taken at this establishment. Not today. Remove yourself or I will do it for you.”
You can feel the anxiety now, the way it seems to roll off of everyone else in the store. For a brief second you wonder if maybe you should have cared who she is – and then you recall the way Myron had shrunk back at her demand and any hesitance you might feel is squashed that very second.
She watches you for a moment, weighing her options and eyes flashing, before she turns on her heels and slams her way back out the front door.
“Should I actually be worried about that?’ you ask absentmindedly, still not looking up at Jess, you own eyes trained on the fleeting form of a woman you can only describe as having a tantrum in the street.
“I wouldn’t suggest going outside during a full moon anytime soon at least,” he quips, leaning down next to you. “I probably should have warned you about that one, but we can talk more after shift is over.”
You shake your head for a moment, tutting before turning to motion the next customer (they step forward carefully, like you’ll jump their throat for it). “Full moons; honestly.”
You can hear the weary sigh that Jess heaves. “No, that’s just Abigale.”
The rest of your shift seems to go by without incident, something you’re amazed at because now that it’s your official second day and the bakery was nearing closing everyone seemed to get worse with the dawning of the full moon drawing closer. There were quarrels between patrons, but a quick snap in their direction seemed enough to stop them – at least after someone exchanged a few hushed words with them.
It was uneasy to say the least.
Appreciated, in the sense that it made your job far easier, but it remained uneasy all the same.
Once more, faster than you could realize, the last customer had wandered out the door and the bakery was closed down – earlier than normal given the events of tonight were already beginning to have their effect.
Jess and Myron stood off to the side speaking in hushed voices while you wiped the counter down, and the moment that the curly haired baker glanced over at you in concern you could feel the pit drop in your stomach. With your little show earlier you well and truly might have just screwed over any chance you had with him, you realized. You stepped back and slouched, sighing in aggravation as quietly as you could with your body facing the tightly shut blinds and locked door.
“Hey, you good?”
To your surprise, it was Myron who had approached you – you had halfway been expecting Jess with a quick “sorry, but maybe just stick to being a customer” spiel. Instead, you winced before turning to face the man who had stepped up behind you.
He still didn’t look the best, but you could certainly notice the way his features were beginning to change. His teeth seemed just a bit sharper, one fang beginning to poke out from his lip, with the hair on his arms becoming more prominent, joined by some new stubble, his ears having slowly become pointed over the hours. Most noticeably, his eyes almost seemed like they were glowing in the dim light of the lobby.
But maybe it wasn’t the best time to ogle the man that was currently your boss when you very well might be getting fired. Blurting the first words out of your mouth you quickly curse your lack of a filter now that the day is done. “How badly did I fuck up with her?”
He seemed taken aback by that before shaking his head. “I really did just want to check in with you first, I know today was a lot.”
You hesitated in answering before leaning with your back against the display case. “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle with a few strict words, mostly, but going off what your uncle said earlier I feel like I might have a professional hit out on me now.”
You could see the way his shoulders sagged. “Yeah, that was Abigale. She doesn’t really come in days near the full moon, much less on it, so I didn’t really think of warning you about her.”
“So, what’s her deal?”
He seemed to think for a moment, shifting until he leaned back against the display next to you, though he still kept his distance. “Ex girlfriend, actually.”
“Jesus, what’d you do, cheat?”
“No,” he huffed, “but she did. And I dumped her. But her dad is rich as hell and spoiled the life out of her, so she didn’t take me being the one breaking things off well at all.” He shrugged at the memory before closing his eyes and tilting his head back. “She has to be the one to decide when things end. So, she takes every chance she can to get near me, and nobody really stops her.”
“Because daddy dearest always gets her what she wants? Including a get out of jail free card for any consequences she might face.” You hazard, looking over to him with a sympathetic glance.
Myron doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t really need to. You know the answer.
“So, on a scale of 1 to 10, how fired am I for basically telling her to fuck off?”
This does work, and for the first time since meeting him you actually see him laugh. Really laugh, without trying to hide it.
“You’re not fired, not even close. But I don’t think we’re opening the bakery tomorrow after all. I’m gonna take the day off before she tries to show up again.” He motions over to Jess, who is not so stealthily watching the pair of you from the office. “His idea, which also means he gets to handle closing.”
You make a small sound of acknowledgment before furrowing your brows. “Oh.”
This catches Myron’s attention, and he glances over to you. (Jess is leaning out of his chair to hear you too, but you both ignore the creaking sound.)
Embarrassed at what you were going to admit you find yourself digging your hands back into your pockets, unable to meet his gaze any longer. “I was gonna bring you a gift tomorrow, but I guess now I have to wait to do that until the next time I visit.”
Myron stares straight ahead as well, cheeks flushed red once more before he steals a glance and shuffles forwards. “You got me something?”
He seems utterly amazed at the mere idea, and despite your disappointment at now needing to wait, you still find it endearing.
“Well, I wanted to get something for my favorite werewolf.”
“You’ve known me a little over two weeks.”
“And yet you’re my favorite werewolf.”
It’s Jess’s voice that breaks through next. “Take a compliment, kid!”
Myron just shoots him an unimpressed look before glancing back over at you.
It’s then you decide that the full moon has 1 major benefit – Myron seems a bit slower to run off the moment you fluster him, and you’re enjoying it. So instead, you choose to take advantage of that fact. “Well, maybe you could walk with me back to my place and I can give it to you tonight?”
This however stops the poor man in his tracks immediately and you swear he almost chokes on air, playing it off as an itch in his throat as he motions that he is fine. He is, in fact, decidedly not fine.
“Or I can just bring it by in a few days.” you offer, trying to salvage whatever was left of the conversation. You chance a look over to Jess but then man is far too busy laughing silently to himself to be of any use.
It takes Myron a moment more before he finally manages to respond. “I wouldn’t mind. But I just- I.” he stops, hand at the back of his neck and groans, trying to force out the words he wants. It’s with one deep breath that they finally seems to line them up the way he wants, and starts again, slowly. “But with how late it is, I’d probably change forms soon even if I tried putting it off, so would you mind if I shifted before we started that way?”
He looks nervous just asking, but it’s like wires clicking in your brain and you know that wolfed out Myron is something you absolutely need to see. As soon as possible.
Managing to keep your cool (you don’t, but he’s too flustered to notice) you agree, offering to wait outside in the meantime. You don't need to ask to figure that he would likely be just as shy about transforming as he was about most other things, so this offer saves him from even having to ask. You don’t mind waiting for him as is.
You really don’t mind waiting for him when you finally hear the click of the door and watch as a large wolf shimmies out and into the back lot, before standing to his full height.
Myron is attractive enough in his human form. But his wolf form is downright stunning, and you’re certain it’s something you want the chance to see more of in the future. The base of his coat is a fluffy, soft cream or off white, dappled with light brown marks scattered across his body, faint enough they’re hard to see at first - you can only guess it’s how his freckles translate over. But what draws your eyes is the pale oranges that decorate his fur, blending seamlessly with the cream color; they adorn his snout, and his ears where they sit the brightest, they stretch from the top of his head all the way to his tail which you see swishing. The way his amber eyes really do look as though they’re glowing now.
It's the swishing movement that finally breaks your trance and you feel a little flustered at being caught blatantly looking him over. You know you have because even in this form he is just as easy to read. Instead trying to break the tension you blurt the first thing that comes to your mind once more: “you’re like a lightly toasted marshmallow.” You snap your mouth shut with an audible clack of teeth on teeth the moment the words are past your lips and close your eyes, grimacing. But to your surprise you hear a deep rumble from Myron, the closest that he can get to laughing in this form – incapable of speech or exceedingly human sounds.
Instead, he hunches down closer to your form before nodding for you to lead the way.
You do so and start off on the already familiar path. Myron does his best to slow down so you can keep up with him, easily looming over you in this form, and it leaves you hurrying after him regardless. It isn’t an issue that really phases you, the extra time is worth the minor hiccup. You're so busy regaling him with one too many embarrassing stories to pay much attention to it anyways. But you do still notice the way that his eyes seem to wander over in the direction of the bookstore you had visited only a day prior. You can see the old woman behind the counter and when she catches sight of the two of you she gives you both a knowing look, returning to her own end of day tasks.
You both hurry off after that instead of broaching the subject. But you can’t help the smile on your lips knowing what gift you have waiting for him.
Thankfully the distance between the bookstore and your own humble rental isn’t a far one and you’re giddy the moment you see your home. The energy must be infectious, because Myron seems to lighten up, tail starting to pick of speed and ears perked as he watches you bound forward. Your door isn’t exactly made for a full-blown werewolf to waltz in through, so you tell him to wait for just a moment before you bound inside, heading straight for your room as you toss you bag to the side haphazardly.
Grabbing the book off your nightstand and returning outside you find Myron sitting dutifully on your porch, head cocked to the side as he studies you and tries to catch an early glimpse of whatever you’re hiding behind your back. Instead, you step back, mischief written all over your face. “Close your eyes,” you mimic from days ago. He snorts but does as you ask, going so far as to cover his eyes with his hands.
You take the brief moment to admire him once more before bringing the book in front of you both. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
It takes him just a minute to register what he’s looking at, but you can practically hear the moment all the gears click into place. Physically it’s obvious. His eyes go wide, and he excitedly snatches the book away, trying to be as careful as he can while he thumbs through the pages. But the most obvious sign is his tail, going a hundred miles a minute and thumping repeatedly against the potted plant next to him.
You’re almost concerned about him pushing it off. Before you can decide if you want to move it you’re shocked back with the feeling of something soft and cold pressed right to your cheek. It takes a moment before you realize Myron has shoved his cold snout right against you, nose first before all you feel is soft warm fur where he remains.
You doubt he even notices, a slew of happy noises reverberating from him. You can barely see the book clutched tight against his chest and his tail still going just as fast.
What he does notice however is you setting a hand against the crook of his jaw, burying your fingers into his fur.
He rips back that moment, ears pinned, and you don’t need to guess how embarrassed he must feel, so you shift the subject back to the book. You had already been warned by Jess that touch was a rarity to receive from Myron, too painfully shy to ever initiate or indulge in it.
“Hopefully you don’t already have that one, but I wanted to get you a gift.”
And you hear it again immediately, the rhythmic thumping of his tail and he looks down at the book in his grasp before shaking his head, gaze soft.
The sun is starting to go down and you know he’ll need to head back soon. You have a date planned with your bathtub after the day you’ve had. But it’s bittersweet to suggest he head out. So you don’t, not directly.
“Do you want me to grab you a bag? So you can carry it back to your place.”
He nods once before his gaze begins trailing excitedly over the cover once again.
Leaving him enthralled with his newest edition you slip inside and grab a bag and a piece of loose string, before stepping outside once more. You motion for the book, which he reluctantly lets go of, and you tie the twine around it to keep it shut before slipping it inside the bag and handing it over.
To your surprise, Myron sticks his head out and gingerly takes the handles of the bag between his teeth, shooting you one more grateful look before lumbering down into your yard. It’s a quick look back over his shoulder, his tail still wagging like a whirlwind, before he gives a low guttural howl and takes off back in the direction of town on all fours – leaving you laughing and calling out that you’ll see him soon as he vanishes.
#Lynx's Story Corner#netflix & nap#werewolf x reader#male!werewolf#terato#Myron Arches#CorruptedLynx
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Summary: Tonight is the night to fulfill your and your husband's hottest fantasies.
Pairing: Jeffrey Dean Morgan/Reader, Jensen Ackles/Reader/Jared Padalecki, Jensen Ackles/Danneel Harris/Jared Padalecki
Rating: E/18+
Tags/Advertisement: Open Marriage, Open Relationship, Sex Club, Public Sex, Voyeurism, Unprotected Sex, Oral Sex (m and f receiving), Spitroasting, Double Penetration (p in v, p in a), Multiple orgasms (it's pwp okay, pure pwp)
AO3 Link
for the @spnkinkevents Kink Bingo square: Spitroasting
You take a deep breath as you pull open the heavy door. The air inside is warm but still you shiver, naked as you are, save for the intricate black mask covering the top half of your face. The thumping beat of the music vibrates through you, making the soles of your feet tingle. Still, it’s not loud enough to drown out the sounds of sex all around you: the slapping of flesh, guttural groans, moans and sighs and screams.
You furtively glance back at your husband who you know has entered the room just after you. Jeff nods to you, eyes sparkling, before he walks by you and over to where they are serving drinks.
Your stomach flutters with nerves as you survey the room. While you had agreed to this, it’s still a little unnerving to be here, naked and exposed. You can feel people’s eyes on you, strangers’ eyes, roving over you top to bottom, and you barely resist the urge to cover yourself as you move deeper into the room. There are people fucking on every available surface, and probably just as many lounging around and watching, and you clench your thighs against that first tingle of arousal as you hear a woman to your left moan brokenly as she’s bounced in someone’s lap. That could be you. Probably is going to be you in the not-too-distant future. Fuck.
You jump when a finger softly trails down your arm, a warm body pressing in close behind you. It’s not your husband—you’d know him anywhere. This is—someone else. You will your pounding heart to calm down as you turn around to face the stranger.
He’s tall and half of his face is obscured by a black mask just like yours. He has a nice mouth, though, plush lips, a strong jawline, stubble. Your lips pull into a small smile when you notice a cluster of freckles at the base of his throat. It’s a small detail to focus on but it makes it feel more familiar; this isn’t something you’d know about a random stranger.
He takes your hand, thumbs at the wedding band on your ring finger. “You gonna get me in trouble?” he asks, and you shiver at the sound of his voice, low and teasing.
You swallow dryly, then shake your head. This is as much for your husband as it is for you.
His lips pull into a grin, and you gasp when he easily spins you back around. You can feel him against the small of your back, hard and—God, big, and he palms your tits as his mouth latches onto your neck. It’s really happening.
You groan in anticipation when one big palm skirts down your stomach while he nudges your legs wider with his foot at the inside of yours. All your muscles tense as you wait for him to touch you, right here in front of all these strangers.
Your head tips back onto his shoulder with a soft whine and he chuckles into your ear as his hand slides between your legs, barely grazing your clit as his fingers go straight between your folds, a fingertip resting teasingly against your entrance. You are getting more aroused by the second, your heartbeat pulsing in your clit.
His finger briefly dips into you before sliding up to your clit, spreading your wetness and circling the sensitive bundle of nerves until you clench your thighs around his fingers.
“Ah ah, none of that,” he chides as his foot kicks your legs wider, exposing you to the view of everyone in front of you.
It’s exhilarating, thinking about all these strangers watching you, seeing you like this, naked and vulnerable and so, so aroused. You make a noise of protest when his hand disappears and it morphs into a groan when he sucks his finger into his mouth, tasting you. He hums into your ear, says, “Delicious,” as he grinds himself against your ass, your skin already sticky with his precome. You wonder if he’s going to take you right here, like this, if he’ll hitch up your leg and—
He releases you with a pinch of your nipple and a slap to your ass. “Come,” he says, guiding you along with a hand on the small of your back to the open bed just a few feet away. He urges you to lie down and as you do, you see Jeff from the corner of your eyes as he settles in an open spot across, idly stroking himself as he watches you settle in the middle of the bed, legs spread wide.
Wide palms smoothing up your thighs draw your attention back to Freckles. His eyes are sparkling mischievously behind his mask as he grips your hips and pulls you forward. The new position leaves you utterly exposed with his hands tilting your hips up and your legs falling wide, and you bite your lip when your eyes meet your husband’s, his gaze half-lidded as he groans softly. You can’t hear over the noise, but you know; you can see his lips part and his hand speed up on his cock.
You smile, entirely unprepared for the sensation of a mouth on your pussy. Your hips jump and an arm comes down over them to hold you down as he licks you taint to clit. You can’t help a moan at the wet heat on your pussy, the teasing tongue, the toe-curling suction. Your fingers twist into Freckles’ hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away, and his lips curve into a smile against your flesh.
Your back arches when two fingers enter you without warning, squelching through your wetness, as he attacks your clit again. You do hear Jeff’s moan this time and echo it, loud and unashamed, hips bucking as much as they can under the restriction.
Your orgasm is building fast, curling tight in your belly, tingling up your spine. His fingers speed up, relentlessly hitting your g-spot as he continues to devour your pussy. You scream your pleasure a moment later, the intensity overwhelming, your muscles locking, pussy clenching around the fingers still slowly stroking into you.
You whimper when he sucks at your clit again, the feeling almost too much. You ease your grip on his hair and he noses into the crease of your thigh instead, stubble bristling at the inside of your thigh, fingers still inside of you, as you try to catch your breath.
You are still reeling from your orgasm when the fingers start to move again, slowly, before a third presses in. Just like that, you’re teetering on the edge again, that first flutter of another orgasm starting deep in your belly. You mewl in frustration when he withdraws his fingers a second before you can crash over the edge. He laughs, slaps your pussy, before three fingers drive back into you hard and fast only to leave you hanging right on the precipice again, muscles fluttering around the sudden emptiness.
“Fuck,” you cry breathlessly, jerking for his hot breath on your sensitized flesh, the kiss he sucks to your clit.
Freckles hauls you upright, takes your place on the bed before he pulls you into his lap. You go easily, your legs like jelly as you straddle him and rub yourself along the length of his hard dick, your core aching in anticipation. His hands go to your hips, guiding you, and his head tips back, mouth open in a pant. It’s a gorgeous sight.
Feeling bold, you lean forward, suck and nibble on the cluster of freckles, lick up his throat and suck on his Adam’s apple. His moan vibrates under your lips as his grip tightens on your hips. You sit back, brace yourself on his chest with one hand as you shift up onto your knees, using your other hand to guide his cock to your entrance.
Your gaze flickers to Jeff, who is watching you as you sink down, taking just the flared head. You gasp, and your husband licks his lips, strokes his cock, his eyes fixed between your legs.
Freckles’ hands flexing on your hips have you tearing your eyes away and refocusing on the cock working its way into you. It’s thick, just the way you like it, and you are panting a little harder the lower you work yourself. There are more people watching you, men and women alike getting off to the sight of you fucking this stranger, and you close your eyes, stutter out a breath as you sink down the last inch. You moan at the fullness, your fingers curling into Freckles’ chest as he starts thrusting up into you, ratcheting your pleasure right up to the edge again. Just a little more—
You gasp in surprise at the sudden pressure on your clit, at the presence of a third, new hand touching your body. You can’t see who it belongs to but it’s big and its touch is sending you flying almost immediately, clenching hard around the cock buried deep inside of you as you tip over the edge again, your thighs shaking with the intensity of your orgasm.
You slump forward with a moan, only to have those big hands slide up your body and palm your tits, hauling you upright again, keeping you bouncing on Freckles’ cock. It’s almost too much, the stimulation too intense, and you throw your head back on a keen when your nipples get pinched, rolled, pulled.
