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wkemeup · 4 years

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By Any Other Name (Epilogue)

series summary: When Special Agent Bucky Barnes is tasked with infiltrating the notorious gang Hydra and gathering evidence against its leader, Brock Rumlow, Bucky finds himself drawn to the woman who doesn’t seem to belong in this world of violence, the wife of the head of Hydra… you. pairing: bucky x reader chapter word count: 6.3k warnings: smut (18+), domestic bucky, the end of the series ❤️ a/n: I seriously can’t believe its been months of you guys sticking with me on this series week after week ❤️ I’m going to miss that so much and can’t begin to express how much the love and support for this series has meant to me. I do plan on doing headcannons/drabbles/bonus one shots at some point so if you have questions you’d like answered, requests, or prompts, send them in! 🌟 🌹series masterlist 🌹

“Agent Barnes, I thought I kicked you out when visiting hours ended last night.”

The stern voice of one of your nurses emerged from the doorway; a no-nonsense middle-aged woman named Rosa, who wore bright blue eye shadow and a silver cross hanging around her neck. Hands planted firmly on her hips, her eyes narrowed upon Bucky as he slowly raised his head from the edge of your cot. Sleep lines were carved into his cheeks and a painful crack snapped in his neck as he stretched it to the side, having slept hunched over from the folding chair placed beside you.

“You may have mentioned it,” he chuckled nervously, massaging the stiff muscles in his shoulder.

“And yet, you’re still here.” Rosa rolled her eyes, slowly making her way into the room to begin checking the vitals on the monitor at your bedside. “You’re lucky we’re discharging her today. Your flashy gold badge was about at its end of favors around here.”

She must have been expecting a quick remark or a joke of some kind because she seemed surprised as she turned to find Bucky smiling ear to ear, focus turned entirely to you as you slept soundly; bandages now absent from your burns as they’d begun to heal, life renewed back to your skin, a steady rise and fall of your breaths.

“Y/n can come home?”

Rosa sighed, a slow smile pushing up on her own lips. She was a tired woman and she’d seen a lot in her years, but she’d come to like Bucky, even if he was a major pain in her ass.

“Yes, Agent Barnes. She can go home.”

It had been nearly a week. A week of sleeping in positions that were sure to cause permanent damage to his back. A week of holding your hand as nurses tended to the burns on your skin. A week of smooth talking the night shift into letting him stay past visiting hours and using hospital showers and eating mediocre cafeteria food.

But now, you could come home.

Only, he wasn’t quite sure where home was anymore.

“Bucky?” Voice groggy and filled with sleep, you slowly opened your eyes, smiling sweetly up at Rosa as she finished making down your vitals.

“Ready to get out of here?” Bucky grinned, pulling your hand up to his lips to kiss your knuckles.

A smile began to light up in your eyes, but something went wrong along the way. It disappeared as quickly as it arrived, replaced with the harsh reality of burning fires and a mansion up in smoke. It wasn’t much of a home but it was the only home you had. Bucky’s stomached twisted in on itself.

“I…” you started, stare falling down to the floor. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

Bucky already had suitcases full of clothes at his apartment for you, a dozen series of books lined up on the kitchen table, toiletries that Natasha purchased at his request filling baskets under the bathroom sink. He even had Sam and Steve clean the place spotless, much to their reluctance. It was ready for you. He was ready for you. But he needed it to be a choice.

“Steve said the Bureau would put you up in a hotel until you could find an apartment,” Bucky offered, though he could tell quickly from the way your eyes shifted just slightly it wasn’t a good option. You squeezed his hand. Bucky nodded, asking, “what about May’s place? I’m sure Peter would love to have you over.”

“Aunt May’s got enough on her plate. She doesn’t need me to take care of, too.” You shook your head, a heavy breath nestled into your chest.

Tears were starting to well in your eyes, an aching kind of helplessness he’d only seen in you in the moments you were forced to submission beside your husband, a lingering sort of emptiness, a loss, and it nearly ripped Bucky straight in half.

“Stay with me,” he blurted out. He clenched his jaw, cursing at himself, because he was supposed to be a lot smoother about the preposition.

Your eyes snapped up to his; wide, suspicious. “…What?”

“Come home with me,” Bucky offered again, firmer, sure. “Stay with me. I know my place is small but I’ve got the room. I’ll buy you all the tea you can drink and line the windowsills with plants I can’t easily kill. Whatever you need, I’ll get it for you. What do you say, sweetheart?”

Chewing on the edge of your lip, you could hardly hold his eye. “I can’t ask you to take me in Bucky…”

“You’re not asking,” he replied quickly. “I’m offering.”

He could still see the hesitancy in your face, the quick flash of your stare to his shoulder. It had healed faster than the divots around your wrists and still, the guilt managed to find its way inside you. It crept around the light and slithered through the shadows no matter how many times Bucky had tried to pry it away.

“It will make me feel better,” Bucky tried, recalling the first night in the hospital he’d been sent away after visiting hours. He’d come back the next morning to find dark circles under your eyes and tear marks down your cheeks. You’d clung to him for hours just trying to reassuring yourself he was really there, that the monster in your dreams hadn’t left to him to the flames instead. Leaving you alone after that wasn’t an option.

“Please, sweetheart,” Bucky urged, squeezing your hand a little tighter. “Let me take care of you. It’ll be temporary, okay? Until we can find a place of your own.”

It seemed to lessen the tension clenched into your jaw at least. He would have asked you to move in entirely if he thought you were ready for it. He could spend the rest of his life surrounded by dozens of bookshelves and mugs half filled with tea from the night before, cozy blankets thrown over the back of the couch and more pillows than he could count upon the cushions. He could spend an eternity with you.

But even with the monster slain, there were still demons in the closet; nightmares that were sure to plague your sleep, shadows that would set panic in your veins at every corner, guilt that will swept its way into the darkest corners of your mind. There were still evils to protect you from, it seemed.

“Okay,” you nodded, letting a smile brush up at the ends of your lips.

“Nat’s already got everything you could need waiting for us back at my place,” he told you as he quickly began gathering your things from around the room; books Peter had brought you from his school’s library, empty Styrofoam cups half filled with over steeped tea, and newspapers highlighted in yellow marks with names of Hydra affiliates who were now sitting behind bars.

Hands filled with various belongings, Bucky turned back to find you watching him intently, a shy kind of smile on your face. “What?”

“You’ve been planning this, haven’t you?”

Bucky shrugged, sliding the books and papers into his bag and tossing the spare cups into the bin. He brushed a hand through his hair, tugging on it a little as he pushed it behind his ears. “Is that so crazy? After everything we went through to get here, I couldn’t stand the thought of you being anywhere else. Gotta keep an eye on my girl, don’t I?”

You smiled and it lit up right into your eyes. “The case is over, Buck. You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

Bucky shook his head, leaning forward as a hand swept back along your hair and nestled against your neck. He pressed a short kiss to your crown. “We may be free of Hydra, but that part of my job won’t ever go away. I will always protect you, sweetheart. From drug dealers and mafia kingpins to broken AC units and empty tea boxes; doesn’t matter. I’m there.”

The damn near sweetest laugh he’d ever heard filled the room as you swatted him away. It made his stomach twist, his heart sing, his cheeks hurt from how wide his was smiling. Happiness was a sort of foreign, strange feeling, but it wasn’t one he planned on letting slip him by.

***

Another week later and Bucky could look around the apartment and find pieces of you everywhere. The mug resting on the end table in the living room, still steeping the remnants of last night’s tea. The blanket thrown over the back of the kitchen chair from when you wondered out of his room in the early morning with a chill. The second toothbrush in the cup by the sink. The sweet smell of your lotion on the dresser. The pantry filled with popcorn and Oreos.

You’d started to turn his place into a home.

It became quite domestic, a different sort of comfort, to wake up to the smell of bacon and watch you making breakfast in the kitchen, to brush his teeth next to you in the bathroom at night as you washed your face, to see the way the pillows creased to your cheeks and the way you tried to stifle yawns in the morning.

But there was a new kind of intimacy of sharing his home with you, one that grew to challenge every restraint he ever possessed.

He’d seen you change into your pajamas in the corner of his room, the whole of your bare back facing him, the dips and curves of your spine as you caught him staring, a soft smile over your shoulder. He’d seen the outline of pebbled nipples through your tank top as you ate breakfast across the kitchen table, hair still messy with sleep. He’d seen the way you looked at him in the mornings, when he woke to a hardened length between his legs and his cheeks flushed red as he muttered out apologies.

He’d tried to prolong it, knowing that you’d been through an imaginable loss, even if it was never really yours to begin with. You’d been through a world of trauma and he knew how messy things could get if he pushed you too fast. It wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Not until you made it clear that you were as needy for him as he was for you.

If he let himself notice the signs, perhaps he would have realized you’d been aching for him earlier, but it still came as a surprise when you ran your hand along his thigh as you watched an old rerun of The Fugitive. You brushed over his length, smiling to yourself as he shuddered out a tense breath and tried to readjust in his seat.

“Careful,” he warned, staring at the television though a smirk started to curve at his lips.

“You don’t need to hold back anymore,” you told him simply. Your fingers expertly drew along the outline of his cock, pressed hard up against the thin layer of sweats. Pumping him sweetly over excess fabric, you leaned up and pressed your lips to his neck. “Let me love you.”

