#man i love drawing this wretched pair of jeans
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I kinda always knew I'd end up your ex-girlfriend (x)
#oc#oc art#art#it's No Doubt week for me#man i love drawing this wretched pair of jeans#kris#kristian odeggard#is this gender yes is gender envy
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So on ao3 juiceboxoverlord mentioned ‘ And the way Hess is so enamoured with Dan's emotions and ideology like I bet that if they had never met Hess would still fall in love with Dan on the battlefield probably.’
We all know I have an absolute, terrible weakness for this kind of thing, so I really, really couldn’t resist.
So have a mini AU.
Title: Such Violent Delights
Pairing: Hess/Daniel
Summary: The Antichrist and the Righteous Man meet on a battlefield.
Warning: Some minor descriptions of violence/death; dub-con kissing (I mean, it’s Hess...); Hess POV
These violent delights have violent ends.
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder.
Which, as they kiss, consume.
- 'Romeo and Juliet', William Shakespeare
Hess should have seen the ambush coming.
They have been doing so well recently, in their push against Heaven. More territory has fallen to them, more people persuaded by their promises, their ideas.
He should have known it would be too good to last.
The sharp crack as he twists his hand and snaps three necks, reminds him of nothing so much as the splintering of wet wood. Around him the sounds of the dead and the dying are a cacophony, topped by Abaddon's voice bellowing orders.
The bone-white of her hair is visible at the edge of his eyeline. In her suit she is still immaculate, barking at Raum and Asmodeus as she directs his troops like the General she is.
It makes him smile – makes him bare his teeth at the next angel that tries to rush him, as he extends a hand.
That terrible, tearing sensation down his arm; a light so bright that even he almost shields his eyes. He gets a hand on the angel's wrist and pulls.
There is the searing crackle of holy flesh; the unholy sound of an angelic voice raised in a scream. The noise is enough to make the humans around him flinch back, pressing hands to their ears, in a desperate attempt to block out the death of a small piece of the fabric of the universe.
Hess ignores the shriek, and the white hot pain cracking through his finger bones. He smiles, bloodied teeth and wicked intent, and drops the carcass to the floor.
He’s distracted, unfocused, and so it is instinct that saves him, nothing more.
The sharp prickle of intent at the nape of his neck, and he sidesteps just in time to avoid a blade to the back.
He pivots; lashes out and catches the next down-swing with a scrap of shadow.
For a moment, all he can focus on is the sharp steel of the blade centimetres from his throat. The line of it is bright, burning; the runes inscribed on it are holy enough they almost make his eyes water.
A blessed blade.
He only knows one person who would carry such a thing.
He sidesteps again in time to avoid the second blade aiming to bury itself in his gut. One, two, three heartbeats, and he draws in a deep breath.
Enough, he thinks, and the word is broadcast out.
Everything shudders to a halt.
Painfully, grinding and unnatural, the world stills around him.
He doesn't often do this – doesn't often have the inclination or the energy – but sometimes there is a need for it. An itch, just to walk in a frozen reality where there are no demands on him. No threats.
“Let me go,” someone says, harsh, and Hess smiles.
He knows who the Righteous Man is, of course. He's seen Daniel Waters in reports and later – when Heaven sank their perfect claws into him – on screen and in newspapers. Images of him plastered everywhere: saviour, hero, madman.
“A little lost lamb,” he says, and hears the sharp intake of breath.
When he turns to look, Daniel Waters is still too. He's not frozen though – not like every other wretched creature in this blood-soaked field. He's bound, arms strung out by Hess's power.
And in spite of that, he's still fighting.
Tall, strong; a sharp jawline and an undeniable presence. Eyes filled with the burning silver fire of heaven, smoking with purity and determination as he wades against Hess's darkness. A battered leather jacket and scuffed up jeans. Mankind's saviour.
Daniel manages a step, then another, muscles straining as he claws his way forward. His teeth are bared as he snarls, and for one moment Hess honestly wonders if he's about to break free.
“Let me go,” he repeats, and his voice is firm and clear.
It makes Hess want to ruin him.
Blood-soaked and perfect, this creature – this man – is the image of bitter triumph; a holy sacrament, born to suffer at the hands of those who would use him. Made to fight anyway, because he's good. Because he cares.
“Why should I?” he asks, and watches the way Daniel doesn't falter.
“So I can kill you.”
And it's –
Delightful. Wonderful. It makes Hess's heartbeat skip in a way it hasn't for a long, long time.
“Well aren't you a sweet thing,” he says, just to watch the way those eyes flare brighter.
It makes him smile; makes him lick the blood from his teeth as he thinks of war and ruination, and all he could wreak on this perfect, violent creature.
Another painful step, the footfall as heavy as the centre of the earth. Daniel is closer now, arms still bound, but near enough that Hess can see the scattered imperfections of him.
A small nick at the corner of his jaw, long since scarred. The tendons of his neck as he strains, desperate, against the ropes Hess has bound him with. Blond hair, so dark it's almost brown, cropped short enough that Hess probably couldn't get a good grip of it. A perfect, snarling mouth, and a dusting of days-old stubble.
For a moment Hess wonders what colour his eyes were, before he became this pawn. This holy weapon. Were they brown, or green, or blue? Would they look at him in the same way?
Movement, and Daniel's foot lashes out. The heel of it manages to catch Hess's shin. It hits hard enough to hurt, and for a moment he falters.
Nothing has come close enough to injure him since the Before, and his concentration shatters.
The roar Daniel lets loose is triumphant as he breaks free. He lunges forward, slamming into Hess. His swords clatter to the grass, but his momentum doesn't stop.
They fall to the ground in a tangle of limbs, calloused fingers wrapping hard around Hess's throat, squeezing.
The weight of him is perfect; the heat and strength of his body a paradise Hess hasn't felt in a long, long time.
It makes him laugh, breathless, and for a moment the grip of those hands on his neck fails.
He moves - fast and terrible enough that Daniel's lip is splitting under his knuckles before he can recover from the shock. The force of it snaps Daniel's head back, and the impact shudders up Hess's arm.
He twists and they roll, scrabbling against one another until Daniel is flat on his back, Hess gripping his wrists, pressing them above his head into the mud. His fingernails are digging in, and he watches the way something flares and dies in Daniel's eyes; in the way he tries to bring a leg up, to fight against the weight of Hess across his thighs.
“Stay still, sweet thing,” Hess says, and can't help the way he leans down, leans closer. “You don't want to make me angry.”
Daniel growls beneath him, dangerous and not at all subdued. “I don't give a fuck about making you angry.”
“You should.”
The softness of Daniel's lips is a shock; the sharp inhalation of his breath a symphony. The warmth of his mouth is a victory. The taste of his blood lingers on the back of Hess's tongue, as he smiles against the Righteous Man's mouth.
He wants this, and he wants this, and he wants this.
The perfect way to get back at Heaven. To tear them down, one sanctimonious, inane figurehead at a time.
Except –
Except –
A pulse, against the pad of his thumb, thundering in time with his own heartbeat. The sharp, vicious sensation of teeth sinking into his lower lip, and Hess sighs at the feel of it.
Daniel is solid heat beneath him, tangible and human. The way he moves, the strength of him – pressed but not contained – makes an ugliness stir in Hess's chest. The first, icy crack of something threatening to splinter wide.
When he pulls back, Daniel is watching him.
“What –” he begins, and his voice is breathless. “What was –”
And this is what Hess wants. This. Those hazel eyes wide – not silver, not silver, not silver – and Heaven's champion strung out beneath him.
It's not a victory, he realises. Not even close. It's a weakness. A terrible, vicious longing to carve his way deep into this man's chest; to work out all the ways he could be a sinner. To pull him down, because he can. Because he wants to.
Because he can't think of anything else.
Daniel is tense beneath him, watching, waiting. For a moment his gaze slides sideways, snagging on something in the grass less than a foot away, and Hess smiles because he knows exactly what's going on in that angry, clever mind.
“You won't reach them,” he says, low and sweet. “By the time you tried to pick up the first blade, I'd have you weighted down in so many chains that the earth would swallow you whole.”
Daniel sets his jaw. “And if it took me a lifetime to claw my way back up and kill you, I would.”
He means it utterly, and the sincerity of him is thrilling.
This is the only person who can come close to understanding what it is like to stand with a hand on both sides of the scale and weigh destiny. The only one who understands the need for sacrifice; to acknowledge that the old world needs tearing down for a new one to rise.
Blood-soaked and dangerous, and the moment Hess lets him go, he's going to try and tear them both apart.
“Daniel,” he says. Then, “Sweet thing. Angelic fury. Heaven's weapon. Duty and righteousness and honour.”
“Shut up.” The flex of Daniel's fingers, the push back against Hess's grip, and it's nearly enough to unseat him. “Don't you dare –”
He's a killer through and through. Hess can see it, writ deep in the core of his soul. He kills because he has to; because it's right. He protects, and saves, and bleeds for a million souls that will never thank him for it.
And he's perfect.
“I could do so much with you,” Hess says, wondering. “The things we could accomplish.” It's a dream, sweet and tempting. He looks down, sees the slide to silver and smiles.
“But I won't,” he adds. “Because that would ruin you.”
“When I get up,” Daniel says slowly, “I'm going to slit your throat.”
“You're going to try,” Hess says, and hears the terrible adoration in his own voice; the soft fondness he shouldn't have. “But at the moment you're at my mercy.”
He tilts down again; watches the way Daniel tips up a little, without even realising. Sees the way those lips part on a slow, measured inhalation and the dark cut of Daniel's lashes, as for a moment he lets himself be moulded to Hess's will.
What he could do. What he wants to do to this man. It would take decades. Millennia.
“Beg,” he says against the soft, vulnerable skin of Daniel's temple.
Teeth at his ear, and he can feel the slow, careful snarl of those lips. The barely contained rage and want beating through sanctified veins. It makes him shiver.
“Go on,” he adds quietly; a savage demand.
A sharp twist, and he lets one of Daniel's wrists go; feels fingers sink into his hair and pull, twining them closer. The pain of it is a thing of beauty, and he smiles at the way he is going to be pulled apart, one atom at a time, for want of this man.
And Daniel draws back; turns his head a little until they are increments from a kiss, breathing the same air.
“You first,” he says.
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Lucifer Morningstar’s Soulmate
As part of my two year anniversary celebration, here is the first of my soulmate fics!
Trope: Having the first words that your soulmate will say tattooed on their body.
Tags are at the bottom. Let me know if you would like to be added to one of my tag lists!
*gif not mine*
Enjoy!
*****
Some people you knew had such lovely words on their forearms. They talked about the weather or a compliment. Of course words were a private affair, but no one else could see them until after the soulmate was found so it didn’t matter. There was no shame in having strange or odd words.
Your mother had an apology from where your father bumped into her at a football game. He had a curse because she had spilled coke all over her shirt. But they were happily married with three kids now.
Your best friend Denise told you about her brother’s words all the time. Apparently her brother was going to find his soulmate when he was being arrested. Which was strange because her brother was such a stick in the mud.
Of course all of those words paled in comparison to what you had scrawled across your arm in an elegant, old fashioned script.
Those are a nice pair of breasts you have.
It was mortifying when they first showed up because puberty was far in the future for you. When your parents asked what your words said, you lied.
As you got older, the words seemed to taunt you. You went through a phase of wearing baggy clothing so that no one could see anything. And in college you wore more revealing clothing, almost daring your soulmate to say the words.
But nothing.
It wasn’t impossible that you had words but no soulmate. Some people died before they met their soulmate and their other half spent the rest of their life waiting for the words. Somehow you didn’t expect to be in an assisted living facility and hearing someone talk about your breasts, so you knew you wouldn’t wait forever.
There were days where you completely forgot the words were there. You had planned a hundred different responses over the years, but some days you were just focused on other things. Like walking your dog or remembering to buy milk.
Or walking into work to find homicide detectives circling about the death of your boss. You put your sunglasses on your head as one of your coworkers explained that Tripp had been killed the night before.
“Wow, really? How?”
Your coworker dabbed at her eyes, but she looked more distracted than upset. You followed her gaze to a tall man that was following one of the detectives around. He was attractive in an almost otherworldly way, drawing all of the eyes in the room.
“Janine?” The girl startled and looked at you, her cheeks growing pink when she realized she had gotten distracted. “How did Tripp die?”
“Mr Kasen was shot. Multiple times. There is definitely an undercurrent that this was a personal attack,” the blonde detective explained as she made her way towards you. “I’m Detective Decker, that is my… associate, Mr Morningstar. You’re Y/N Y/L/N, correct?”
“Yes,” you said to the detective, shaking your head as you looked away for a moment. “I’m sorry, it’s just so hard to believe that Tripp is gone. We just saw him yesterday. We were all planning on going for drinks this weekend.”
The associate, Mr Morningstar, hadn’t come over with the detective. He seemed to be entranced by some of the photos on the wall that Tripp had recently hung up. You realized that at least a few of them were of you and felt heat fill you. Tripp had asked you to model for him since you had the right body type and you weren’t shy.
At least these weren’t boudoir shots. You thought those might be the ones from the beach though.
“What was your relationship like with Mr Kasen?”
You shrugged your shoulders as you looked over to Janine. She was basically drooling over the associate once more.
“Tripp was Tripp. I’ve been working here with him for about two years now. I’m one of his photography assistants but he’ll ask us to model for some shots sometimes.”
The detective wrote that down, her eyes snapping to her associate. She hissed a word through her teeth, drawing his attention to her. You thought it sounded like Lucifer, but no one would name their child that.
Surely.
“Were you ever in a sexual relationship with Mr Kasen?”
Your eyes grew wide and you snorted, unable to help it. Then you felt horrible because your boss was murdered, now was not the time to be ugly.
“Tripp was gay. That’s why we all felt comfortable doing boudoir shoots or bikini shoots for him, because it was completely about the aesthetic and not about the groping. We’ve all worked for photographers that were a little more handsy than others, but Tripp wasn’t like that. Tripp was… an amazing guy. I can’t think of anyone who would have wanted to hurt him.”
The detective seemed satisfied with that. Her partner had joined the three of you, his eyes not even going to Janine. No, he was looking you up and down like he was sizing you up. Or like he wanted to eat you.
“Those are a nice pair of breasts you have.”
The detective bit out ‘Lucifer’ in an exasperated tone, but that was barely over heard over your exclamation.
“Oh fuck me to high heaven,” you swore as you stepped backwards, your hand flying to your mouth to try to recall the words.
That had not been one of the different responses you had once planned. That was just the spur of the moment comment based on the sexiest man you’d ever seen saying the words on your arm.
Janine scolded you, offering an apology to the detective on your behalf. But the detective looked curious. Her eyes darted between you and apparently a man named Lucifer, her eyes narrowed. And Lucifer…
He looked like a kid that had just been given ice cream for breakfast. There was something incredibly gleeful in the slow smile he gave you as his eyes continued to move over you.
“Well I can do my best,” he promised in a low, sultry voice.
The detective smacked his arm and then rubbed her forehead. Then she looked at you.
“I’m going to have to talk to my captain about taking us off this case with this new development. You’ll probably need to give your statement to the new detective at some point. Should I just send them to Lucifer’s penthouse?”
You shook yourself from the fog you had fallen in while your soulmate undressed you with his eyes. You looked at the detective and forced your mind to recall her words.
“Yes. I mean, no. No, I won’t be at his penthouse. I’ll uh, I’ll write down my number and my address.”
Decker seemed impressed, but Lucifer was less than impressed.
“Uh, excuse me. Soulmates,” he said as he pointed at himself and then you, “so why aren’t we going to my penthouse?”