Freckles laughs breathlessly as he slows his pace, his gaze somewhere over your shoulder. He nods, and the hands leave your tits, grab your hips and lift—lift you off Freckles’ cock with a wet squelch that makes your cheeks heat, your pussy clenching on nothing.
Freckles shifts back and onto his knees, grinning, and you don’t have the time to question what he knows that you don’t before the big guy holding you drops you onto the bed, rearranging you onto your hands and knees.
Freckles brushes your hair out of your face, slaps his hard cock against your lips, smears precome and your own juices onto your skin. You shiver, your mind reeling with the overwhelming intensity of the situation. “C’mon,” he urges quietly, and you wet your lips before placing a kiss on the weeping tip, teasing him just a little. He growls, a deep, rumbly sound that whispers down your spine, and you open your mouth and let him push in on a shallow thrust, and your combined tastes burst on your tongue salty-bitter, making you groan.
“Go easy,” Freckles says, and you don’t understand until—until you feel the pressure of a cock against your entrance, and it enters you easily, almost too smoothly, with the slick squelch of—lube, you think, and you pant around the cock in your mouth as you try to process the dual sensations.
Your hands curl into the bed when you are starting to feel full. But Big Guy, he keeps pushing, going deeper, and you tense, your eyes going wide as you look up at Freckles. He cups your cheek, thumbs at your earlobe, says, “I know it’s a lot, sweetie, just a little more, promise it’s worth it,” before he languidly rolls his hips, slides his cock over your tongue and to the back of your mouth.
You make a soft noise in your throat, your body trembling as it tries to adjust. Freckles keeps fucking into your mouth in shallow strokes, rubbing himself over your tongue, his hand resting lightly on top of your head, guiding, angling, but not forcing.
Behind you Big Guy moans as he finally bottoms out and you gasp, the air stolen from your lungs with how deep inside of you he feels. His first thrust sends you scampering forward, onto the cock in your mouth, and you cough when it hits the back of your throat too quickly. Big Guy pulls you back, his hands holding you tight as he feeds his cock back in balls deep, making you whimper and moan.
It takes a few moments for the intense fullness to turn into pleasure, but when it does you arch your back and press back into the feeling. Big Guy laughs and slaps your ass for it, right and left, while Freckles is relentlessly working your throat open with little thrusts that send him a fraction deeper into you on every one.
That first full push into your throat still makes you gag, your whole body going tight and making Big Guy curse under his breath for the clench of your cunt.
Your eyes water and your cheeks heat. You can do this, have done this for Jeff, but with the two cocks working you into a frenzy and your skin prickling under the gaze of God only knows how many strangers, you can’t focus enough to put your best efforts forward.
Big Guy slows his movements, palms your ass, spreads your cheeks, but it’s Freckles drawing your attention with a tug on your hair as his hips rolls forward again to bury his cock into your mouth and throat. You suck in a breath through your nose before he sinks himself in all the way, and you swallow against the intrusion, drawing a groan.
You wish you could see your husband right now, see how much he enjoys seeing you like this, get some reassurance. But you can’t move enough to see him, not like this.
You gasp when Freckles pulls back and gives you a moment to breathe. At the same time, Big Guy settles into an easy rhythm—too easy, almost teasing, you think—and then you feel a thumb circling your ass, slick and teasing, pulsing against your hole, and for a moment you think you can’t take any more, can’t take another sensation added to the mix.
You whine softly when the finger presses in at the same time as Big Guy pushes himself deep again.
“Fuck, yeah,” Freckles chuckles breathlessly, “you think you can take us both, sweetie?”
His thumb strokes the hollow of your cheek, almost gentle, and you are torn between nodding and shaking your head, your mind reeling at the sheer possibility of—
“Yeah, I think you can,” Freckles drawls in that deep voice and you close your eyes for a second, overwhelmed with the stimulation, with the deep pressure of a cock in your pussy, the pleasurable tingle of a finger fucking your ass, the hot weight of a cock on your tongue. Overwhelmed with the thought of having one of them fuck your ass instead.
Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere on Big Guy’s next stroke in, shuddering through you in waves, your body trembling in their hold. Big Guy fucks you right through it, though the tight clutch of your muscles on his cock, his slick skin hitting yours on every thrust as he sneaks a second finger into your ass.
You make a strangled noise, somewhere between a moan and a whimper as you keep shivering through the last tremors of your pleasure.
“She ready?” you hear Freckles ask through the fog in your brain, and Big Guy’s fingers plunge into your ass a couple more times, scissoring on the way out.
“Yeah, you’re ready, aren’t you sweetie?” Freckles asks as he pulls out of your mouth, his spit-shiny cock bobbing right in front of your face when you look up at him to nod.
Big Guy hauls you upright again, those big hands cupping your tits and you gasp for how deep it sends him. You look over to your husband, his eyes on you and only you despite the redhead on her knees sucking his cock, his lip caught between his teeth, his hands flexing restlessly on the girl’s head. You know it’s all because of you, not her.
“Hey,” Freckles says, as he grabs your chin and makes you look at him again. For a second you wonder if he’s going to kiss you, but then his gaze darts over your shoulder again and he nods as he pats your cheek.
“Fuck,” you whine as Big Guy withdraws slowly, leaving you quivering, achingly empty, his fingers rolling your nipples as he keeps holding you upright, making you watch Freckles lie back and lube his cock, leaving no doubt about what’s going to happen.
You swallow, tasting the remnants of Freckles in your mouth, as Big Guy mouths on your neck, his breath hot-damp on your skin.
“Go on,” Big Guy murmurs against your ear as he lets you go, his voice smooth and silky.
Freckles holds his hand out to you and you take it, letting him pull you towards him. His hand is sticky with lube, leaving your skin sticky as well as he manhandles you into his lap, your back to his chest.
It brings you face to face with Big Guy for the first time; your eyes wandering up his body, from that long, thick cock up over chiseled abs and a defined chest to a strong jaw, over the plain black mask to shaggy brown hair, his skin glistening with sweat. Good God. Your eyes drop back down again, and you wonder how in the hell you even managed to fit him into your body.
He grins at you as though he knows where your thoughts have gone.
You are distracted again by Freckles circling your clit as he slaps his slicked-up cock against your cunt a few times. It’s Big Guy who knees closer, though, and guides Freckles’ cock to your ass.
Freckles groans, the sound vibrating against your back as he mindlessly strokes the back of your thighs, holding you open. There’s only pressure and you try your best to relax, your lips parting in a breathless gasp when the tip pops in.
Freckles pants into your ear, his grip on your legs tightening as he slowly circles his hips up, sliding himself deeper.
“Oh my God,” you cry out when Big Guy drives three fingers into your cunt at the same time and presses down. Freckles’ hips stutter, his voice shaky as he curses colorfully into your ear. Your back arches when Big Guy fingerfucks you hard, making you shake and moan as he drags another orgasm out of you.
“C’mon, stop playing,” Freckles rasps, his hands splaying over your stomach as Big Guy moves in close enough to keep your legs from closing. You stop breathing for the moment he breaches you again, for the incredible fullness of two cocks inside of you.
You catch one last glimpse of Jeff with his head thrown back, hips lifting to fuck into the redhead’s throat as he comes, before your vision is filled with Big Guy as he buries himself deep inside your pussy again.
“Fuck,” you whine weakly, sandwiched between these two strangers, filled so deeply it feels like you can’t breathe.
Freckles coos breathless little nothings from beneath you as they settle into a maddening rhythm that has you scrambling for purchase, your fingernails digging into Big Guy’s shoulders as you try to hang on.
It seems impossible to come again, but against all odds you can feel the pleasure curling tight in your belly again.
“Fuck, I can feel you, Jay, that’s so fucking hot,” Freckles pants as his hand presses down low on your belly, before he grabs one of your hands and makes you feel it, too.
Big Guy—Jay, you suppose—pulls back and buries himself to the hilt again. You feel it inside and out, and when Freckles presses down on your hand, the pleasure sparks up another notch. You whimper, too overwhelmed to form words, your body tensing in anticipation of the inevitable.
You are going to come again. You can feel it building with each push and pull and Jay grabs your chin, makes you look at him as he fucks you hard and fast.
“C’mon, one more,” he urges.
Freckles presses down on your belly again, mouths at your neck, his breath hot as he says right against your ear, “Give us one more, sweetie. Wanna feel you come all over our cocks, c’mon.”
It’s his fingertip on your clit that sends you into an earth-shattering fifth orgasm a moment later and they fuck you through it, rhythms finally faltering as they follow you over the edge, both of them holding deep as they come inside of you, groaning their release.
You ride the last waves of pleasure, the tension starting to leave your body. Their hands are still stroking your body, soft and gentle now, their breaths on your overheated skin making you shiver. You feel exhausted now that the fog in your mind is clearing, the little pains and aches starting to set in.
Jay thumbs at your jawline, shifting your focus back to him. “You good?” he asks and you nod shakily and lick your dry lips.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice cracking on the one syllable. He smiles at you, wide, all teeth, his hand skimming down your side as he starts to pull out.
Another shiver wrecks your body for the slow drag of his cock and you gasp when he pops free, leaving you so empty. He drags two fingers through your folds, traces your entrance and then down lower to where Freckles is still buried inside you, and you can’t help a soft mewl. You are not sure how much more you can take.
Freckles shushes you, runs a soothing hand over your ribs. Your eyes dart to your husband who looks just as fucked out as you feel, his mouth curving into a lazy smile. You sigh in satisfaction, happy that you both got what you wanted tonight.
Jay’s big hands settle on your hips and carefully lift you off of Freckles’ cock and you can’t help a soft whine at the loss and the emptiness, the slow trickle of cum down the inside of your thigh. He sets you down on your feet, rushing to steady you when your legs wobble.
There are still so many eyes on you, even now, and for the first time, it feels a little intrusive. All you want now is Jeff, to be held and to kiss him and feel his warm, reassuring presence.
Jay slowly lets you go, the redhead who sucked Jeff’s cock sliding in against your side instead, her arm going around your waist. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says, and you nod before you glance back at Freckles sitting up on the edge of the mattress, then up and up and up at Jay—God, he’s so tall, taller than your husband even. The words thank you hover on the tip of your tongue but you don’t need to say them for them to know.
“Come,” the redhead says, guiding you away from the scene of the crime and back the way you came, past the locker area into what you realize are communal showers.
At the far end, two women are lazily making out in the spray and you glance at the redhead again who is gently steering you under the warm spray of a shower.
You let it rush over your body for a moment before you take off your mask and lazily run your hands through your tousled hair, then down your body.
“I’m Danni,” she says as she lathers up some body wash in her hands, then gently scrubs them down your back.
“Y/N,” you sigh.
When you turn around, her mask is on the floor with yours and you look at her for a moment. She’s pretty. You wait for the inevitable flare of jealousy at knowing she had her mouth on your husband’s dick but it doesn’t come.
She smiles at you as if she knows, then slides her slick hands over your hips to the outside of your thigh. “You’re gonna be sore tomorrow.” she says quietly before handing you a damp washcloth.
You gingerly run it between your legs and down the inside of your thighs, cleaning away the evidence of your debauchery.
“You’re with—”
You feel stupid calling them the nicknames you gave them in your head to her face, so you just say, “—them?”
She nods, her lips quirking into a small smile. “Yeah, we are—a thing.”
You nod before tilting your head back into the spray, letting the warm water run over your face. When you bring your head down again, Danni is wrapped in a towel and holding one out for you.
You take it gladly, wrap yourself up in the fluffy cotton before following her back to the locker room. You blink at the harsh lights and wander over to locker 17 and put in the combination to unlock it.
“Hey sweetheart.”
You smile as an arm slides around your shoulder from behind, Jeff’s warm body pressing against your back, his beard bristling at the side of your neck as he noses at your jaw.
You melt back into his embrace, let his familiar scent and the low rumble of his voice wash over you.
“That was fucking hot,” he rasps into your ear, and although he is already dressed again, he can’t resist a slow roll of his hips against your ass.
You hum in response, basking in the warmth of his body and the knowledge that despite having sex with other people tonight, your marriage is absolutely fine.
“Take your time. I’ll wait for you outside, sweetheart,” he says after a while, and he kisses the side of your neck before he lets you go.
You miss his warmth immediately. Still, you take your time getting dressed, letting your muscles dictate how fast you move. At last, you take a big gulp of the bottle of water you brought with you and scrounge your hair up into a messy ponytail before you take your purse and leave the locker room.
You can still hear the thump-thump of the music as you pass by the heavy wooden doors. Your cheeks heat when you think about what happened on the other side of them.
You go outside, the night air cool on your skin. From the outside, you’d never be able to tell what is going on inside.
You make your way to your car where Jeff is waiting for you. He holds out his hand to you and you take it, let yourself be pulled in.
“Hey,” he says, and you smile, saying, “Hey,” back before you lean in and kiss him, long and slow.
You only part when there’s movement behind you, and you turn, tuck yourself against Jeff’s side, your face flaming when you recognize Danni and—you can finally see their faces now and they are both so handsome.
You watch as Freckles fist-bumps Jeff like they are old buddies. They probably are, you realize. You hadn’t even given it much thought what it exactly Jeff had meant when he said he had arranged for this evening.
Freckles shoots you a grin as he runs his hand through his hair. “Jensen,” he says easily, “this is Jared, and you already know Danni.” Jared lifts his hand in a little awkward wave while Danni flashes you a smile.
“Y/N,” you say, ducking your head. It’s a little hard to look at them when a highlight reel of the two of them fucking you six ways to Sunday in front of your husband is still playing in your mind in high definition.
Jensen chuckles and drags his knuckles down your cheek, lifting your chin. “No need to be shy, sweetie,” he says and you release a nervous breath as Jeff squeezes your hip reassuringly, giving you something to focus on.
“You know, when Jeff suggested this, I wasn’t sure how this was gonna go, but—” he trails off, glances at his partners. They both nod. “If you ever feel like doing this again in a more private setting, give us a call.”
Fuck. You are a little mortified but at the same time just the thought makes you clench your thighs.
He leans in and places a kiss on your cheek before he side-hugs Jeff. “Think about it,” he says with a grin and you watch him throw an arm around Danni’s shoulder before the three of them take off.
“No pressure,” Jeff mutters as he kisses your temple, his hand squeezing your ass. You already know he will make you feel like a queen once you get home, taking care of your every need.
You hum softly and lean up to kiss your husband before saying, “I love you.”
He thumbs at your cheekbone and steals another kiss. “I love you, too. Thank you for tonight.”
And you know you won’t even have to think about it. You know you’re going to call them.
For you and for Jeff.
thanks for reading, lemme know if you enjoyed!!!
#spn rpf#jdm x reader#jensen x reader x jared#ami writes#spnkinkevents#jeffrey dean morgan x reader#jensen ackles x reader x jared padalecki
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The Psychic And The Sceptic
AO3: Give it some love!
Words: 10k+
Summary: In the world of Mob Psycho 100, England convinces phasmophobic America he is haunted by a ghost named Birchington to get revenge against Alfred’s constant insistence that the supernatural does not exist. The prank goes too far when America generates enough collective fear to materialize Birchington into existence. Now faced with a dangerously powerful spirit, the Transatlantic lovers must defeat Birchington and save their vacation.
Made for: USUKUS Twice Per Year 2023-2: "Across the Universe" @usukustwiceperyear, organized by the most FANTASTIC Narco and Verus
Alfred F. Jones idles by Dog & Duck’s entrance, hands cupped against his lips to protect the Zippo’s flame from the London wind waiting to swallow its heat. The round, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose fog up to temporarily blind his street view. It's late in the evening and America glances up, pretends he sees bright constellations against a black expanse instead of the light-polluted haze.
Alfred never liked the cold and he wants to crawl under a warm, heavy blanket. Preferably with the selfish bastard subjecting his American greatness to London’s miserable weather. Soho’s pointedly upturned barstools and the clusters of laughing suits pouring out from bars and onto cobblestone streets feel eternal in their effect. The scene could be seen in exactness on any Friday evening, one hundred years ago, even. The bitterness of tobacco bites the American’s throat with familiar comfort and his fingers tingle at the rush of nicotine. He always smoked more when abroad.
America presses his body closer to the doorframe and just stands there, fills his lungs with smoke and enjoys the peace of being surrounded by conversation he isn’t expected to lead. If he has his way, he’d be providing patronage a few doors down and he peeps longingly along 5th Street where Ronny Scott’s Jazz Club tests his commitment as Designated Arthur Escort.
Good music and the best espresso martini of his life…
“No fookin’ wae. Thi’ Japanese physic defeated th’ Dagger!” exclaims a woman, her and a similarly blasted friend gaping down at the phone held precariously in her hand. “Scared each ‘ther w’ stories about her in prim’ry school.”
America pauses a second then smiles behind his cigarette hand. It takes a day for his brain to realize every retail attendant and secretary he speaks to aren’t imitating British people. They just are British. Though he’s been balls deep for over half a century and should be accustomed, England’s voice doesn’t register as British. He just… sounds like England.
Somebody stumbles and curses behind him, crashing into his side when they exit. Speak of the devil, “Oi mate, watch where you stand!”
Alfred smushes the end of his cigarette into a street pole and flicks the butt into the abyss. It’ll decompose, right? He excuses it by rationalizing: the streets are already littered with soggy stubs. It wouldn't look very awesome to bend over and pick it up now that it’s done. Whatever.
He distracts himself by grabbing Arthur’s side and presses England close so he can smell the stale whiskey on his breath when the Englishman squawks in indignation.
Arthur wiggles but makes no move to dislodge himself from the American’s arm. To be perfectly honest with himself (which he didn’t make a habit of) he had doubts about whether Arthur was actually a lightweight or just enjoyed being carried home. Maybe a combination of both. Regardless, Arthur makes a consistently convincing show of being drunk off his tits.
Arthur slurs, “Didn’t see you there, lad. Just had a few, straight as a pole.” His eyebrows are pressed into one long furrow and his feet totter on the sidewalk, unfocused pupils never lingering on one thing. The yellow streetlamp catches faint freckles dotting Arthur’s nose when the Englishman presses a sloppy kiss against America's cheek. His coordination is off so it's more of a wet-lipped mush, but it’s so ridiculous that it folds Alfred’s lips upward.
If Arthur has been acting all these centuries Alfred would be honored by this magnificent display of public shitfaced-ness. It’s done a lot for their relationship over the years.
“C’mere, y’old drunk. Back to your fairy friends.” Alfred dumps his jacket on Arthur’s shoulders and keeps the Englishman tucked into his side when they finally abandon the closing bar. Arthur’s tie is missing and a mysterious beige stain sits on his left arm, right above the silver band on his ring finger. The little emerald nestled in the center sets off the color of his green eyes and Alfred kisses their closed lids.