Bucky exhaled a shaken breath, hand sliding around the couch in search of the remote, the movie long forgotten. “You’re sure?”

You smiled against his jawline, peppering kisses along his edges until you landed sweetly against his lips. “Always.”

Bucky scooped you up into his arms, the pain in his shoulder nothing but a distant memory as he carried you to the bed. After setting you upon the mattress, Bucky quickly stripped himself of his clothes, tugging at your sleep shorts with fevered haste as you laughed, swatting his hands away and doing it yourself.

Hearts racing like it was the first time, and maybe it was, because there were no more shadows lurking in the corners, no demons to invade tiny glimpse of heaven you shared.

Bucky kissed his way down your body, mapping a trail to the soft crease at your legs, touching so sweetly to the most intimate parts of you until his lips latched around the bundle of nerves between your legs. Arms curling around your thighs, nose brushing over soft curls, nestled tight against the woman gave his life to.

He pulled gasps and whimpers from you, withering underneath him as he held you down, drawing the most beautiful sounds he could imagine. Your nails raked to his scalp and as you came, his tongue sweet with the taste of you. You whispered you loved him.

He knew. He’d heard it enough times but every time was like the first. It still surprised him, knowing you could love him after all you’d been through; that you could trust anyone after the web of lies and manipulation Rumlow had put you through, after you were taken advantage of and used and made to be the property of a vile man, and somehow, you still had room in your heart for love. It felt impossible, and yet, here you were, kissing him like his touch wasn’t enough, like you needed more, need him.

When he sank into you, your hand gripped at his shoulder, a soft whine in your voice as he waited patiently for you to adjust. You exhaled a heavy breath, aching and sore and eager, but your fingers paused at his arm, tracing over the light pink scar there, the raised edges and bubbled skin.

Before you could say anything, Bucky dipped down and kissed your lips, nudged your hand to his hair. He smiled at you, something soft and tender, and whatever was wrestling in your mind slipped away.

You push a strand of hair behind his ear, drawing it away from his face, just admiring. It wasn’t something you were used to having the time for; always so rushed, always looking over your shoulder and waiting for the foundation to crack. You’d always reveled in the looked across the room and the heated love you made. It was a privilege to spend time in the moments between.

Bucky rolled his hips, stretching along your walls. Your eyes fluttered shut, breaths shaken, and you gripped him tighter, urging him on.

It took a moment to find his rhythm, perfectly in tune with the cry of the bed frame, the gasps of your breaths, the low moans from his own lips; a symphony between you, building, crashing, higher and higher until--

“Ah, oh God, Bucky— don’t stop—”

It almost knocked him out on the spot, almost stopped him dead in his tracks. His eyes shot to you, though you were too far gone to notice; lips parted, eyes closed, so close to the edge. He didn’t dare stop the snap of his hips to yours, didn’t dare pull his hand from your clit, but took a moment to memorize this feeling, this warmth deep in his chest. The sound of his name on your lips, etched in pleasure and love and need.

“I’ve got you, love,” he mewled to your ear, bringing you over the edge with a prolonged cry, your hands digging into the bare of his back as he chased his own release. He came only a few thrusts later, spilling into you, the weight of him dropping to your chest.

Fingers carding gently through his hair, coaxing the racing beat of his heart. His favorite place. His safest place. In your arms.

***

You’d started to find yourself again in the weeks after. You’d gone up to Columbia and spoken with old colleagues. You’d made arrangements to meet with the Dean in hopes of discussing your future in academia again.

Bucky could hardly contain his pride the day you’d walked back into the apartment, beaming from ear to ear, and told him about all the friends you’d missed who welcome you back with open arms, the campus that looked completely the same, and your office that remained vacant.

He’d spun you in his arms, your laugh filling the small Brooklyn apartment, and Bucky couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you so happy. It was heaven when you smiled like that, like for the first time in a while you had the chance to be who you were always supposed to be, the freedom to make choices without permission.

You started to let yourself become comfortable in the woman you were before Brock Rumlow stormed his way into your life. You smiled enough for your cheeks to ache, laughed loud enough to bring butterflies to Bucky’s stomach, left books around on every surface and mugs of unfinished tea on the counters. You lived in oversized sweaters and ripped jeans and messy hair down by your shoulders. You hummed to yourself as you cooked and danced your way through the bathroom with a towel wrapped around your head and a bathrobe tugged tight at your waist.

It was a relief, to see you like this; so at ease in your own skin, enough so that Bucky started to find pieces of himself he too left behind to his years undercover.

He traded the black jeans and bomber jackets for worn out Levi’s and t-shirts, the tension in his shoulders for the soft brush of your hands down his back, tugging out the knots he’d built over the last year. He started to let the stubble on his cheeks grow, cast over in a shadow along his jaw and obstruct the faded scars he’d obtained at the hands of your ex-husband.

Then, when Bucky grew tired of seeing a man he didn’t recognize in the mirror, he made a drastic change.

“Buck?” you called into the apartment, arms filled to the brim with grocery bags as you kicked the door shut behind you. “Could use some help!”

“Comin’, sweetheart!” Bucky jogged his way into the kitchen and started to pull the bags from your hands when you finally caught sight of him, let out a yelp, and nearly dropped the milk cartoon to the ground. Bucky dove for it at the last second, securing it before it could explode to the hardwoods.

“Your hair!” you gasped, staring at him with wide eyes.

Bucky clenched his jaw, nodding in acknowledgement of the cut he’d had done while you were out on your errands; short and tight to the sides of his head, full and swept back on the top. He set the groceries down on the counter and when he turned back to look at you, you had already crossed the plane of the kitchen, hands rifling up through his hair and messing away any of the product his barber had styled in.

“Do you hate it?” he grimaced, noticing how you’d tugged your lower lip between your teeth. You were silent for a moment, studying him, and Bucky’s stomach nearly turned over on itself. But then, you softened, gently rubbing your thumb down along his temple and he sank into the feeling.

“This is what Bucky Barnes looks like, isn’t it? The long hair was part of the cover,” you smiled, settling his hair back in place as your hands slipped down over his cheeks, brushing over the grown in stubble. You remembered the image you’d seen in the factory office with Brock, the photographs thrown in rage of a man with short brunette hair and golden badge draped around his neck.

“Yeah,” Bucky admitted, stomach twisting a little. You’d known him as James Karpov for so long, gotten so used to the name and face and the fall of his hair down by his shoulders. He knew he looked different, a few years younger maybe, and it was a change. A big change. One he wasn’t certain you’d like, but he needed it off. He needed to be himself again in every sense he could, to wash himself clean of Hydra and the man he’d left to the fire.

“Well, Bucky,” you sighed, leaning up to press a kiss to his cheekbone, just over the faded pink scar, and then, to his lips. “I love it. Might miss having something to tug on, though.”

You winked over your shoulder as you started making your way to the bedroom, holding his stare with that devilish kind of look in your eye, until you slipped your sweater up and over your head, dropping it to the floor in the hallway. Bare back exposed to him, you sauntered inside to the warm embrace of sun-kissed light filtering in through the windows and Bucky chased after you, laugh heavy in his chest, the groceries long forgotten on the counter.

***

It was the day Bucky’s name was cleared by Barton and Maximoff; the day the remains of your old home were removed of their crime scene tape and left to be weathered until the city stoke its claim upon the land and bulldozed the ruins.

As Bucky pulled the car into park, you found yourself staring up to the charred ashes of a home that had once kept you caged prisoner. The memory of the flames was still seared in the back of your mind; the heat of the fire burning at your skin, the smoke filling your lungs, the dizziness in your head, the panic as the gunshots went off. You could still feel how your heart had broken free from your chest and the stones embedded under bare feet as you rushed towards the fire, Steve’s arms circling around you to hold you back as a scream ripped its way through your lungs.

“Y/n?” Bucky’s voice called softly, tugging you back from the memory. He was standing outside the passenger door, extending a hand to you.

You turned to the driver’s seat, not having realized he’d even left his place beside you. Your eyes flickered from his hand back to the house.

“They really ruled it self-defense?” you asked for the second time that morning as Bucky helped ease you from the car. You looped your hand at the crook of his arm, tucking in close to him as you both made your way to the ruins of a home you loathed.

“Like I said, doll,” Bucky replied, ever so patiently, “the only evidence they have is my word. Everything else is up in smoke.”

“So... was it?” you asked, pausing for a moment as you looked up at Bucky. “Self-defense?”

He sighed, a heaviness inside him alongside the truth. Your free hand reached up along the side of his face, cupping at his cheek sweetly to coax his eyes back to you. You nodded at him, like you already knew the answer and you were simply waiting to hear it from him. There was no judgement between you, no secrets, and he had no interest in ever lying to you again.

“Yes,” he exhaled, wholehearted, because he did genuinely believe it. “The law might not see it that way, but it was. In defense of you, anyway. A jail cell wouldn’t stop a man like Rumlow from coming after you, from pulling strings and making orders even with Hydra disbanded. I should have known that from the start. He threatened your life, Y/n. He didn’t give me any other choice.”

“I know,” you told him and a weight fell from his shoulders. “You forget that I know Brock better than almost anyone. I know what he’s like when he’s pushed to a corner. You did what you had to, Bucky. I believe that.”