Janine gasped and turned away, leaving the conversation. Once she realized this wasn’t just a case of horny but an actual soulmate situation, she was out.
You didn’t blame her.
“Because soulmates or not, I don’t know you.” You wrote down your information for the detective and then wrote down your phone number for your soulmate. “This way we can get to know each other. And if that’s not okay with you, I’m more than happy to just cover this up with makeup for the rest of my life.”
You held your arm up to show that the words were now visible. There for everyone to see.
Decker smacked Lucifer on the arm again.
“I can’t believe those are the first words you said to your soulmate.”
“I’m an honest devil,” he explained with a shameless shrug.
He accepted the paper from you and slid it into his pocket. Then you watched him look around the room before he looked back at you.
“Did I hear something about boudoir shoots?”
A laugh was startled out of you, but you had to admit, despite all of your worries and insecurities over your soulmate’s words?
You were a little charmed.
------
“Lucifer, did you take my shirt?”
The man in question adopted an innocent look as you walked past him in jeans and a bra. You knew you had a shirt when you had come over, but now it was nowhere to be found.
“What’d it look like?”
You shot a glare at your soulmate and lifted up the covers that were on the floor. Nothing there either.
“I mean it Lucifer, I need my shirt. I’m going to be late for the photo shoot.”
He shrugged as he leaned back in the chair in the bedroom, his eyes roaming over your body hungrily as you moved about his room.
“You could just leave clothes here, you know. You’re here often enough. Or just not leave. You don’t need to work as a photography assistant; I’ve seen your photography. Your name should be on those cards, not that wretch you call a boss.”
You put your hands on your hips as you turned to face him. When he still didn’t produce your shirt, you turned and started towards his closet.
“I’ll just wear one of your ridiculously expensive shirts. I’ll call it a fashion statement.” You threw open the doors and stepped into the massive closet. “Maybe I’ll tie it at the bottom and… LUCIFER!”
Lucifer joined you in the closet, a smirk on his lips as you looked. The back of the closet had been cleared out and hanging on the wall were various framed prints from the different shoots you had done with Tripp. Beach photoshoots, public shoots, and most likely all of the boudoir shoots you had done.
He wrapped his arms around your waist and tugged you back against his chest, his silky robe feeling nice against your back.
“When we found out that it was Tripp’s silent business partner that had killed him and who planned on burning all of the photographs, I knew that wouldn’t do. I bought them for a ridiculous price but because we arrested the murderer, I never had to pay. I guess that means I stole them. Bad devil.”
You laughed and turned around to face him, your arms going around his neck. He smiled at you before he leaned in for a kiss.
“That was six months ago Lucifer. You haven’t had them in here this whole time.”
He tapped you on the nose and pulled away to look at the wall.
“You’re right. And this is very obvious, anyone could see them. I have just the idea. You should bring over some clothes to hang on these rods to cover them up. Then only we will know they’re here.”
You were honestly amazed at the lengths Lucifer had gone to ask you to move in with him. And you also knew that if you hung clothes in there, those photos would move somewhere else. He loved to look at you.
“You’re devious,” you said as you moved to his side, wrapping your arms around him again.
He gently tugged you backwards and out of the closet, the two of you falling onto his ridiculously large and comfortable bed.
“I’m the devil darling, of course I’m devious,” he teased as he rolled you over so that he was on top of you.
His hands went up to your shoulders and tugged at the straps of your bra, his eyebrow raising in silent question. With a laugh, you leaned up to undo the clasp.
Screw it, you were already late for the photoshoot.
“Those are a nice pair of breasts, you know. That wasn’t just a line,” he promised as he leaned in to kiss you.
You laughed against his lips and wrapped your arms around his neck.
“Well then I guess you better fuck me to high heaven.”
His eyes flashed as he leaned in, kissing you heavily.
“My pleasure.”
X
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#lucifer morningstar#lucifer morningstar x reader#lucifer morningstar imagine#lucifer morningstar fanfic#my writing#soulmate oneshots
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NUMBER NEIGHBOR
in which damian wayne meets his number neighbor
old draft of oc x damian
wc: 3468
GOTHAM CITY
TINSLEY'S APARTMENT
06:32 PM
Friday comes too quickly and Damian is nowhere near ready.
His lips are still busted open from the preceding evening’s scouting and his hairs grown out far too long, hanging in tufts right below his brow and curling the daintiest bit in a mess of matte black. Small dark rings kiss his tanned skin and tug at the lids of his jade eyes, dulling the color every so slightly to a muted green.
Nothing is right.
Every article of clothing in his wardrobe suddenly seems inadequate for meeting the girl he has been anxiously anticipating ever since he sent the text. He’d probably still be trying to decide on what garment to wear had it not been for Jason chucking a pair of jeans at him and telling him to leave.
Damian isn't dense, he recognizes he's quite aloof at first, he knows his demeanor is unsettling, so as he stood in front of her apartment complex, arm raising to knock, his mind begins to wander.
Was this worth it?
Was the prospect of her getting hurt enough to make Damian turn around, could that ever-growing cavity in his stomach be filled by someone else’s presence? Someone, he doesn’t care about half as much as Tinsley? Someone who didn’t fill it with maddening butterflies and a troublesome warmth. Or could perhaps Damian be allowed this? Allowed this small wedge of pleasure in a world that seemed to grant him nothing but iniquity and desolation?
Fortunately for everyone involved, he didn’t have time to decide for himself as the door swung open and a pair of arms encased his torso with enough force he stumbled back against the hallway’s stained walls and knocked his head against the plaster with a disquieting thud!
An instinct burned into him since childhood shouts, screams at him to push whomever this was away, and retaliate with tenfold that amount of brutality. Yet somehow he can’t quite hear outcries, they seem muffled against the vanilla and honey redolence that embraces him, filling that basin in his stomach to the brink with warm marmalade and crystalized sugar.
“Damian!” such a faint voice whispers, so soft the Wayne almost doesn’t catch it over his shooting heart at the close proximity with the girl he was only just now identifying as Tinsley Nolans, his number neighbor, ‘“Oh my god this is such a surreal experience.”
Hesitantly Damian returns the embrace, his hands engulf the shorter woman in his arms and the scent of her fragaria shampoo and conditioner saturating his senses in a wonderful mellow mix. Her hair blinds him and Tinsley couldn’t help but notice how delicately he was touching her, it was as though she was glass and he was a man destined to shatter it.
It was as though the lion had fallen in love with the lamb.
“You smell really good.” Damian says through a sigh, only belatedly realizing just how awkward that was after the words leave his throat, “Oh my god that sounds so creepy I didn’t mean it-”
“You smell really good too,” It wasn’t what Tinsley had planned to say but if it would make Damian less uncomfortable she was okay with scraping her original sappy speech - besides he really does smell good, “Like mint and smog.”
He knows the smokey fragrance is from the gas bomb he had used the night prior on a few of the riddler’s henchmen, but Damian lets that thought drift peacefully from his head as her hands began playing with the fabric of his shirt, her lips moving in small puffs as she says, “It’s really crazy to see you, it’s like I’m meeting my best friend for the first time.”
The reply he goes with is cheesy, but he can’t find it in himself to care, “I am seeing my best friend for the first time.”
Drawing away with a grin Damian allows himself this one self-indulgent act, allows himself to drink in the slightly shorter girl in front of him, her sandals adding at least an inch in height with their white chunky heels and strappy bases. Tinsley’s hair was laying in long strands across her shoulders, each perfectly curling at the end and crooking up at the base of her neck. A flannel was thrown indolently around her shoulders to add a bit of warmth to the grey cropped shirt and ripped black jeans and Damian couldn’t help but inhale at the peaks of bronzed skin that appeared with every movement she made.
Shaking his head Damian attempts to refocus on her smirking face, a smug look gliding across her eyes like koi fish swimming their deft routine. With the quick realization, he hasn’t said anything for a good two minutes, Damian quickly spouts out, “You look um-nice Ley,”
“You don’t look too bad yourself edgelord,” She adds a playful wink and loops their arms together with comfortable ease, almost as though she knows that’s how they’re meant to be, connected, “C’mon let’s go I’m dying for taco bell,”
Damian, without reluctance, permits his body to decompress, the tension and nerves seeping out with every warm glance she offered and the soft touch of her skin against his flesh, “I don’t know how you can stomach that garbage,”
“Tsk. Such a rich boy thing to say,” Stopping briefly to pop her head inside the flat Tinsley yells, “See you tonight!” To her mother - who roars a warning to Damian - and resumes dragging the much larger man down the corridor with her.
“I’d be careful with what you say, I’m the one with a license after all,” Damian simpers and extracts the keys from his pocket, wagging them in front of Tinsley face teasingly, satisfied with himself as she lets out a childish huff and pouts in a fashion he finds sinfully adorable.
“I regret telling you that wholeheartedly, besides I’ve got my redo in two weeks soo I’ll be the one driving you places, “ Tinsley snatches the keys from his arm and dashes down the hall, only turning back around for a second to stick out her tongue and wink, emitting a boisterous, “Race ya!”
With a playful roll of his eyes, Damian pursues her, knowing full well he can catch up to her with ease if he so chooses to.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he watches from behind as Tinsley twirls and titters as if a ballerina executing a routine only she knows of. Damian wasn’t religious by any means, but this - this was something eternal, something sacred. That carefree expression etched into her face as she reaches the end of the hall, those teasing insults she spews at him while walking to the elevator, the warmth of her skin against his own as she places the keys in his hands and climbs into the passenger side of the car.
It prompted a feeling to froth in Damian’s chest, a feeling he never wanted to be rid of, a feeling that made the pit in his stomach seem not so deafening after all.
GOTHAM CITY
WAYNE MANOR
07:02 PM
Driving back to the manor was an experience - to say the least, and Damian found himself learning a few different things.
Firstly, She was a wretched singer, throughout the complete car ride her bellows of off-key glee songs left Damian to regret not insisting control of the aux.
Secondly, She really was awful on the road, she screamed every time the car went over train tracks and went on and on about being crushed by two trucks and becoming a truck sandwich if Damian ever got too close to other cars.
Lastly, Damian is absolutely smitten with her.
The sky had turned frigid in the half an hour it took to arrive at the manor, it lays across them like a white blanket of frost and punctuates each of their breaths with puffs of grey- something Tinsley took benefit of when doing her red hood impression with the mock smoke of a cigarette.
Damian walks up to the house, his hand interlocked with Tinsley’s for what he would never admit to being for anything other than warmth.
The manor really is quite fantastical, with noble pedestals of brown and beige driving up to the roof, complex patterns incised into the granite walls and alabaster steps, each window a darkened hue that makes them seem all the more ambiguous than Tinsley already thought them to be.
A key is fitted into the cold doorknob and Tinsley smiles as Damian yanks her inside, a small yelp leaving her lips as he does so with a probably unnecessary amount of force. Though, in his defense, he didn’t want to waste any time that could be spent inside with her instead of in the freezing night.
“I cannot believe you live here…” Tinsley allows herself to drink in the magnificent interior design, her heart swelling when she directs her gaze back at Damian, whose own eyes have been locked on her the whole time, the same expression coating his eyes when looking at her that she had looking at the structure, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Damian swears his heart skips a beat, and so he rather than confront the emotions and pressure fabricating in his gut he releases her hand and walks over to the couch, his back turned to the dejected expression Tinsley holds.
“Soooooo,” Tinsley trails off and plops onto the almost comically large couch, the pearly white cushion sinking under her weight and fluffing out around her head, “I’m still a firm believe we should order Taco bell and watch Twilight.”
Setting next to her Damian kicks off his converse, facing her with one eyebrow raised, “Ah yes cause I’m a well-known vampire fanatic.”
Tinsley sits up and punches his shoulder without any malice, her fist barely being felt through Damian’s thick jacket, “Ya know what buckeroo it’s good! Yeah, the acting is less than subpar but the story arc is great!”
With a swift flick of his wrists, he grabs her hands in his own, “Doesn’t an 18-year-old end up with a literal fetus?”
Though Damian may not have been the biggest movie watcher he had read his fair share of cheesy romance novels - for research purposes of course - and twilight was most certainly included in that list.
“That’s not canon!” She argues, twisting so she was on top of him, arms still pinned to his.
“Didn’t the author write it?” Damian easily flips them a second time, the urge to be tender overwhelming despite the usual harshness in his fighting. But this wasn’t a fight - not really - and he needed to get used to that. Because with Tinsley it never would be a fight.
Scrunching her eyebrows together in thought Tinsley groans, pouting out her bottom lip as her list of arguments ran out, so instead a simple “Shuddup!” would have to suffice.
It was only then did Damian realize the position they were in. Tinsley pinned under him, her brown hair a makeshift halo under the fluorescent yellow lights and casting a yellow glow to her face, which almost seems to radiate pure rapture as she beams at him, such heat and affection it makes Damian want to cry.
He’s a murder. And murders don’t deserve this. No matter how much he wants too.
Getting up Damian turns his attention back to the screen, face heating up as he flicks the screen on, “So what do you want to watch?
GOTHAM CITY
CITY ROOFTOPS
12:57
Wind ruffles through his matte black hair and the cold brings his jade eyes to tears, the stinging of wetness against his eyelids burning like chlorine and sunscreen on a blistering summer’s day. Everything seems to anger him nowadays, the way the sun sets far too late on the horizon, how it barely caresses the moon and instead engulfs it, not a bit of fragility in the proficient routine they continuously dance. Even his telephone appears to be in opposition with him, invariably buzzing to life with sweet texts from the one person he refuses to be in contact with but so desperately desires to.
Perhaps he was a bad person, Damian, had mulled over this thought all of last night, the words replaying in his head until they didn’t taste correct on his tongue or sound right for his ears. They reappear at the forefront now, when he is dawned in his vigilante attire and perched on Tinsley’s rooftop with the claim to be patrolling for crime when everyone knows that was most certainly not the reason for him being there.
Seven Days. For seven days Damian has ignored every one of Tinsley’s persistent calls and texts, the fear of falling too deep for a girl who could most certainly do better than him devouring every bit of his soul. Eventually, the calls had trickled out and the texts became sparse until she finally cut him off altogether. He wanted to blame Tinsley at first, wanted so badly to make their devastating separation her fault when in actuality it was all Damian.
He had been the one terrified of getting hurt. He was the one who was scared she’d leave him. He was the one who knew she could do better. He was the one everyone abandoned. He was the one no one wanted. He was the one who had fallen in love with a girl on the internet.
Everyone had tried to help in their own ways, Bruce had tried for days to figure out what was wrong, even threatening to take him off duty if he didn’t tell him. Dick had taken him out for ice cream in the hopes of cheering him up. Jason took Damian to shoot things, Duke spared with him to let him relieve stress, Stephanie had bought him cat toys for Alfred, Barbra had gotten him a fresh set of katanas, and Tim had sat down and just talked with him. In a way Damian couldn’t explain, this warmed his heart and filled the bits and crevices of the basin in this stomach (Especially Tim who - in a weird way - Damian was closest to)
None of the attempted persuasions worked though and eventually, Damian stopped checking the messages and the hole in his chest expanded tenfold, so large and opaque he was fearful it would swallow him whole if he didn’t find something to fill it, this would likely prove to be challenging seeing as though only two people had ever been able to completely fill the irksome hole.
His mother was the first and most prominent, but after using him for years she threw him out, discarding the son to his father after training him to kill and feel nothing but a wave of numbness. After training him to be a monster. His father hadn’t wanted him at first, he was the product of manipulation and abuse, why would anyone want that? But Bruce had to take him, despite his original wishes, and even if Dick assured Damian that Bruce did love him the youngest Wayne couldn’t find it in himself to believe that.