“P-public indecency!”
“What?! Man, I fly my ass across the Atlantic, get dog-piled by everyone and their grandmother about some ESG ratings (which I can’t fucking control- I mean, c’mon!), barely find a second to order a burger and latte (thank god for Starbucks), then I’m dragged to Soho just to be put on Designated Arthur Duty so everyone else can drink their merry hearts to… aw I don't know- the Almighty Dollar! Now, now, I get gaslit by my limey sweetheart who hasn’t bothered to fly over in years! Y’all got lucky I ain’t on caffeine withdrawal, cuz tonight woulda been wayyy shorter.” Alfred laughs, and this time Arthur only huffs when Alfred kisses the other eyelid.
“‘M not drunk!” Arthur responds instead, followed by a noise like there’s peanut butter on the roof of his mouth and he can’t quite unstick his tongue. The silence following that declaration is so pungent an Olympic sprinter would cough.
“Tipsy,” Arthur allows, charitably. A guy passing them scoffs into his beer and Alfred just barely manages to yoink Arthur back before he lunges at the guy.
Alfred starts their walk towards a busier street to hail a taxi.
(“Cab, yank!”).
Arthur’s car is parked nearby but Arthur doesn't trust Alfred not to crash his beloved LHS 1955 Rolls Royce Silver Wraith into the nearest post box.
Alfred doesn’t argue. He wouldn’t dare risk denting those beautiful antique headlamps, that chrome grill…. A flush rises up Alfred’s cheeks and he dips in to kiss Arthur’s ear.
To apologize for his unfaithful thoughts towards The Car.
Not that the Englishman isn’t absolutely aware of what ol’ Roycie does for him because boy, oh boy does it do it for him!
Arthur naps on the ride back while nuzzling into the leather headrest in front of him. Outside the window, London's street lamps illuminate the city. Tudor and Victorian and Brutalist homes idle side-by-side, thin mailboxes odd with their vibrant red paint and phone boxes Alfred forgets exist outside of BBC shows whiz by on the streets. This is the stuff architects back home worship, and homes further from the shopping areas remind Alfred of San Francisco’s Victorians (minus the fun colors).
Then he’s struck with a sudden sadness. It depresses Alfred to remember the millions of families who lost their homes in the Blitz. Alfred sees their hollow, starving faces in his mind every time he hears the many construction projects replacing crudely assembled housing infrastructure.
But 77 years later and you wouldn’t know what carnage wrecked the city if you hadn’t seen England drag himself from the cliffend of abyss by the skin of his teeth. Two in the morning and London isn’t even close to quiet. America’s rolled window allows the wind to freeze his cheeks red, and he hopes they don’t look as flushed as the group of teenagers tottering down the sidewalk in their rumpled school uniforms.
England’s heart is decadent, simple, foreign, and familiar all at once. But it’s kinda creepy with all its crusty historical stuff. Ghosts like crusty historical stuff, and America does not like ghosts.
… Not that ghosts exist, exactly. But the vibes? SO ghosty.
A chill runs down America’s spine and he shakes himself from staring at the window to find a credit card that will pay their fare.
⚜⚜⚜
He’s loose and affectionate but vulnerable and inhibited, hiccuping against Alfred and bemoaning the glory days of sea life. . “Nothing compares to standing at the helm of an even ke-keeled- hermpfg-” England covers his mouth and jerks for them to stop walking.
After the cab (thank god) and on the beautifully pruned lion outside his condo Arthur chunders at least lunch and probably breakfast.
Alfred makes sure his partner hadn’t disgraced his shoes, then snatches England’s keys from the jacket slung over his shoulder. “Saw this scene play out the moment you ordered that last round of shots,” Alfred’s fingers sift through the keys while Arthur mutteres profanities up the short stairway. At the top the shorter man presses his forehead against Alfred’s back, steadying his dubious and trembling knees by clutching the American round the middle. “You d-didn’t think to stop me? Cruel,” Arthur moans, tightening his hold to emphasize the extent of Alfred’s inhumanity.
Alfred laughed. “Try? Babe, I couldn’t dream of getting between you and a bar tap. You’d send me home on the next flight!”
Arthur snuggles delightfully into his back, not denying. Alfred’s firm spine and familiar warmth quell the rebellion of his flesh, as if forgetting its owner's mistreatment to revel in the closeness to this source of love, so rarely afforded this luxury.
Relief was temporary, and all is not forgiven.
When Alfred opens the door he leaps out of the doorway (and Arthur’s arms) as a fairy comes barreling towards his face.
Arthur loses balance and crashes into an oakwood coat stand with a belated yelp.
Trixie sneers towards Alfred as he sprints at the bedroom, then circles back to flutter innocently around Arthur’s crumpled form.
Flying Mint Bunny peels off from the darkened window to join them, and England sees others gathered round the entrance watching. England swears he can feel glittery sparkles surrounding his magical friends like auras and he sneezes.
Trixie lands on his shoulder with an air of disdain and twitters, “You’re one of the most powerful physics in the world, and you pick a non-believer? Why do you burden yourself with that self-denying imbecile, Britannia? America felt my presence. Then he turns around and pretends we don’t exist.” Arthur sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. Trixie insists, “It’s insulting.”
England rubs where his smarting head smacked the wood and watches the last of his American disappear through the door to the bedroom. The bump on his scalp heals before it fully forms, and with it, so heals a part of his intoxication.
But he’s still a little tipsy and a lot too nauseous to re-engage that particular conversation regarding Alfred’s denial of the supernatural. It’s not as though Arthur disagrees with Trixie, per se. But he doesn’t want to get into it while Alfred exists just not far away, transforming the bedroom carpet into the aftermath of a hurricane.
A cacophony of mutilated zippers and abused, rough canvas assaults his ears as Alfred sorts through his suitcase.
“God, my head is killing me,” mumbles the Brit in lieu of a proper response, trying in a vague attempt to extract sympathy from beings he’s not sure possess it. Trixie and he can shit talk later over tea. He turns to Flying Mint Bunny for a distraction when he’s saved by “disaster”.
“Where in the fuck is my floss?” cries a familiar voice, dismayed. Sharp, emerald eyes follow the direction of the noise. Oil portraits and rectangular trimmings from floor to ceiling line cobalt walls, adorned in ornamental plasterwork. At the end of the hallway a seven section bay casement window bleeds moonlight onto the faded oriental rug, swathing an otherwise unlit space in soft blue hues. They are staying in an old house and one he hasn't updated to current styles in well over a century. He’s a self-admitted creature of habit, and he won’t ever update another of his properties if he can help it. The ancient foundations maintain their old magic and Trixie, Flying Mint Bunny and the rest are most comfortable on its undisturbed grounds.
“You smell like vomit,” Trixie adds, in that neutrally observational tone. Something Arthur can’t see catches their attention, they kiss his cheek and flutter off.
Mint Bunny squeals happily and flies off to the kitchen, probably to check his cupboards for the usual American snacks Alfred carries with him each visit. At least one of his friends approves of their relationship.
⚜⚜⚜
When Arthur finally peels himself from the coat rack and stumbles to the bedroom Alfred is sitting on the bed sorting through his email, nails click–clack-clacking at the keys and hair damp from the shower. A long string of floss is stuck in an incisor, just ending at his chin. Alfred looks much more comfortable than he did in his work attire, sporting a pair of disgraceful (adorable) striped pajamas. Blue eyes look up and smile at his now mostly-sober lover, beckoning with his bare toe for Arthur to come nearer.
Arthur raises an eyebrow and remains in the doorframe. Beyond the American’s bespeckled sight England presses his fingers into the wood, need for Alfred battling with his pride. What sort of besotted fool would he look? To follow that manicured big-toe’s command. He was England, for god’s sake! An officer of His Majesty’s Military, privateer of the seven seas, knight of King Arthur’s Round Table –
Alfred jumps off the bed, plucking the floss from his mouth in what Alfred must imagine to be sexier than it is. He approaches Arthur’s appraising gaze until they stand centimeters apart-
Arthur’s eyebrows untense and he’s wound into a warm, tight hug.
Alfred doesn’t mention that Arthur smells like stomach acid, which he knows he does. “Holding you in my arms, after a long-ass day… god Artie, I missed ya. You melt my heart right down to butter.” A huge smile breaks Alfred’s face (he can feel it against his shoulder), and Arthur closes his eyes to savour this feeling.
“Ditto.”
It’s difficult to internally admit when something foreign drives intense affection. The urge to become closer, to crawl under Alfred’s ridiculous pajamas and hold him beneath his skin is strong. It reminds him of the yearning he felt for cold, fresh water after a long while at sea. The crown of Arthur’s head is peppered with kisses and Alfred’s clean scent hits him like a rush of warm air. “You left me to die,” Arthur reminds Alfred’s chest, resisting the urge to nuzzle the edge. “By the door. I might have choked on my own sick and died.”
“Catch you in the field, babe,” Afred laughs, referring to the mysterious meadow where all nations regenerate, naked at the day… they were born?
Were they born?
It took about a day for a regenerated nation to find humanity and by then, its location was forgotten.
“Don’t even think about it, boy,” Arthur sasses, balancing the tone by groping Alfred’s lovely behind. “It's about time you pulled out that fat republican wallet. Eight o’clock tomorrow evening, reservation for two. Sushi, the best of what London has to offer.”
Alfred laughs, using one of his own hands to help Arthur get a better grip on his ass. “Sure thing, sugar. But first you’ve gotta work for it.”
“Needy Americans,” The Brit huffs, walking them towards the bed. The back of the American’s knees make contact with the mattress and Alfred falls with a huff, Arthur smirking over him.
Blue eyes smile up when England crawls on top and uses his quick, sharp tongue to ravish a California sun-tanned neck and collarbone and chest like the sky was falling. Alfred’s hands pull at Arthur’s shirt and he moans with pleasure, baring his neck to allow more access, to get all the attention he hasn’t been given for far too damn long.
“Bend your knees,” demands Arthur, taking one of Alfred’s legs in his hand and pushing it up so he can bite a line down his inner thigh. Alfred does as he is bid, but not without a bit of sass. He tries to focus on one hand and massages Arthur's left shoulder, right where he knows it’s tight.
The effect is immediate and Arthur slumps.
“Gghmph,” England moans.
“I missed you, sweetheart,” America pants, Southern twang drawing out the pet name and Arthur feels his arousal spike. Virginia always did the trick for Arthur, brought him right to his metaphorical (and occasionally physical) knees. Buttery and sweet like honey, Alfred keeps the accent up when he mewls the name of every deity he’s never believed in and breathes the Englishman’s name right against the ear adorned in silver piercings.
“Don’t you dare stop.” There’s no need to clarify what they won’t want to end, because it’s never been articulated beyond lips shaping their meaning against damp, desperate skin.
Arthur bites into his American roughly, at the juncture between his shoulder and neck, and one-handedly unties the drawstring of Alfred’s pants. The fabric is pulled down a beautiful pair of hips and now they’re both fully in the mood, cheeks red and huffing hotly.
Alfred kisses Arthur right shoulder the moment it’s revealed. “You’re still kinda dirty,” Alfred laughs and devours Arthur’s mouth.
✰ ✰ ✰
Wind sweeps through the open window and billows out the curtains like a lady’s ball gown. England and America lounge on the couch, Arthur’s perpetually chilled feet buried under the American. Arthur reads a dog-eared copy of Shakespeare’s works and Alfred is nose-deep in a Bureau of Labor Statistics report. They’ve been like this for two hours post-sex and it's disgustingly domestic, but Alfred decides he doesn’t care. It’s very late and Alfred can see sleep tugging at England’s eyes, and although it’s a full six hours ahead of Washington DC Alfred watches Arthur’s chin dip every ten minutes. Then he’d jerk awake, frown, and keep reading. It's a little entertaining and a lot cute.
The papers slap onto the side table to disturb an otherwise quiet space.
“Dude,” Alfred closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up his forehead. He looks under them at his partner.
Arthur doesn’t glance from the page but a toe shifts under his ass. Sassily.
Alfred rolls his eyes, “Arthur.”
Haughty green deigns to meet baby blues, expression still. Alfred stares back and Arthur eventually raises an impressive eyebrow. “Yes, love?”
Alfred laughs and flops sideways, fumbling until his ear lays over Arthur’s stomach and his right arm hangs over the couch to prevent either man from slipping. Arthur snorts and fusses a bit before settling into their new position, rubbing circles over Alfred’s temple. A few hours ago every point of contact burned like fire. Now, it just feels nice. And post-sex shower Arthur’s back to his usual soap and tea smell.
If all days getting dogpiled ended like today Alfred wouldn’t need half the cigarette budget.
“Read to me,” Alfred demands, proud of himself for such an awesome idea. The position is awkward but they fit together like puzzle pieces.
The hand rubbing his temple deftly pinches his nose. Alfred flinches and the same fingers ease wire frames off from where they’re squashed between Alfred’s ear and Arthur’s stomach, folding the arms on the side table over the rejected report. Alfred looks up to see the blurry shape he knows to be Arthur, adopts his most innocent expression.
“Please?”
Even the fuzzy colors of Arthur’s sharp features soften. Heh, got ‘im.
Arthur scoffs and resumes his petting. “Oh, very well. Spoilt brat.
“‘Benedict: O, she misused me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her. My very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw, huddling jest upon jest ith such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star.’”
Alfred laughs at the last sentence and Arthur’s eyes crinkle faintly at the edges. His reading voice is unbelievably sexy and warm, tongue looping through Shakespeare’s words like an experienced weaver’s hand winds their thread. Arthur doesn’t just read when telling a story. He spoke the lines and he brought their meaning to organic, vibrant life. Before the modest fireplace England delivered Benedict’s wit and charm with an adeptness Alfred, having attended Much Ado About Nothing dozens of times, had never felt. The Englishman’s affection for the words of his old poet and slight fatigue softening rounded vowels make America’s heart flutter.
Anxiety brought by the BLS’s report soars to far crevasses of America’s brain, busy activity settling by England’s lolling voice.
Alfred closes his eyes and breathes deep, deeper than he’s been able to breath in a long while. Vibrations of Arthir’s chest, pressed against his ear, flood his body with ease so he doesn’t register when the act ends and England’s silent.
⚜⚜⚜
England blinks through exhaustion at the lax, tanned face.
A silly urge prods the older blond and Arthur considers it absentmindedly. Squirming in embarrassment, Arthur gently blows America’s hair to confirm that he’s asleep. His eyelashes don’t flutter and Arthur sighs with relief and mutters, with more tenderness than he will ever allow the egotistical fool to hear awake, “I love you.”
The words hang in the air a moment, and Arthur closes his eyes and sighs deep when the American’s face remains relaxed in sleep.
“Coward!”
Arthur jumps, heart leaping up his throat. Trixie is watching from the mantle, their tiny feet swinging back and forth. It’s clear the faerie has been observing them for a while. Just his luck. Shouldn’t they have something better to do?!
England flushes and looks awaywhere but his small friend, demanding, “Something funny?”
Silence follows the question and Arthur eventually looks towards the fireplace, blames the heat in his cheeks on the flames licking up applewood. Trixie tilts their head, suddenly serious.
“Britannia slept wrapped amongst oak root flares,” they say, so indirectly it might not be for Arthur.
“You’re happier.” Now they face England. He doesn’t answer, picking apart the odd sentence.
Alfred produces a loud snore in the moment Trixie and Arthur lock eyes. Arthur raises his right hand, previously holding the book, to smooth through America’s golden hair. The stands are soft from the shower and he tugs gently at Nantucket. He raises an eyebrow at the mantle, tempting the magical creature to comment.
They don’t. Arthur looks down at his lovely lad and the rings of exhaustion below his eyes and the peacefulness of his expression in slumber. He looks younger without his glasses, and the weight of his torso is warm and heavy. Just enough to be comforting, even if he was losing some sensation in his legs. He can feel Trixie’s gaze on his face. He doesn’t know what thoughts might be going through their mind, but he believes what they say is true and he is happy for it, though he will not reveal such sentiment to reward their audacious behavior.
✰ ✰ ✰
America wakes to the sensation of a page brushing Nantucket and a pair of bony wrists resting on his crown. England reads beneath him and Alfred pretends to stay asleep.
“Good afternoon- or should I say morning, Mister Eastern Standard,” Arthur murmurs, blowing Alfred’s cover. Paper scrapes against America’s hair as England turns a page.
Sunlight filters through lacy curtains, its gentle warmth tingling the skin of Alfred’s back. Arthur’s lounge room’s overall chill is attributed to the outdated (to state it gently) building’s poor insulation.
Combined with their point of contact the temperature is perfect.
Snuggling close, Alfred smiles into Arthur’s waist and pulls his right hand up- except it’s fallen asleep on the floor. So he pulls that one in and successfully retires with his left where a thin-rimmed Texas is deposited.
Alfred didn’t like opening his eyes without them. He’s been told it makes him look tired and young, neither of which was his desired image. Plus he couldn’t see more than four inches in front of his face.
Alfred refuses to contemplate what that symbolized of his nationhood.
Without looking, the lenses squeak against a blanket pooled on the floor and are placed on Alfred’s face. Arthur's gaze briefly flicks down to meet blue eyes when the American looks up. His lip twitches just barely, then he goes back to reading. The Englishman looks younger than usual, features relaxed as sharp eyes scan the lines of text with efficiency. Sometimes his lips mimic the words, but Alfred knows Arthur would be self-conscious if he were told and so he tries not to look or smile too adoringly. He settles for nuzzling the inside of Arthur’s wrists.
“Morning! I’m a little surprised you didn’t try getting up,” Alfred digs his phone out from the couch cushion and starts checking the news. “I mean, not sure why you’d wanna.”
Above him Arthir huffs, “Oh, bugger off. I haven’t felt my legs for the last ten hours and you’re about fifteen tones above my current PR.”
Alfred smirks and wiggles, not moving. “Better get back to the gym then, sweetheart. I ain’t seen you in years. You can bet your black pudding I’m not moving before lunch. Speaking of,”
⚜⚜⚜
Alfred closes Wall Street Journal and scrolls through nearby restaurant pages. Now that food is mentioned, Arthur realizes he is starving. However, he doesn’t want Alfred to see his own realization because it would be embarrassing to admit he hasn’t eaten since yesterday morning, and forces his eyes to continue reading the words. Internally Arthur begs his stomach not to rat him out.
“Alfred!” Arthur squawks when America bounces up, sending Shakepeare at his face.
“Whoops!” shouts Alfred, already down the hall. He emerges a moment later wearing jeans, tugging a sweatshirt over his head. Arthur scowls while Alfred pulls his shoes, “Remember that French-Prusian bakery you took me, Matt, and the Aussie to in the ‘50s? With the halva croissants?”