A solemn smile pushed at his cheeks, small and subtle, but it was rooted in a disbelief, in an awe, that he could have ever managed to find someone as loving and understanding as you. For you to love him, despite his flaws, despite the blood on his hands behind the guise of a shiny gold badge, was unimaginable. He still didn’t quite understand it and yet here you were, tucked against his arm, cheek to his shoulder as you stared up at the charred ashes of your home.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asked gently, tense in his shoulders as he glared at the remains of the mansion that kept you prisoner.

You nodded and there was an ease in it, a calm, you didn’t have before.

Bucky let you lead him up to the what remained of the front door. The second story was completely caved in; only pieces of the foundation and walls still standing. It was black, covered in soot, and you stepped through the archway where the door would have been.

Inside, the staircase still remained, though it was withered and degrading, and there were bones of old furniture and the outline of the brick fireplace at the edge of the living room. You didn’t pause before you turned down the hall to the left and perhaps, Bucky shouldn’t have been surprised as he followed your lead to the library.

You paused for a moment as you came upon the opening. The left door was still unhinged, thrown under the frame like a bridge from when Steve attempted to suffocate the flames long enough for you and Bucky to escape. The chair still placed at the center of the room where you’d been bound and tied and left to the vengeance of the fire.

You released yourself from Bucky’s side, slowly slipping away as you stepped into the burned remains of your library.

Bucky watched from a careful distance as you wandered around the room, giving you space to grieve. Your hand trails along the broken shelves, black with soot, and you examined the black ash upon your fingers as you pulled away.

It was all a memory now. Everything that you built, everything that kept you safe and sane and secure those years trapped within this home with a man you despised. It was all gone.

You paused at the corner of the room, shoulders sinking, and you slowly bent down to the floor until you picked up the charred remains of a novel. Hardcover, black soot coating the binding, crumbled bits of burnt paper spilling out the edges as you stood. You sighed, brushing your hand over the title, the colors and design on the front hardly recognizable if not for the high school library tag on the binding.

A Farewell to Arms.

You tugged the book to your chest, its words long lost to the fire, the edges burned black and unreadable, but it survived. You didn’t dare open its pages to see if Bucky’s childhood scribbles remained. A tear slipped past your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said quietly, shuffling his feet. You looked back at him under a furrowed brow, the book in your hand slipping down to rest at your side. Bucky exhales, looking around to the aisles empty of the novels you cherished, their pages consumed in the fire. “You lost so much here.”

You smiled sweetly at him before you shook your head, looking back to the room in fondness. “It’s what this room represents that matters.”

“But your collection--”

“I’ll start again,” you replied simply, reaching out for his hand, gesturing him towards you. Bucky took it graciously and you squeezed his hand, gently nudging his shoulder with your own. “Feels right, doesn’t it? A new start.”

You sighed, staring out to the rows of empty shelves, the piles of ashes on the floor beside them. The couch you’d spent so many nights curled up under blankets and a warm cup of tea in your hands, where you’d read for hours to escape from the monsters outside the doors, where Bucky decided to tell you who he was, where he made love to you in a rushed heat. The windowsill once filled with a beautiful array of plants, where only the broken clay pots remained, the glass of the window burst to the floor alongside broken remains of the ceiling.

Bucky followed your gaze, feeling a loss in his own chest for the room that he came to know you in. This was your sanctuary, your safe haven. This was the room that was completely and entirely yours within a home constructed to be cold and shallow. It was your escape.

But this room meant a great deal to Bucky, too.

“I fell in love with you in this room, you know,” he said fondly, looking to the charred remains of the couch where he’d read next to you for house, where you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, and he started coming up with reasons not to leave.

He found you staring up at him when he looked back to you, that sweet kind of smile on your face as you slipped your free hand up against his cheek and brought his lips to yours. Soft and warm, the soothing motion of your lips between his, on his, the slip of his tongue gently along yours, and he pulled away with final kiss to your cheek, your nose, then the crown of your head as he wrapped his arms around you.

Surrounded by the ashes of a room that protected you from the monsters beyond its doors.

A room that served as a safe haven.

A room you opened to the stranger with kind, blue eyes and a sweet smile.

“Let go home,” you mumbled to the collar of his shirt, breath warm against the fabric and Bucky felt a skip in his chest for a moment before he settled.

Home. He liked the sound of that.

***

T H R E E M O N T H S L A T E R

It was a Monday morning, the first of many, because you were starting your position back at Columbia. The first day of school was always a bit intimidating, even as a professor, even knowing half the staff was eagerly awaiting your return and the fact that your class had filled to capacity in the first few minutes of course selection.

That hadn’t happened even when you were at the height of your career, but you supposed your name plastered across the media and your connection to the takedown of Hydra had something to do with it. You suspected the influx of criminal justice majors were more interested in your time in Hydra than they were in 19th century literature. You didn’t mind, though. It was an opportunity to spark a love for something they didn’t know they had yet.

And maybe you’d throw in some mafia stories to keep up the intrigue and bait for class participation.

You tucked the edge of your shirt into the front of your pants, slipped on a cardigan over your shoulders, and tossed your hair up into a bun before you made your way out into the kitchen. The moment you opened the door, you were met with a waft of smoke as the fire alarm began to cry.

Bucky was at the stove, apron draped over the bare of his chest, sweatpants covered in stains of pancake mix as he grumbled to himself. You bit back a laugh, leaning against the wall to watch him rush around the kitchen, waving towels in the air in hopes to break up the smoke and cursing at the alarm to ‘shut the hell up you stupid piece of--’

“Hi, honey.”

Bucky spun around, clearly startled as he held a spatula between his hands gripped like a vice.

“Y/n! I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be ready so fast,” he chuckled nervously, trying to wipe the flour from his forehead, though he only made it worse. He glanced back at the mess of the kitchen, the burned pancakes piled on the plate and the sizzling pan behind him. “I made pancakes...?”

“Did you?” you teased, biting down on your lip to keep from smiling too wide and bruising his pride more than it already had been.

“I tried anyway,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, leaving particles of white flour amongst his dark brown waves. His lips curved down to a frown as he chewed on the inside of his cheek, feet shuffling at the floor. “It’s a big day for you. Wanted it to be special.”

You smiled, heart warm as it’s ever been. “It’s always special with you, Buck.”

Bucky looked up at you, a teasing in his eyes as he shook his head, low, defeated. “Ah, don’t try and make me feel better about this mess, love. It won’t work.”

“You sure?” you asked slowly, making your way up to him and placing your hands against the expose skin on his hips. “Not even if I...”

A kiss to his cheek.

Then, his neck.

Finally, at the corner of his mouth, not quite close enough.

“Huh-uh, not even then,” he exhaled, though his grin was betraying him. “Give it one more try though, will you?”

You laughed, smiling so wide it hurt. “You're relentless, you know that?”

Bucky shrugged, a slight nod in agreement he leaned in to kiss you. His hand reached behind him, like he was trying to steady himself against the cabinets, but the stove was still bright red, still scalding hot from where the pan has been.

“James!” you yelped in a panic, yanking him hard away from the stove before his hand could touch it. Your heart was pounding as you held him against the sink. He was still against you and you realized then what you’d said.

Your eyes trailed up to him slowly, embarrassed, and you found him smiling sweetly at you, always patient, always kind.

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, doll,” Bucky replied genuinely brushing the flyaways from your face with the hand that had nearly been seared clean by the stone top. “I don’t mind if you call me James.”

“No, I-- I remember how important it was for you that I knew your name when I couldn’t and I—” you sighed, leaning into his touch as you lost yourself in the feel of him gently coaxing the doubt away. He leaned down a pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“You can call me anything you want, sweetheart,” he said simply. “I get to come home every night knowing that it’s you I’m waking up to every morning. You can call me anything as long as I get to do that.”

You laughed through the swell of tears in your eyes. Bucky reached behind him and turned the stove off to ease your conscious. With a quick glance at the clock, your heart skipped, realizing you were already running late.

“I’ve got to go!” you yelped, half laughing as you raced around the room. Bucky stood back and watched, arms folded over his chest, something like pride and joy bolstering in his heart.

“Pete’s coming over after school, alright?” Bucky called to you as you quickly threw on your shoes. “He’s got some project for his forensics class and I promised I’d help him out.”

“Y-yeah, uh-huh, sounds good!”

Bucky chuckled as you raced back into the bedroom to grab your bag with one sleeve of your coat on. “Steve is picking me up in an hour to help filter out recruits but I’ll probably be back before you are.”

“Okay!” You rushed into the living room, a little winded though you were giddy with excitement. You pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before you sprinted to the door, though you paused, freezing in the open doorframe as you glanced back to Bucky.

He stood leaning against the counter, a mess of homemade pancake mix around him; this lethally trained special agent who woke up early on a Monday to absolutely destroy the kitchen in an attempt to make you breakfast, with a light pink apron draped around his neck and flour coating his forehead.

“I love you,” you said simply. You’d told him enough times but it still felt like an admission. You liked to remind him, liked to say it as often as you could because it was a choice to love him, a part of you that you were finally able to let the sunlight touch. You’d shout it to the world.

Bucky shook his head, laughing, as he leaned against the counter. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

He smiled back at you, something genuine and loving unlike you’d know in years. The same smile that allowed you to trust him nearly two years ago, the smile that reminded you what it was like to feel butterflies in your stomach and to miss someone when they were gone. Wrinkles up by his eyes, dimples in his cheeks. A brightness of a man who gave everything just to give you a choice again, to let you decide your own fate, to free you from the chains of a man who would have rather seen you burn than love anyone but himself.