Tinsley Elowen Nolans was the second. But now that she was gone Damian felt as though the hole had grown in size, the only parts in him unconsumed by the darkness where the spots reserved for his family. He knew that if he had simply allowed himself to open up to Tim, Dick, Jason, even Duke that they could possibly fill the cavity. But he didn’t want their warmth. He wanted hers.
Except he couldn’t have hers.
He watches silently as Tinsley walks up to the building, fiddling with her yellow keychain to find the correct one to unlock the apartment complex doors. This was the usual routine she took, what wasn’t usual was what she does next. Damian quirks a brow under his mask as she takes out her phone and types a quick message, only understanding when his phone beeps with a message
TINSLEY
i miss you.
He shouldn’t have checked his phone, not when Tinsley was collapsing to the ground with quiet sobs escaping her lips. Her hair had been thrown into a lopsided ponytail and her mascara was starting to smear down her face with every trail of snot and whimper of inner torment. Damian wanted nothing more than to forget their fight, forget his stupidity, and jump down and make her forgive him, make her stop hurting, make her stop caring about him.
It was exceedingly critical for him to help her, comfort her. However, just as he goes to support her something pulls him back, maybe his insecurities, maybe the knowledge he was still in his uniform. Or maybe a sympathetic group of orphans who look at him with too much pity.
With a scowl Damian shakes Dick’s grip off his shoulder, turning towards them with harsh eyes, blinking away the small tears that had managed to form in his irises. A disgruntled cough leaves his throat and he adjusts the black fabric of his mask to cover his bleary eyes, “Tsk. What is it? Don’t you all have neighborhoods to patrol?”
“Bruce - I mean Batman,” Stephanie corrects after a glare from Cassandra, “Told us you refused to patrol any town but this one and
it seemed suspicious so Tim and I looked into it and that building,” She juts out a thumb to the sobbing girl and blue apartment complex, “Is not-so-coincidentally the same place Tinsley lives.”
Huffing Damian crosses his arms, “You’re right, it is a coincidence. Now shouldn’t you be swapping spit with that ugly bastard,” despite the words he isn’t trying to be malicious - he was just genuinely upset with the situation he has found himself in and is lashing out in the only way he knows how. (Okay and maybe he said it a bit to be mean)
“Robin we just want to help,” Barbra tries, dawned in her Batgirl suit, “With everything that’s gone down we don’t think it’s healthy for you to be ‘patrolling’ here. You’ll never be able to move on from Tinsley if you’re constantly seeing her.”
“Oh please he isn’t trying to move on, he’s trying to get her back.” Jason cuts in, rolling his eyes and clicking a finger against his red helmet, “Which is the right thing to do considering she made him less … well ... him”
“Red hood don’t be mean,” Dick scolds, a pitiful smile on his lips as he turns to Damian and engulfs him in a forced hug, “Whatever you need we’re here for you little D.”
“I need you all to leave me alone!”
Tim steps forward and pries Dick off of Damian, mumbling a barely audible, “He doesn’t want a hug, you’re making him uncomfortable” before turning his attention back to Damian, “Okay well anything except that.”
“Robin, what happened between you two anyway?” Cassandra finally asks, easing the question on everyone's mind with a few words, “You seemed so ... I don't know … happy? Though I have to admit I’m slightly relieved you aren’t gushing over your phone during training sessions anymore.”
“Black Bat, you straight up skip training sessions what the fuck are you on about?” Duke’s eyes go wide as Cassandra throws a knife at him, his hand shooting up and catching it with ease, “Okay damn girl.”
Cassandra snatches her knife back and throws a glare at the yellow-suited man, “Watch it Signal.”
“Can we please get back to Robin and his saga of love?”
Damian can’t help it, the tears push heavily against his eyes and finally break free from the trap of his green irises, small uneven blobs of wetness trailing down his face and plopping onto the ground with a deafening noise. It wasn’t that loud, but Damian's fuzzy head and fast-beating heart augment the noise tenfold.
Everyone goes silent, possibly from a shortage of anything to say, or perhaps from seeing such a austere boy collapse down into pitful bewailings in front of them. His legs buckle and the dark haired man fallsl to his knees, arm covering his face in pure agony as every text he ever sent replays in his mind, a broken record forcing him to relive what he’s done.
So much pain he doesn’t notice the same rag tag group of orphans engulfing him in a hug
TAGLIST !!!
@pretendthisusernameisgoodd @dickgraysonhasanicebutt @multiverseofwonders @emmaleilani96 @mcgonagalls-witches @pleasestophoney @kurosstuff @liltleaderofthelameones @water248 @blackrippedskinnybeans @evalynanne
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Black Lace (Rey x Ben Solo/Kylo Ren)
This one is for the lovely @sunshiney-souls, (also im sorry this became downright FILTHY) who sent me this prompt
Warnings: EXTREMELY rated 18+++!!! This is kind of filthy so please just do me a favor and use your own discretion. Also a little bit of dirty talk, some rough sex, perhaps BDSM undertones if you literally s q u i n t, and a dominant Ben Solo.
Word Count: 2,970
A/N: If you liked this, consider checking out my fic Desperado on AO3! Another modern sort of crime-related au, since apparently I can only imagine modern day kylo ren as a fucking hitman
____________________________________________________________________
If someone had told Rey that Ben Solo, formerly known as hitman extraordinaire Kylo Ren, was a fan of cuddling, she’d have laughed in their face.
But, as if turns out, Ben Solo loves fucking cuddling.
Since they’d met nearly two years ago, Rey had seen the man that he was underneath the stern gaze and leather jackets and cold exterior, at the very human man who was just dying to be loved. So, she’d made it her mission to bring him back to the light, metaphorically of course. They’ve come a long way since the first time he tried to kill her.
Modern love, as it were.
And Rey is certainly falling very deeply in love with Ben Solo, who brings her flowers and makes her coffee just right in the morning and loves to wash the shampoo from her hair when they’re giggling in the shower together. This loving, intensely passionate man that she’s found herself wrapped up in quickly became the best part of her world.
Rey loves his quiet moments, the gentle touches, and how attentive he is to her constantly, especially when they make love. But it’s as if he’s afraid to hurt her.
So now, as Rey is laying against the headboard of the bed with Ben’s head on her shoulder as he reads, her mind is wandering down a rabbit hole of things she’d love to do with him. But he’s intent on reading, so Rey is busy playing with the new string of LED lights they’d bought and hung up around the perimeter of the room. They clash a little bit with the sophisticated and dark decor of his room, but she’d begged and he’d caved, so now she’s been having fun turning them from blue to yellow to white to green to purple to magenta to -
“Rey,” Ben says her name and a shiver rushes down her spine. She tilts her eyes down to meet his. “What are you doing?”
“Playing with the lights,” she tells him quietly, with a grin, only because she knows that by now the changing colors have got to be annoying him, and if she could get him just a little bit fired up…
He only smiles. Says nothing. Rey nearly groans.
“Ben,” she says after a few minutes, her arm with the remote flopping down onto the bed as the lights stay a nice shade of cyan.
“Rey,” he says again, one long finger running over his full lips as he concentrates on the page in front of him.
Rey turns to face him and puts on her best doe-eyed look. “I have a question,” she says. He quirks an eyebrow. “Would you ever tie me up?”
If he’s surprised by the inquiry, he doesn’t show it. He simply shrugs. “Perhaps.”
Perhaps? Why is he making this difficult for her?
“What about,” Rey starts, sliding her hand across his chest, “Blindfolds?”
Finally, finally he looks down at her, dark eyes squinted a little in amusement. “There something you’re getting at here?”
Yes! She wants to scream, yes, and I’ve been getting at it for months and you haven’t heard me!
“Perhaps,” she echoes his earlier statement, and Ben’s smirk grows into a smile as he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to her brow. Then he goes back to reading, and Rey feels for a moment that she’ll actually scream.
With a huff, she stands from the bed and walks into the closet connected to the bedroom, where the majority of her things have begun to accumulate in a space he’d cleared for her. She could get ready for bed - throw on an old tee shirt and call it a day. Or, she could try to get him to listen to her with a more visual tactic.
Giggling to herself, Rey pulls the pink box containing her little secret from it’s hiding spot in the drawer. She’s never been a lingerie type of girl - none of it is really her, and the only things that seem to catch her eye, everyone deems too simple. So needless to say, she doesn’t own a lot of it. But when she’d seen the black lace robe hanging up in the store that Rose and Paige had drug her into, she’d been completely unable to stop staring at it. It had just been so…delicate. And so far out of her comfort zone, she almost hadn’t gotten it. Light and practically see-through, she’d picked it up and couldn’t help but think about the potential look on Ben’s face if he saw her in it. So, she’d bought it.
With her heart beating just a little bit too fast, Rey shucks off her jeans and lets her hair down, sliding the robe over her body and delighting in the ticking feeling of that lace. When she turns around to look in the mirror, she doesn’t recognize herself for a moment. Not because of her nakedness under the robe or the robe itself, but more because of the flush of excitement on her face.
Peering outside the door, Rey finds that Ben is still in the spot she left him, only he’s peeled off his shirt and jeans and is lying on the blankets in a pair of black boxers. Rey’s mouth goes dry.
She gives herself a silent pep talk and steps back out into the room.
Ben glances up and then back down, and then back up when he actually sees her there, and Rey swears she sees him swallow past a lump in his throat. He looks her up and down for a moment as she approaches the bed, slowly taking his book from his hand.
“Rey,” her name is more like a warning now.
“Ben,” she replies, raising an eyebrow at him before placing her knee on the bed and swinging her other leg over his hip, effectively straddling him. His hands fly immediately to her waist, grip tight as she presses herself down against him. “I want you to fuck me.”
His eyes drift shut for a moment and Rey watches as he takes in a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he grits out.
Ah, Rey thinks, so that’s it.
“I won’t break,” Rey tells him, reaching a hand up and threading her fingers through his dark hair. “Please, Ben? I want you. Don’t make me beg. Or demand.”
It’s a joke, but only halfway. Rey grins wickedly at him and tugs his hair. Ben’s eyes fly open and for a moment, Rey sees a different person.
The world is a blur around her for a moment as Ben switches their positions so fast, putting her on her back beneath him as he wraps a hand around her throat and holds her there. Rey stares at him, open-mouthed, her body flushing as heat gathers between her legs.
For a moment, all he does it stare. Then, Rey watches as Ben picks up the remote control for the damned LED lights and changes the color to red, all the while looking far too calm and in control, in comparison to her at least. He chucks the remote away and leans down close to her.
“Did you think you were in charge for a moment there, my love?” Ben asks quietly, his voice a growl against her ear. Rey squirms beneath him. This is what she wanted. She loves Ben Solo - but fuck if she’s not a little bit (a lot) attracted to the darkness that lives inside him. “Answer me.”
Rey squeaks as his palm tightens around her throat. “Yes,” she admits, breathless.
“And you thought you could order me around, is that it?”
“Yes,” another gasp as Ben slides his hand down her body, feeling the lace that covers it and looking at her with something between lust and pure amusement.
“I commend you for your effort,” Ben jokes, practically manhandling her up onto her knees before him, his hand now wrapped in her hair. “But I’m still the one in charge here, my darling Rey.”
The grin that spreads across her face is absolutely wretched, laced with triumph and twinged with mirth. He doesn’t expressly admit that he knows this was her plan, but Rey can tell from the twinkle in his eye that he’d guessed it well enough. She reaches up to tangle her hands into his dark curls but he stops her, taking both her wrists in his hands and locking them behind her back with one, leaning back again to take in the sight of her, covered in black lace.
Rey thinks that she’s never felt as beautiful as she does in that moment, with him looking at her like that.
“Ground rules,” Ben begins.
“Rules?” Rey squeaks in indignation, ready to groan at him in annoyance. He gives her a dark look that makes her shut her mouth.
“If I hurt you, in any way, you tell me immediately. If I do something you’re not sure you like, you tell me immediately,” Ben says, rattling off the rules of his list as Rey nods very enthusiastically.
“What else?” she asks, and for a moment Ben looks like he’s going to laugh.
“Listen carefully,” he tells her, pulling her hands forward and tying them together with the sash of her robe, which she hadn’t even noticed he’d removed. Rey nods.
For another long moment, he stays looking straight at her, as if deciding where to begin. “I like this,” he tells her finally, sliding a finger under the edge of the black lace that covers her breasts. At his touch, everything in her body pulls taut, waiting for more. Ben draws the robe over her shoulder until it falls, baring her a little more to him. He’s going slower than she had thought he would, but she’s not about to open her mouth and question him any time soon.
“How long have you had it?” Ben asks, and it takes Rey a moment to realize he’s talking about the robe.
“A few weeks,” she says in a small voice, smiling privately to herself as Ben hums against her skin before biting down on her shoulder.
“A few weeks? And I’m only just now seeing it?” He’s teasing her, she knows he is, but Rey feels her face heat up nonetheless.
“I was,” Rey starts, searching for the words to explain to him why she hadn’t tried this sooner. “I was worried I couldn’t pull it off,” she tells him finally, laughing to disguise the unease in her voice.
Ben pulls away from her and levels her with a dark gaze. “Rey,” her name is pitched low, like a warning. “I am doing everything I can not to fucking rip this lace off of you, only because I want you to wear it again.”
Rey squeaks in surprise and a little bit of amusement when Ben’s hand drifts up her body to wrap around her throat, at the same time as his other hand reaches her center and without warning he dips his fingers up inside of her. She’s already wet and wanting and it just feels so right to have him touching her, the pressure of his fingers around her throat and inside her moving in tandem to create a storm that starts low in Rey’s belly and spreads through her whole being like molten lava. She finds that she loves the dangerous feeling of his hand around her throat.
Rey wracks her brain for the right words to possibly tell him that she wants it to hurt, just a little.
But he seems to know, because he bites at her throat as he squeezes and Rey keens, limbs going limp against him and it’s a miracle he’s there to hold her up, because Rey feels an orgasm shoot through her like a bolt of lightning. Ben chuckles darkly into her ear.
“Lay back, hands above your head,” he instructs, and Rey is all too happy to oblige, practically flopping back onto the bed and lifting her arms. She can see his erection tenting his briefs, and her mouth waters in an obscene sort of way that she’d be embarrassed by, if she weren’t so turned on. “Part your legs for me, Rey. Let me see you.”
Oh, now that’s a tone of voice that she likes.
She does what she’s told and lets her knees fall open, baring herself to him in a way that she’s never done before, not even for him. Rey can feel that she’s breathing heavily, and she can see that he is too, even in the dim red glow that the lights cast around the room. He looks impossibly larger backlit like this, as he decides what he wants to do with her. The air in the room hangs low with lust.
“I’m want to fuck you, Rey,” Ben says quietly, calmly - as if he’s telling her he’d like to bring her a cup of tea. She whimpers. Ben smiles. “Tell me I can fuck you.”
“Yes please,” she squeaks out, her voice straining against the harsh breaths she takes as he looks at her.
“You’ll tell me -“
“Yes! I’ll tell you if it’s too much, just,” Rey huffs, “Please, Ben.”
He grins at her in the red light, and Rey watches with anticipation settling in her bones as he tosses his briefs away, taking himself in hand and sliding his fingertips down the inside of her thigh. Goosebumps pebble in the wake of his touch.
“Close your eyes,” Ben instructs, and Rey does as she’s told. Sort of. “Close them, or I’ll blindfold you,” he says, his voice a growl. Rey shuts her eyes tight, even though the prospect of a blindfold is intriguing.