It takes Arthur a moment, but he does. In fact, he remembers selecting that particular bakery, along with a few other restaurants, in an attempt to encourage America’s prolonged stay in London. So they could… so he could spend more time with him. Or something like that.
“Yes.”
“It’s gonna close in, like, thirty minutes,” Alfred pleads, struggling to tie the laces on his combat boots. Then he's running back for a toothbrush.
Memories of that visit are forced to the forefront of his mind and he allows them to run their course while he bookmarks his page and folds the blanket and stacks it on a towering pile of afghans.
As it turned out, Alfred hadn’t needed more than an invitation. Between the American embassy, London’s reconstruction, and a pitstop in the French countryside the two of them ended up in one another’s company for much of the following week as a result of “sheer coincidence”, and the tireless efforts of clever secretaries. Their schedules overlapped perfectly. It was pleasant remembering that week of travel and sleep, a small break from his own stressful affairs with the worn and edgy politicians reconstructing the dissonant pieces of a shattered empire.
On their train out of France and towards the Channel, England had broken down against the observation car’s rail. He had thought himself alone with cold, loud air rushing against his back. He didn’t make a habit of crying but in that moment he’d been overwhelmed by it all and dropped his shields in (what he thought was) the privacy of night. When Arthur wiped any trace of distress from his face and saw that an hour had passed, he reentered the car to find America staring out the window.
Two cups of liquid sat balanced on either knee and when he looked up, expression concealed by an absence of light, he offered the right one to England.
“Found a moment to cram your face in the dining car, have we?” Arthur asked, taking the cup with visible suspicion and sniffing the rim. His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
It was tea! Either he had fallen off the balcony and gone to heaven (extremely unlikely) or been the victim of frostbite and gone delirious (possible), because in no universe did the United States of America offer England tea.
England was more surprised not to receive even a “stuff it”. America’s silhouette only shrugged.
Sipping it delicately, England had tapped his foot. He wasn’t sure what response the situation deserved and America had resumed his window watching, occasionally sipping what Arthur assumed was coffee. Arthur was tired from years, decades, of constant change and it felt as though that hour of reflection had forced him to recognize the exhaustion for what it was. This brief display of care, in a moment of weakness, was enough to move his cold heart and he melted just a bit. His resolve to look unperturbed by America’s tea offering melted Arthur just enough to sit himself a few seats from the American.
His tongue had tasted black tea. It had been a tad cold, meaning Alfred had seen him crying and retreated to his seat for at least twenty minutes. Dash it all, he'd cursed internally.
The remainder of the trainride had passed in the most silence England and America had shared all week, and when his cup of tea had been drunk to the dregs he’d grabbed America’s hand in a firm grip and they nodded once. Then England had left, grabbed his bags, and boarded the Channel ferry without looking back.
That was not the first occasion America had revealed something tender and lovely behind that megawatt smile, but it was a memory he held dear to his heart during a time Arthur knew a gentle wind might toss him out of existence.
Blanket folded and feelings tender, Arthur pushes himself off the couch and vows never to remember it again. It makes him feel old and inglorious.
Arthur’s thoughts are interrupted by an unhappy, empty stomach.
“Don’t wait up” He tells the empty room sarcastically. Bare feet follow the farmed portraits towards his room, taking a moment to smooth out a carpet corner with his toe. Alfred has the unique gift of generating an awful racket with the smallest of tools and an orchestra of water, metal, and plastic against procline narrates Alfred’s routine exactly beyond the thick doors.
Clink! Alfred sets down a can of shaving cream.
When he enters the bathroom America shoves a bottle of sunscreen in his general direction, raising an eyebrow through the mirror where he’s shaving. England sees his own shadowed face in its reflection and shoos Alfred aside to lather his own cheeks in shaving cream.
“Fucking gorgeous day, huh? Haven’t slept that well in months. Suppose I sleep on you every night; I’d be Superman,” Alfred shows off perfect, pearly white teeth and Arthur considers flossing for the first time in weeks.
“Suppose you lose about three stone and we’ll revisit that idea,” he pauses to gargle mouthwash, then spits it down the drain and presses a kiss to America’s snarky smirk. “We’ll workshop.”
Slacks, vest, comb, and ten minutes later America and England are out the door and hand in hand towards the bakery.
⚜⚜⚜
Alfred is chipper as usual and Arthur enjoys the wonderful breeze and Alfred’s expressive background chatter as Arthur leads their speed-meander towards the bakery. No need really. The smell of warm pastries hits them a block off and now it’s Alfred pulling Arthur along, like a child towards a candy shop. It's a small building tucked between two larger modern ones and the bell on the door jangles when they enter.
“Arthur!” exclaims a jovial woman manning the register, “We haven’t seen you in months! How’ve you been? How did the roses come along this season?”
Alfred abandons their hold to explore the limited array of baked goods left from the morning crowd. If that boy smudges the display case…
“Blooming even more vibrant than last year, thank you. It’s wonderful to see you, Amahle,” She’s placing five of the remaining croissants in a white paper bag, deft movement not breaking their conversation. Arthur’s mouth waters a bit but thankfully his stomach does not expose his excitement.
He’s missed this bakery more than he realized. Alfred is pointing at a chocolate something-or-other and Amahle adds them to the bag with a smile.
“Business running smoothly?” he asks to be polite, although the answer is evident by the almost empty shelves.
“Always”, she laughs, and frowns playfully when Alfred tries offering his card. She hands Alfred the bag, stuffed to the brim. Golden pastry crust peaks over the edge.
“Thank you, ma’am!” Alfred’s hand crinkles the little white bag and emerges with a cookie, immediately shoving its entirety into his face.
“A-Alfred!” Arthur sputters behind him, barely resisting the urge to strangle the man for his slobbish eating habits. But Amahle just looks pleased to see a customer enjoying her food with gusto. Settling for a swift smack on that lovely behind Arthur slips a twenty pound banknote into the tipping jar while the shop owner is shelled by midwestern American enthusiasm for anything containing butter and sugar. America barely swallows before going on, “Your bakery is really delicious, you know? Artie dragged us here years ago. Best pastry crust I’ve ever had, and believe me when I say I’ve tried a lot. Haha, never forget!”
During COVID Arthur made a point to place weekly orders from a few private businesses. Amahle’s being one of them. Luckily her shop pulled through and it warmed Arthur’s heart to see their usual flourishing clientele returned.
He waves goodbye and drags Alfred, still talking, out the door. He hasn’t seen Alfred for years, and they have a lot to do today.
⚜⚜⚜
On the road towards the nearest Underground station and midway through a weak defense of the Imperial system, America shivers. “D-did you feel that, Arthur?” he whispers, pushing up his glasses and crowding closer. Arthur pulls when his partner’s steps falter, looking around briefly.
Some steps ahead a father pushes a stroller, and a woman wielding five leashes (all attached at the end to dogs of varying sizes) leans against a nearby tree watching her phone. Some ducks idle by the pond, and the usual animal suspects are present. Nothing out of the ordinary. And certainly nothing so peculiar as to cause America’s arm muscles to clamp under his clothes.
“Those USDA-approved chemicals finally hit their mark. A few bites of sashimi ought to right things,” he says, tapping the side of Alfred’s head to cover up a kiss. The smell of his own shampoo in Alfred’s blond curls makes him a little warm so he cuts it short.
Alfred returns the gesture. But he pulls on England’s arms, and the uncalibrated force both informs the Brit America isn’t joking, and yanks him down before Arthur can prepare. “Alfred, watch it!”
“Oops. But babe,” Alfred stops their walk, and forces Arthur to stare at intense, anxious blue eyes. “I- something- I felt something cold go through my chest. L-like a ghost,” he stammers out, cheeks gone white.
Arthur feels the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn’t fight it. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“Dude!” Alfred shoots him a betrayed look, snatching his hand from their hold inside Arthur's pocket. “This ain’t funny! It’s almost a full moon!” He gestures vaguely at the sky.
If there had truly been any “ghost” phasing through Alfred's chest, Arthur would have noticed. And a full moon? Was that some American superstition- that ghosts would abandon their regular hauntings to pester the non-believers? America’s big, blue eyes plead Arthur’s unmoved green one’s to believe him. Or maybe to disprove his anxiety?
Well, there wasn’t any harm in encouraging this superstition. It might even provide the evidence America needed to overcome his see-it-then-I’ll-believe-it system. Trixie would be proud.
“Yes. Yes! Of course, how very silly of me, poppet. I didn’t realize you could sense, uh-” Arthur thought quickly, looking around for inspiration, “Birch!...ington. Birchington, that’s his name. Died an awful, painful death I hear… heard- from the papers.” Arthur nods solemnly, biting into a croissant.
He’s rewarded for his shoddy acting skills by a quick inhale, and his hand is immediately rejoined in his pocket. Ha!
It’s twitchier than usual and Arthur would feel guilt, except that Alfred’s persistent refusal to acknowledge the existence of the creatures that raised him for the first millennium of his life has festered into an admittedly bitter sore-spot in their relationship. As one of the world’s greatest psychics, the responsibility to legitimize his side profession partially fell on his shoulders. England was only performing his duty to all spirit and magic kind!
They descend into the station and Arthur continues the story while he fetches Alfred a metro ticket from the kiosk, “Oh yes, terrible thing it was. Worked under some old fart as a valet for years- 1890s, was it? TB caught him off guard and poof! Apparently he was quite the handsome devil, had the papers all in a rage.”
Arthur slips the ticket into a shaky hand and looks up into a white face, blue eyes wide like saucers. “T-terrible, huh?”
“Terrible,” Arthur agrees, smug.
⚜⚜⚜
To nations there is nothing more comfortable than standing in their homeland and Arthur is no exception. Nothing quite makes England’s day like riding the Underground. The cars are densely populated but quick, just enough people and time to recalibrate his senses after being away from society for any extended time.
Not even Alfred’s twitching can break this sensation of quiet contentment.
The weekend crowd is thin in today’s unseasonable weather and both men find seats promptly. Arthur busies himself multitasking: arguing with Scotland over text and editing a memo for his boss about yesterday’s meeting, excluding any detail of the after-work drinking party. His thumbs are too fat for the tiny keyboard and every word is a laborious process, relief only granted by Scotland’s motley, half-illertate notifications. Beside him Alfred startles like a lamb at every minute jerk of the traincar and unexpected noise, fiddling with video games on his phone and switching tabs to his inbox and hoaxy Twitter articles on the supernatural every other second.
That’s the third time he misspelled “propositional”! Fuck this!
“What’s got your knickers in a twist? That alien friend of yours escaped through the backyard fence again?”
Alfred delivers a particularly nasty look, knee bouncing. “First, Tony has free reign of the place! He ain’t a pet; he’s a fiend. Second: Ghosts, Arthur! Like you said! I mean, they don’t exist, but what if someone’s really, really good at imitating ‘em. Haunting and, and… and whatever the fuck else ghosts fo- Arg!” Flappy Bird crashes into a green pipe.
Arthur puts his hand out and Alfred drops his phone into it, watching Arthur beat America’s high score over the trenchcoated shoulder. Alfred raises a thin eyebrow when it’s given back. “Touché.”
Alfred and Kiku weren’t the only nations bored out of their minds in 2013.
“Birchington has better things to do than play tag, Alfred. It’s insulting to imply otherwise.”
When they arrive at Piccadilly Station Alfred bounces off his seat and flies at the doors, waiting with a hand on his hip for them to open. “Hun, really. I appreciate you tryna make me feel better but I’ve got a gut feeling- something’s gonna go down. I found this Twitter community- they totally agree.”
Alfred throws this over his shoulder. His clenched jaw catches the car’s dingy light. Stupidly handsome yank.
Blue eyes are hard behind silver glasses and his posture is ramrod straight beneath a classic WWII flight jacket. It reminds Arthur of an officer’s pose, the one Alfred wore during his own training. The serious attitude would be knee-buckling if Arthur didn’t know what nonsense brought the attitude about.
The effect is dampened. Only a slight rouse on the cheeks betray him. Luckily, Alfred is even denser when he’s in a mood and so the Englishman is spared the ridicule.
“Intuition? Good lord, lad, we’ve far too much to do to listen to that,” Arthur scoffs, offering half of his second croissant when they reach the street.
✰ ✰ ✰
Arthur isn’t taking this spooky business seriously enough. Maybe he’s spent so much time in his “Magic Club” with Norway, Romania, and Haiti he’s developed a tolerance. Which is super weird, considering magic doesn’t exist. One too many “scones”(read: coal nuggets) and his break with reality isn’t limited to his sense of taste.
But it’s okay, because Arthur looks extremely handsome and mature today and a little sass and insanity’s never been enough to keep him out of Arthur’s arms and bed.
Alfred accepts the croissant and nibbles at its flaky crust, following the beige back of a trenchcoat leading them towards a car. He’d prefer to nibble on his fingernails but then he'll get slapped by Arthur, teased by Mattie, and yelled at by the manicurist. A triple whammy he’d rather not relive.
They pass by an old bar with ivy weaving through its brick wall (that can’t be up to code) and goosebumps spread across his arms under the leather jacket like a wave of cold water crashing over his head. Jesus on a stick. Birchington, that bastard! He crams the rest of the pastry into his mouth and speed-saunters towards Arthur.
The Englisman scans his car, now visible through a light crowd. No smashed window glitters on the road. Hooray! “I’m picking up a few files at my office before dinner,” Arthur pats his arm with the hand holding his keys, swiping through his phone in the other. “Be a dear and quit stroking the sides. I know you’re besotted but I really hate seeing grease smudges on my way to work.”
Alfred snatches back the hand absentmindedly petting The Car. “I don’t- I wouldn’t- I. What?” He holds both hands in the air as if to pronounce his innocence.
See, officer? Unarmed. Arthur rolls his eyes and uses the edge of his shirt to wipe a nonexistent smudge on The Car. That ass.
“Not to spoil your plans but weren't we gonna go on that hike? Weather reports say it’s gonna be way worse the rest of my VK dates.”
The driver’s side opens with a well-oiled chick and they both slide in through respective doors. Alfred’s admiration for The Car is so strong it almost distracts the American’s thoughts from Birchington.
“Oh arse it all … yes. Those files will have to wait. You might be right- for once.”
“Haha, don’t hurt yourself.”
Arthur sits back a moment and looks pensive out the windshield. “ My hiking boots and bag are still in the back from last time. Everything should take less than six hours so we’ll be right in time for our reservation. Sounds good?”
“Sounds better than good. And I wanna pick up water and a box of Ding Dongs. When I checked the cupboard half the wrappers were empty.”
“It wasn’t me,” Arthur huffs, and Alfred doesn't know whether or not to believe him. Certainly, Ding Dongs don’t just go poof! But Arthur wouldn’t have had time to eat so many and Alfred has been known to sleepwalk (and eat).
Alfred brushes his legs up and down in an attempt to warm up. He feels colder than he did a minute ago.Winter can suck his balls. “Mind turning up the heat?”
His request is obliged and The Car is expertly wound through busy lanes. Alfred takes out his phone and scrolls through his Twitter feed. One of the trending posts by Reigan Arataka’s Spirits & Such Consultation. Defeated the Dagger in Japan?! Alfred heard dozens of rumors about her both in Japan and back home. Alfred retweets the post:
“OMG i’m in London rn w my bf and he says theres a ghost named birchington haunting us. any1 else in the uk heard of him?”
The car warms quickly as they drive (on the wrong side fuck fuck fuck Alfred resists the urge to scream every time they turn). Nevertheless a chill persists deep in his bones. It remains even when a sweat builds under his collar while Arthur insists the driver in front of them is a wanker and habitually fucks his mother on Sundays.
It’s cold, but it absolutely shouldn’t be. Could it be the ghost? That fucker Birchington?
“Who in their right mind allowed your daft,”
“Arthur.”
“Flea-bitten, pig-brained,”
“Arthur.”
“Chud to maneuver a vehicle on this blood- Oh you’re turning? Finally! Realized you could suck up even more oxygen by flicking the turnsig-”
“Arthur!”
“What?!”
“I know they don’t exist BUT- There’s a mutherfucking ghost haunting my ass and you’re pretending not to see it!” Alfred snaps, shivering under his clothes and twitching nervously.
Arthur taps the steering wheel and doesn’t respond immediately. Which he should, considering the gravity of the situation. “America,” he says, not kindly. “There’s no ghost.”
“…Promise?”
“Well, not in the car at the very least. There’s a placard in the glove compartment, be a dove and hang it under the mirror.”
Alfred sighs in disgust and digs through what must be a hundred maps (honestly, who still uses paper maps?) before pulling it out and doing as he’s told. There’s nothing to worry about, Alfred tells himself.
But when he moves his hand from blocking his view of the street a silhouette on the sidewalk appears. It’s a hunched figure wearing a ragged cloak and Alfred sees the red brick wall behind them. The hairs on the back of his neck stand ramrod and he turns to tug on Arthur’s sleeve when a moment later he blinks.
And the figure is gone.
If there was a ghost nearby Arthur would have noticed, what with all his freaky magic wizarding shit. The goosebumps and feeling like he’s being watched are probably a symptom of burnout. Alfred just doesn’t know how to relax and his brain has come up with something mean to scare his mind into its usual overworked state. That’s what Mattie says all the time, and his Canadian neighbor is usually not wrong.
Alfred can trust Arthur. Arthur wouldn’t lie about something like this. He wouldn’t.
Would he?
✰ ✰ ✰
Thirty minutes into their hike and twenty into the culpability of Twitter users abouts the existence of ghosts, and all the theories his followers proposed in Alfred’s tweet comments, Arthur proves him wrong.
“For goodness’ sake, Alfred! I was joking, love. There is no Birchington. I was just so pent up with your constantly jabbing my magic so I made up a silly little story.”
Alfred stops walking and flails before finding his voice, “... You lied to me?”
“It wasn’t creative enough to warrant a ‘lie’, per se. Anyone with half a brain could see through it. Just- just quit fussing so we can enjoy what little free time we get.” Arthur grabs Alfred’s hands, expression something between infuriated and pleading. Arthur looks at his watch and it’s clear the only thing the Englishman is concerned with is staying on schedule.
Alfred feels beyond betrayed. He trusted Arthur!
(To be frank this wasn’t inconsistent behavior. Their usual Halloween challenge relied on Arthur using Alfred’s particular weak spot against him. But!) This wasn’t Halloween. This vacation was supposed to be for sleep, exploring, and sex exclusively.
Flabbergasted, Alfred stutters angrily a few moments before turning cheek and stomping off. Unfortunately Arthur carries all of their navigation equipment, and so Alfred’s gesture can’t have the desired impact and storm out of sight the way he’d prefer, but he can sit down and start typing a draft to Mattie about what a jerk Arthur is.