The man who saved you, who held your hand and danced with you on garden view balconies, who loved you enough to run through fire. The man who risked his career, his life, on his trust in you. The man who reminded you that you were more than you were told, who showed you how to smile again, who brought back your laugh and put joy into your heart.

The man who ushered you to through the door to your first day back at work, who encouraged you to find your place in the world again, who give you the space to reconnect with old friends, who held your hand gripped tightly in his own and willingly chose to follow where you led. He opened doors and waited for you on the other side. He gave you choices, a new life, a new start.

The man you adored. The man you loved.

Your Bucky.

Your James.

Your everything.

🖤🌹

Thank you so much for reading! ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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watchingspnagain · 3 years

Text

Rewatching Dead Man’s Blood

Welcome to “Machete Size Apparently Matters: A Supernatural Rewatch Blog” with Lor and Mace!

Up today, s1e20: Dead Man’s Blood

An old hunter is attacked and killed by a group of vampires. When Sam and Dean go to investigate, they run into John, who shares that the vamps stole an old Colt from the hunter that can kill “anything.” The boys and John team up (not without some serious friction) to try to clear out the vamp nest and steal the gun. John thinks the Colt is finally the answer to how to kill the demon who killed Mary. Bring a machete because there’s lots of fraught to hack through in this one. Plus, it’s handy for beheading vampires.

Below is a log of our real-time reactions as we watched. Remember that there may be spoilers for any part of SPN’s 15-season run here. Note also that the nature of our conversation is adult and thus it may contain adult language and themes.

[and we begin:]

Lor:

grrrrrr

Mace:

ugh, I have an actual, visceral reaction when Sam calls him Sir.

Lor:

RIGHT?

Mace:

How fun would it have been to be in the prop dept and help make those hunting journals?!

Lor:

YES

Mace:

If we ever cosplay the boys together, we NEED to make one

Lor:

OMG

that would be SO COOL

Mace:

YES

Lor:

Dean and his newspaper

Mace:

YES

"boys, we're eating in tonight" if any vampire actually said that, the others would sooo make fun of them, honestly

Lor:

hahahaha right?

Mace:

Aw, Dean wants Sammy to have a girlfriend

Lor:

yeah

"or oops I spilled the popcorn salt"

Mace:

HA!

...

now I want popcorn

Lor:

LOLOLOLOL

YEP

do they keep Elkins's journal? I don't think anyone ever mentions it again, but jeez, take that with you

Mace:

Oooh, excellent question! I don't know. Maybe there's a CODE and you don't touch another man's journal unless he says it's okay...

Lor:

oooo maybe

Mace:

SMARTY DEAN MAKING A SQUEEZE

Lor:

god, Dean pressing the paper down into the blood so it doesn't move

Mace:

yep

FUCK YOU JOHN

Lor:

FUCK OFF, JOHN, jeeeeesus

Mace:

Sammy smells the bullshit that John came for this dead friend but keeps away from his own sons

Lor:

YEP

apparently he didn't teach you not to knock on the window like that and scare the crap out of your kids

Mace:

YEP

Aha! John isn't there because of his dead friend but for the fucking gun

Lor:

YEP

Mace:

I forget that they've not encountered vampires yet

Lor:

he THouGhT tHeY wERe EXtinCT

yeah

Mace:

(Buffy would kick John's ass so hard)

Lor:

I feel like he isn't even that good at his job

(YES)

Mace:

NOPE

I mean, there's no evidence that he is. He's well known to demons not for his own sake but because of his sons

Lor:

yeah

Mace:

Makes Dean's worship of him that much more tragically skewed

Lor:

I think maybe some people say he is? but also he seems to have had a falling out with... everyone

yeah

Mace:

OHO, don't question dad, Sammy

FUUUUUCK YOU JOHN

Lor:

and the way he doesn't tell them ANYTHING

Mace:

YEP

you know, I kind of love this idea now, that John actually isn't anything special at all.

Lor:

god he does things to make them feel SMALL. i HATE him

Mace:

OH FUCK YOU SO HARD JOHN DO NOT TALK ABOUT BABY LIKE THAT

Lor:

ooo YES

Mace:

YESYESYES

Lor:

RIGHT?

Dean loves that car like it is HIMSELF don't be such a JERK

oh, Sam is driving

Mace:

Sam is the chosen one for the yellow eyed war, Dean is chosen by Chuck, ffs. They're the ones that matter. John is in fact nothing. and maybe he senses that and it bothers him

Lor:

ooooo

Mace:

oh submissive DEAN

Lor:

YEP

do you hear that, John? revenge isn't worth much if you end up dead

OR YOUR KIDS DO

Mace:

YUP

Ooooh, angry Sammy

I LOVE IT

Lor:

YES

poor Dean, getting between them

Mace:

yeah

"and I said no" YAS SAMMY

Lor:

YAAAS

Mace:

but poor Dean saying "stop it, both of you"

Lor:

yeah

oh Dean. I just want to wrap him in blankets. this isn't supposed to be your job, baby

Mace:

yeah

vampires just shouldn't be skanky

it's wrong

Lor:

like, they are immortal, why are they living in a crap barn being crappy?

Mace:

right?!

Lor:

FUCK YOU JOHN. FUCK YOU AND YOUR BIGGER MACHETE

Mace:

YUP

Lor:

so I will never watch it again, so I'll never know I guess, but is the barn in 327 supposed to be this barn?

Mace:

no idea

stupid 327

WHO CARES

Lor:

i suppose knowing where they're both set would help

but that's Jenny, right? the woman they turned?

Mace:

yeah? is she in the last ep? I have blocked most of it from memory

Lor:

yeah, she's the like head vampire of the nest they're fighting in that one

Mace:

"you gotta understand something: I'm a raging douchebag."

Lor:

HAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

you became their abuser

Mace:

YUP

Lor:

it never occurred to him what Sam wanted? JESUS

Mace:

yeah

my god, Jared has a gorgeous smile

Lor:

YES

I do love that they frame Sam as the one who is like John

Mace:

yeah that's clever

Lor:

"you know what to do" and then cut to Dean as bait

I HATE HIM

Mace:

YEP

Lor:

and it's sexualized too

Mace:

of course it is

Lor:

YES DEAN

omg the way his voice breaks

Mace:

YAS

Lor:

the way Sam yells at John and Dean pleads with him

Mace:

yeah

Lor:

that's probably personality difference, but I wonder if it's also partly bc Dean remembers when John wasn't like this

Mace:

hm, maybe

i lean more toward personality

Lor:

yeah I think I do too, honestly

I don't like the way he's dealing with these vampires either. like, it's almost cruel

the rope? using the feelings they have for each other against them? gross, John

Mace:

hm. yeah, but I think sam and dean do similar things, no?

we just hate John

Lor:

I am conveniently forgetting that fact

Mace:

Ha! I suspected as much

Lor:

lol

Mace:

oooh rebel Dean I LOVE IT

Lor:

"I am?"

YES

[after the episode ended]

Lor:

I feel like there was a lot of vampire lore in there they abandon after this ep

Mace:

yeah? I can’t keep track

we really don’t see a lot of vampires

that one really old dude

and a couple of eps here and there

Lor:

yeah

The vamps’ eyes do a thing in this one I don’t think we see again? and that stuff about a vampire once getting your scent never leaving you alone. and the herbs stuff so they can’t smell you

yeah, they aren’t around super a lot

Mace:

ah yeah, I think you’re right about that

Lor:

but there’s the whole Gordon thing. and then that nest Dean is a part of for a hot second in S6

Mace:

Oh I forgot about that

and BENNY HOW COULD I FORGET BENNY

Lor:

Mace:

I’m so sorry, teddy bear. hold it against me

Lor:

HAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

#watchingspnagain #watchingspnagain 1x20 #spn #supernatural #spn meta #spn spoilers #spn 1x20 #watchingspnagain fraught #watchingspnagain john #watchingspnagain parenting #watchingspnagain vampires

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stilinskitpose · 4 years

Text

Pining over him // Peter Hale

Pairing: Peter Hale x female reader

Warnings: nsfw , smut , slight daddy kink, hair pulling, choking, unprotected sex, tonnnn of dirty talk and just a lot of sexy sin (plotless kind of)

Characters: Peter, Derek, Stiles, Scott, implies pack, y/n

Summery: The young reader has been fantasising about the feeling of being with a real man for a while now, a real man being no other than the notorious Peter Hale. However, it’s hard to be taken seriously when Peter thinks you are no more than an annoying little teenage girl.

Word Count: lost count it’s a ton

Authors Note: This is my first time posting on tumblr, let alone posting a smut imagine soooo I don’t know how this will turn out. I’m just going with the flow of my hormonal teenage instincts ;)

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“Y/n, did you even listen to a word that I just said?”

The deepness of the voice made you snap out of you staring at the entertaining spider that was crawling up the corner wall of Dereks loft, which caused you to jump suddenly on your squished position on the coach, trapped between two clowns, Scott and Stiles.