Rey isn’t quite sure how he does it. One moment, she’s squirming on the bed, hoping that he’ll lean forward and touch her a little bit more, and the next he has her hips in his hands and has shoved his cock so deep inside her that her eyes fly open and she cries out. He doesn’t relent.
There’s none of the previous hesitations that she’s used to feeling from him - no restraint in his arms as he holds himself just far enough away from her, no slow rock of his hips to get her accustomed to him, and certainly no gentle grip that keeps her close. No, this is absolutely primal, his fingertips wrapped solidly around her hip and squeezing so hard that she’s positive she’ll have a bruise, and his hips slapping obscenely against hers - and she loves it.
Every thrust, every brush of the head of his cock against the deepest place inside her feels like an earthquake. Ben finds the angle that she likes, effortlessly, letting loose a near-feral growl as he takes her a little bit faster. Rey’s eyes roll back in her head.
Then, he takes her leg and wraps his hand around her ankle, holding her open and shoving a pillow beneath her hips. It brings her closer to him, gives him a new inch to work with as Rey lets herself go completely, giving over to the dark side of this kind of lust as she comes, like rolling waves, around him.
Ben slows, and for a moment Rey considers hitting him if he even dares to ask her if she’s okay - but he doesn’t. Instead, he gives her a wicked grin and pulls out of her, flipping her over in a freakishly well-timed movement, onto her hands and knees. Her hands are still bound in front of her, and she whines about it.
“Let me touch you,” Rey begs, her back to his front as she kneels up and presents her wrists. “Please.”
Ben groans, but reaches forward anyway and unties the gauzy fabric, tossing it somewhere in the room before burying his hand in her hair and forcing her to bend at her waist.
“God, Rey,” he moans as he sinks back inside her, “You’re so fucking perfect.”
She’s never heard praise quite like that before, and she definitely doesn’t know what to do with it - it’s like her entire brain short circuits. Rey doesn’t have time to dwell on it though, because Ben begins moving his hips at a rapid pace, fucking her so hard that she feels it practically quake up her spine.
They’ve fucked like this before, with her on her knees, but never this hard. She can’t stop the moan from falling from her lips when Ben reaches up and wraps his hand around her neck again.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growls in her ear, crushing her close to him in every way that he possibly can given their position. Rey whimpers. “Is it? Tell me, Rey. Do you like when I fuck you like this?”
Her answer of yes is a quiet sound, squeezed from her vocal chords around moans and sighs and cries of his name. Rey can tell that this, the way he’s taking her, is Kylo Ren - the man everyone feared and admired. But the man who loves her is Ben Solo, and she’s damn lucky to have both.
He comes inside of her with a drawn-out, downright lovely moan right in her ear, and Rey finally slides down onto her stomach feeling sated and shaking a little bit from the force of it all. Ben shifts their positions, pulling her onto his chest as he lays on his back.
“Well my love,” he says after they’ve caught their breath. “Did I deliver?”
Rey giggles against his skin. “Yes, I can say with confidence that you did.”
He chuckles a little bit as he draws lines up her spine with his fingertips. “You know,” he says then, “I think I’m starting to like these lights.”
#reylo#reylo fanfiction#reylo fic#reylo smut#rey x ben solo#rey x kylo ren#reylo modern au#reylo au#rey and ben solo#rey and kylo ren#hitman kylo ren#reylo sexy#rey#rey and ben au#rey and ben fanfic#rey and ben solo fanfic#rey and kylo
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Joseph A. Harriss, The Elusive Marc Chagall, Smithsonian Magazine (December 2003)
With his wild and whimsical imagery, the Russian-born artist bucked the trends of 20th-century art
David McNeil fondly remembers the day in the early 1960s his father took him to a little bistro on Paris’ Île St. Louis, the kind of place where they scrawl the menu in white letters on the mirror behind the bar, and masons, house painters, plumbers and other workingmen down hearty lunches along with vin ordinaire. Wearing a beret, a battered jacket and a coarse, checkered shirt, his father— then in his mid-70s—fit in perfectly. With conversation flowing easily among the close-set tables, one of the patrons looked over at the muscular, paint-splotched hands of the man in the beret. “Working on a place around here?” he asked companionably. “Yeah,” replied McNeil’s father, the artist Marc Chagall, as he tucked into his appetizer of hard-boiled egg and mayonnaise. “I’m redoing a ceiling over at the Opéra.”
Chagall, the Russian-born painter who went against the current of 20th-century art with his fanciful images of blue cows, flying lovers, biblical prophets and green-faced fiddlers on roofs, had a firm idea of who he was and what he wanted to accomplish. But when it came to guarding his privacy, he was a master of deflection. Sometimes when people approached to ask if he was that famous painter Marc Chagall, he would answer, “No,” or more absurdly, “I don’t think so,” or point to someone else and say slyly, “Maybe that’s him.” With his slanting, pale-blue eyes, his unruly hair and the mobile face of a mischievous faun, Chagall gave one biographer the impression that he was “always slightly hallucinating.” One of those who knew him best, Virginia Haggard McNeil, David’s mother and Chagall’s companion for seven years, characterized him as “full of contradictions—generous and guarded, naïve and shrewd, explosive and secret, humorous and sad, vulnerable and strong.”
Chagall himself said he was a dreamer who never woke up. “Some art historians have sought to decrypt his symbols,” says Jean-Michel Foray, director of the Marc Chagall Biblical Message Museum in Nice, “but there’s no consensus on what they mean. We cannot interpret them because they are simply part of his world, like figures from a dream.” Pablo Picasso, his sometime friend and rival (“What a genius, that Picasso,” Chagall once joked. “It’s a pity he doesn’t paint”), marveled at the Russian’s feeling for light and the originality of his imagery. “I don’t know where he gets those images. . . . ” said Picasso. “He must have an angel in his head.”
Throughout his 75-year career, during which he produced an astounding 10,000 works, Chagall continued to incorporate figurative and narrative elements (however enigmatic) into his paintings. His warm, human pictorial universe, full of personal metaphor, set him apart from much of 20th-century art, with its intellectual deconstruction of objects and arid abstraction. As a result, the public has generally loved his work, while the critics were often dismissive, complaining of sentimentality, repetition and the use of stock figures.
A major retrospective of Chagall’s unique, often puzzling images was recently on view at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art, following a highly acclaimed run at the Grand Palais in Paris. The first comprehensive exhibition of Chagall’s paintings since 1985 brought together more than 150 works from all periods of his career, many never before seen in the United States, including cloth-and-paper collages from the private collection of his granddaughter Meret Meyer Graber. The exhibition, says Foray, the chief organizer of the show, “offered a fresh opportunity to appreciate Chagall as the painter who restored to art the elements that modern artists rejected, such as allegory and narrative—art as a comment on life. Today he is coming back strong after a period of neglect, even in his home country.” Retrospectives are planned for 2005 at the Museum of Russian Art in St. Petersburg and at the State Tretiakov Gallery in Moscow.
Movcha (Moses) Chagal was, as he put it, “born dead” on July 7, 1887, in the Belorussian town of Vitebsk, near the Polish border. His distraught family pricked the limp body of their firstborn with needles to try to stimulate a response. Desperate, they then took the infant outside and put him in a stone trough of cold water. Suddenly the baby boy began to whimper. With that rude introduction to life, it’s no wonder that Marc Chagall, as he later chose to be known in Paris, stuttered as a boy and was subject to fainting. “I was scared of growing up,” he told Virginia McNeil. “Even in my twenties I preferred dreaming about love and painting it in my pictures.”
Chagall’s talent for drawing hardly cheered his poor and numerous family, which he, as the eldest of nine children, was expected to help support. His father, Khatskel-Mordechai Chagal, worked in a herring warehouse; his mother, Feiga- Ita Chernina, ran a small grocery store. Both nominally adhered to Hasidic Jewish religious beliefs, which forbade graphic representation of anything created by God. Thus Chagall grew up in a home devoid of images. Still, he pestered his mother until she took him to an art school run by a local portraitist. Chagall, in his late teens, was the only student who used the vivid color violet.Apious uncle refused to shake his hand after he began painting figures.
For all his subsequent pictorial reminiscing about Vitebsk, Chagall found it stifling and provincial—“a strange town, an unhappy town, a boring town,” he called it in his memoirs. In 1906, at age 19, he wangled a small sum of money from his father and left for St. Petersburg, where he enrolled in the drawing school of the Imperial Society for the Protection of Fine Arts. But he hated classical art training. “I, poor country lad, was obliged to acquaint myself thoroughly with the wretched nostrils of Alexander of Macedonia or some other plaster imbecile,” he recalled. The meager money soon ran out, and although he made a few kopecks retouching photographs and painting signs, he sometimes collapsed from hunger. His world broadened in 1909 when he signed up for an art class in St. Petersburg taught by Leon Bakst, who, having been to Paris, carried an aura of sophistication. Bakst indulged Chagall’s expressive, unconventional approach to painting and dropped names, exotic to the young man’s ears, such as Manet, Cézanne and Matisse. He spoke of painting cubes and squares, of an artist who cut off his ear.
“Paris!” Chagall wrote in his autobiography. “No word sounded sweeter to me!” By 1911, at age 24, he was there, thanks to a stipend of 40 rubles a month from a supportive member of the Duma, Russia’s elective assembly, who had taken a liking to the young artist. When he arrived, he went directly to the Louvre to look at the famous works of art there. In time he found a room at an artists’ commune in a circular, three-story building near Montparnasse called La Ruche (The Beehive). He lived frugally. Often he’d cut a herring in half, the head for one day, the tail for the next. Friends who came to his door had to wait while he put on his clothes; he painted in the nude to avoid staining his only outfit. At La Ruche, Chagall rubbed shoulders with painters like Fernand Léger, Chaim Soutine, Amedeo Modigliani and Robert Delaunay. True to his nature as a storyteller, however, he seemed to have more in common with such writers as French poet Guillaume Apollinaire, who described Chagall’s work as “supernatural.” Another friend, Blaise Cendrars, a restless, knockabout writer, penned a short poem about Chagall: “Suddenly he paints / He grabs a church and paints with a church / He grabs a cow and paints with a cow.”
Many consider Chagall’s work during his four-year stay in Paris his most boldly creative. Reconnoitering the then-prevalent trends of Cubism and Fauvism, he absorbed aspects of each into his own work. There was his Cubist-influenced Temptation (Adam and Eve); the disconcerting Introduction, with a seven-fingered man holding his head under his arm; and the parti-colored Acrobat, showing Chagall’s fondness for circus scenes. At La Ruche he also painted his explosive Dedicated to My Fiancée, which he tossed off in a single night’s feverish work and later submitted to a major Paris exhibition. It took some artful persuasion on his part to convince the show’s organizers that the topsy-turvy mix of hands, legs and a leering bull’s head was not, as they contended, pornographic.
Returning to Vitebsk in 1914 with the intention of staying only briefly, Chagall was trapped by the outbreak of World War I. At least that meant spending time with his fiancée, Bella Rosenfeld, the beautiful, cultivated daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest families. Bella had won a gold medal as one of Russia’s top high-school students, had studied in Moscow and had ambitions to be an actress. But she had fallen for Chagall’s strange, almond-shaped eyes and often knocked on his window to bring him cakes and milk. “I had only to open the window of my room and blue air, love and flowers entered with her,” Chagall later wrote. Despite her family’s worries that she would starve as the wife of an artist, the pair married in 1915; Chagall was 28, Bella, 23. In his 1914- 18 Above the Town (one of his many paintings of flying lovers), he and Bella soar blissfully above Vitebsk.
In 1917 Chagall embraced the Bolshevik Revolution. He liked that the new regime gave Jews full citizenship and no longer required them to carry passports to leave their designated region. And he was pleased to be appointed commissar for art in Vitebsk, where he started an art school and brought in avant-garde teachers. But it soon became clear that the revolutionaries preferred abstract art and Socialist Realism— and how, they wondered, did the comrade’s blue cows and floating lovers support Marxism-Leninism? Giving up his job as commissar in 1920, Chagall moved to Moscow, where he painted decorative panels for the State Jewish Chamber Theater. But ultimately unhappy with Soviet life, he left for Berlin in 1922 and settled in Paris a year and a half later along with Bella and their 6-year-old daughter, Ida.
In Paris, a new door opened for Chagall when he met the influential art dealer Ambroise Vollard, who commissioned him to illustrate an edition of the poetic classic the Fables of La Fontaine. Chauvinistic French officials cried scandal over the choice of a Russian Jew, a mere “Vitebsk sign painter,” to illustrate a masterpiece of French letters. But that blew over, and Chagall went on to do a series of resonant illustrations of the Bible for Vollard.
Increasingly alarmed by Nazi persecution of the Jews, Chagall made a strong political statement on canvas in 1938 with his White Crucifixion. Then 51 and in his artistic prime, he por- trayed the crucified Christ, his loins covered with a prayer shawl, as a symbol of the suffering of all Jews. In the painting, a synagogue and houses are in flames, a fleeing Jew clutches a Torah to his breast, and emigrants try to escape in a rudimentary boat. Not long after, in June 1941, Chagall and his wife boarded a ship for the United States, settling in New York City. The six years Chagall spent in America were not his happiest. He never got used to the pace of New York life, never learned English. “It took me thirty years to learn bad French,” he said, “why should I try to learn English?” One of the things he did enjoy was strolling through Lower Manhattan, buying strudel and gefilte fish, and reading Yiddish newspapers. His palette during these years often darkened to a tragic tone, with depictions of a burning Vitebsk and fleeing rabbis. When Bella, his muse, confidante and best critic, died suddenly in 1944 of a viral infection at age 52, “everything turned black,” Chagall wrote.
After weeks of sitting in his apartment on Riverside Drive immersed in grief, tended to by his daughter, Ida, then 28 and married, he began to work again. Ida found a French-speaking English woman, Virginia McNeil, to be his housekeeper. A diplomat’s daughter, and bright, rebellious and cosmopolitan, McNeil had been born in Paris and raised in Bolivia and Cuba, but had recently fallen on hard times. She was married to John McNeil, a Scottish painter who suffered from depression, and she had a 5-year-old daughter, Jean, to support. She was 30 and Chagall 57 when they met, and before long the two were talking painting, then dining together. Afew months later Virginia left her husband and went with Chagall to live in High Falls, New York, a village in the Catskills. They bought a simple wooden house with an adjoining cottage for him to use as a studio.
Though Chagall would do several important public works in the United States—sets and costumes for a 1942 American Ballet Theatre production of Tchaikovsky’sAleko and a 1945 version of Stravinsky’s Firebird, and later large murals for Lincoln Center and stained-glass windows for the United Nations headquarters and the Art Institute of Chicago—he remained ambivalent about America. “I know I must live in France, but I don’t want to cut myself off from America,” he once said. “France is a picture already painted. America still has to be painted. Maybe that’s why I feel freer there. But when I work in America, it’s like shouting in a forest. There’s no echo.” In 1948 he returned to France with Virginia, their son, David, born in 1946, and Virginia’s daughter. They eventually settled in Provence, in the hilltop town of Vence. But Virginia chafed in her role, as she saw it, of “the wife of the Famous Artist, the charming hostess to Important People,” and abruptly left Chagall in 1951, taking the two children with her. Once again the resourceful Ida found her father a housekeeper— this time in the person of Valentina Brodsky, a 40- year-old Russian living in London. Chagall, then 65, and Vava, as she was known, soon married.