Alfred finds a semi-dry log and does just that.
Honestly, doesn’t Arthur know how lucky he is to be with Alfred?? He’s so amazing. Massive biceps, a sweet face, sexy NASA station ID card… Arthur’s totally disrespecting him. Slandering his dignified image! That limey bastard!
Alfred types furiously on his smartphone, striking a comical silhouette along the trunk he leans against.
But he pauses when the shadow of an unkindness of ravens are bent by his foot. Birds twitter and chirp in the tree tops. They sound so merry, and of course they do. How could the birds be unhappy? The weather is lovely and they’re with all their bird friends. Who knows how long birds live, how long they’ll have to chirp together. Perchance. It’s nice to hear their musical notes and Alfred starts feeling silly for being bitter. Closing Whatsapp, Alfred starts looking towards his Englishman, about to forgive and forget-
Before he sees the expression on Arthur's face.
England has an unimpressed eyebrow raised above on an equally snooty gaze, almost glassy with disinterest. The birdsongs seem to cut off abruptly in Alfred’s ear and he whips back to Whatsapp, typing twice as furiously.
“If you need a moment to console yourself I’ll just be over there,” says Arthur eventually, finding a stump near a clearing to sip at his Yeti of tea. Japan gifted him a box of teas before the meeting and this black blend has subtle hibiscus tones. It’s excellent and Arthur mentally ponders what gifts he could thank Kiku’s gesture with.
Arthur does feel a little bad for keeping up the lie, but America is acting so childish that it would hurt him more to acknowledge it than apologize and it was such a fucking. Stupid. Lie!
Behind him Alfred curls his lip in Arthur’s direction, thumb pressing a hole through his phone screen.
The sound of crunching glass makes Arthur look over his shoulder to raise an even (if somehow possible) higher and haughtier eyebrow.
“Not. One. Word,” Alfred says in an intense whisper, ruined phone falling into a small pouch on the side of America’s borrowed hiking bag. This wasn’t the first technological casualty, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last
Arthur seals the Yeti bottle shut and nods, meeting Alfred in the middle of the trail where they initially parted ways.
Looking down at Arthur and remembering all the birds singing, he realizes how little time they have and how much he doesn’t wanna waste it. “Pop by Starbies tomorrow morning and we’re even.”
Arthur offers a sarcastic hand and Alfred shakes it.
They both look down at their hands for a moment before Alfred smiles. “Awww, c’mere you,” he dips Arthur into a tender kiss, almost overbalancing with their combined hiking equipment.
The trail leads England and America another four miles into the forest, an orange sun just beginning its Eastern dip to cast long tree shadows.
⚜⚜⚜
Arthur starts feeling something strange. Alfred convinced him to stray from the trail after a late lunch and he regrettes giving in. They each had headlamps but neither man was keen to stay out past dark.
Unfortunately the compass wouldn't quit spinning and Arthur’s phone was dead. Alfred was freaking out as the minutes went by and the sun sunk lower, and Arthur pretended he wasn’t freaking out as well by marching ahead.
Alfred wasn’t in the habit of verbalizing his anxiety, but Arthur chalked it up to some lingering ghost fears.
“We’re lost! Oh fuck Arthur, we’re lost,” Alfred whimpered, chugging his water. “If Birchington- if ghosts existed I’d be real nervous right about now. Dark, empty forest. No weapons, compass broken, phones dead. Ha ha ha. Heh.”
“Pity, it seems we’ll miss our reservation. But we’re fine. We entered the path on the Eastern side, so even if we don’t find the trail for a few miles we’ll run into a road.” But the temperature was dropping, and frankly neither Arthur nor Alfred had been following where they were. Who needed to with a trail?
“Uh, Artie?”
Arthur stopped smacking the side of the spinning compass to look up. “What?”
“The website didn’t mention a big ass castle anywhere.”
“Why would it? There’s no cast- Oh.” In the clearing, illuminated just by moonlight, loomed a massive, dilapidated and ivy-covered castle.
How neither man saw it before is beyond Arthur. It’s enormous and beautiful, with tall towers on either side. They stand so close they can see the mosaic of rocks, and thick ivy tearing through the binding. Moss kisses each crevasse and the rocks are smoothed by weather and time. It’s a jaw droppingly stunning building and it makes Arthur melt just a bit.
“I thought I’d seen them all…” Arthur whispers aloud. It is curious to realize that something this huge and close to home had gone under his radar.
A force he can’t place seems to pull Arthur’s body towards the looming structure, and before he realizes it he’s weaving through the brush filling the entrance.
“Wha- Arthur! No, man, no c’mon this is- it’s how people die in h-horror movies!”
Subconsciously, Arthur can tell how close to breaking Alfred’s tone is. But there’s a mixture of curiosity and something far more powerful pulling him in and denying his feet their forward march is actually painful. “You wait here, love. I’m gonna have a look about.”
His responses are vague flailing noises which increase steadily in volume until Alfred is glued to his side. They ascend a crumbling stairwell off the parlor, and with each step what little light remains steadily dulls until the brightest thing visible is the entrance to the stairs. They turn on their headlamps, but there’s not much to see.
“This is creepy as fuck,” Alfred complains, and Arthur can’t help but agree. There’s magic, strong magic, somewhere in these walls and he feels both threatened and enraptured by its pull. He can’t stop himself from placing one foot in front of the other even when he’s decided the potential risk is not worth quenching his curiosity. Alfred is clearly terrified, and the American’s unintentionally harsh hold over his arm threatens to snap the bone.
Behind him a rather nasty cough emanates. “Excuse me.”
At that Arthur whips around faster than light. Alfred would never apologize for coughing! He’s right: In front of his eyes festeres a spirit. His form is vague, but he wears a white shirt under a cloak, and it is speckled with blood. A cloth is held against his mouth and when he looms towards them he doesn’t make another sound.
”It’s Birchington, just like those guys on Twitter said!” Alfred exclmains.
Ah. That explained this then. What's more stereotypical than an English 1890’s TB victim haunting a dilapidated medieval castle? Very little, that’s what.
“How many Twitter followers do you have, love?” asks Arthur. He knows it's in the millions. It doesn’t bode well for them, alone with an extremely powerful spirit who's still gaining in power from fear generated by Alfred’s Tweet.
Six hours ago Birchington the ghost, an unfortunate victim of tuberculosis, did not exist.
Now Alfred and Arthur are being pulled right off their feet and into the air by a very real, very dangerous conjuring of the mass imagination. In the end, Arthur can admit this is his own doing.
Alfred’s unholy screams are devoured by an artificial wind, but his mouth is open and he can feel the American’s terror from where he’s being tossed and dragged against the walls on the other side of the room.
With each drag Arthur feels his skin ripping off from his back, arms, and legs and his clothes go damp. He smells copper, and he bites his tongue to keep from screaming.
Alfred has no such reserves and curses up a storm, his superior strength holding up better against Birchington’s onslaught.
Suddenly the bricks beside him explode into shards of rock and America is right next to him, arms strained against the wall and hands embedded in the crumbled dirty brick. “You said you lied, fucker!”
Arthur strains his neck in order to turn his head and yell against the howling wind, “I did not lie this time, Alfred! Your chronically online Twitter posse believed him into existence! Maybe you should keep your fucking life to yourself insetad of informing the world on your every step and thought, twat!”
“T-twa- I can’t believe you, you-Akk!” And Alfred is yoinked back into the air.
Below them Birchington coughs up what must be a lung and a half. The noise he produces is dreadful and comically fitting for his backstory. The concept of a coughing, evil ghost would be funny if the attacks weren’t so vicious. England is again slammed into a wall, this time stomach down, and he turns his head to snarl. He has to think of something to at least even the scale, and as he does his tongue curiously catches a tooth which must have cracked off when his face smashed against the bricks.
He spits it out onto his palm and clenches it tightly in a fist, closing his eyes and forcing his body to hold up against the invisible winds wanting to shove it to and fro. When he opens them his body remains in the same place and below Birchington releases an energized hacking fit. England senses the spirits' magic increase, but his own abilities allow his physical body to maintain its undisturbed hovering.
Above him Alfred continues to be spun about, flailing his arms and legs like someone who has never learned to swim in a body of water. Arthur can’t do anything about America while he stabilizes his own field of gravity and familiarizes himself with Birchington’s energy.
“I’m going to try exercising him, so try and grab onto something,” Arthur shouts, drawing upon his magic and forming a ball of light in one hand. It’s difficult to maintain because Birchington’s power is being drawn from the land around them, which England partially draws from as well. Without any magical conductor, he has nothing but his own limbs to centralize the force of his blow.
England takes a breath, flexes his leg,
And drops.
⚜⚜⚜
“Bloody buggering- fuck- goddamit,” Arthur seethes, forcing the two pieces of femur together. The only thing worse than breaking a femur was having to re-snap it when the bone healed crookedly.
Alfred, smushed against his side in an Uber that probably isn’t up to code, rubs his shoulder in sympathy. The lad was obviously exhausted. Not surprising considering the bodily trauma inflicted by Birchington’s attack. The American was fighting sleep, blinks becoming slower and slower.
The windows are open and leave the car feeling identical to the stone, bone-cold castle they escaped not hours before. The chilly temperature might have helped England fight his own desires to sleep if not for the warm leather jacket sitting over his shoulders.
Immediately after exercising Birchington Arthur blacked out. Alfred took the liberty of wrapping him in that beloved flight jacket and carrying them towards a road, where a car peeled off the road and the driver proclaimed herself an Uber.
Then Arthur awoke with a shout of pain.
They listened to her with disbelief, but little choice. The night was empty and it was a stroke of luck that anyone was out here at all.
“No card, though,” she’d then said, and with no cell signal to verify her credentials, they clambered into the back.
And they were, finally, on their way back and blessedly ghost-free. Now England could allow himself to breathe.
England tried relaxing a bit into his seat, laboriously unstiffening his shoulders and unclenching his jaw. Everything screamed, sore and bruised, and he was exhausted in every manner of the word. With his magical reserves depleted to nothing Arthur felt weak and out of his element, and the only thing which provided even a modicum of comfort was the promise that Alfred wasn’t so upset over the (obvious) ghost prank he wasn’t booking an early flight home.
Cheers!
“A spot of tea would be lovely right now,” Arthur mutters, leaning his forehead against the driver's headrest. The leather smelled of cigarettes and toffee and it distracts him from the sensation of bone knitting itself together.
“Mind if I light one?” Alfred asks the driver, Zippo flame already dancing against the wind’s pull.
“Not at all! Mind lighting two?”
“Artie?” Without looking Arthur declines with a small wave. He doesn’t want Alfred to see his hand shaking if he tried holding it.
Shrugging, Alfred hands the driver a cigarette and sucks on his own so long Arthur wonders if the American has switched off his need to breathe.
It would be an overreaction from Arthur’s perspective but then again, a little haunting never spooked him.
But then America breathes out and coughs and Arthur remembers he wants tea. Preferably cold by about twenty minutes, served in a quiet which lacked the burden of guilt.
Alfred acts natural enough, tapping ash out the window and smiling at tall, sparse trees whipping by. But if he were sincerely okay the car would be flooded with conversation and laughter.
“For what it’s worth…,” Arthur starts (gently, so Alfred will look). “I’m sorry I lied about Birchington. I might not care about ghosts and the like, but I knew you did. I took advantage of your trust and I’m sorry.”
The car is silent for a moment (minus cheesy pop blaring through the driver’s Airpods) and Alfred looks out the window again before meeting his eyes and smiling. This time it reaches his eyes and crinkles the crows feet and Arthur’s thoughts abandon his physical discomforts when he imagines kissing them.
“…It’s ok, I guess,” says Alfred, in a voice rarely used. Arthur knows he means it. “I kinda got caught up in all those news media stories about that Arataka guy in Japan and his Dagger story.”
That sentence sits in the air until it feels settled. Arthur starts, “Speaking of Japan…”
A beat. Then,
“Oh em gee, Sushi!”
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okay so i have not written anything in many many years but i have not been able to stop thinking about astarion being obsessed with my tav's freckles so have this tiny drabble i threw together real quick
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If you had asked Astarion a year ago what he found attractive in a partner, he would have given you some cliché answer. Their figure, their facial structure. Now though, he could think of nothing more attractive than the infinite array of freckles that decorate your body. Trailing from your face, down your neck and spilling onto your shoulders, fanning out like a galaxy contained in your flesh. Extending down your back and wrapping around your thighs. He could spend days getting lost tracing patterns across the dots, memorising the clusters that made you shiver in the most delicious way when he kissed them
#bg3#astarion x tav#astarion#not that it has any bearing on this drabble at all but my tavs name is arden and he is my dark urge character#astarion is obsessed with his freckles and arden is obsessed with astarions hands and theyre both very normal about each other (lie)
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You showed me colors you know I can't see with anyone else
Summary: Taissa doesn't care about having the perfect love story and going on dates. She's afraid something is broken within her. (A Taissa character study pre-crash and pre-taivan)
A/N: so... i pumped this out real quickly lol i chose taylor lyrics again to link it to my Van character study. Read Van's character study here!
Taissa never understood what the big deal about dates and crushes were. As a child, her parents read her stories of happily ever afters and of princes saving princesses, but unlike her classmates, she wasn’t sure she even wanted a prince. The idea of being saved didn’t ever sound appealing to her, even as a child, so when her friends all wanted to play princesses, she volunteered herself as a prince so she wouldn’t have to be the damsel in distress. It felt so good to be the saver instead of the saved, until some of her other classmates caught on and told her exactly why she shouldn’t be playing the prince.
Even in middle and high school, Taissa was never bothered when she didn’t get asked to dances or to go on dates on the weekends. In fact, she was more bothered when she did get asked. She went on a date with a boy in 8th grade, just because all of her friends were giving her shit for being the last one to have their first kiss. She felt queasy just thinking about it, like her insides were all twisted up, but she went anyway. When he kissed her in the back of the movie theater, she didn’t hesitate to run for the bathroom and lock herself in a stall.
She wasn’t sure if she felt like sobbing or throwing up and she was absolutely positive that none of her friends felt this way after having their first kiss. She decided to table that thought for later and call her mom to come get her. She made up a story about feeling sick (it was only a half lie, really) and laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling for the whole night.
After that, she’d decided that romantic love just must not be for her. She’d lie to her friends about thinking some completely unattainable guy in their grade is cute. She turned down guys that asked her on dates and to dances, making up some excuse about being busy that night or having some kind of soccer thing to attend to. It helped her get by without too many questions, but she often wondered if she was broken.
She’d started noticing girls in her grade in the way that she thought most of her friends noticed boys when she was in 9th grade. She’d decided they were much better to look at, but only allowed herself short glances. She wasn’t quite ready to deal with what it meant yet, so she pushed those thoughts down when they arose and continued to believe that she was broken, though all her friends told her that her time would come, she just couldn’t bring herself to believe it.
When she moved to Wiskayok HIgh, her problems only seemed to worsen. Being the new girl meant attention, attention from teachers trying to catch her up to speed, girls trying to figure out if she’d be a friend or a threat, and boys trying to scope out the “fresh meat” in the dating pool. So Tai decided to own it. She decided to show these people she now called peers that she was smart, driven, and bold. She spoke up to answer every question that was put out there by her teachers and chose the front seat in every class. She got some sideways looks about it all, but she didn’t care or at least she tried not to look like she cared.
On her first day of soccer practice, Tai was introduced to the team as they all stood in front of her in a cluster. She’d recognized most of them from some of her classes and could tell who was friends with who just by looking at them. She vaguely remembered seeing one particular redhead, in her English class, maybe? She couldn’t help but notice the way her auburn hair shone in the sunlight and how her freckles dotted her cheeks and arms like stars in the sky. She looked away almost as soon as her eyes settled on her. The two became fast friends when the redhead made some kind of quip about one of the girls on their team being uptight and peppy, Jackie, Taissa thinks was her name.
They continued to get closer and closer as the season and school year went on. They often went straight from school or practice to get food or sat in Taissa’s bedroom to watch movies and listen to music. They’d show up and leave parties together, pair up for group projects, and lend each other annotated books with their thoughts and feelings scribbled on the pages.
The only problem was what Taissa was beginning to suspect is a crush. Of course, she’d admired girls in her grade before, but they’d never been girls that had meant anything to her. Most times, she barely uttered a word to the girls that caught her eye. She’d admired them for a second in passing before looking away and most times, she’d never see them again.
With Van, it was different. She’d gotten to study her inside and out. She knew Van’s favorite movies and why they were her favorite, she knew why she gets physically sick when she looks at peas, and how making mixtapes is her love language. She also knew how her hair looked splayed across her purple pillowcase at sleepovers. She knew how her pale red eyelashes brushed her freckles as she slept and how it felt to lay her head on Van’s chest and shoulder, a warm, freckled arm wrapped around her back. She knew Van intimately, almost as well as she knew herself.
Van made her feel what she only assumed her classmates felt with the boys they spoke of. She felt a warmth in her chest upon feeling Van’s warm hand in her own, she gets butterflies in her stomach when Van smiles that smile that she pretends is reserved for her, and she loses her breath when Van’s shirt rides up and a patch of pale, freckled skin is revealed. She tried not to think about these things when they occurred. She loved the feelings that Van elicited from her, though she wasn’t quite ready to confront them.
She continued to make up some dumb excuses when boys from school asked her out, but she found herself wishing it were Van asking her instead. She thought that would solve her problems, but she knew the real problem was within her. She wished she was as confident and bold when it came to her feelings for Van as people thought she was with everything else.
Taissa Turner thought she wasn’t interested in love, that it was overrated and ultimately not in the cards for her. She knows now that love just looks a bit different for her than it does for everyone else. She may not be ready to deal with that now, but she knows she will be one day and she hopes that Van Palmer will be the one to show her what she was missing out on.
#yellowjackets showtime#yellowjackets fanfic#yellowjackets#taissa turner#van palmer#taissa loves van#van loves taissa but she doesn't know it yet#wlw fanfic#wlw#showtime#teen taissa#teen van#set in the 90s timeline pre crash#give tai a hug#no dialogue#character study
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Masterpost
@wolfstarmicrofic
Prompt: afraid
Fear is a relative term. Some people are scared of the dark. Others find it in insects or heights or tight spaces. More still are terrified of death and what comes after, what that will mean for them and their souls, if they believe in those sorts of things, but Sirius has never worried much with any of these. What Sirius fears is far worse to him. Sirius is afraid of losing.