The quiet yelp you let out made Stiles stiffle a snort causing you to elbow him in the shoulder. The fucker deserved that. You let out a content sigh and an evil smile when you heard a sound of pain from your annoying brother from another mother. What can I say, the pain he feels makes me wither in complete pleasure. I snort at my chain of thoughts and look up to see a confused Derek Hale.

"Yeah sorry, I was just-", Trailing off mid sentence thinking of a viable reason for not listening to the former Alpha. Thinking it would be funny to tell them about the entertaining spider that just crawled under the crack of the wall on the other side of the spacious loft.

“There was a spider” You answer timidly, grimacing at yourself for sounding so stupid in the room full of your pack. Derek looks at you quizzingly, you giving him the most innocent look you could muster, he sighs before letting a small smile come across his features from your utter randomness.

“I was just telling you how we need to keep you somewhere safe incase the Darach decides to pay you a visit” Derek says quickly, you sigh in annoyance hating being treated like a defenceless little girl. You understood that you weren’t anything supernatural or anything but you would think Derek would have a little faith in you since you were so handy with a frying pan from being in a near death experience with the twin Alphas not so long ago. You chuckle subconsciously at the memory.

A mutter of agreements are heard from around the loft from your oh so fellow pack members. Betrayed and defeated, you try voice your opinion on the matter.

“What? No” You probably looked like a kicked puppy. You definatly felt like one. You continued “I’m not some helpless human Derek. Stiles is more helpless than me!” You whine flicking Stiles in the head which he repeated the action harder on me causing me to poke him in the ribs.

“Why has this suddenly turned into bash Stiles day? You know I have feelings too” Stiles offendingly says, his arms spazzing at his sides to try and prove his point.

“When am I ever nice to you” you scoff jokingly earning a chuckle in agreement from him before he went back to listening to the arguement infront of him wishing he had a bowl of popcorn to go along with it.

Derek ignores Stiles and resumes telling me that it’s for my own good. Blah blah.

“Where will I even go anyway? It’s not like I have a line of people waiting to protect me from the looming and pending doom of death itself” You replied, words laced with exaggeration.

“I’ll look after her, it’s not like I have anything better to do”

The husky voice came from the corner of the room shadows dancing across the body of the person that is wanting to ‘look after her’. What am I, a dog? Y/n replied in her head afraid to reply that response out loud since the deep voice belonged to a man she have been shamefully harbouring a crush on for some time now. Peter fucking Hale.

It’s not like she was afraid to converse with him, it’s just that she was terrified of making a fool of her self by stuttering out a few syllables before halting and staring at his piercing blue eyed that made her legs buckle submissively from the dominance they give off. She doesn’t know how he does it, makes her feel like her skin is on fire whilst her heart pounds faster than humanly normal. Without even meaning to aswell. It’s like he was a complete natural at turning her into jelly without even noticing. It riles her up to no extent.

Your eyes widen in shock and your heart beat began to rise much to your dismay, knowing that he probably knew the effects he had on you, since he had spectacular werewolf senses, made you want to crawl into a ball and wither away in embarrassment. But he never made any indication that he knew either from being completely oblivious or because he wanted to salvage that slither of pride you had left for yourself. You prayed the first. But you doubted it since Peter isn’t exactly known for being the nicest human in the planet.

You knew you were probably over exaggerating and stressing about this whole situation way to much but you just couldn’t comprehend what you would do if Peter found out the way you feel since he is abit older than you, being still only a junior in highschool yourself and him being a fully grown mature man that you wanted to pounce on all the damn time. Jesus I need to get laid, preferably by the man invading my dreams at night but desperate times cause desperate measures.

“Look after me? I’m not a child, I don’t need watching over, I have things to do like watching the last season of The Vampire Diaires even though I’m shitting scared to because Stephen dies” You ramble a butt load of word vomit wanting to shut up but your nerves were your worst enemy in situations like these.

“Hey don’t aim your anger on me I’m just volenteering to keep the weak and innocent out of harms way, that’s character development if you ask me” Peter replies smugly as his gaze burns into the your own. You muster up a harsh glare at Mr Hottie before pivoting to face Derek who was evidently waying the little options he had.

“Your not seriously considering this right? You hate him, everyone hates him” I bitterly state, relunctanly turning around to meet Mr Hotties patronising gaze. The evident smirk plastered on his handsome face tells me that he’s enjoying being the cause of this conflict. Mockingly sending a small wave as if proud of the past he has with the pack before him.

Everyone once again agrees with my statement causing Peter to let out an annoyed sigh before saying “I thought we all got over this anger that has been directed towards yours truely, It will give you wrinkles if you frown at me like that sweetheart”, he humours the situation by sending a wink in my direction. Ugh.

“It’s not like we have a lot of options right now y/n, as much as I don’t like it we need as many people focused on defeating the Darach. It will only be for a few days at the maximum. I promise. Please?” Derek had is puppy dog eyes displayed making it very hard for me to deny him, so I bit my tongue and agreed.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

Derek had dropped me off at Mr Hotties apartment with my bag laying heavy on my shoulders ready to stay for a few nights. This whole situation is bitter sweet if you ask me. Bitter because you didn’t know if these few days will hold a wave of awkwardness between the two of you and a lack of communication since the both of you have never had a proper convosation other than yesterday when he offered to keep you hostage in his apartment. And sweet because you’d have eye candy for a while. I was not complaining. It’s a win win situation.

You stroll around the apartment amused “I’m not going to lie I have always wondered if you lived in a secret lab or in an underground network of tunnels or something like that but this will do I guess ” you snickered and joked. Peter lifted an eyebrow and smirked saying “I’m not a complete animal darling”. My stomache filled with butterflies at his statement and I cleared my throat looking around the apartment once again.

Peter leaned on the doorframe and cocked his hip against it whilst his arms were crossed. Damn. He gave me a once over eyes lingering on the exposed area where my mid thigh length skirt lay. “Aren’t you a little young to be wearing that?” I frowned and looked up at his defined features past his broard strong shoulders.

“I’m nearly 18 I can wear whatever the hell I want” I scoffed. Peter held his hands up in mock surrender before strolling into the kitchen with his back facing me. I could see the defining back muscles from the outline of his green v neck and the way his bisceps flexed when reaching into one of the cupboards for two mugs. His hands. Oh holy Jesus his hands. The muscular and veiny hands gripped onto the coffee mugs send a wave of arousal downstairs. My mouth turned into an o shape as I imagined all the things those hands could do to me. All the filthy things. A girl can only take so much! As my eyes began to travel down the werewolf in front of me I started to bite my lip at the way his jeans hugged his cheeks as they clung amazingly against his thick legs that held rippling muscle. I have got to ask him what his leg day routine is.

A hand started to wave across of my face as if trying to get my attention, I averted my eyes away from the goodies to see Peter staring at me with a wide smirk along his smug face.

“Are you okay there y/n? You look a little flustered. Something on your mind?” He walked towards me untill I could feel his lips skimming the top of my ear. I gulped in suprised as my eyes widened and started stuttering out an excuse.

“Oh u-um I was just— nothing” I hung my head to look at my feet awkwardly as they began shifting from nerves.

“Hmm okay let me show you where you’ll be sleeping” he his voice rasped against my ear which sent shivers around my body.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

He knew exactly what he was doing. I mean how couldn’t he? It was like we were playing a game of cat and mouse. More like werewolf and human. I snorted out a chuckle at my pathetic joke as I lay down on the bed in the spare bedroom that Peter allowed me to use. Glancing down at my lack of clothing, an oversized t shirt that said ‘bugs life forever’ and a pair of white lace panties I let out a heavy sigh clocking my head untill it reached the my phone saying it was 2:45am. My throat was dry from overthinking earlier with Peter, how he got so close to me, pressing his body against mine. Why would he even do that? He thinks I’m an annoying teenager. A child.

Wanting to wet my parched throat I hopped towards the kitchen quietly, attempting not to wake Peter from his room and not bothering with putting on sweatpants as I didn’t suspect anyone to see me in this state. I reached my arms out to the highest cupboard in the kitchen, straining my arm at the height of it and huffed when I couldn’t reach it. A deep voice made me freeze in my position and slowly turn around.

“Did I say you could use my kitchen without my permission?” I gasped as I saw his shirtless form, rippling muscle clouded his chest with light scattered chest hair in the centre that led towards the waistband of his sweatpants. Atleast someone thought about wearing sweatpants.

Holy Jesus for I have sinned. “I didn’t think you would have a problem with it since you offered to imprison me inside the walls of your apartment” I muttered angrily starting to once again reach for the glass that I am determined to get. Little did you know that Peters eyes wandered past the hemline of the oversized sweatshirt you were wearing that was hiked up from you stretching to reach the glass, this eyes lingered on the exposed skin of your thighs and the white lace panties that hugged the underline of your firm ass. Having these sudden dirty thoughts that clouded his mind from his previous dream feels wrong since you are much younger than him. But Jesus did it feel so right to him.

The feeling of someone pressed against you from behind startles you. You move to spin around when a deep voice interrupts you. “I’ll get it for you, don’t strain yourself darling” Peters voice seemed strained as if he was trying to keep himself together as you let out a choked sigh at how close proximity you both were to eachother. As he reached up to grab you a glass and handed it to you, your response make you regret the day you were born. Started from your hands brushing you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Thankyou daddy” Both his and your eyes widen at your statement.