The new Mrs. Chagall managed her husband’s affairs with an iron hand. “She tended to cut him off from the world,” says David McNeil, 57, an author and songwriter who lives in Paris. “But he didn’t really mind because what he needed most was a manager to give him peace and quiet so he could get on with his work. I never saw him answer a telephone himself. After Vava took over, I don’t think he ever saw his bank statements and didn’t realize how wealthy he was. He taught me to visit the Louvre on Sunday, when it was free, and he always picked up all the sugar cubes on the table before leaving a restaurant.” McNeil and his half sister, Ida, who died in 1994 at age 78, gradually found themselves seeing less of their father. But to all appearances Chagall’s married life was a contented one, and images of Vava appear in many of his paintings.
In addition to canvases, Chagall produced lithographs, etchings, sculptures, ceramics, mosaics and tapestries. He also took on such demanding projects as designing stainedglass windows for the synagogue of the Hadassah-HebrewUniversityMedicalCenter in Jerusalem. His ceiling for the Paris Opéra, painted in 1963-64 and peopled with Chagall angels, lovers, animals and Parisian monuments, provided a dramatic contrast to the pompous, academic painting and decoration in the rest of the Opéra.
“He prepared his charcoal pencils, holding them in his hand like a little bouquet,” McNeil wrote of his father’s working methods in a memoir that was published in France last spring. “Then he would sit in a large straw chair and look at the blank canvas or cardboard or sheet of paper, waiting for the idea to come. Suddenly he would raise the charcoal with his thumb and, very fast, start tracing straight lines, ovals, lozenges, finding an aesthetic structure in the incoherence. Aclown would appear, a juggler, a horse, a violinist, spectators, as if by magic. When the outline was in place, he would back off and sit down, exhausted like a boxer at the end of a round.”
Some critics said he drew badly. “Of course I draw badly,” Chagall once said. “I like drawing badly.” Perhaps worse, from the critics’ point of view, he did not fit easily into the accepted canon of modernity. “Impressionism and Cubism are foreign to me,” he wrote. “Art seems to me to be above all a state of soul. . . . Let them eat their fill of their square pears on their triangular tables!”
Notes veteran art critic Pierre Schneider, “Chagall absorbed Cubism, Fauvism, Surrealism, Expressionism and other modern art trends incredibly fast when he was starting out. But he used them only to suit his own aesthetic purposes. That makes it hard for art critics and historians to label him. He can’t be pigeonholed.”
When he died in Saint Paul de Vence on March 28, 1985, at 97, Chagall was still working, still the avant-garde artist who refused to be modern. That was the way he said he wanted it: “To stay wild, untamed . . . to shout, weep, pray.”
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Can you write about crushing Yoongi always trying to find an excuse to hold your hand or touch you in little affectionate ways?? 💞
prompt: seven different types of physical affection and seven different times yoongi acted upon those
word count: 2,215
1. caressing/stroking
Yoongi had an unwarranted itch to be closer to you. He barely knew the taste of your name on his tongue yet he so badly wanted to crush his fingers around yours, flatten his lips against your cheek, test if your skin tasted like the sweet vanilla wafting off the soft cotton of your shirt.
He rocked onto his heels, shoving the tips of his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. The relaxed lean of your stature was in direct contrast to the rigid tip toe of his own, your head tilted against your shoulder, care free smile painting your lips as beautiful laughter tumbled past petaled lips to each squeaky giggle presented by Hoseok.
Rocking steps tottered Yoongi closer, a pendulum sized movement that seemed to account for a hinge drilled between the exaggerated part of his feet. Hoseok acknowledged him with a tilt of his head, parting the flush of his apple cheeks as he followed the shy crush the elder’s chin against his clavicle, scuffing his untied shoe into the tile.
“Hi!” Hoseok cheered, folding his arms to his chest as he took a heeled step backward.
Yoongi acknowledged his friend with a curt nod while peering under thick eyelashes, gaze instead swinging to where you stood. An equally bright smile stayed toothless over your plush lips, eyes crinkling slightly, chin tilted toward him.
“Hello,” He greeted lowly, a rumbling timbre that shivered at the waver of your bottom lip. Gingerly and almost unconsciously did his arm raise, crooked fingers gently rubbing over your bicep down to the crook of your elbow where his touch shyly returned to glue against his hip. “How are you?”
You refused to recognize the surprised puff of air that caught in your throat as his feathery light contact.
“I’m great, Yoongi,” You hummed, meeting the bashful scrunch of his squished cheeks, “How are you?”
2. back rubs/massages
Yoongi eyed you as you chewed raw into the dip of your bottom lip, hunched over your laptop, one eyes scrunched and the other bordering on a mist of elicited tears.
His steps were slow, calculated, sinking a sizable distance away from the bend of your thighs on the couch cushions. Quietly, he inquired, “Where did Jimin run off to?”
You shrugged, a full bodied movement that had your wrists clattering to your laptop and your fingers clicking into a jumbled mess of keys. “Taehyung called him I think,” You whispered, voice meek as the angry red squiggle of a typo mocked the frustrations of your key smash. “I don’t mind being here alone. I was about to head back to my place anyway…”
He nodded, leaning back a bit to support his elbows on the high rise of his thighs, ring clad fingers clasped underneath his chin. Eyes craned, sliding over the expanse of your open word document. Softly, “What are you working on?”
A small whine gurgled in the back of your throat, head shaking as you shoved your laptop up to teeter off your knees. “Just an essay,” After a moment, you added with a bitter laugh, “it’s really frustrating. I don’t think I’m ever going to get done.”
Yoongi leaned further, crooked fingers rubbing soft circles into the small of your back before he could coil the jump of his muscles. He reveled when you seemed to relax into his ministrations, braving him enough to flatten his expanse palm over your spine.
“Are you okay?” He softened between circled rubs.
You arched your back when his fingers flexed, blunt fingernails scratching into your skin, watching his profile from the crease of your eyes.
“I will be. Thank you for asking.”
3. holding hands
The shake of your giggling shoulders brushed against Yoongi’s, his head tearing away from darting between the playfully heated exchange of Jeongguk and Seokjin to instead map the smile lines that laced the beauty of your visage.
“Do you even know how to hold a golf club?” Jeongguk lipped, effectively dodging the playful box of Seokjin’s fist to his collarbone in a fit of high pitched giggles.
“First of all,” Seokjin huffed, “it’s mini golf…”
Namjoon mediated it, stepping between the two with a soft smile crinkling crescents into his eyelids and palms flattened out to the eldest and youngest. “We can split into teams,” The leader suggested, “It’ll make everything go quicker for us and for everyone else that’s just trying to have a peaceful evening.”
“I like teams,” Hoseok chirped, smiling affectionately at a bouncing Jimin who threw himself against his arm, “Teams are good.”
Yoongi shoved his fingers between the spaces of your own, tugging you impossibly close into the dip of his side. He barely had time to consider the repercussions or the dusted pink cotton that rooted to his cheeks, announcing a space above a whisper, “Y/N’s my partner.”
When no one acknowledged him, he cleared his throat, speaking evenly, “Y/N and I are on a team,” His gaze cut promptly to the shine of your eyes, stuttering, “I mean, if that’s okay.”
Six pair of eyes softened knowingly.
“Okay, Yoongi-hyung,” Taehyung beamed.
You nodded, securing the crook of the top link of your fingers to the prominent veins on the back of his hand, squeezing tenderly before turning your pointed attention to a gloating Jeongguk, “We’re going to kick your ass-”
4. hugging
A towel etched over the droplets of sweat painting ebony locks against a crinkled forehead, sweeping away the result of the exhaustion clinging to Yoongi’s sore muscles. The pain balled and wretched away in favor for the jump of his heart in his throat the second a small commotion erupted near the door of the dressing room, the stocky figure of Jimin diving over a chair to intercept a bobbing figure.
“Jimin!” You gasped, thrashing in his grasp when damp locks dug into the juncture of your throat. The stick of sweat surrounded you, drenching at your top and clinging to the back of your nostrils as a nearby staff member tutted in reprimand at the small man.
He huffed, pulling away to inspect you with a smug grin. “You mean you come to visit us and you can’t even handle a little post show sweat?” He feigned hurt, hand fist into his shirt over his heart, features scrunched as his chin jerked back.
“Yeah, yeah,” You swatted at chest, barely catching the pads of your fingers to the wrinkle of his top as you craned your neck over his shoulder. “Where’s Yoongi?”
His heart swelled, towel clutching tighter in delicate digits as he slid into your line of sight, waving softly, “Hi, love,” Yoongi greeted, teeth in his cheek unable to contain the light of his gums stretching over his lips. The towel met the drench of sweat at the nape of his neck on habit, eyes trailing the bounce of your figure around Jimin as you moved to stand in front of him.
“You did great,” You blurted. The sole of your shoe dug shyly into the tile as you sidestepped a purposeful staff member. “I mean you always do, but…”
The brunt of the towel smacked Jimin’s cheek as Yoongi stepped forward, softly looping his arms around your stature to bring you into a tentative hug. “Thank you,” He hushed, alternating the slide of his hands over the supple skin of your back. “I’m really glad you’re here.”
5. cuddling/holding
Yoongi spun in his desk chair, mouth parted to question what you wanted for dinner. The sighed inquiry instead stuttered down the length of his tongue, getting lost in the sharp swallow he took as his eyes cast down the curl of your stature on his studio couch.
You were curled into yourself, holding a pillow across your arms like a blanket. The awkward curve of your wrist cradled your phone, the soft illumination brightening the contours of your features in a separate shade from that in which cast in shards from the monitors of his computers. Faintly, he caught the rise of goosebumps littering the bare expanse of your skin, eliciting a tighter clench to your jaw as your toes curled into the cushion.
Cute.
A chuckle matched the creak of plastic as he rose, trekking the short distance to slide in beside you. The movement of his hand against your thigh was planned, thumb stroking out the bumps, smile curtaining when you glanced at him over your phone.
“Are you cold?” Yoongi reached, plucking at the puny upholstery of the pillow with his thumb and index finger, “Because I have much better blankets than this.”
You rolled your eyes, launching it to bounce off his chest. “I mean yeah,” You trailed off, dropping your phone in your lap, “I’m a little cold, I guess.”
He shook his head, touch leaving your skin as he shuffled for a stack of shelves in the corner. The spread of his arms came wielding a downy grey blanket, one that wrapped over the planes of his stature as he fell back in beside you.
“I come with the blanket,” Yoongi’s teeth bit into the corner of his lip, gauging your reaction, “If that wasn’t clear.”
You crawled the short length to the surface of the blanket, cuddling against the warmth of his chest as he aided in wrapping the fuzzy surface over the chill of your skin. Your cheek met knuckles curled in the puffy hem of the blanket, eyes fluttering shut as he continued to gather his embrace around your figure in his lap.
“I wouldn’t have wanted anything less,” You whispered.
6. kissing on the face
He met you halfway down the hallway, catching the trip of your stature into his chest with a muted, “Hey, hey, what-”
A spilling sob racked your shoulders, tears seeping through the thin cotton of Yoongi’s shirt as you clung to him. He stuttered only for a moment, gently drawing his arms over the high slope of your shoulders to crush you against him. “Please, you have to calm down,” He told the frantic shake of your shoulders, “Breathe for me angel, try to calm down.”
You met his requests in stutters, sharp breaths drawing your swelled bottom lip under your teeth, stalling the wet of your cheeks to gentle streams rather than rushing rivers, loosening the clutch of your grip on his shirt to flatten your hands to the dips in his collarbone.
“Sorry, I just came straight here, I meant to call…” A huff dropped the tautness of your shoulders, voice a bit smaller as you told him, “Jin let me in. They all saw me, I’ve probably worried everyone, I’m sorry, I just-”
Yoongi hushed you, cupping your cheeks in his palms to bring your gaze firmly to his own. “It’s okay,” He assured you softly.
You silently observed as he ducked at the waist, angling your head to press a tender kiss to your forehead. The wet of his lips lingered on your flaming skin, pooling a fond buzz all the way to the tip of your toes as you froze in his hold.
“You’re okay,” Yoongi corrected, pecking your cheek on the way down in slotting his forehead to yours, “You’re okay, yeah?”
7. kissing on the lips
“Angel?”
Yoongi covered his laugh by the back of his wrist when your head shot up, scattering granules of cinnamon and sugar across the treat balanced on the paper plate perched in your lap. The clump of fried bread continued to snag on the crease of your mouth, faltering when your lips parted in a soft shape of questioning.
“You uh,” He pointed with a crooked finger, arching over the bend of his knees, “You’ve got a little something on your lips.”
You pouted, a soft whine of indignation falling from your lips. “Get it for me.”
He blinked, once, twice, cheek dimpling when his teeth sanctioned the inside of his mouth. His knees straightened, coming to crouch next to you as the curled edge of his thumb reached for the piece of the treat. It plucked easily to the pad of his thumb, flicking to the soft blades of grass wavering in the gentle breeze.
You held your breath as Yoongi’s hand slid back across your cheek, thumb clearing the collection of sweetened spice on the crease of your mouth before rising to the soft apple of your cheek. A sharp inhale met the puff of his own cheeks as he leaned, softly pressing his mouth against the spot he’d just cleaned.
“Got it,” He hummed, dark chocolate orbs falling to your own.
Bluntly, you corrected, “You missed.”
“I-I what?”
You giggled, sliding the elephant ear to the grass below as you shifted, sliding your fingers across the pliable squish of his cheek. Your mouth slotted just a breath away from the dead center of his lips, nose cocked to slide against his own.
“I said,” You breathed quietly, “You missed.”
The heel of your palm flattened to the middle of the dessert when Yoongi leaned over you, eagerly tasting the sought after sweetness of your mouth, suddenly sure that the sugary syrup of your lips he’d so often envisioned was natural and not due to the soft pieces of bread you’d shoveled into your cheeks.
#min yoongi#bts#bts reactions#bts scenarios#yoongi scenario#yoongi scenarios#min yoongi scenario#bts imagine#yoongi imagine#min yoongi imagine#THIS WAS SO MUCH LONGER THAN I THOUGHT IM SO SORRY OH GOD#selcaboysmain
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Submitted by yoursaltytears
Super long so had to rebog to add the rest!! Check notes for other part!!
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“You know, this is kind of romantic,” Dina teased, shooting Ellie a side long glance through her eyelashes, “walking under the moonlight, just the two of us,” Dina wiggles closer, lacing her fingers with Ellie’s, “alone. . .” She gave a devilish giggle, to which Ellie chuckled softly at. “Come on, Dina, patrol is a serious thing.” Ellie chided, glancing in her girlfriends direction, trying to put a serious look on her face, however, her eyes glittered with amusement, betraying the facade she tried so desperately to build.
Dina pouts, her head tilting to the side slightly, and she scoots closer to Ellie, wrapping her arm around her waist. Ellie smiled softly, draping her arm across Dina’s shoulders, and plants a small kiss to her girlfriends forehead. “I suppose it is a bit romantic, minus the semi automatic rifles.” Ellie replied nonchalantly, lifting the gun off her hip in emphasis. Her companion almost looks offended, “what do you mean?” She questions, her eyes glinting, “they make it ten times hotter!” Dina finished with a laugh, and Ellie couldn’t help but let out a small laugh of her own before affectionately ruffling her girlfriends hair.
This elicited a small shriek from the girl as she tried to brush her hair back in place, giggling madly, and Ellie watched her with a small smile. However, something at the back of her mind itched, and she paused, placing a delicate hand on Dina’s shoulder and squeezing it, and she froze. The tension in the air thick as they listened, Ellie trying desperately to pick up on what she had thought she heard. There — the sound of a boot scuffing stone. Ellie drew her rifle, moving so that her and Dina stood back to back, and glanced warily into the forest.