Loss is something Sirius is well-versed in. He's lost a lot in his life so far, but he feels as though he's gained much more, a better family along the way, that love he'd always been missing as a child. His friends have given him everything, and without it, Sirius knows he'd be nothing, not even worth a second glance from anyone. He'd thought, for a long time, that the Potters slipping away from him would be the worst thing possible, the most he'd ever stand to lose, but now he's looking at the new life somehow forming around him through all this mess, and Sirius is realizing he stands to lose so much more than he'd ever imagined.
The next week passes in a half-blur of anger, anguish, and that startling relief that Remus seems to provide him at nearly every turn, always managing to pull Sirius from his darkest moments when he thinks no one else could. He's soft and kind under most circumstances, but firm and unwavering when Sirius needs it most, like Remus can tell and knows just when to use which tactic to gain the best results. Sirius isn't sure how he does it, watching the other man constantly, trying to sort it out in his head, make sense of the things that aren't lining up properly yet.
He still studies Remus when he sleeps, thinking that will give him some clues, that ability to simply stare unhindered, but it doesn't. Sirius finds things he's never noticed before, like a fine scar just over one side of his upper lip, one eyelash that's slightly longer than all the rest, grazing the man's cheek with a delicacy even silk can't rival. He maps the slant of his nose, observing the random cluster of freckles near the tip, and once, for a second, Sirius almost leans in to touch them before he stops himself.
Teddy comes to stay with them again, and Sirius basks in his jovial presence, but he only stays for a day before Remus falls ill and aching. Dora comes back to pick him up, doting on Remus while she's there, checking him over, pushing him to rest. Sirius is grateful for it, but he also feels a surge of jealousy rise in him that he can't understand.
When they're gone, Sirius keeps a close eye on Remus, remaining near to his side. The other man doesn't complain about his presence, but he tells Sirius not to worry, that it happens often, a shadow falling over his eyes that only concerns Sirius further instead of abating it. And then, the next night, without an explanation, Remus disappears, leaving Sirius alone until he returns in the morning, shuffling through the door on barely moving feet, looking pale and drawn, haggard in a way Sirius hasn't seen him before. He meets Sirius' eyes as he pushes the door closed behind him, leaning on the handle heavily, his mouth opening to speak, and then he collapses, and the terror spikes in Sirius deeper.
Remus rouses hours later, Sirius having managed to get him in the bed. He's stripped down to his pants beneath the warmth of the layers of blankets Sirius had piled over him. Remus stirs a bit but stills when he sees Sirius seated beside him, hovering a little, watching his face as he wakes and returns to consciousness. Sirius doesn't speak as Remus glances down at himself, taking in his bare chest and arms, the scars there standing out in the afternoon light of the sun, gleaming faintly like rivulets of streaming water. Remus' eyes lift to meet Sirius', mostly blank, but Sirius can see the shields flying up, guarding against the panic steadily rising.
"What did you – ?" starts Remus, but something in Sirius' gaze seems to stop him.
"I patched up what I could with flannels and bandages," explains Sirius. "You weren't too bad off, but I don't have a wand and couldn't manage to use yours, though I'm guessing trying to heal the wounds likely wouldn't have been very successful." Remus stares at him, his mouth twisting into a terrible line that Sirius hates on sight. "You're a werewolf. That's why you knew about the moons, why you didn't go to Hogwarts or any school. Right?"
And there it is, that fear flooding through Remus as he physically tries to retreat into the bed, looking caged and trapped. "Sirius – " he rasps out nearly pleadingly, but Sirius only shakes his head, silencing him as he reaches to the side table and grabs up the glass of water he'd left there.
"Drink," he instructs, hand slotting behind Remus' head, lifting it enough to press the cup to the other man's lips. Remus' wide brown eyes remain fixed on him with a slow-building terror as he does as he's told, downing half the glass before he pushes it away, glancing at it briefly as though he thinks it might be poisoned. Sirius never looks away from him as he settles the water back in place and says, "I don't care, Remus."
Remus' mouth drops open, his jaw falling slack. "You don't – " he tries to repeat, but he stops, snapping his teeth together quickly. "You don't understand, Sirius."
"I understand. You're a werewolf, and that's not your fault. As far as I can tell you're not hurting anyone. You have people that love you unconditionally, a family that you love in return," says Sirius factually. "And you've been helping an irritating stranger for a month now when you could have just as easily ignored me."
Remus shakes his head, brown eyes still impossibly wide. Sirius thinks he might want to drown in them. "You're not a stranger," he whispers.
"No, I'm not," says Sirius just as quietly, and then he's leaning down without another second of thought and kissing him.
#these days of dying#wolfstar#sirius black#remus lupin#sirius x remus#sirius/remus#wolfstarmicrofic#my writing#my microfics#holli writes
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okay so, i have a lot of lore abt the world of LN in general, but
it's wrapped up in a lot of my six interpretation, so! i will link you
to her blog as well, just to set you up a bit. anyway, let's gooooo--
>the spiral is the cluster of places in the dead middle of the main
-lands, a pangea-esque continent that makes up the nowhere as
a whole. the land itself twists in on itself, getting darker, more
distorted the deeper you go, much like a black hole of sorts.
>some kids were born in the nowhere, some kids were trapped
there, slowly pulled in slowly worsening nightmares. alone was
the latter, originally being a scrapy, young southern girl, living
a rather average life in the elsewhere, a less frightening world.
>her nightmares began after her family life began to decline, with her parent's divorcing. then, an subsequent move to a new place, up north, with her mother. eventually, the nightmares consumed her entirely, causing her to become trapped
in nowhere after curiosity struck, following the ferryman into the dark swirling mist.
>her worldly horror is the north wind, who often referred to her
as 'alone', or 'lonely' during their first few interactions, which the
girl quickly reclaimed, and is now using it as a new nickname.
>she's been in the nowhere for about eight months, having met
low after two, and they have been working together ever since.
>isn't super big on getting back to the elsewhere, though wouldn't express
such to low. she can't help her curiosity, wanting to learn this world inside
and out. plus, she feels as if she doesn't have much to return to, anyway.
>wants to be a pilot, like her grandfather was. she was very close
to him before he passed while she was still in the elsewhere. she has
a small toy plane, gifted to her by him, it's still a prized possession.
>likes creating gadgets and little robotic friends to help out her and
low, taking scarp parts and other debris from their surroundings.
>a la the icon above, alone is missing one of her front teeth, after it was proba
-bly knocked out accidentally somehow. she also has little freckles! thank you.
>a fact i think is really funny is, if alone ever gets kidnapped, like six in the
second game, she would make her captors life hell, until low saves her, or
the bitter end. she will not shut up ie asking them questions abt themselves,
making dumb jokes and laughing, singing tv jingles from the pale city, etc etc.
she knows low will come for her, but if something goes wrong, then... she
doesn't want to die angry, crying, whatever. she wants to die smiling, bec
-ause it feels like the biggest fuck you to the nowhere, and it's inhabitants.
#* && OOC#* && THE GIRL WITH PIGTAILS ( ALONE . )#i stand here. do u care her. do u. my fave lil gal#ALSO thinkin abt the differences between my six and my alone bc they def share some traits. they're both very teasing and humorous#but i think alone is a lot more. loud abt it. shes a lot more friendly up front too. both very headstrong/stubborn and fighty but#alone would throw herself into danger for s/b without a second thought. six wouldn't. etc etc#idk i think it's interesting at least and its a good excuse to explain my portrayal of alone#theres a comic s/b made where shes like 'its not worth surviving without you' to low and i just. yeah. real.#loyal to a fault...................
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oc asks: character design edition
(from here!)
FACE & FEATURES
glance: At first glance, what stands out most about your OC's appearance? What's their distinguishing feature?
His whore eyelashes normal guy vibes. Even back home he was just...a guy. Like, how are you so nondescript. Now in the Cluster his normal guy status is just run down to the other side of the graph, making him weird and stand-out. He's also got some powerful eyebrows.
He likes to think his distinguishing feature is the mole on his cheek. Charm point.
face: Describe your OC's face. What's their smile like? Are their orbs cerulean? What would someone notice first when looking at them?
His natural state is something tired and neutral, which makes how expressive he is stand out. That guy feels a lot and is not good at hiding it! His grin is cockeyed, and when he smiles proper it's easy to see his canine(haha) teeth poke out a bit more than usual. He could have used braces when he was younger, but it wasn't a big enough deal to do so.
stature: What's your OC's body type? How tall are they? Do they wear clothing to accentuate their look or do they try to mask it?
He's on the shorter side for a man and has made peace with that. Don't worry about the little bit of heel his shoes have. He's beefy and doesn't dress for it per say, but does have to keep that in mind when getting clothes. It's hard to find things that fit off the rack when you're built like a little brick wall.
motion: How does your OC move? How does their clothing help or hinder their range of motion? Are they flexible, coordinated, clumsy?
He is, maybe surprisingly, pretty deft. He's only clumsy when flustered, which unfortunately is very easy to do, but he bounces back pretty quickly so it evens out. He might be the most flexible person in jeans in the Cluster, but who knows.
stillness: How does your OC act while still? Are they fidgety? Do they have any common gestures or tics? Does their clothing affect how they hold themselves while at rest?
Keith is...so bad at being still. Even if he is completely at peace, which is -especially now- exceedingly rare. At the very least he will tap his foot or bounce his leg, but more often than not he's fiddling with something in his mouth. A toothpick, cigarette, even biting his thumb or finger if he's really thinking. He has absolutely gotten ink on his face from biting a pen. He picks at himself when stressed, and is embarrassed by how much his hands move when he talks. Ever a hypocrite, he finds it endearing in others.
canvas: Does your OC have any scars, piercings, tattoos, or other markings? Do they display or cover them up at all?
He's covered in sparse freckles/moles. He had very few scars before Landfall, and due to their placements had no reason to cover them up more than his clothes already did. Now he's been collecting scars like kitschy trinkets, but as his companions don't seem to mind them, even say they like them, he wears them with a sense of pride. Though, some might be worn as penance instead.
CUT & CLOTHES
night: What does your OC wear to sleep? Do they have a favorite pair of PJs, or are they more the birthday suit type?
Back home it was just his shorts, maybe pj pants and a worn tee in winter. Now it's just. Everything he normally wears, out of a paranoia called vigilance. Only recently has he felt comfortable enough to take his jacket off and keep it off for an extended period. Maybe someday he'll be ok with sleeping like a normal person again, sans jeans.
day: What does your OC wear on a normal day? Why do they default to those clothes? Do they wear similar things, or do they change it up?
Back home, his wardrobe was simple but varied enough. Different button-ups, flannel, tees. Shorts and gym pants in addition to the jeans. Now? He has one set of clothes, like a cartoon character. He feels goofy but not enough to actually go get new clothes.
formal: What's your OC's formal look? Do they like dressing up? Do they have different looks for different occasions?
He does not dress up, in general. If a button-up with maybe a bolo tie isn't enough, he's not going. He's not fancy enough for that, in his opinion, and wouldn't know what to do anyway. The most he has were for funerals, which are their own specific look he doesn't care to replicate.
informal: What's your OC's lazy-day look? How do they like to dress when they're winding down?
Back home (again) it was pullover tees and shorts instead of jeans. But now it's just...not wearing his jacket. Maybe having some buttons undone, if we're feeling comfy.
outerwear: What's your OC's outerwear situation? Jacket, sweater, cloak? What sort of weather do they deal with most and how do they protect themselves?
He's from a colder climate, so he's most used to that. The jacket he wears is his favorite, everyday one, and he had bulkier ones back home. Now, he's unfortunately dealt with more hot climates than not, but is in most cases too paranoid to take the jacket off despite chiding from his teammates.
footwear: What does your OC wear on their feet?
Fuckin' wingtips!! Not hiking boots or even sneakers, but wingtips that have somehow survived this long in all their travels. He loves them but also hates them at this point. That's gotta hurt after so many miles.
road: What does your OC wear while traveling? Do they have high-quality equipment, or are they making do? What does their gear look like?
The only thing he has in addition to the gear already listed is his backpack, which... looks like a normal backpack. It can hold way more that is reasonable, but that's fine don't worry about it. It's silly to think about, but he does sort of enjoy when the other boys stop him and pull/put something into it, like he's the dad at a theme park.
armor: What kind of armor does your OC wear? Is it well kept? Bonus: where does it come from? Is there a story behind it?
He has no armor, but the closest thing to it is his jacket so he treats it as such. He maintains it as well as he can, though he worries he won't be able to once it receives enough damage. It's sporting a particularly large slice down and around a shoulder that he's been debating asking Riesling to Mend, but he's conflicted about doing that vs. just doing it himself and knowing it will be worse, but his.
arms: Does your OC have any weapons? What weapons do they carry, and how do they wear them when they're not fighting?
He's opposed to using weapons, but he does have a camping/hunting knife he's had for years. It's not used as a weapon, but it's the closest thing he has to one. Someday, if he ever gets boots instead of his wingtips that have SOMEHOW survived this long, he'd probably wear it in or on the side of them.
roots: Is your OC's look inspired by any specific style of clothing or fashion trend? What are the roots and/or inspiration for their look?
I wanted him to read as Just a Guy tm , so it's very simple, skewing slightly outdoorsy. The addition of the jacket (thank u Max ♥) helps convey he's from a colder climate, I think!
texture: Does your OC favor any specific kinds of cloth or textures? Is there anything they can't wear or don't like? What sort of fabrics do they prefer?
He's really fond of the feel of fur, which is another reason he wears the jacket all the time. Soft, wooly, comforting. He doesn't mind rougher fabrics, and he's afraid of messing up finer things like silk so he avoids touching them.
wardrobe: How big is your character's wardrobe? Do they wear things threadbare, or can they afford new clothes often? Are they any good at mending and repairing their own clothing?
It was pretty lackluster back home, but now in the Cluster it's very, very small. His mother taught him the importance of make things last, as well as how to do so, so he tries to repair and maintain his possessions for as long as he can. It's actually something he enjoys doing, and is thankful/ pleased to be useful when others let him repair their gear.
ACCESSORIES & ACCENTS
bling: What jewelry does your OC wear? Does it have any meaning?
He has an old watch that he always wears along with the bracelets that Raine gave him. Both gifts that he loves, but not especially steeped in meaning. He's recently started wearing the crystal gifted to him by Alun...despite telling Trocken not a day before that he doesn't wear jewelry out of fear of it getting messed up. His rationale for this is that if anyone got as close to his neck as the crystal sits, he's royally messed up anyway.
And if anything, it gives him more reason to protect himself. Much like the speed of the relationship itself, he's become very attached to the necklace very quickly.
hair: How does your OC wear their hair? Does it have some kind of meaning?
He keeps it short, with one side longer than the other on top. That was a stylistic choice by Sam, as the family used to cut each other's hair. Now it's growing out a bit, and at some point he'll either ask one of the others to help him cut it, or just accept having shaggy hair. It's not something he thinks about much.
makeup: Does your OC wear makeup? How often? What kind? Why do they wear makeup, and do they like it?
He doesn't think it suits him at all and honestly feels a little silly wearing it, but will do so to appease/entertain others. He's probably had it applied by Sam at some point in life, or by kids he's babysit. Now the only time is when Riesling applies it, for a disguise or otherwise.
favorite: Does your OC have a favorite article of clothing or accessory? What is it? What's the meaning behind it? Do they wear it all the time or do they wear it sparingly to keep it safe?
The necklace was stated earlier, but in addition to that he has his wallet on a chain. It is always clipped to his belt loop, always on his person. He worries he'll forget his family, and so keeps the pictures he has of them as close and protected as he can.
change: Has your OC ever drastically changed their appearance? Significant haircuts, big tattoos, complete wardrobe swap, etc? Why? How do they feel about the change?
He was goth in his teenage years. :>
alternate: What would your OC's alternate universe look be? If they're a fantasy character, what's their modern look? If they're sci-fi, what's their fantasy look? What AU would you want to see your OC in, and how would they dress themself? Bonus: Prompt an AU!
The fact that he's a normal guy in a fantasy setting is already so funny to me... so I think to answer this, he'd have to finally get new clothes. It probably won't happen soon, be he has asked Riesling to help him with that so maybe!! He'll actually fit in at some point. I think the only things he's married to are mobility/nothing too long/flowy for combat and maybe a fur collar if possible. So his AU look would be a lot more in line with a DnD monk lol... or maybe some of the ffxiv monk fits... much to think about.
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Eight/Charley/Rose with "I'll never unsee that" if you're willing. I love these idiots so much
oh, nonny, i love them too. and they are indeed idiots. idiots in love!!! anyway, thank you for this prompt and i hope you enjoy the mess.
as a quick warning: this fic is rated T for the drinking of alcohol, some suggestive flirting, a tentacled man(?), and jack harkness. if any of those things bother you, i apologise!
.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.
"Do you think he's enjoying that?"
"What, the tentacles?" Rose took a sip of her hypervodka, eyes narrowed over the rim of her glass. How she could put away so much alcohol without so much as a wrinkled nose always baffled Charley. "He certainly looks like he's enjoying it."
“Enjoying what?”
The Doctor materialised behind them, his hands full of three narrow-mouthed beakers that steamed rather menacingly. Their contents were a lurid green: the same colour, or nearly, as the tentacled man—if he was a man—across the bar, Charley realised.
She blanched. But she reached for a beaker anyway.
“The tentacles,” replied Rose, seeming not to notice Charley’s squeamishness. She tossed her drink back immediately, effortlessly, and Charley watched her smooth throat working with a pang at her loveliness. “We were working out whether Jack was enjoying himself or if we ought to stage a rescue.”
Admittedly, Charley’s thinking hadn’t gone quite that far. Rather, she was overwhelmed with a morbid kind of fascination about the creature’s anatomy and how Jack—unflappable though he may be—was coping with it.
Did the tentacle feel soft? Slimy? Did it have those little suckers clustered on its arm—and was it an arm?—like freckles?
The Doctor, meanwhile, was slow to catch on. He seemed more preoccupied with watching Charley as she fussed with her drink, turning it this way and that, holding it up to the light. It was alarmingly opaque.
His full lips twitched as he settled onto a stool. "It is safe, you know," he teased. "I wouldn't poison you, much as you vex me, darling."
Rose giggled into her glass. But Charley poked out her tongue at the pair of them and resolved to take a hefty swallow.
When it passed her lips, the drink tasted sharply, almost overwhelmingly of lemongrass, with a faint bitter aftertaste. It wasn't totally repulsive, she thought to herself. So she steeled herself and swallowed the rest.
When she dropped her chin, she felt both the Doctor and Rose looking at her. Rose was giving her one of those smiles: tongue-touched and a little flirtatious, the kind which so used to catch her off-guard; the Doctor looked rather proud.
"Well done, Charley," he smirked. "I knew you had it in you!"