Oh my god. Did I really just say that out loud? Judging by his expression, I’m pretty sure I did. Shit. What the fuck is wrong with you? Someone please just kill me right now. A werewolf could come up to me right now and kill me and I would say thankyou.

This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to mingle with others

As he was about to say something but you step back abruptly and close your eyes from shear embarrassment.

A husky voice made you jump on the spot, “ say it again” His eyes glazed over in pure hunger as he watched me like I was his prey and he was the predator.

“I-I don’t know w-what your talking about” my voice sqeaked in pure humiliation

“Say it again” he repeats himself before stalking his way towards you and wrapping his hand round your throat as he squeezed lightly sending an electric feeling of pleasure towards your core. You whimpered at the contact and threw your head back at the sight of this heated haze that bore into yours and so he could reach more of your exposed throat.

“Yes, you do. Say it again. I won’t ask a third time.” He growls and you can feel yourself begin to dampen at his forceful tone.

“Thankyou daddy” You coo.

Fuck.” He curses before lunging forward and taking your lips with his. You immediately open your mouth to his probing tongue and moan when it brushes over yours. Peter pulls away from your wet lips and traces his tongue down your throat as his lips begin to suck along the side of your neck surely leaving marks as he does it making you whine and shudder in pleasure. His impossibly enormous hands glide their way to my chest before capturing my breasts through my sweatshirt starting to kneed and pinch my nipples as he held intense eye contact with me.

“These-” he stopped to grasp them harshly before tearing the fabric of my sweatshirt off making direct contact with them this time with his warm and inviting hands that made me choke a whimper as I was being dominated by the man that I have pined over for as long as I have known him. “Are mine” he finished with a growl flashing his blue luminous eyes. His lips began to assault the hardened nipples, swirling his warm tongue round the bud then biting them teasingly.

“Say it, say that you are mine little girl” he demanded as his hand reached down to cup my pussy through my white lace panties.

“Oh god- oh god yes! I’m yours” I managed to stutter as I became a moaning mess as his magic fingers circled around my clothed clit before he moved them aside and plunged two fingers inside my tight walls.

Barely forming a grammatically correct sentence from the immense feeling of pleasure that I was going through, I reached down bravely to palm his prominent bulge that twitched under my palm.

He growled as his hands ran down your back, grabbing your ass between his hands touching outline of your pussy through your thin lace panties. He pushes you back into the kitchen until you feel your back hit the kitchen table. Peter pulls back away from your lips and flips you around, bending you over the table.

Shocked from the turn of events you let out a yelp, “What are you doing?” you moan and cry out as his hands pull down your panties, kicking your legs open with his feet.

“Giving you what you want baby” He husks as his hands pull down your shorts, kicking your legs open with his feet. You hear him unbuckle his belt before shoving his hand between your legs. “Your soaked” he groans before shoving his cock deep inside your pink and wet pussy.

“ Did you not think I’d notice how you feel about me baby? Your arousal always in the air for me to smell all the damn time I’m around you baby girl, you don’t even realise how hard it was to resist the urge to fuck you everytime I saw you” You purr in content at his sinful string of words.

“Peter please” you beg. He slaps your ass hard causing you to let out a loud moan. “That’s not my name” he glares. Realising what you meant it took you no time before pleasing him again.

“Daddy! O-oh fuck yes!”

“That’s a good girl, I’m going to fucking ruin you” he growls in your ear making you whimper. His dirty words only spurring how turned on you are.

“Please don’t stop what your doing” your desperate gasps are all that he needed to fuck you untill your screaming his name.

He begins to ram his cock in and out of your pussy as you let out a stream of loud and sinful moans, pounding you into the table, making the table legs squeak against the hard floor. He reached round to grip your hair as the other slings around your throat holding you in place as he begins to whisper dirty words into your ear that makes you eager to feel your pussy pulsate around his hard and thick length.

“Who knew you were such a naughty girl y/n? Desperate to feel my cock inside you, I bet you like it when I fuck you don’t you? Huh? Rough and hard?” You managed to humm before it turned into a stuttered moan as you felt yourself beginning to quiver and your legs to shake he continued to pound you with his cock.

Suddenly the feeling of a knot forming below your stomache makes you stutter out a moan “ holy shit, yes, yes!” You scream as you come undone around him as he continues to pound you through your orgasm. A stream of grunts follow after yours as he came inside you, milking your walls with his hot cum.

“Wow, that was unexpected” you grunt as you try and catch your breath, leaning against the kitchen table.

“You started it, calling me daddy and all” he teased whilst he send you a smirk.

“Well I’ll call you daddy as much as you want next time” you reach out to pull at his short hair leaning to give him a subtle kiss on his lips that lingered.

“Darling, next time I plan to fuck that warm little mouth with my cock” he growls.

That can definitely be arranged

#peter hale #peter hale smut #peter x reader #teen wolf #teen wolf one shot #teen wolf imagine #teen wolf fandom #teen wolf fanfiction #smut

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morewyckedthanyou · 2 years

Note

I can't think of the ship name, but eddie x richie (reddie? Redeye?)

You're on the right track, friend, it's reddie! And thanks for asking! 😘 Sorry it took me forever to answer though.

Obviously I ship it. So sit tight, this is gonna be long! 😉

1. What made me ship it?

I first got into this ship by watching the 1990 miniseries and their whole dynamic is just so perfect in it. Not only do I feel like they're portrayed as kind of opposites of each other but they also seem to compliment each other a lot in different ways. Like they are both very different but also similar in all the ways that matter? They seem to bring out each other's best (and worst) qualities. I'll give you some highlights that really made me fall in love with this ship:

That scene in the movie theater when they're kids and little Eddie accidentally spills his popcorn over their bullies and Richie immediately jumps into action, throwing his soda on the bullies as well and insulting them to make them angry at him instead. Oh my god, yes.

Richie touching Eddie's hair all the time when they reunite as adults and Eddie just giggling adorably. Incredibly gay behaviour on both their parts and I love it!

When Richie freaks out (for the hundreth time or so, lol, this man is a nervous wreck), not wanting to go to the sewers with the rest of them and then Eddie just gently touches him and looks into his eyes and Richie immediately goes like 'ok fine I'll do it'.

That damn scene in the sewers with Eddie confessing things~ and Richie's stupid af initial reaction to it - but then he goes and touches Eddie's neck so gently anyway and looks at him with heart eyes. What the fuck. I can't take it!

The book is obviously filled with lots of little things I love as well, such as Richie calling Eddie cute and 'my love', Richie being one of the first things Eddie remembers after Mike's call, etc... I haven't read the entire book (I know, shame on me), but what I've read... only made me ship it even more.

2. My favourite things about the ship?

I'm answering this one based on the miniseries only, because I love the miniseries and it's my favourite.

I like that they are so at ease with each other and you can see how much they both mean to each other just by looking at their interactions. They barely remember each other - yet they are immediately all over each other from the very moment they meet again. Touching, touching, touching. They are so affectionate. I love to see them being soft and silly together. They deserve to be happy together. 😭

3. My unpopular opinion, which I'm not sure if it even is unpopular or not because I honestly don't interact with more than like... a handful of people in this fandom, is about one of the fanon portrayals of the characters.

While I prefer the miniseries, I also read lots of fics about the new IT films... And I hate it when some people write Eddie as this whiny slutty submissive bottom boy for Richie's 'big alpha male' in those fics, because I honestly don't see either of them, be it any version of them (book, miniseries or the new films), like that at all. And like, I'm not saying my own interpretation of them or their dynamic is perfect or that I'm some kind of of authority on this, obviously, but that's just... a huge no from me and I can't read those kind of fics about them, sorry, not sorry.

Shipping Ask Game

#shipping ask game #icanhasnaow #answer #if this post shows up in the fandom tags no one better come and send me any rude anons because of my 'unpopular opinion'#i respect everyone's right to headcanon these fictional men however they want and write whatever kind of fiction they want about them #but i have my own preferences #and i stand by them

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blissfulalchemist · 3 years

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Don’t know how but this came in as a submission Stella way back when. Either way it is finished after so long!

“is that blood?”, “yes, but that doesn’t matter right now, what does matter is-” “you are literally bleeding.” + red brooks bros

It was always a good thing to get out of the house, especially to a place that felt like some kind of home. The tension at the ranch was starting to become too much and Cat just needed a little air to breathe. She was still attempting to wrap her mind around the idea that Raf didn’t hate her or find her completely out of her mind for her stunt a few weeks ago. The alcohol took the fall for that kiss which was fine with her so long as she didn’t have to be reminded of that moment for the rest of her life. Not that Lance was helping any as the two took a break at his temporary house, Cat lying against the couch letting her mind wander as Terminator 2 played.

“Think I should start making some kind of dinner for us?” Cat asked hand feeling the kernels of the now empty bowl of popcorn.

“Was under the impression we were doing pizza,” Lance said, eyes never leaving the television, “Thought your boyfriend Rafael was bringing some?”

Cat rolled her eyes, Kill me, “Yeah when he was planning on coming over,” she sat up, setting the bowl on the coffee table, “he canceled, remember.”

Lance took a sip from the beer bottle in his hand, a smile playing on his lips, “Not good boyfriend material if he cancels like that.”

“Would you stop with that?”

“Just looking out for you is all,” Lance laughed as a throw pillow came for his face, “That boy may think he’s perfection but-.”