They waited for five minutes, then ten, then twenty, and Ellie seemed to settle a bit when the immediate threat of a clicker or runner hadn’t made itself apparent. Turning to Dina, she ran her hand down her companions shoulder until it reached her wrist, where she wrapped it gently around it and squeezed reassuringly. Dina relaxed under her touch, turning to meet Ellie’s gaze, when her eyes go wide.
“Ellie, watch out!” She screams, throwing her arms around Ellie’s waist and jerking her to the side, however, it was a second too late. An arrow embedded itself in Ellie’s thigh, the arrowhead sticking three inches out on the back side of her thigh. She stifled her scream of pain enough to raise her rifle back up, reassuringly squeezing Dina’s hand before looking up at their attackers. Just then, a group of Seraphites trudged out of the woods, four in total. They circled the pair, a faint cackle could be heard escaping the lips of one of the attackers.
Ellie tried to drown out the pain, leaning to her good side so that she eased her weight off her bad leg. Her eyes never left the two in front of her, and she was sure Dina’s were fixated on the two in front of her. Ellie let out a faint snarl, rushing forward despite the pain, and ducked beneath a pair of arms shooting out to latch around her chest. She gripped her rifle and swung blindly, connected with the mans sternum. He keeled over, he breath temporarily knocked out of him, and while she was distracted, the second opponent wrapped his arm around Ellie’s throat from behind. She dropped the rifle, though it didn’t fall as it was attached to her by a strap, it dangled precariously between her legs. Her hand shot up, gripping the arm of the man who held her, and she watched as the other man stood up, rubbing his chest.
She spared a glance over at Dina, and couldn’t help the shred of pride that shot through her as she saw her girlfriend had downed one opponent - her knife buried deep in the woman’s spine. However, her attention was drawn back as a fist connected with her cheek, causing her to see stars for a moment. The arm around her throat tightened, and she felt her panic rise as she gasped for air, but in her flurry she remembered her own hunters knife at her thigh. She released her hold on the mans arm to reach for the knife, and in a split second she had buried it in the mans eye behind her.
His arm loosened almost instantly, and she shrugged his limp body off, grimacing at the heavy thud of it against the forest floor. She ripped her knife from the mans skull, and turned to see the man drawing an arrow at Dina, who was still preoccupied fighting the other seraphite who she hadn’t downed yet. A flurry of panic shot through her and she lurched in her girlfriends direction, moving as fast as she could.
“Dina! Watch out!” She screamed, her voice ravaged by fear, anger, and love, and she launched herself in the arrows path as the man loosed it. She closed her eyes, waiting for the arrow to fly true and hit its mark in her heart, instead of Dina’s - where it had been aimed. However, her body hit the ground, and she never felt the agonizing pain of an arrow piercing her flesh for the second time. She looked down, seeing the original arrow still jutting out of her thigh, but none stuck out of her abdomen.
Slowly, her gaze traveled to Dina, and immediately her stomach filled with ice. Her girlfriend stood there, wavering for a moment. Dina’s face was filled with shock, her eyes fixated on Ellie, and Ellie’s eyes traveled down to her stomach, where the arrow protruded grotesquely. A stream of red flowed down the front of her gray sweater, and her knees buckled as she collapsed onto the forest floor.
Ellie felt everything and nothing at all, she didn’t feel as she stood, drawing her knife and launching herself at the man who had fired the arrow. Didn’t feel as another arrow pierced her shoulder, the pain an afterthought as she plunged her knife deep into the side of his skull. Didn’t feel herself turn to the remaining man, didn’t feel the knife being thrown from her hand and piercing the man between the eyes. She watched his body fall, just as Dina’s had.
All she heard was the blood roaring in her ears, she still felt nothing as she watched herself turn and pick Dina’s limp body up. It was as if she was a spectator, floating outside her body and watching herself do things that she felt as if she had no control of. She watched as she sprinted back to camp, Dina limp in her arms, her head bouncing against Ellie’s good shoulder. She watched as she reached the door to the settlement, met by the horrified faces of Joel, howie, and Jesse. She watched as they were rushed to the infirmary, refusing to hand Dina off to any of her companions who had offered to take her. Upon seeing the white ceramic tiles of the medical hall, she settled Dina on one of the hospital beds, and quickly stormed out of the room.
All at once, every feeling, sound, scent, and emotion rushed into her. It was too much, the pain of her thigh and shoulder, the feeling of blood and gore on her arms, face, and shirt, and she realized most of it didn’t belong to herself. The chattering of people around camp became deafening, and the metallic scent of blood floated to her nose. She couldn’t control the scream that wrenched itself from her chest, and she pulled back with her good hand and punched the side of the building, hard enough to dent the shiplap siding. Sobs ripped themselves out of her throat, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She kneeled down, her head to the ground, and cried.
It was her fault, she should have been paying more attention, should have jumped a second later so that it was her body on that table and not Dina’s. She should have insisted on having Dina stay in the settlement for the night, should have taken one of the new trainees with.
It was her fault that Dina was dying - dead maybe.
It was her fault that such a beautiful life had been snuffed out, and her world already seemed darker in its absence.
It was her fault.
It was her fault.
It was her fault.
With her forehead still pressed to the ground, she found herself praying - praying for the first time in her wretched life, to whatever cruel omnipotent power was out there, to spare Dina, to bring her back, to take Ellie instead. And it had almost seemed that her prayers were answered when a hand set itself on her lower back, and she let out a broken grunt. She couldn’t sit back up, the pain was too excruciating. It appeared whoever was there for her had set a hand on either side of her ribs and slowly lifted her back up, sweeping her legs out from under her to carry her into the infirmary.
Ellie didn’t have the fight in her to tell the person to fuck off, but she looked up and realized it was Joel who carried her, and she felt her eyes fill with tears again. Joel met her gaze, his own filled with sympathy, and offered a small smile. Ellie shook her head, resting it back against his chest, and stared to the wall, watching door after door pass by. After a while, Joel broke the silence, “she’s still alive, though fading fast. Doc says it’s poison.” At that, Ellie flinched, her heart beginning to bleed anew, “says there’s an antidote, but we don’t know where to find it, and I can’t risk anymore soldiers to the seraphites. Doc says she has maybe a day or two. Well send people out tomorrow, ok?” Ellie nodded against his chest, but felt herself revived a bit with vigor as she was set down on a hospital bed opposite to Dina’s.
She couldn’t bring herself to look at her, the guilt was overwhelming. But when she did, she saw that the arrow had been taken out, and her girlfriends bare chest was exposed - as her shirt had been ripped open, and the wound had been stitched closed. Her flesh was already an angry red, and sweat gleaned on her brow. Ellie felt a lump rise in her throat, and she moved her attention in the opposite direction, staring at the door she had entered in. The guilt was crushing, more painful than the physical pain she felt. Her line of site was interrupted by the blue jeans of the doctor as she moved to examine Ellie’s wounds.
“Well, they aren’t poisoned. You would have already been having a reaction if they were, so that’s good.” She remarked quietly, and gave Ellie a small sympathetic looks while handing her a piece of rope to bite down on. “You’re gonna want this, gotta break the arrows to pull them out.” Ellie nodded, numb, and took the rope piece in her mouth. The doctor made quick work of the two arrows, snapping off the arrowhead and pulling them out in quick jerks. Each time, ellie bit deep into the rope, a scream threatening to rip itself from her throat, and her eyes filled with tears once more. The doctor quickly stitched the wounds, slathering antiseptic on them to prevent infection.
Ellie watched her work, the doctors hands making quick work of the stitches, and Ellie vaguely motioned to her right hand - the one she had punched the building with. Her knuckles were a deep purple, and her wrist was very swollen. “I punched the building, might be broken.” She said quietly, her voice monotonous, face expressionless. The doctor nodded, and if she felt any amount of pity or irritation, she didn’t let it show as she assessed the damage. “Your wrist is broken. I’ll put a cast on it. There’s no severe damage from the arrows as well, they both pierced through fully and didn’t hit anything major. You’ll recover in a few weeks if you don’t screw around.” Ellie nodded briskly, only half paying attention.
The doctor made quick work of the cast as well, it wasn’t Anything fancy - it was an old ace bandage with secured pieces of metal on either side of her swollen wrist. But it would have to do. Ellie glanced back over to Dina, watching her best rise and fall rapidly, and felt a tear slide down her cheek.
“What’s the antidote?” She asked quietly, drawing the doctors attention.
“What?”
“What’s the antidote?” She repeated, voice hard.
The doctor looked reluctant to answer, but finally submitted, “she was poisoned with oleander, you’ll need stinging nettle and feverfew for the antidote. Stinging nettle can be found under pine trees, and feverfew can be found by rivers.” She said.
Ellie nodded briskly, and turned to show she was done talking. After a while the doctor left, turning the lights off in the infirmary. Between listening to Dina’s shallow breathing and trying to ignore pain, her mind drifted to a happier memory from weeks prior.
They had been in their secret place. Where creek started there was a small waterfall that collected in a shallow pool. They called it lovers cove, a joke at the time, but it had stuck. She recalled on the time that Dina had come out of the water with seaweed clinging to her abdomen, her hands had brushed them off and brought Dina to her knees. She chose to ignore the events that occurred next, deeming them too painful to recall in the current situation. And resumed remembering directly after, remembering how her hand had run across Dina’s bare hip, waist, and ribs. How her eyes had roved over her body before pulling her close and watching the forest behind her. Remembered how she thought the deciduous forest framed the stars perfectly.
She sat up quickly, the realization that she knew where the components of the antidote were hitting her harder than the pain at the sudden movement. Jumping off the bed, she placed a quick kiss to Dina’s forehead, lingering for a moment. “I’m gonna fix this.” She said softly, and limped out the door, grabbing her knife off the chair by the door.
Ellie slowly trudged down the hall, knife in hand, and checked in each open doorway to see if Joel or the doctor were inside. Ahead, a single door had a ribbon of illuminated light protruding from its base, and she could vaguely hear voices coming from inside. She continued down the hall, pausing by the doorway to listen in.
“She doesn’t have very long, Joel, the arrow went in her stomach. She’s lucky if she has a couple hours left.”
“Why didn’t you say that to me before?” He hissed
“I wanted to spare Ellie’s feelings as well as yours. I see how much she loves her.”
“She will never forgive herself is she dies.”
“She will have to.”
Ellie felt moisture on her cheeks, and she roughly swiped at them to get the tears off. Her face set in determination, she limps out of the infirmary as quiet as she can muster with the aching pain in her hand, shoulder, and leg. The settlement is quiet right now, the only people awake are those who are on patrol. Ellie pauses by a tree at the front gate, out of sight from the patrollers in the birds nests, and musters up as much bravado as she can. Slowly, she eases the pained expression from her face, stands up straight, and forces herself to walk without a limp as she strolls up to the gate.
“Hey, I need to go on an errand.” She says, her voice wavering slightly, to the person in the bird nest. The two people give each other a glance before looking back to ellie, “what kind of errand at this hour? Weren’t you the girl who came in with two arrows in her body?” Ellie goes ramrod straight, giving both men a look that could splinter wood, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “Do I look like I took two arrows? Let me through the damn gate.” She snarled, and the two men hesitantly opened it for her. Without saying thank you, she walked out of Jackson county, the gate closing behind her with an audible click, and trudged into the night.
Once she was sure she was a safe distance away, she relaxed and limped on, tired from the facade she had put on to trick the watchmen. The forest was peaceful, and she couldn’t help but scowl At it. Dina had almost died out here tonight, was still dying, and nothing seemed to have changed the forest. There was no somber silence, no change in he way the leaves shivered against each other. Had she not had a broken hand, she would have punched a tree in anger. The world should be mourning, her girl was dying. Such a beautiful light in the world about to be extinguished.
Ellie forced the thought from her mind, calming and steadying herself with a tight breath as she continued her trek towards the cove. The walk there was silent, the only sounds were those of the breeze rustling the leaves, the sounds of small animals rustling in their nests, not yet carried off to sleep. The forest seemed to blur around her as she walked, her mind drifting, her body following the path her and Dina had paved countless times now. And she was here, the mouth of he cave obscured by a wall of ivy. Had she not already known of its existence, she would have ignored the wall, believing it to be backed by solid stone. Only it gave way as she shoved a timid hand behind it, brushing the curtain of ivy back to reveal the system of caves in front of her.
She walked as silent as the gravely floor of the cave allowed her to, following the twists and turns until a faint glow appeared in the forefront of her sight. Slightly renewed, she picked up her pace and emerged from the cave to a small alcove, no bigger than a football field. Despite being underground, deciduous trees rose around the border of the room, creating a thick layer of foliage about forty feet thick on all sides. And in the center, a small cove. The waterfall feeding it was small, no bigger than two feet across, and she could see the moon reflected on the surface of the water from the twenty feet wide hole in the roof.
She felt a lump rise in her throat at the memories that threatened her, and she swallowed it back as she set to work, refusing to be overcome with emotion. She had a job to to, and her girlfriend to save. She hobbled over to the edge of the tree line, seeing a small patch of plants at its base. She quickly uprooted as many of them as possible, disregarding the fact that there had to be at least five different herbs in that patch, and placed them on the coat she had taken off that was laying on the ground. Panting, she jogged over to the edge of the water, and at the first sight of any plant life she shot her hands in and curled them around the seaweed.
It was red in hue, and she crinkled her nose at the texture against her skin, but deftly grabbed two more handfuls of it and put them in her jacket as well. Quickly she rolled her jacket up, securing the herbs inside, and took off towards camp. She ignored the pain that roared through every fiber of her being as she ran, purely running on adrenaline as she made it to the gate. Whistling up to the birds nest, they hastily opened the gate for her and she slipped in, sparing no time in her haste to get to the infirmary.
She ripped open the door, her steps faltering from pain, but pushed on as she approached the door she had listened to earlier in the night. The light was still on, and she deftly shoved it open with her shoulder, startling Joel and the doctor out of whatever conversation they had been having. Ellie didn’t give them a chance to speak as she dropped the coat on the table, unraveling it to reveal the herbs. “Here’s your feverfew and stinging nettle, now save my damn girlfriends life.” She hissed, turning out of the room and rushing to her Dina’s bedside.
In the time she had been gone, Dina had adopted a sickly blue hue, her breath even shallower than before. She could barely see her chest rise and fall with each quick breath. The doctor and Joel shuffled In, and Dina couldn’t decipher the look on his face. It was a mix of anger and relief, but he turned his attention to the doctor. “How is it administered?” He asked briefly, his voice tight. Ellie didn’t care if she would be lectured later on going out, she was going to do whatever she could to ensure Dina lived, and Joel could deal with it for now.
“Through a salve,” The doctor stated, carefully selecting the two herbs from the jacket and quickly cutting them up, grinding them into a thick paste, “to be placed against the wound.” She finished. Taking the mixture from the bowl, she grabbed a scalpel off the counter and shifted to Dina’s side, removing the blanket from her torso. Ellie shivered at the sight, Dina’s flesh around the wound had turned black, and the veins around it were a stark blue against her skin. The doctor grimaced and began cutting the stitches away, and in their place she packed the salve deep into the wound, using all of it up. She placed a gauze pad over it, securing it tightly with medical tape. She sat back with finality, “now we wait.” She said slowly, running her hands through her hair.
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Whisper of the Unknown..