She felt herself begin to preen before realising how absurd it was to be proud of such a silly thing. She straightened her shoulders and gestured across the bar. "So," she said, sounding only a little squeaky, "what do you think?"
The pair turned to look.
It seemed the situation had progressed somewhat. The man-thing’s tentacle had abandoned Jack's chiseled, square jaw, leaving behind a sequence of bruises that very much answered the sucker question, and it seemed to have moved on—quite a bit lower, in fact. A few of the buttons on Jack’s rumpled Oxford were undone, and the tentacled bloke seemed to be taking full advantage while their mouths remained fused.
"Oh," the Doctor muttered sourly. "Well, I'll never unsee that."
"Trust me, with Jack? You've seen worse," Rose insisted. "Or will have. I dunno." She waved her hand, a little careless gesture. She was always doing that—always making references to things out of sequence. It got worse when she drank. Charley found it extremely endearing. "Either way, seems like he's having a good time. I say we leave him to it."
The Doctor swiveled on his stool, arching a brow and looking Rose full in the face. "Leave him and do what, I wonder."
Now it was Charley's turn to smile, watching with no small amount of amusement as a flush flooded the other woman's cheeks.
Rose never could get used to the Doctor's flirting, or at least, not when it was so open. She was tremendously solid and sure of herself in other ways, but this? It suddenly turned her into a mess of fluttering lashes and unwanted blushes.
She had once privately confessed to Charley that she almost always found the Doctor attractive, though she hadn't met all his past and future forms, but that this Doctor—their Doctor—possessed a different sort of beauty entirely. A kind that tended to undermine her higher functions.
And Charley, though she hated to admit it, could absolutely relate.
Rose's eyes darted to meet hers, and Charley tried—and failed—to hide her grin. She nodded. They were, she smugly felt, the three of them far more interesting to her than any antics Jack could get up to.
TARDIS, she mouthed, slipping her key from where it hung on a chain, nestled in her bra.
"I have a few ideas," Rose said, all pink lips and promising smile. Charley felt like the luckiest woman in the universe. "Let's go home."
.✫*ﾟ･ﾟ｡.★.*｡･ﾟ✫*.
more lighthearted prompts...
#I JUST WANT THEM TO FLIRT THROUGH ALL OF TIME AND SPACE#also an added thank you to my girl thinky who inspired me on the jack front... though she didn't suggest *tentacles*... that was all me#charleightrose#charley pollard#eighth doctor#rose tyler#charley pollard x rose tyler x eighth doctor#dw fic#fic and chips#abbey writes
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i caught up on chapter 4 of from desert to storm last night and I'm excited to see where it goes!!!
for the obitine prompts i was wondering if you could write one where obi wan and satine had to act like newlyweds or maybe as people who just got engaged on their year on the run. maybe qui gon is there dying on the inside. maybe he's not. up to you.
i love all of your writing so i cant wait to see what you do!
- Newly -
Corellia, in a way, reminded him of Coruscant.
Be it because of the favorable temperature or the terrain, he isn't quite certain, but something about it feels familiar despite having not actually ever been.
Satine, he knows, holds the opposite opinion. Both Mandalore and its system were known for it's deserts and unforgiving natural climate and even though she spent a majority of her time under the domes she still considered the sand her natural habitat.
Coronet City was a collection of industrial factions freckled with spots of greenery. He had insisted to Qui-Gon that moving through the capital city of such a populated planet was likely a death sentence for the young Duchess, but his master insisted that they would be perfectly fine.
"Hiding in plain sight may prove to be more beneficial to us than lurking in the shadows." He said, and that was that.
Truthfully, he was a bit relieved to be in the presence of more than just his master and the Duchess. While he certainly has no issue carrying out his duty, it still could feel quite lonely when hiding in the middle of nowhere.
That, and Satine was more than happy to be within civilization. He does sympathize with her; she was not made for a life on the run. It had been almost six months since they had come to her rescue, and while she was adapting to living hand to mouth, he knew it wasn't for her.
"There are an array of places to stay in the underbelly of the city," Qui-Gon explained, "Discreet, unlikely that people will ask too many questions. Prime opportunity to gather supplies and rest for a few days before we have to move on."
"Well, I for one am more than happy to utilize a proper sonic." Satine says. Sometimes, when she's in a particularly haughty mood, he can hear the slight trace of her upper class accent in her voice.
A crowd of people swarm around them, and out of habit he lays a hand on Satine's forearm to guide her through the swarm. He hadn't expected it, especially after their constant arguing in the beginning, but he had grown rather fond of the Duchess.
Too fond, probably.
"We'll head to the market," Qui-Gon says from behind them, "Get what we need, then head to the heart of the city."
His hand doesn't move from its place on her arm, nor does she comment on it.
More strange to him is that Qui-Gon doesn't say a word. In fact, it baffles Obi-Wan to an extent that he has never said anything about whatever was going on between he and Satine. His master was no fool. He could see as well as Obi-Wan could that there was something between him and Satine.
Why Qui-Gon hasn't said anything about it he doesn't know.
The main market area of Coronet City was a cluster of noise and chaos. It was easy to get lost in, but also hard to be spotted in. He had to admit, Qui-Gon may have had a point.
"I need a new part for my comm," Obi-Wan said, "It was damaged in our last scuffle."
"I'm going to look for a new change of clothes." Satine says, gesturing down at her well worn clothes, "I've been wearing these too long, and I have more than enough credits."
He wants to protest and tell her it wasn't safe for her to go off on her own, but Qui-Gons hand on his shoulder silences whatever argument he may have had.
“Patience, Obi-Wan,” His master advises, “Remember, she is not used to the life we’ve forced her in. Allow her to indulge in something.”
And so, after stern instructions on when to meet them after she made her purchase, he watched as Satine faded into the sea of people.
It bugged him; knowing his ever growing concern about her went beyond what was expected of him with the mission. He was all too aware how he felt about her, and part of him wishes he could have remained ignorant to his own affections.
After all, he knew whatever this was could only end one of two ways: he either leaves the order, or he doesn’t. And he fears he may love her enough to willingly walk away should she ask it of him.
Getting the piece for his communicator took more time and a bit more bargaining than he had anticipated, and in the end he had to cave a bit and pay higher than it’s value, if only to save time, and he was certain that by the time he returned to the agreed spot Satine would be waiting.
But when he rounds the corner, he’s instantly hit with a wave of frustration when he doesn’t see her.
She was probably taking her time indulging in the vendors and actively ignoring his specific instructions on when to be back.
He has to go and track her down though, because despite how much he wants to see how long she’ll go before deciding to come back, he and Qui-Gon can’t leave her out of their sight for too long, no matter how frustrating she is.
His annoyance only grew when he rounded a corner to find her standing in front of one of the stalls that was filled with dresses.
Yes, the Duchess would allow herself to get purposefully distracted, if only to annoy him.
He inhaled deeply, leveling out his frustrations in order not to cause a scene, and headed in her direction. Leave it to Satine to get them caught simply because she enjoys plucking every one of his nerves.
But then he sees the panic in her eyes when she looks over her shoulder at him, and when he looks closer he can make out the vendors hand gripping tightly onto her wrist.
So, maybe she wasn’t taking her time just to make him mad.
“There you are!” She says, too enthusiastically for it to really be genuine.
The vendor eyes him carefully, but doesn’t make a move to release his grip on Satine.
“Apologies,” He says, narrowing his eyes at her slightly, “I got tied up on the other side of the market.”
It takes him by surprise when she reaches out with her free hand and grabs his own.
“This is my husband.” Satine says to the vendor, smile not faltering in the slightest though.
The words hit him like a punch to the gut and it takes all of his self control not to outwardly gape at her.
“Husband?” The Vendor grunts, finally letting go of Satine’s wrist.
“Yes,” Satine insists, tugging Obi-Wan closer, “We’re just passing through for the evening, aren’t we, dear?”
There’s something so natural in the way the pet bake rolls off her tongue that makes him want to listen to her say it forever.
“Yes, of course.” Obi-Wan says, placing a hand on her waist when she purposefully steps into him.
The vendor grumbles something under his breath and it’s then he notices how tightly Satine is gripping his hand. From the day they met he had carried an uncanny ability to read her, and he can tell that behind the forced smile she was made uncomfortable by the man.
“You buying or what?” The vendor finally asks, gesturing at the blue and gray cloak laid out in front of Satine.
“What do you think of it, darling?”
There’s a glint in her eye that tells him she’s partly asking his honest opinion, which both elates and annoys him.
“I think you look lovely in anything,” He says sincerely, “Though I am partial to you in that shade of blue.”
She beams at him for a moment before leaning forward and pressing her lips to his cheek, effectively making him blush despite his attempts not to do so.
“It settled then,” Satine fishes a few credits from her pocket and slides them across the counter, “I can’t pass up on something my husband seems so fond of, can I?”
The vendor, for his part, was actively glaring at Obi-Wan. Clearly this presence infringed on whatever devious scheme he wanted Satine to call victim too.
“Come on,” Satine says to him, “We should probably get going.”
She’s tugging him in the direction of their original meeting point without a goodbye to the vendor. He could tell she was more than eager to get out of there by the hastily rushed footsteps on her part.
He didn’t truly think the man posed any true danger to her. Even the dumbest of criminals wouldn’t act so out in the open. But it was clear whatever exchange that took place between the two of them prior to his arrival had rendered Satine immensely uncomfortable. Of course he was more than than confident that she could hold her own in the face of any pushy man — she was a politician with strong convictions, after all— but something inside of him feels absolutely primal at the thought of happening to her. Was it protectiveness, or jealousy? He’s not quite sure anymore.
She had let go of him once they were out of view of the vendor and whispered a thank you, but hadn’t dared to look at him until they reached an awaiting Qui-Gon.
“All set?” His master asks, eyeing the two of them carefully as they approached.
“Yes, Master Qui-Gon.” Obi-Wan says with a nod.
“Good, let’s be on our way. I have a contact meeting us later to give us an update on Mandalores status. Hopefully we’ll be close to be able to bring you home soon, Satine.”
Satine smiles, all trace of worry from their encounter with the vendor gone from her features.
“I certainly hope so, Master Qui-Gon.” She says.
Qui-Gon smiles, “Gather up your husband and we’ll head out.”
Obi-Wan didn’t speak for a long, long time after that.
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WiP: Stranger Things
Well, I tried to write a thing but life got in the way (aka I thru my back out? wtf is that about?) Don’t know if I’ll wind up finishing it even though I’d really wanted to for @doodlethings birthday (and you should ALL check out their Steddie drawings they are PERFECTION) so here, have nearly 2k of what was gearing up to be a Stranger Things Steddie fic but for now it’s just... I dunno. Characters being characters. Or something. Anyway, post Season 4, so spoilers for that, etc. Let me know if you like it, maybe I’ll get a second wind and actually finish the damn thing, who knows. Sigh.
The Baby-Sitters Club #1 - Robin’s Great Idea
Hawkins is burning.
Which, to be fair, is nothing new. It’s been months of ash raining from the sky, of fissures fracturing underground and swallowing buildings whole, of FEMA and the Red Cross and way more church disaster relief groups than Steve can remember setting up shop and helping and leaving only to arrive again at the next wave of fires and fissures and disasters and the next and the next…
And even that is only the public stuff. There’s the years it’s been close to total destruction, held together with essentially El’s psychic equivalent of duct tape and, well, yeah.
So Hawkins is burning. Again. Big whoop.
“I’m just saying, maybe we ought to get away for a bit,” Robin says, her feet on the dash as they wait in the parking lot in front of the cluster of trailers that’s passing for the high school these days. “See the sights outside of Hawkins. Breathe air that doesn’t taste like an ashtray for a few days. You remember air, Steve, don’t you? Clean air?”
Robin’s getting louder and closer the more fixated she becomes on this idea, her hand finding Steve’s bicep and squeezing until he finally has to nudge her away with a: “Yeah, yeah, clean air. I remember it, jeez,” before she chokes his arm to death like a boa constrictor.
“Look at this shit. Just look at it,” Robin taps at the window, as if Steve needs a visual aid when the ash hasn’t let up in four months. “This isn’t clean air. This is like the opposite. The furthest thing from. Next thing you know they’re gonna bring in a camera crew to film an environmental PSA only instead of some old Native American dude crying it’ll be a dumpy middle-aged Hoosier dad. It’ll be Mr. Wheeler, and they’ll zoom in on his face and one single tear will be coming down,” she paints an invisible line on her cheek with an index finger, and contorts her face into a truly ridiculous frown until Steve can’t help but snort a laugh. Robin’s grin is bright as she continues: “And his thick glasses will get all fogged up. Just imagine it, it’ll be so sad. So very, very sad. Are you imagining it?”
The thing of it is, he’s not even lying when he says: “Yeah, yup. Imagining it,” because if there’s one thing Robin is it’s good with words. Or at least, she’s good with words that Steve can follow. Usually. For the most part. Granted, she uses a lot of them, so it’s kind of that law of averages thing that he vaguely remembers hearing about in Statistics class way back when. That thing where, because she tries every word known to man in a single sitting, Steve’s bound to grasp some of them eventually.
“So?” she asks with a blink of her big, blue eyes. The late afternoon sun has to work hard to slice through the thick clouds above, but it’s bright enough to find Robin’s nose through the windshield, to highlight the smattering of freckles across her face as she stares at him, waiting for a response.
“Clean air could be cool, I guess,” Steve mutters with a shrug, cutting his eyes back to the trailers just as an alarm sounds out the end of the school day.
There aren’t many kids still around Hawkins—most families got out back in the spring when the going was good—so it’s a sad little trickle that lets out, making their way down the stairs of their trailers which rock a bit with the movement. It’s nothing like the rush of people Steve remembers back when he was the king of Hawkins High, back when the student population was a sea that parted for anyone in a letterman jacket like they were that dude from the Bible, the one that parted the sea. Or maybe he walked on it—or was that a flood?—something like that, Steve never really did pay attention to that church shit back when his parents were around to drag him in every Sunday.
Now that Hawkins is ground zero for every Satan-fighting crusader in the Midwest, he’s even less inclined to give a shit about Christianity. Especially since all those brain-dead Bible thumpers seem to agree that, as far as they’re concerned, Satan’s name starts with an ‘E’ and ends with an ‘ddie Munson’ and that, well, that makes Steve want to do things like pick up a bat and go to town on every stained glass window the Presbyterian church has left.
Robin pokes his knuckles where they're gripping the steering wheel, scarred skin now bone white from how tight he's holding on, and with a start he lets go. He wipes his palms against his legs, rucking up his twill pastel blue shorts up his thighs even higher. Not that they're sweaty or anything, but it gives him something to do so he doesn't have to think about why, whenever he starts to think about Eddie Munson lately, a pit to rival any Upside Down gate opens in his guts.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Steve answers with a scoff. "Why wouldn't I be?" and Robin at least has the decency not to say anything else about it, even if her eyebrows are creased together with worry.
He catches sight of his band of merry misfits and pops the locks as they trudge closer. He waits. And waits. And waits some more, before hitting the button on the power windows and mutters "Would it kill them to pick up the pace?" to no one in particular before shouting out: “Come on, Henderson, Sinclair, Byers, Wheeler, Hopper, let’s go, go, go,” as he pounds on the outside of his driver’s side door.
When the door finally opens, Steve grouses “You know, maybe the rest of these dweebs I’m not surprised at, but you, Sinclair? You? You were on the basketball team. Where’s that hustle? Where’s that drive, huh?”
Lucas rolls his eyes as he tosses his backpack in, the rest of the brat pack following close behind as they all pile in, one by one, as Dustin whines: “Are you out of your mind? That new grape flavor absolutely ruined Fruity Pebbles."
"Well. Agree to disagree," Lucas shoots back, settling into his seat.
Mike, El, and Will squeeze their way into the back row, and for every twinge of regret Steve gets now and then for trading in his maroon BMW for an ‘84 Dodge Caravan, it's nothing compared to the ache of relief he feels somewhere around his demobat scars whenever he's got his entire brood together in one place.
The minivan might not be the sexiest thing that’s ever rumbled down the roads of Indiana, but he doesn’t even care anymore. Sex, once almost synonymous with the Steve Harrington name, is now the furthest thing from his mind. The change has been building for a while now, pretty much ever since his first taste of that whole, weird world just beside this one, but ever since the showdown with Venca a few months back Steve has all but lost interest. Girls and dates and sliding through the bases, it just doesn't do it for him anymore.
Now his life is simpler. Quieter. He picks up hours at the grocery store for cash, and helps out with whatever volunteer effort is in town, and ferries around his twerps whenever he can, and at the end of the day he crashes face first into the narrow, stupid bed of the RV camper he never bothered to return. Wake up and do it all again the next day.
True, there's a whole thing with El laying low as Jane, and Will's goosebumps, and being on the lookout for the next great disaster that's going to hit any day now, but even that is whatever. It doesn't take up much of his attention. He leaves that crap to everyone else. Say the word, he'll be there, ready to kick ass and take names but until then his life is this:
A minivan with faux wood panel siding, and a Robin riding shotgun, and five (sometimes six, on the rare occasions that Erica decides to grace them with her presence) little jerks bitching and moaning and arguing about Fruity fucking Pebbles behind him.
“It’s disgusting,” Dustin declares. “It’s trash, it besmirches the names of Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble, and Post cereal should be ashamed of themself for this stunt. Come on, somebody. Back me up here!”
“I like it,” El says, voice soft and through the rear view mirror Steve can see her shy, one-shouldered shrug and quirked half-smile. For a kid with all the power in the world, she’s still so quiet most of the time. It’s easy to forget she could probably crush them all like a Coke can with just a thought if she ever had a reason to.
Steve’s not used to people having an advantage in life without being more than willing to take it, to lord it over people or worse, turn it into a weapon, be it that they’re stronger or smarter or richer or come from a long line of guys with a great head of hair. Survival of the fittest, as his dad always liked to say, but Eleven seems perfectly content to stay small, and unassuming, and curl up next to Mike in the back. There’s something about that almost feels like permission? in a way? For Steve to not worry so much that, for all that he’s older, he’s been well and truly whipped by a ragtag group of children into being their stooge. Even if it does piss him off that no one is listening when he yells through the chaos: “Okay. Seat belts, we all got our seat belts on back there?”
“I like it, too!” Mike agrees, a little too eager to take El’s side, and Dustin rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t rattle out of his skull completely.
“Safety first, guys. Come on—”
“Honestly,” Will chimes in. “I just think it’s weird they have a cereal that’s basically like ‘here, kids, eat some rocks for breakfast.’”
“I paid for the extra row of seats—“
“I mean, Pop Rocks are, you know, also rocks. But in candy form,” Lucas points out.
“Yeah,” Will agrees. “And that’s weird, too, when you think about it.”
“ —the least you little shits could do is buckle up.”