“He’s still human and therefore impossible to be perfect,” Cat finished, tone laced with mockery. “I know that,” she scoffed, “but that stuff would only really matter if he was interested in me. He’s fine with our relationship as is so therefore I am too.”

Lance laughed, spitting up a little of his drink, “And I’m set to win the lotto.” Cat narrowed her eyes, mouth ready to argue when the sound of a bike overtook the sounds of gunfire from the movie. Lance let out a sigh, “I sure hope that kid slowed down to park in the garage this time.”

“Wes? Slowing down?” Cat smiled, “The day he does you better buy a lotto ticket.”

She opened the front door, hearing the clattering of a shelf falling, “How in the hell does he manage to hit the same damn shelf every time?”

Cat looked up at Lance, raising a brow, “Maybe you should move it Old Man.”

“I have,” he let out a breath, “Come on let’s go get him.” The two walked into the garage, watching as Wes pulled off the helmet, shaking out his hair, “I thought you were a pro on that thing?”

“I am,” Wes answered looking at the fallen shelf and its contents, “It jumped out at me.”

“Uh-huh, sure Wes,” Cat laughed, eyes assessing him, widening in horror, “Oh my god!”

The two men looked up at her change in pitch, “What?”

“Wes-. You-. How-. Wes- You’re-.” He lifted an arm looking down his body, meeting her eyes as he pointed to the dark stain on his shirt, “Are you? Is that blood?!”

He gave a shrug, Lance moving to take a closer look, “Probably.”

“Probably. Wes! You are literally bleeding!”

Lance gave a small shake of his head, “Yeah, but that doesn’t matter right now. What does matter is-.”

“Is I took down that big ol’ YES sign,” Wes finished triumphantly.

Cat’s shoulders sagged, “Let me guess you’re homemade explosives?” Wes nodded, Lance pushing him towards the house. “Wes,” she glanced up to the mountain watching as the black smoke rose, heart falling as she placed a smile on her face, “Good job taking that eyesore down.” It's not that she didn’t want to see that Hollywood wannabe gone but it did mean John would be in an even more sour mood. Never a danger to herself, but it didn’t make for very pleasant conversation either given her friendships.

If Wes noticed anything a miss with her, he didn’t get much of a chance to voice it, “What I was going to say was that we need more of an actual dinner,” Lance continued, ushering his two children inside.

“You want to go and get pizza,” Cat asked.

“I’m going to get pizza while you clean him up,” Lance picked up his canvas jacket and car keys gesturing to Wes, “Now before you say anything you can stitch him up just fine. I’ve shown you how and seen you do it.”

“But-.”

“If you mess up I’ll just open them and do it myself,” Lance lowered his voice, eyes watching as Wes took out the first aid kit, laying the towel out on the couch, “‘Sides I think you should talk to him. He’s holding something in and he ain’t going to talk to me about it.”

Cat exhaled through her nose, nodding, shutting the door behind Lance, gathering a bowl of warm water and some rags. “You think it's a good or bad thing that you know exactly what to do when you come over after your injuries?” Cat joked, sitting next to Wes on the couch tossing the dirtied shirt to the side.

“Depends on who you ask really,” Wes paused the movie before he moved, giving Cat a better look at the wound. It wasn’t as deep as the amount of blood would indicate but still was a few inches long moving along his right ribs. Cat set the bowl in his lap, gentle in her movements as she cleaned the blood away, “Might be some shrapnel still.”

“I’ll pick out what I can,” he flinched, letting out a yelp, making Cat jump. Wes laughed, “Don’t do that,” she chastised, lightly hitting his arm, “You know you’re just gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”

“You were being too serious,” Cat picked up the tweezers spotting the small glimmer of metal.

“Cause I’m concentrating,” Cat pulled back grabbing the bottle of alcohol, “This is gonna sting.” Wes sat still as she brought the soaked cloth to the open wound, “I’m still not one hundred percent used to this kind of first aid.”

“Here I thought you were certified.”

“Yeah for the basics,” she snorted, “Other than that it had to be left to the real medical staff.” She gave a small smile, “Only thing I can really claim competency in is healing the mind.” Wes grew silent, turning his head away from her as she gathered the needle and thread, Cat’s smile fading, “You know you don’t have to keep it all in. Suffering alone isn’t a good thing.”

“You let Raf do it,” he countered, lifting his arm to rest on the back of the sofa.

“Don’t think I wouldn’t or won’t get on his case too,” she winced as the needle pierced his skin, pausing to take in Wes. He stayed still through it, calming the shaking wanting to start in her hands, “And if we’re being honest I let you get away with a lot more than him.” He gave a smirk, “So the YES sign,” the smirk evaporating quickly, “You and John still-.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly, “I’m not talking about that.”

So much for Lance’s belief, Cat nodded, “Okay. We don’t have too.” Silence fell as she worked on the stitches, slower than was necessary, but she didn’t want to make a mistake forcing Wes to have to go through the process again. She was nearing the last two needed when Wes shifted, “Careful, I don’t want to hurt you on accident.”

“You ever think about us?”

“Like what we’ll do after this whole thing is over,” she gave pause, pursing her lips, “Or do you mean that night?” Cat glanced up at his face, unreadable, “Because I thought we were never going to talk about it.”

“Guess it does play into it,” he mused, “But no. I mean us as in you and me. Together.”

Oh, Cat concentrated on the last stitch picking her words carefully, “Why does that matter to you all of a sudden? Did it get real bad with John this time?”

“Humor me,” he answered, ignoring her question.

Cat let out a sigh, wiping at the now closed wound, “Guess I’d be lying if I said it never crossed my mind.”

“Had ample opportunity to act on it,” he tilted his head, eyes following as she put everything away.

“I said it crossed my mind,” she gave a smirk, “not that it was anything more serious than that.” Cat got up from the sofa quickly hiding the small blush that was coming to her cheeks, grabbing a new shirt for Wes, tossing it his way, “I don’t think we’d work out in the long run in a romantic way.”

He pulled the shirt on, careful of the stitches on his ribs, “What makes you say that?”

His face took on a hurt expression, hands looking for something to mess with, shoulders slumped over. Her face softened, lightly touching his shoulder as she sat next to him, “I say that because you deserve better than me.” The corners of Cat’s lips turned upward into a quick smile as she watched his mouth start to open in protest, “Let me explain what I mean before you start trying to correct me.”

His golden eyes glanced her way before giving a quick nod, Cat settled herself more going over her thought process. “Don’t get me wrong Wes, we’d be happy, on top of the world, and so in love that people would get cavities just being in proximity,” she grabbed his hand, “But that love isn’t sustainable, not for either of us. When you love someone like that, you have to feel like there’s a balance in all aspects.”

“I feel like you do sometimes,” Wes said softly.

“And there it is, sometimes. Wes it has to be all the time. You and I don't have balance where it’s most important.” Cat paused, “We both are very giving in nature and in turn will take whatever is given back to us because we need to feel some kind of connection. We would have too much of that and we need people that will tell us when to stop.” She turned his face towards hers, “Wes I can’t ever really say no to you and that’s not what you need in a long term partner. Sure from a friend it's okay but not when it comes to life long commitment. Does that make sense?”

Wes gave a shrug, “A little.”

“In essence you need someone that will challenge you, make you see life a little differently so you can grow into it the way you were meant to. I’m more of a support while you figure that out, I can try but I know I won’t be the best at it, not in the way that you need.” Cat looked down to his hand in hers, continuing, “I’m also not someone you deserve because there are some things about you that I could never fully and truly understand. I can empathize with so many things Wes, but there are some life experiences that I can only sympathize with and you need and deserve someone that can.”

“Someone like, John,” Cat nodded, “It doesn’t feel the same with him, not like how you love me.”

“No two loves are going to feel the same, Wes,” she countered, “I love both you, Raf, and Lance the same amount and I’ll tell you now each one feels different. Lance is protective, stable, and parental like my own dad. That feeling of being noticed when you’re lost from your parents at a busy mall, you trust them because they have kind eyes and stay until your parents come back for you. Raf is structure, helpful, and,” All consuming, “consistent. Like testing to see if a video game has fall damage and then the relief when you find out that it doesn’t because you now know the parachute is going to open each time just before you hit the ground. It also feels like light that someone left behind just for you.”

“You though,” Cat looked up into his eyes, “that love feels soft, warm, hopeful, and like peace, our own little treehouse overlooking the field behind a house. It's hard to describe just right but it's something you come back to because there's a sense of safety in it that can only come from that one place. That’s what it feels like for me to love you.” She smiled, “I bet if you really look at all the people that you love and care for you’ll find that each one feels different in some way and that’s okay. That’s kind of how it's supposed to be.”

“How do you know which one’s the right one?” Wes looked at her expectantly as Cat searched for the feelings that had her marrying Theo. Searching for the right word that would convey the unique feeling into something that could resonate with Wes. Some way that would be easy to understand and simplify the complexity.

“You’ll feel….some kind of….whole.”

“Whole,” he repeated.

“Yeah, whole,” she smiled as his face showed signs of disbelief and confusion, “Every person that you love and loves you in return contributes to this puzzle that is you, but there will be spaces open for that one person that will complete the whole thing. That can be yourself, a friend, or a romantic partner. Once they’re there, you won’t really feel like there are any open spaces left, you’ll feel whole.”