~Sighing heavily as she relaxes against the cool grass as a September breeze washes over her, moving her right arm from over her face as she sat up and smiled to herself watching the dark clouds rolling in. “Looks like the forecast is cloudy with a chance of rain.” she would whisper to herself as she pulled her knees to her chest wrapping her arms around her thighs while pressing her calves to her arms, resting her chin on top of her knees watching the children being ushered by their parents into their safe warm homes down in the village. A sharp tone behind her causing a shiver to run down her spine “WILLOW! GET YOUR ASS IN THIS HOUSE! NOW!” her foster mother shrieked causing another shiver to run down her spine again, standing up quickly and brushing herself off of any grass and dirt that might irritate the wretch. Turning away from the village she would look at the foul woman’s features and frown before lightly jogging in and mumble apologies, now walking through the kitchen and into the living room before taking a sharp turn left into a small hallways until she reached a door at the very end of this particular hallway. Sighing again while walking in and across the floor to flop down onto her stiff springy bed, her foster sister giggling quietly as she whispered “You’re going to sound like Matilda if you keep that sighing up.” Willow lifted her head to glare at the girl with a face filled with freckles over a cute button nose, lips full and pink and the lightest of green eyes and blackest of hair washing out any color of her fair skin before giggling quietly with her “Oh shut it, Lily.” The girl would smile and yawn, stretching out and rolled over to face the wall leaving Willow to her own wretched thoughts before she too would turn towards the wall and slowly let the dark call to her pulling her into a bliss less slumber.
Groaning as she is disturbed from her slumber to the sound of muffled crying and the springs squeaking of movement, she would peek over her shoulder to see Lily with her arms pinned over her head kicking and struggling against a short, scrawny man with shaggy blonde hair, and brown eyes. Finally done with Lily the man would grab her throat and whisper something to her before stepping away and pulled his pants back up before heading back to his room with his wife Matilda, leaving Lily curled up in a mess of his defilement covering her mouth as she cried harder. Willow slowly got up from her bed and quietly crept over to Lily’s bed to crawl in with her, offering her a washrag she kept just in case she or Lily got sick. Lily took it to clean herself and then tossed it t the door before cuddling up to Willow sobbing her heart out whispering “I wish I were somewhere else...or dead..” Willow rubbed her back gently and started quietly humming to her “Hush now, sleep now, don’t let the world weigh you down. Sleep now, quiet now, fly through the dark clouds. When you wake is another day in hell, but worry not and rest for now. Be calm, be still, here in my arms. Feel my warmth, feel my love and leave your worries behind.” trailing off at the sound of Lily’s quiet snoring, Willow would close her eyes to sleep once more. Waking to the sound of Matilda waking her foster brothers in the next room she would carefully remove herself from Lily and her bed before quietly rushing to her own bed and lay down just as the wretch would fling open there door, startling Lily awake and Willow would sit up quickly. “Good morning you lousy good for nothings! Get up and do your duties before I have to drag you downstairs and let Fred discipline you louts!” Lily’s eyes widened with fresh tears as she was already half way dressed and moving down the hall pulling her shirt down the rest of the way, leaving Matilda to glare at Willow “Smells like he’s already been in here..” she looked at her feet to see Willow’s washrag and grimaced mumbling “..disgusting..” as she turned away and left her there. Quickly standing up and moving to the dresser her and Lily shared she would pull out a clean pair of faded black jeans and a gray T-shirt, slipping into them and rushed out and down the hallway towards the living room accidentally bumping into a tall, tanned athletic boy with shoulder length black hair, freckles lightly covering over his cheeks and nose and forest green eyes. Grumbling and shuffling away towards the dinning room, Willow would apologize “Sorry Jack..” before heading into the kitchen and out into the backyard to pick up sticks that were blown around during the storm the night before.
~Jack would watch as the short girl with ash brown hair and porcelain skin shuffle off, his foster brother/room mate bumped his shoulder and whispered “Freak touched ya, huh?” He would frown at the nickname given to her by the others as he found her eyes to be unique and beautiful, granted the first time he seen them he was shocked to say the least. Her right eye being a grayish blue while her left eye being an emerald green would often cause peers in public areas to shy away from her, but he only wanted to get closer and soon after his 18th birthday he will leave this awful place. Pain tightened in his chest at the thought of leaving Willow and Lily here in the clutches of Matilda and Fred, shaking his head as he went upstairs to clean their bathroom as plans to take the girls with him started forming in his mind. Hearing soft humming through their window Jack would push it open and smile to himself watching Willow move in a zig-zag pattern collecting all the sticks and trash, dancing a little while her jeans hugged her thighs and bottom making Jack groan and look away before his jeans got any tighter. Finishing with their bathroom he would head back down stair to tiddy up the entertainment room, watching Lily move around and spot a bruise around her throat causing a growl to rumble up and out of his chest. Michael, and Matilda all looked at him with wide eyes and backed away just in case claws started coming out of the ends of his fingers again. Shaking his head to calm himself and continue cleaning while ignoring the looks of fear, he would turn his gaze in Lily’s direction to see her precious smile aimed his way and her hands cupped to her chest in their way of saying “Thank you.” as she mouthed the words “Love you big brother.” before returning to her own duties. He would growl again as he glared at the floor while thoughts of how he would dismember Fred for defiling his only living relative, his baby sister. Some way, some how he was going to take the girls from here and he would make sure all three would pay dearly for hurting the girls, he wasn’t sure how he would calm himself down is he caught Michael hitting Willow again.
~Lily would rush to the bathroom and reach back behind the toilet to grab the douche her brother would leave for her before locking the door and push her pants down before climbing into the tub and proceed to rinse herself of any remaining fluids from the vile man. Grabbing a towel to dry herself off and climbing out of the tub she would pull her pants back up and clean out the tub before throwing the douche into the trash, hiding it under an at home pregnancy test box frowning. Like Matilda needed another child since she did such a great job raising Michael, Lily would roll her eyes at her own thoughts and shook her head before quietly moving through Matilda’s and Fred’s room out and down the stairs as the terrible woman would shout for everyone to join her for lunch in the dinning room. An ice cold shiver would course through her body as Fred walked in grinning like he took another virginity as he slide over beside Matilda and wrapped an arm around her, both of them speaking in unison “We have news!” Fred motioned for his wife to continue and she took it as she sputtered out “We’re pregnant!” Michael spitting out the mouthful of soup and slamming his hands down on the table shouting “Are you serious? How far along are you mom?” Lily would look down drowning them all out before a warm hand grabbed hers under the table and squeezed for comfort, a whisper rolling into her thoughts “We will get out soon little Lily.” A smile brushed her face at the nickname Jack still called her before a throat was cleared drawing her gaze up as Matilda shrieked “What are YOU grinning bout?!” Shaking her head and stuttering she answered “I~I’m happy for you m~m~mother...” cringing at calling the woman by the desired name that was drilled into her. Fred stared at her expectantly before she continued “..for both of you really...f~father must be p~proud..” he would turn his stare into a glare “D~d~daddy must be proud...” a smile finally pulling at his lips and a wave of relief coursed through her a moment before ice cold fear replaced relief as Fred winked and mouthed “Later princess.”
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Bye Bye Brooklyn Boys (8)
MASTERLIST
Pairing: Bucky x reader, Steve x reader
Warnings: This is just so sad. Language. ANGST! (When has this even not been an angsty fic series?)
Word count: 2.500
Summary: You finally muster up the courage to go see Steve, but things take an unexpected turn and you’re both hurting even more.
A/N: It’s based on the song “Sinking Ship” by Causes.
September, October, November , December,
January , February, March
April
We were undefined
Steady as the tide
Always fading
Always fading
We both went our separate ways and ended up right back where it all started. When I saw him again after all these months, sitting in his usual spot at the back of the cafeteria, right there by that poor plant that still seems to be getting too much water for its own good,
my heart stopped.
Never mind skipping a beat, it stopped.
As did his when you locked eyes and Sharon’s hearty laugh immediately died down. Steve stopped talking the minute I set foot in the cafeteria, drawing a tiresome sigh from Sharon who, if looks could kill, would’ve send me straight to hell.
I notice the similarities straightaway, the ruffled blond hair and the athletic built of his toned body, his chiselled jaw and ripped torso that’s always struggling with his shirts and I’m 100% positive he buys them one size too small.
On purpose.
Steve should be wearing a large at least if he wishes to comply to the current academic standards and very strict dress code (almost as constricting as his pants, if you don’t mind me saying). But I don’t think the fashion police is going to shoot him down for wearing a medium though, especially not if it accentuates him this well and in all the fucking right places.
But we’re getting ahead of ourselves now.
It’s just that Steve and Thor have quite a bit in common, so it’s safe to say I have a type.
I like blond? Shit, I take more after my mother than I initially thought.
“Mind if we talk in private?”
Fuck, my voice is so small, almost non-existent. And fuck, my internal voice really should stop cussing. I’m trying to get a hold of myself, but it’s of no use against Steve.
“Not at all.” His voice seems to be calm and friendly, just like old times. It’s almost as if you didn’t get on that plane and he didn’t just propose to the woman you once called your friend.
Oh, the irony.
You guide him to a quiet spot just around the vending machines, the buzzing too loud for anyone to catch anything you’re about to say. Unless you scream, that is.
“You look nice.”
I do? Has he even taken a good, hard look at me at all? I’m a mess, I am hungover and I’m trying to flush my jetlag down the drain with gallons and gallons of water. I’ve already drunk so much water I might as well be the fucking Titanic! And not to mention my scruffy outfit, it’s almost as scruffy as the beard Steve’s growing and my poor soul be damned if it doesn’t make him look so much more delicious. Does this man get away with everything? Meantime, I’m sporting my favourite pair of blue skinny jeans, a pair of black flats and a floral blouse that’s missing the top button, showing a little bit more cleavage than I’m comfortable with.
Ugh, I look like shit.
“Thank you. I like your shirt.” Really smooth, Y/N. Compliment him on his shirt, the shirt you’ve just been drooling over.
He shrugs nonchalantly but there’s a little twinkle in his eyes that gives him away. “I’m not surprised. After all, it’s purple, your favourite colour.”
“You remember.” Of course he remembers, it’s been a fucking year, that’s all. It’s not like you disappeared off the surface of the earth.
It does sting a little, just a little to hear you haven’t quite left his mind just yet. He obviously does still care for you. “You’re a hard woman to forget.”
Okay, forget about what I just said. It hurts a lot. A lot.
“How long have you been back?”
“About a month now. Professor Banner and I have been staying at Tony’s at first but then I moved back in with Nat and Wanda. Can’t come home without seeing my girls or I wouldn’t be calling it a home in the first place.”
You let out a light laugh, trying to lift the mood with that small smile you know he just can’t resist. That small, cheeky smile you used to grace him with whenever you were feeling mischievous, whenever you felt like taking good ol’ Stevie out on an adventure. Like that time you crashed a party at Sam’s place so you could ask Steve if he wanted to catch a movie, only to end up downing shots until four in the morning at your local bar and making out on Sam’s couch afterwards – his apartment only a short walk from the pub. Of course he ran in on the two of you on his way to class and you’ll never forget the look on his face, a look of infinite disgust mixed with complete and utter delight. You’ve never seen him more happy than the day he saw the two of you sucking face right in front of him. The day you chose Steve over James.
Or at least thought you did.
“I see. What made you come back all of a sudden?,” Steve asks hesitantly, not knowing if that’s the question he really wants to ask you or if it’s an answer he really wants to know.
And now the ball is in your camp. Do you tell him you’re engaged or keep him off your scent for a little while longer? “Professor Banner, I mean, Bruce… He, uhm,…”
You’ve made tough decisions before, but this? This beats all of them. This right here is the best and the worst decision you’re ever going to make. “Bruce asked me to come work for him.”
You deflect the question. Wait, let me repeat that.
You. Deflect. The question.
“He’s actually discussing it with Tony as we speak.” And if you could, you would face-palm yourself immediately. You’re trying to make amends, not scare the guy for fuck’s sake!
“How long are you going to be gone now?”
“The internship will take about two, maybe three years but there is so much to be taken care of first. I need a work visa, I need a certificate and other official documents. I’m afraid it’ll take a while before everything is sorted out and I can…”
He cuts you off, his brows knitted together in an unfriendly frown. “You’re leaving for good then,” he concludes, his jaw visibly clenched and he’s shooting you a hard glare telling you he means business.
And it really pisses you off.
“Steve, don’t. Don’t blame all this shit on me,” you begin only to be interrupted by Steve once more.
“I’m not blaming you, I’m just asking a question. Am I not allowed to asks questions anymore? Seems to me like you’ve won the God damn lottery! A dream job in your dream country, messing around with some big nerds and discussing hard-core science and all that shit like it’s the resurrection of sweet baby Jesus.”
You knew there would be blow-back but you didn’t see this coming, the sheer wrath reddening his eyes with tears of rage and resentment and by the looks of it, he isn’t even finished yet. There’s more dirt on your way, more and more and more to come, Steve’s swallowed by his fury.
“Everything is just fucking perfect in your life right now, isn’t it? Meanwhile I’ve been drinking myself into the gutter and I fucked up a good friendship, for what? For you! But I don’t count anymore, now do I? Because it seems like you’ve found your dream husband as well,” he spits out, pointing at the ring around your finger.
“He’s not you.” It’s a broken whisper but it manages to shut him up nonetheless. You raise your head to look at him, look him straight in the eye when you speak with your heart on your tongue, with your and his heart on the line. “He’s not you Steve.”
“And Sharon’s not you either,” he responds after a moment. “Y/N, for all it’s worth, I still love you.”
You look at him in utter confusion. “If you love me still, then what are you doing with Sharon? Do you love her? Do you love Sharon?”
Silence. Nothing but silence.
“Do you think you love her?” you try again and he turns away from your piercing gaze, staring outside the window, his eyes trained on something that isn’t there.
And again there’s silence.
“Please answer me Steve,” you beg silently and you’ve never begged for anything in your life. Is Steve truly worth begging for? At this moment you believe he is, so you pour every single emotion into your next question, knowing that this time round it truly is all or nothing. “Do you love her or do you think you love her?”
“I think I do,” he replies softly. “I think I do but I’m not sure,” he begins and you’re trying very hard to hear him out.
But you can’t.
“You think you do but you’re not sure?” A broken sob rips through you and you’ve never felt this wrecked in your entire life. Blood rushes to your face as you repeat his words. “You’re not sure? My God, Steve, how many times are you going to break my heart?”
You raise your voice the highest you can get and you don’t care anymore whether or not everyone can hear every single word that comes out of your mouth, it all tastes like poison anyway. They tumble out and you’re no longer scared to hurt Steve, he’s hurt you enough as it is.
“First James, then you, then James back at it, then you again… It’s like this endless game of back-and-forth. I’m not a ping-pong ball, Steve! You boys both broke my heart over and over and over again until there was nothing left of it. I needed a year, a year Steve, to collect all the bits and pieces and put it back together. Yes, I had a little help from my fiancé, but this right here?” You point to Steve and then back at you, his pained expression like a magnet pulling you in by your heartstrings but you honestly don’t have the strength anymore to reciprocate his desolation, no matter how wretched you feel. He’s sucked all the life out of you.
“It’s not fair to me and it’s not fair to him either. I can’t say ‘I do’ when he doesn’t… Thor doesn’t know I’m still…,” you choke on your words, a strangled sob creeping up your throat and you swallow hard. You can’t tell him that you still love him, too. It would only mean your defeat, he would only try and talk you out of it and you don’t want that. You don’t want Steve to talk you out of it because it would work, he would be able to convince you to leave Thor. It’s Steve and no one can compare to Steve.
No one.
“All you need to know is that I would only mean half of it, but that’s not the point I’m trying to make here.”
“Then let’s go! I can ditch Sharon right this very instant! She can keep the fucking ring for all I care!” He’s shouting just as much and as loud as you are, stressing every angry syllable. “I want you! I’ve always wanted you, ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?,” you counter almost instantly, laughing bitterly at the absurdity of the situation. Steve finally, FINALLY tells you exactly what you’ve been dying to hear all those months but the flame has died down, the house has turned to ashes. It means nothing to you anymore, your heart frozen over by the Norwegian cold you’ve surrounded yourself with over the past year.