“So then don’t think about it!” Dustin yells.
“Well,” Lucas says with a sigh. “Now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Wait, isn't Fred Flintstone’s daughter called ‘Pebbles’?” Mike asks.
“Oh, because that makes sense, we’re eating Fred’s child instead of—”
“I never said—”
Robin launches herself forward, twisting at the radio dials until the Miami Sound Machine is blasting through the minivan, Gloria Estefan crooning how words get in the way as everyone slaps their palms to their ears. When Robin turns it down again, everyone has been cowed into silence and her raspy voice is smug when she says: “There. Brutal, but effective. Anyway, you were saying, Steve?”
“Oh, uh,” he answers with a blink. “Right, yeah. Seat belts on.”
This time they actually do it, even if Dustin is muttering to himself: ”Of course Steve is listening to mom music.”
“Hey, dude, come on. It was the radio. I don’t control the radio.”
“Sure, sure. I believe you,” Dustin says, dripping with sarcasm. “I toooootally believe you. Mom.”
“Hey,” Robin raises a finger in warning and Steve doesn’t need to spare another look sideways to see she’s not as serious as she’s pretending to be. “Show some goddamn respect.” She settles back into her seat. “That’s Mr. Mom to you.”
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i can see all your freckles up close. // from ford
* new intimacy prompts | accepting
"yeah?" there's less of them now, she'd guess, than there used to be. at one time rey was doused in them; life on jakku had been an exercise in exposure to the sun. any part of her body that went uncovered wound up tanned and freckled within hours.
when she was a child, they were an annoyance -- another CHANGE she didn't want to have to deal with -- but as she grew older, they came to be something she liked about herself, an imitation of constellations scattered across her skin.
they mostly dot her face and shoulders, now, especially since she spends so much time outside with the students. rey assumes he's talking about the clusters sprinkled across the bridge of her nose; she scrunches it for effect as her lips curve up into a playful smile. "how many have i GOT?"
more than he can count, surely, but he's right: he is close enough to see them. close enough to bump his nose into hers, if he wanted. they're only a few breaths apart, in fact, with just enough space for sunlight to pass between their faces.
rey's eyes flick back and forth between his, studying ford in turn. it feels as though neither of them dare to blink. she wonders what else he sees on her face from such a distance. and what does he THINK, about it all, as he takes her in?
he feels so familiar to her. it's almost unsettling, but the silence that stretches between them is companionable. she's warmed by his observation, independent of the sun shining down on them. usually people don't look at her so carefully. rey can't recall the last time someone had their face as close to hers as ford's is, actually, close enough to touch but held just out of REACH...
certainly, he must NOTICE the way she starts to blush under her freckles, as they seem to get even closer. "you look tired," rey remarks, then, to shatter the sudden tenderness between them. it takes effort to tear her eyes off of his.
@mutatedangels
#eeeeee tysm for this#so soft#& answered.#( * these are your final steps | main verse )#pacificgrims#pacificgrims: ford
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Evening was falling on Yashikimichi. The soft light of lanterns poured out onto the dirt streets from the inside of an izakaya, accompanied by the obnoxious chattering of men.
Okita Soji, captain of the shinsengumi's first division, sat at a table surrounded by a handful of his crew. Unfortunately for the rest of the patrons, he had decided to treat his boys to a night of drinking. They had a way of making their outings everyone's problem.
One of the shinsengumi members poured himself the very last sip of sake from a tokkuri. He looked up at his eyepatched captain, who sat across from him. “Ey, boss. We ran outta booze.”
Okita, flushed from the alcohol they’d been having, scowled at him. “Then get some more. I look like a servant to you or somethin'?”
“N-no-! Sorry, boss.”
One of the establishment’s bussers passed by the table. The underling took the opportunity to shout at him. “Hey, you! Make yourself useful and get us more sake! Make it snappy!”
The young busser stopped dead in his tracks, turning to address the underling with a quiet voice. “Uh, right away....”
A lone, visibly drunk man sat nearby, gulping down a drink. He slammed the cup on the table under him, craning his neck towards the noisy cluster of samurai. “Can ya shut the fuck up? Yer annoyin’ ass voice is gonna give me a damn headache.”
The izakaya went silent, and the subordinate’s attention snapped from the busser to the man. “Huh? The hell you just say, bastard?!”
“Yer ears fuckin’ clogged or something?”
"Tch! This guy…" The underling stomped over to the man’s table, baring his teeth. "Better apologize before you regret that."
"Apologize for what?"
"That big mouth of yours, that's what. You even know who we are?!"
"I know who ya are. Don't really give a shit, though."
Onlookers let out simultaneous, audible gasps. “This guy is seriously screwed…”
Instead of focusing on his subordinate, Okita’s eye fell on the man, intrigued. The stranger was wearing a ridiculous fuchsia hakamashita. His hair was held up in a half-ponytail; the hair underneath the ponytail was short, only reaching under his ears. He seemed as eccentric as he was shameless.
The underling took him by his hakamashita, lifting him up to his feet.
The man’s calloused hands shot up to the other's wrists, trying to shake him off. “Get yer paws offa me-”
"You insolent-!"
"Let him go." Okita got on his feet, making his way over to the two.
"But, boss-"
"Shut it and let him go."
The subordinate took one last glance at the man he was holding and grunted, letting him go with a shove. The man stumbled back but managed to stay up, giving Okita a curious look.
Soji approached him with a palm on the hilt of his katana, tucked away on his hip. "You. Who are you?"
"Not really any of yer business."
Soji tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Ya won’t even tell me your name?"
"Hmm… Yer Okita Soji, aintcha? You can try an' beat it outta me if ya'd like." The man’s frown turned into a mischievous grin. Surprisingly, it didn't piss Okita off, at least not completely.
"You know me, then."
"Course I do. Yer face is as pretty as the rumors say." The stranger eyed him up, slicking back his dark hair. The close distance allowed the captain to see that his bangs, which were parted down the middle, were somewhat overgrown, and his oval face was freckled. His mouth was surrounded by a circle beard, much like his own.
"Hah." Okita shook his head, his lips threatening to curl up into a smirk. "Butter me up all you want. Can't have ya disrespectin' my boys." His left hand motioned towards his sheathed weapon.
"It's gonna be like that, eh? Fine by me." The one in fuchsia chuckled, taking one last mouthful of sake before picking up his own katana from the ground. The two strolled out of the izakaya, the unknown man leading the way.
They were followed by Okita’s flock and a couple of drinkers waiting to get free entertainment. Not that it would last long, but who’d pass up the opportunity to see one of the top dogs of the shinsengumi in action?
The captain and the stranger took their positions across from each other, keeping their distance.
Okita's right hand wrapped around his katana. "You pick fights like this often?"
The man’s hand went to his own sword as well, his fingers fondling the hilt excitedly. "Nah. Just don't like dipshits tellin' me what to do."
Their stares were intense enough to burn holes into one another. A mixture of drinks and emotion made their faces hot; beads of sweat were already accumulating on their foreheads even though no one had made a move yet.
Okita raised his weapon, setting the end of the hilt on the center of his left hand; the signature stance of the Tennen Rishin style. He could see a hint of confusion in the man’s face, as if he didn’t recognize the technique. Mistaking the confusion for apprehension, he attacked first, running forwards and slashing diagonally.
The man, having seen Okita coming ahead of time, blocked the captain’s blade, shoving it away. He smiled, a wild glint coming to life in his eyes. He thrust his katana forward three times, each one quickly dodged by Okita. It was an uncoordinated, messy move, but it could've done damage if one wasn't paying attention.
Okita ran in the man's direction again, ready to bring his sword down on him. The unnamed swordsman took him by surprise, stepping to the side. Soji had to swerve his entire body to avoid falling on his katana, which was coming right at him.
Their swords kept clashing over and over for nearly 10 whole minutes, neither one able to outdo the other. Although the swordsman's odd fighting style was highly unpredictable, Okita's trained eye helped him avoid making any major mistakes.
A small crowd had come together to watch the duel. The closest they'd gotten to seeing blood was a couple of cuts. The pair were getting tired, both of them breathing laboriously and dripping with sweat.
The swordsman stood still, holding his katana with both hands as if he were going to say something. Okita tackled him to the ground before he could, making the man drop his weapon. He pointed the tip of his sword at the man's face.
The man simpered, looking up at Okita. "Not one to play clean, eh?"
"Never said I would."
"Seems like a stalemate to me."
The captain furrowed his brows, feeling something jab him in the gut. A gun.
Okita took a breath, their gazes at each other unbreaking. A thin drop of blood fell from his katana onto the man’s face, leaving a crimson splatter on his tanned cheek. This was the first time anyone had managed to back him into a wall since completing his training. His eye twitched, and the cool breeze sparked something within him, something dormant; he realized this was the best fight he'd had in a while.
"You're smarter than you look, old man."
His nameless opponent laughed. "Old man? Damn. Stings harder than yer blade." Although he was worn out, the glimmer in his eyes didn't go away. "Only idiots carry a single weapon around."
Okita's group gaped at each other in amazement, and the crowd marveled on.
The captain smirked. "... Truce?"
"Truce."
Okita got off the swordsman and put his weapon away. The swordsman stood back up, not bothering to wipe the dirt from his clothes or the blood from his cheek.
The crowd watched the pair in amazement; someone managed to walk away from Okita Soji with their head still on their neck.
His band of men mumbled to each other indignantly. One of them stepped forward, fists clenched, “You can't just let him leave like that…!"
"I can't? Who decides that, huh?" Okita glared, sauntering towards the group.
"Um…" His lackey hung his head in response, taking a few steps backwards.
"Thought so. Get back inside. We're not done drinkin', right?"
"Yes, sir…"
With that, the cluster of shinsengumi headed back inside. Seeing them leave, the crowd also started to dissipate, leaving the captain and the swordsman behind.
The stranger turned to leave, speaking up without looking at Okita. "The name's Nagatani Hisamoto, by the way."
"Ah. Didn't think you'd actually tell me."
"I'm a man of my word. I think this fight needsa rematch, Okita-chan. See ya 'round."
Okita scoffed, making his way into the bar. "You didn't even pay for your drinks."
"Oops, guess I forgot." Nagatani ambled out of sight, rounding a corner leading farther into Yashikimichi.
Something told Okita this wouldn't be the last time he’d see that guy.
#yakuza#rgg#ryu ga gotoku#majima goro#nishitani homare#yakuza ishin#yakuza ishin au#yakuza ishin au fic#nishitani x majima#nishimaji#i havent seen any nishitani in ishin fics so i guess i have to do it myself#if anyone knows of any. drop em#just posting mine here cause i wanna#no warnings for now but will def change with time#ao3#read on ao3#fanfic#fanfiction#criticism welcome#y0 was not enough to feed my nishimaji addiction
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I thought I would rattle off a little bit about some of my head cannons about Zidane Tribal because that's what I do around here LOL.
1) he has a dimple on his cheek, but only one on his left side. It's a lopsided dimple 💖
2) He has a sort of sunkissed tan, his skin is a bit golden because of it, especially on the tops of his cheeks and his shoulders. This boy is outside a lot lol.
3) he has a few faint freckles around his face, clustering around his nose and cheeks but he's got them everywhere, especially on his arms. You can't see most of them at a distance though.
4) his hair is golden blonde, his roots are dark. It's clear if he didn't get enough sun it might be more muddy in color.
5) his hair literally has a mind of its own --it's quite thick, always messy. He kind of brushes it with his fingers. Ruby is usually the one who gives him a haircut but he likes wearing it the length it is. He technically has a widow's peak but he parts it just slightly more to one side, but barely.
6) his eyes are light blue like the ocean near the shore and just as vibrant and full of warmth, he's got a little bit of green near his pupil. He has an unusually cat-like eye shape, something he shares with Kuja, even if Kuja's are slightly more elegant in design.
7) his smile always reaches his eyes if it's genuine, but also, he normally has a lopsided smile. He's been described as having a smirk that makes him look like he's up to no good.
8) he's really bad at hiding his knee jerk reactions to things, as in he's fairly blunt.. a trait he no doubt picked up from the other Tantalus he grew up with.. if something disappoints him or makes him happy you'll know it right away, even if he tries to hide it.
9) he's used to being the shoulder for his friends. Often times, it's easier to focus on helping them with their problems and giving them advice that he himself should probably take.. but confronting the loneliness, the fear, the sadness, the hurt that he might feel.. it's too difficult. It's easier to just smile and say that everything is alright when it's not.
10) he literally copes with his own pain in front of others by downplaying it.
11) he's incredibly loyal to his friends and to girls he likes, especially ones he likes a lot, he can sometimes seem too clingy. Maybe he's trying to fill the intrinsic loneliness in his heart.
12) sometimes he can be kind of dense, actually a lot of times, and he's fairly impulsive. When he says things that are actually really wise it takes people back.. kind of like they didn't expect that from him of all people.
13) he will sleep in all day if you let him, also he can sleep like the dead, he's awful to share a bed with because he twists and turns a lot in his sleep normally waking up with the covers all wound around him and diagonal. He talks in his sleep, laughs in his sleep. He has to fall asleep on his stomach in order to get comfortable.
14) he has an extra vertebrae in his spine (bottom of his back), maybe it's to accommodate his tail, maybe it's a strange genome trait. He also tends to be more flexible than most people.
15) his tail is fully prehensile, he can pick up objects with it (like his weapon), he can even hang from it but not for very long because it puts a bit of strain on his back to do so.
16) his tail fur is actually coarse, similar to his hair water doesn't seem to want to penetrate it all the way through, kind of takes a little bit of work to get it thoroughly clean.
17) he doesn't really like taking baths as often as he probably should, he also doesn't grow very thick body hair, a lot of it's sparse and blonde or light brown. If it's been a while, don't stick your nose up in his underarm.. he is a teenage boy after all lol.
18) he has a musk in general but it's mostly from his clothing -- worn leather and that strange smell you get from old metal. He smells slightly of 'spring grass' no doubt from all the time he spends outside.
19) he has slightly pointed canine teeth and bigger than average front teeth.. these features in addition to the baby fat still in his cheeks and his heart shaped face shape generally help him maintain a more youthful look.
20) his laugh is kind of loud and his voice has this playful rasp to it and a slight twang. He can often sound slightly melodic as he speaks in a very animated way especially compared to one of his closest friends, Blank, who is more even-toned.
21) he has a decently fuller bottom lip than his top. His eye brows are also unkept -- a bit wild and unruly.
22) his tail often has a mind of its own, as in it betrays a lot of the emotions he tries so very hard to hide. It sways when he's content, almost wags when he's excited, flicks agressively when he's annoyed, droops when he's sad.
23) he rips holes in a lot of his pants and then has Cinna (the tantalus member who actually has a hobby of knitting and sewing) clean up the seams and add a closure for his tail at the back. Not a lot, but some other people in Gaia have tails true, but pants with custom tail-holes in the back are a bit more expensive and money isn't something Zidane easily comes by.
24) although Zidane loves theatre he enjoys the thievery just a bit more and considers himself to be a good pick pocket. In the past, during plays, Zidane and Blank would go through the back of the unsuspecting crowd and swipe from their pockets and bags.
25) Zidane is used to having to fight for any scrap of food so he's kind of an aggressive eater -- shoving food into his face with as much as he can stuff into it as quickly as humanly possible.
26) Zidane prefers street food over castle food, as street food is what really fills you up and it smells and tastes a lot better! He doesn't exactly have the most refined palette.
27) His nose bridge is a little crooked. This is because he broke it once when he was a kid rough housing with the other Tantalus and it never healed quite right.
28) counting the number of scars you have on your body is a thing of pride and competition. So is belching.
29) the tantalus love to play pranks on each other. Don't be late to a meeting or sleep in way too late ... you'll regret it.
30) the tantalus also like gambling and drinking. Blank has been known to flirt with Zidane only when he's super plastered, which Marcus finds hilarious, especially because Zidane is completely oblivious Blank's secret crush on him.
31) Zidane can pick locks. He keeps a lock pick in his back pocket at all times. He also always keeps multiple weapons on him ...including firecrackers of all things. Hey, you never know. Those pants pockets are deep.
32) Zidane has kissed girls and even seen a breast or two before Garnet, but she's the first girl he was ever actually serious about and fell in love with. He always says there was just something different about her that he knew almost right away but even he couldn't explain. "Hah, must be fate."
33) Zidane met Freya when he was around 13-14 because he flirted with her in the tavern in Lindblum that he frequents. Of course she turned him down so he moved onto the next girl like it was no big deal. She was really annoyed with his behavior and eventually challenged him to a fight, one of the first times she had fought in a while after what happened with fratley. She whooped Zidane's ass even after he said "I don't fight girls" and had to be pushed into it. They made a semi regular occurrence of "rematches" after that and eventually Zidane got Freya to open up about herself and he, in turn, opened up a little about himself to her. They never became an item, mostly because Freya wouldn't date someone 5 years her junior.. he was just a kid to her.. but also because her heart belonged to another.
34) Zidane loves Vivi like a little brother. Always used to being the youngest of the Tantalus, he enjoyed finally having someone that he himself could mentor in turn.
35) although Zidane is very flirtatious he does know when enough is enough and he won't pursue someone who really doesn't want it, even if he's a bit mopey about being rejected. Ruby straightened him out on the importance of being respectful when he was young.
36) Zidane really didn't mean to touch Garnet's butt in the Village of Dali, it was an accident in the rush of boarding a moving airship, however, he couldn't deny he didn't totally dislike the feeling of it .. but it did upset him that she was upset -- he never wants to hurt her in any way.
37) Zidane is a hopeless romantic. He writes poetry about Garnet, he gives her flowers.. although he can't formally dance, he is good at folk dancing thanks to his life in the performing arts.
38) when Zidane was younger, he tried to sneak his tail up Ruby's skirt... Well she taught him about respect alright.. up the arse... with a violin. He never tried that again.
39) Zidane is 5'5, relatively petite for a boy his age, but with toned arms. He likes climbing and jumps from decent heights with relative ease
40) he has a great immune system. He recovers from things quickly but even he has his limit.. he's not invincible or anything.
41) he often sleeps topless, sometimes down to just his underwear, especially in summer.
42) if you beg him enough to do something he will probably fold and do it even if it's tea time with Eiko and he really doesn't wanna.
43) he has a potty mouth. Steiner often gets mad at him for this when he does it in the presence of the princess. He can't help it, it just slips out!
44) what does Garnet do that genuinely makes his jaw drop? Breaking rules and being sassy. He loves the part of her personality she has tried to keep at bay for years because it's not "the proper behavior expected of a princess."
45) Zidane wraps his tail around Garnet's leg when they cuddle.
I have more but we shall leave the list here for now. Can you tell I love this character?
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