“I just need to grab my stuff and then we can go straight to the airport and book a flight to wherever you wanna go. Let’s go, Y/N, let’s go and be together. We are meant to be together, you and I.”
There’s still a spark but it’s not enough to keep you warm, on the contrary it only makes you feel more distant, your eyes glossing over as your blood runs cold.
“Steve, I can’t just elope,” you state calmly with your head held high. “Like you said, this is my dream job. I worked too damn hard for this and I’m not going to let you ruin everything. Not again.”
He has no right to say any of this, he has no right and you intend to snuff out all his preposterious ideas. He doesn’t have a hold on you, that privilege he lost the minute you boarded that plane. “You’re not in any position to ask me anything anymore, Steve.”
He looks at you with so much hope and you can’t stand it anymore, you can’t stand the bite of unshed tears anymore. You’re just too stubborn to cry over him, over anyone for that matter. You bite down harshly on your bottom lip, drawing blood and glaring daggers.
“So this is it? You’re just going to leave it there? Run away again?”
“I didn’t run away,” you hiss at him through gritted teeth and a lonely tear finally makes it way down your cheek.
“Have you told Bucky yet?”
They don’t deserve your tears and as a spiteful laugh swells in your throat, you bite your lip in order to stay calm. “No. And given what I’ve heard from Nat and Wanda, it’s perhaps for the best that he doesn’t hear about it at all. But if he does, maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t hear it from me.”
“You’re really doing this, are you?,” Steve concedes, a glum look on his face. If things were different, you would feel for this man. He sounds battered, bruised and broken, merely a ghost of the Steve you met and fell in love with. Yet it is time to close the proverbial door behind you. Steve doesn’t have to change, he just has to grow up.
“I am.”
You march your way over to the nearest exit, not even bothering to look back at Sharon snickering behind your back. There’s no doubt in your right mind that she heard every single syllable of your heated discussion with Steve and still, still there’s victory written all over her face.
Fuck off, you bitch, you growl internally, You can have him. He’s all yours.
There’s a part of you that wants him to run after you, lace his slender fingers around your wrist and pull you flush against him. To kiss you fiercely and passionately and leave hungry kisses all over your body. You want, no – you need him to come after you and pepper your face with butterfly kisses and spin you around like Thor does. Nevertheless, he just stands there, looking desolately at the ground below.
Part 9: May
Tagging: the ever-wonderful @beccaanne814-blog @kiwi71281 @a-little-hell-to-raise @unpredictable-firecracker @marvelingatthewonder @emilyinwonderland3 @mrshopkirk @oopsmybagofplums @hardcorehippos @iiharu-kunii @knittingknerdy @winterwolf57 @dontbeamenacetotheforce @winterboobaer @shamvictoria11 @thedragonblood @hymnofthevalkyries
#marvel#marvel imagine#marvel fic#marvel fan fic#marvel fanfiction#fan fiction#fanfic#fan fic writing#marvel fan fiction#my fan fiction#avengers#the avengers#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x reader#bucky#bucky imagine#james buchanan barnes#james barnes#james bucky barnes#sebastian stan#chris evans#steve rogers x reader#steve rogers#steve rogers x bucky barnes#bucky barnes x steve rogers#modern au#university au
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The Devil Inside - Chapter Fifteen
Title: The Devil Inside
Chapter: 15/18
Character/Pairing: Davey Havok/Adam Carson; Adam Carson/OFC
Genre: Angst
Rating: Explicit
Summary: Faith and fear are two of the strongest forces in our lives. Adam had never questioned himself or his beliefs. But what happens when he stumbles across his greatest temptation in the eyes of another man? Written with Havoksangel.
Authors Notes/Warnings: Nothing in this piece ever happened. I claim no ownership nor do I make any sort of profit from this, other than pride and a sense of amusement.
FIFTEEN
Silence fell over the two men. Davey kept his head pressed to Adam's chest, hoping with everything he was that he would be held back. He needed it. Needed this. Needed Adam.
Adam trembled, the warmth flowing from Davey's body sent chills down his spine. No. He couldn't do this. He couldn't want this. He couldn't let himself want this. He pressed himself firmly against the wall behind him, wishing Davey would stop. Would back away. Adam couldn't think with him so close. He couldn't let himself feel this.
Lightly Davey ran his fingertips up and down Adam's side. "Please hold me," he whimpered. He had never begged before, but he would do so now. He needed this.
Adam shook his head, trying desperately to fight against the surge of emotion flooding through
him. "I can't."
Davey turned his head into Adam's chest, sobbing softly. A few tears fell from his cheeks onto Adam's bare skin. "You can fuck me, but you can’t hold me?"
Shivering, Adam fought against his innate desire to comfort the man in his arms. To sooth him, stop his tears. To fix this. No, he couldn't do this.
Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Adam drew in a shaky breath. Aubrey's face flashed before him, causing his chest to tighten. He'd betrayed her yet again. God, what had he done?
Davey pulled away and turned from him. He didn’t want to be near Adam. Not anymore. Not now. Too many times he'd let Adam in only to be hurt by him. The one time he falls in love it’s with someone who refused to love him back.
Feeling the man pull away, Adam allowed himself to slowly slide down the wall, his heart pounding. He didn't know what to do. What to think. How to feel. Everything had changed. He'd let it change. He'd wanted it. Wanted this...No. No. Please no.
Drawing his knees to his chest, Adam sat blankly staring ahead, his body still trembling. His mind racing, screaming. Make it stop. Please make it stop.
"You have to leave," Davey whispered. His body trembled and he wanted nothing more than to make Adam admit that he wanted this, that he needed this just as much as he did, but he didn’t have it in him to fight. "I've got nothing left," he whispered somberly, brokenly.
The hollow defeat in Davey's voice rang in Adam's mind. This was his fault. Silently, shakenly, Adam pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his shirt from the floor where it lay haphazardly. Pulling the soft cotton over his head, he sighed, wishing he'd never come here. Wishing he'd never initiated any of this. "I'm sorry."
"That's bullshit. I was nothing to you but a whore. A willing slut to get you off when you wanted," Davey spat, his eyes narrowing.
Adam cringed at those words. He'd deserved them. Deserved everything he'd been struck with. This was all his fault.
Davey hung his head and pressed his hands on the back of the couch, letting his hair act as a curtain around his face. His body trembled and he could feel Adam staring at him. Davey knew he was moments from completely shattering.
"I never wanted to hurt...I just...I can't do this. I can't be this. I'm not this. I can't be." The words tumbled from Adam’s lips, his hands shaking at his sides. The pain he felt radiating from Davey served only to worsen his guilt. All of this pain. Everything. He'd done it. He'd caused it. And Adam hated himself for it.
Davey turned to him, his eyes almost black. "You are this," he hissed.
Adam shook his head vehemently. "No. No." He couldn’t be. He refused to be.
"Yes," he said walking over to Adam and cupping him roughly in his hand. "You react when I touch you and you want me. Keep denying it and you will be miserable," Davey countered, as he gently massaged Adam’s cock through the jeans.
A pathetic whimper fell from Adam's lips. Unconsciously, he pressed his hips into Davey's hand. He turned his head, eyes falling shut. Pleasure tinged with guilt coursed through him. He couldn’t want this. He couldn’t be feeling this. But his body reacted anyhow.
"Look at me," Davey hissed.
Shaking his head, Adam forced his eyes to remain tightly shut. Why was Davey doing this?
Davey slid his hand up Adam's body and into his hair, pulling. "Open your eyes, look at me, and tell me you don’t want me."
Fighting against the maelstrom of emotions, Adam whimpered and reluctantly opened his eyes. Davey's dark, pointed stare shook him to his core. "I...I..."
"Tell me!" the man screamed, his body shaking.
"I...I don't...I don't want you," Adam whispered, his voice wavering. Fear coiled in his stomach. He couldn't want this...He couldn't...
Davey looked at him and slid both hands up his chest. "So I could walk out of your life, you could never see me again and you would be fine with that?"
His body trembled, his mind torn. A sharp stab of pain ricocheted through him. No, he had to do this. He couldn't be this. It was wrong, it only caused hurt. He couldn't be this.
"Answer me, Adam."
Trembling, Adam nodded. He had to do this.
Davey dropped his hands and turned away. "Get out, you fucking coward," he whispered. "Go back to her. Lie to her and tell her that we did nothing. That you don’t want me. Think of me when you fuck her and do your best not to scream my name because you know you're going to want to."
"I...I can't lie to her...I just...I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I shouldn't have..."
"YOU ARE LYING TO HER THE MINUTE YOU GO BACK!" Davey stopped and stared. Yelling like that wasn’t something he did often, not unless he was fighting for something he believed in. Why he was still fighting for Adam was beyond him. "You DID come here. You WERE inside me. Fucking ME. You wanted me and you still do. You're hard and its taking everything you have not to touch me. To throw me down and take me. Just fucking admit it!"
"You don't understand, everything I have, everything I AM is gone. I can't do this. I CAN'T WANT THIS!"
Davey pushed him against the wall. "You DO want this." His eyes were on fire and his body needed to be touched but he'd be damned if he'd be used again.
"I can't! I've lost everything. EVERYTHING! I refuse to lose myself too. I CAN'T!"
Davey paused, his expression softening slightly, "Did you ever think that you may gain something?"
"I don't deserve to gain anything. I don't deserve ANYTHING!" Adam screamed, anger, guilt and shame surging through him. "I'm a liar and a whore. I'm everything I've ever hated! I don't deserve anything but to rot in Hell for what I've done. For the innocent people I've wronged. FOR EVERYTHING!"
Davey looked him in the eyes, licking his lips before he spoke. "When you go home... what are you going to tell her when she asks if we slept together?"
"The truth," he whispered, shamefully. He couldn't lie to her. He’d slept with Davey. Betrayed her once more. He couldn’t lie to her about that. She knew him, she’d know.
"What truth?"
"That I betrayed her. That I'm a whore, a cheat. That I'm sorry for the pain I've caused her. That I'm sorry I'm not the man I should be. That I'm every vile, wretched thing she believes me to be."
"Why did you betray her?" He was going to get the Adam to admit the truth no matter what. He owed it to himself. He needed to know. Needed Adam to know. For both the sakes.
"I...I don't...You...I don't know what you did to me. Why did you do this to me? Why?" Adam was shaking, tears streaming down his face. He couldn't do this. He knew blaming Davey for this was wrong. But he was a coward. Nothing but a coward.
"Yes is my fault," Davey sneered, "Blame the queer for turning you into one!"
Adam stared at Davey, shaking his head, his eyes full of confusion and guilt. "My fault," he breathed, voice choked with guilt, "This is my fault."
"It’s who you are," Davey whispered softly, "You like men. There is nothing wrong with that."
"Aubrey," Adam choked out, "I love her. How can I be what you say I am and still love her?!"
"Maybe you like both," he told him. Davey leaned up and pressed his mouth to Adam. Despite the arguing, he still needed the contact. Still needed to feel this man.
Shivering, Adam gave into the kiss, praying that his mind would stop racing. Fear filled him. He shouldn't want this.
Davey was careful not to touch him with his hands, just his mouth. Any further motion would be done by Adam. He had to understand who he was.
Adam made no move to deepen the kiss. Fear stayed his hands. It terrified him just how greatly this kiss affected him. Another shiver traveled through him as Davey's tongue brushed against his bottom lip, teasing him. He shouldn't want this.
Nipping at his bottom lip, Davey pulled away, keeping his mouth close to Adam's and looking up.
Eyes slowly drifting open, Adam's gaze fell to Davey's upturned face, his heart pounding in his chest. Fear flitted across his eyes. He wanted this and it terrified him.
The ball was in Adam's court and Davey didn’t move. His breathing was ragged and all he wanted was to be wanted.
"I...I," he began, his voice slowly trailing off. He wasn't sure of anything anymore.
"What?" He whispered.
"What am I supposed to do?" Adam's voice was low, bewildered.
"Close your eyes and do what you want."
"How can it be that easy?" Adam whispered. How could shattering Aubrey's heart, shattering everything he knew, be that easy?
"What do you want?"
"To feel. To understand." To take back all this hurt. To fix all of this. He added silently. For this to make sense.
"Feel what?" Davey was trying. Even if it wasn’t him Adam wanted, he couldn’t go back to Aubrey lying to himself. She didn’t deserve it and neither did he.
"I don't know."
"Touch me," Davey whispered.
Adam's eyes widened softly as they locked with Davey's. Slowly, hesitantly, he raised his hand, brushing the back of his fingers along Davey's jaw.
Davey leaned into Adam's hand and sighed softly at the touch. "What do you feel?"
"Scared," he answered, honestly, his voice low and soft, "Warm," he continued, "Uncertain."
Davey turned Adam’s head to kiss his palm. "And now?"
A shiver trembled through him, his eyes slipping closed, "Mmm."
He moved his head back to kiss Adam’s fingertips.
Adam sighed, losing himself in the warmth of Davey's touch. In the sensations overtaking him.
"What do you feel?"
"Lost...Found," he whispered, confused yet comforted by Davey’s warmth. It had been years since Adam had felt this. The anticipation, the desire, the fear. Everything he'd felt with Aubrey when he first realized his feelings for her. That thought sobered him. Aubrey. He'd broken her heart. Betrayed her. He'd loved her. How could he do that to someone he loved. "What if I...What if I can't do this? What if I don't deserve this?"
"Deserve what? To be loved?"
Adam nodded. How could he possibly deserve to be loved? After all the pain he'd caused. He didn’t deserve this.
Davey leaned up and kissed him, deeply. He loved Adam and he didn’t care about what had happened. What he’d done. He wanted to be with him. He knew he would accept Adam for who he was as long as the man admitted it to himself.
Eyes slipping closed, Adam gave into the kiss. He didn't deserve this. But he wanted it. Wanted Davey. Wanted his love. It scared him. Terrified him. He wanted everything he feared. Everything he'd been taught to condemn.
Davey allowed himself to fall completely into Adam slipping his tongue inside his mouth, sucking it in his own. This was what heaven felt like, he was sure.
Breaking the kiss, Adam rested his forehead against Davey's, his breath coming in heavy pants. "What are we going to do?" he mumbled softly. How was he going to face this?
Davey felt his chest tighten, his breathing stop. We. Had he heard that right? He opened his eyes and looked up at Adam. "What?"
"What are we going to do?" Adam repeated uncertainly, unnerved by Davey's reaction. Maybe he'd made a mistake. Maybe he shouldn't have done this.
"You and me...We?" His eyes were wide. "You...you're choosing me?" His eyes looked hopeful as he locked them onto Adam's.
"I can't...I can't promise you anything...I'm scared. This is completely out of my depth. And I just...I don't deserve this...I shouldn't have this...But I want this...I want to try..."
Davey's eyes widen and he wrapped his arms around Adam with a grip that neither man could have broken if they tried. "Oh God."
Adam stumbled backwards, his back hitting the wall behind him with a soft thud. He let his eyes slip closed, allowing Davey's warmth to seep into him. He didn't deserve this. He shouldn't have this. But he was powerless to pull away. He didn't want to.
Aubrey would hate him for this. For lying, for hurting her. He wished to God he could take that pain he'd caused back. She didn't deserve this. And his child, their child...Would he ever know him or her? Was this worth the cost? He didn't know, maybe he never would. But he hoped so. For his sake. For all of their sakes.
#afislash#Advey#Adam Carson/OFC#The Devil Inside#co-written with havoksangel#cheating#AU#sparkinside writes
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