“You think people can find it again if they lose it?” Wes asked eyes flicking down for a millisecond to the leather bracelet Cat moved to cover up on instinct at the question.

Her fingers playing with the metal circle, “I want to believe so. That answer though is up to you at that point.”

Wes let out a huff sitting back in the chair, eyes turned upward at the ceiling, “Not really meant to be simple is it,” Cat stayed silent, watching him, “This is why feelings are the worst.”

“Well we have them and we can’t really put them back,” Cat laughed, “Just give it some time Wes. You’ll figure it all out in the end, just have to remember to not run away this time.”

“Nah, couldn’t do that to you Catnip,” he turned smirking, “Pretty sure you’d follow me and drag me back.”

She shook her head, “Not what I meant, Wes. You’re right, but not what I meant.” Wes waved her words off, Cat exhaling slowly, “Well I think that’s enough therapy for the night.” Cat stood moving to the table holding stacks of tapes and dvds, “Music or movie while we wait for dinner?”

“Movie? You pick though.”

“Your suffering Brooks,” Cat mumbled, looking through settling on The Goonies. “Here this one shouldn’t be so bad.”

He glanced at the summary on the back of the case, “A bunch of kids go treasure hunting?”

“Yeah,” she answered, loading the movie, “So many quotable parts about that movie! Trust me you’ll have a good time.” Wes shook his head settling into the couch more as Cat took her place laying her head in his lap. His fingers started to run through her hair as the car chase began in the movie, “Wes, you may forget your worth and what you deserve, but I never will,” she looked up to his face, “So I’ll remind you until it sticks in that big brain of yours.”

#brotp: red brooks bros #brains and disaster #catlina rojas oc #deputy hwes #submission

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javistg · 5 years

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A Second Chance. CH2.

Finally! After months and months, here’s the second chapter of my submission to this year’s @everlarkficexchange

Based on prompt 110: A time travel AU: Katniss from Mockingjay, (any part of the book, it's up to you), winds up back the day before her sister's first reaping. What does she do now that she knows what's coming? Now that she knows how Peeta feels about her, and she knows how desperately she needs him, and what they could share? What on earth could she, or should she, even do/change? And what is she should lose it all again? [submitted by @wingletblackbird]

If you haven’t read it yet, you can find Chapter 1 HERE.

You can also find the entire fic on FF.net and AO3

Ok, here it goes. Tell me what you think.

A Second Chance. CH2.

It's still early when Katniss, Prim, Gale, and Rory reach the Meadow.

There's a handful of young merchant couples visiting the booths their neighbors have set up, and a few kids from the Seam; older teenagers like Gale and Katniss with their younger siblings in tow. But most people are still at home.

Some are waiting for their parents —who have to get off work and wash up before going out. Others are waiting for the Capitol construction crew to be done with the reaping stage; because they can't stomach the idea of celebrating anything while the clanging of hammers and the buzz of drills and chainsaws fill the air with their monotonous soundtrack —a prelude of the pain which will accompany them in the weeks to follow.

Hand in hand, Katniss and Prim explore the stalls with the two Hawthorne brothers trailing close behind.

Mr. Donner's booth is the first to catch their eye. His array of gumdrops and colorful candied fruits makes Prim and Rory smile.

"Maybe we could get something from here this time," Prim says.

Rory bites his lip. "Let's check the other booths before we decide. Yeah?"

Prim agrees, and the group keeps on walking.

Their next stop is in front of Mrs. Kipling, the greengrocer, who sells popcorn and an assortment of nuts. This time, it's Gale who pushes them to move on.

By the time they reach Mr. Porter —the barkeeper who sometimes buys Prim's cheese— a small line has begun to form. His tart lemonade and iced mint tea are crowd-pleasers on warm summer days and, once night falls and the crowds start to thin, he'll pull out the stronger stuff. The line will be even longer then.

The last stall belongs to the bakery. Katniss spots Rye selling butter cookies, small cheese buns, and pound cake by the slice. That's why Peeta's at the bakery today, she muses as her group comes to a stop.

"OK, guys, now that we've seen everything, what would you like?" Gale asks.

Just like last time, Rory and Prim begin debating over what to get. Rory prefers popcorn, but they already had some at the last market fair, and Prim argues that it's her turn to choose.

Katniss smiles fondly as they squabble. Despite everything, Prim and Rory can still behave like children sometimes.

When they finally ask for her opinion, Katniss casually mentions the candied apples she remembers everyone enjoyed.

With all parties in agreement, Gale and Katniss pool their coins together. "We could also get some pistachios," he suggests after counting them.

"I'll get them," Rory quickly offers.

With a nod, Gale puts the coins in his brother's open hand.

The simple gesture tugs at Katniss's heart. Gale is done with school already. In a few more days, he'll start working in the mines, and everyone in his family will have to take on new roles and new responsibilities.

Just like Katniss, Gale's kept his siblings from taking on too many obligations but —regardless of what happens in the morning— lighthearted, innocent Rory, will have to start acting more and more like a grownup now.

With their apple and pistachios, the group walks away from the stands. After searching for a bit, they settle to eat under one of the tall trees lining the Meadow.

It's a sunny afternoon. The sounds of construction have finally been replaced by the cheerful song of the blackbirds perched high on the branches above them, and the green expanse is quickly filling up with people who are eager to enjoy the balmy weather and take a stroll.

Katniss is still laughing at one of Rory's silly jokes when she notices Peeta walking on the opposite side of the Meadow.

Once again, she's struck by how good he looks. The white shirt and khaki trousers he's wearing are humble and worn —a far cry from the stylish clothes Portia will design for him— but they make him look young and wholesome.

Her heart speeds up as she sees him brush a blond wave from his face. This is the boy she remembers when she closes her eyes; the one who stood by her even when they were little more than acquaintances; the one who Snow took away.

The last thought makes her so sad that she has to avert her eyes.

Next to her, Prim chews the last of her apple, and smacks her lips in appreciation once the treat is gone.

Encouraged by her sister's happiness, Katniss looks back up. Peeta's not alone anymore. Delly and her brother, Sam, have joined him.

As the trio reach the stand with the sweets, Katniss sees a fourth person. A slim merchant girl with big round eyes and strawberry blond hair who immediately takes her place next to Peeta when she joins the group.

Peeta turns to greet the girl and gets a pleasant smile in return.

The candied apple turns to lead in Katniss's stomach as she watches the exchange.

Dizzy, her mind speeds through a jumble of memories from the last two years and comes back empty. She's sure. Peeta never said anything about courting anyone else.

Her disappointment teeters on the brink of rage —hot and blinding, the kind that courses through her like molten lava and makes her want to smash vases and claw at people's faces. But she knows she can't do any of that, so she clenches her fists and sets her jaw to keep it contained.

Peeta turns to Sam, who's waving his arms around as he explains something, and he and Delly laugh.

The exchange reminds Katniss of Delly's words, "I used to tell people he was my brother." They certainly look like siblings, she thinks as her fists open up and relax.

The pretty merchant girl looks at her shoes; her cheeks have turned pink. She's embarrassed. It's a small detail —the fact that this girl seems ill-at-ease with her companions— but it's enough to put Katniss's mind at rest. With astonishing speed, her anger ebbs.

Exhausted after the emotional upheaval, Katniss looks down. Staring at the thin layer of dust covering her boots, she wonders --once again-- what she's doing there. Why was she sent back to witness this? She doesn't need to see Peeta talking to some other girl!

"You OK there, Catnip?" Gale asks with a soft pat on her shoulder.

Forcing on a smile, Katniss looks up. Rory and Prim are also staring at her, waiting for an answer. "Yeah." She points to her throat and coughs. "I think I swallowed through the wrong pipe."

"Want me to get you some water?" Gale offers.

She shakes her head no and clears her throat again for effect.

Satisfied that she's all right, the group resumes their conversation.

Looking past Prim's shoulder, Katniss follows Peeta and his friends as they move on to the next stand.

The group stops to talk to Mrs. Kipling. They all smile, and even laugh politely at something Katniss can't hear —something she can't even begin to guess— and she's struck by how little she knows about this particular period in Peeta's life.

She's always assumed the baker's son never approached her because he thought she was with Gale —and because the Seam-Merchant divide would have probably made things hard for him at home— but she never considered that there might have been someone else; some sweet merchant girl who laughed at his jokes and wore pretty dresses or endured uncomfortable situations to try to please him.

She's about to make up an excuse to flee the scene and go find a dark closet in which to hide when a piece of an old conversation comes back to her mind.

"So, since we were five, you never even noticed any other girls?" Katniss had asked back in the cave of their first Game—back when she was trying to get sponsors, and she thought Peeta was just making up stories as he went along.

"No," Peeta had answered, pressing his cheek to the top of her head, "I noticed just about every other girl, but none of them made a lasting impression but you."

That's all it takes for what remains of her sorrow to go away. A memory.

Peeta's words —the old Peeta's words— are all the reassurance she needs. A reminder that through it all, she's always been on his mind. Yes, there might have been other girls —he's never denied it— but she's always been the most important one, and he has proven it over, and over, and over again.

As she sits there, nestled between her sister and Gale, she knows no one watching could say the same about her.

"Want some?" Gale offers the bag of pistachios. As she takes it into her small hands, she can't help but think about him back in Thirteen wearing a soldier's uniform and sneaking her food from his plate.

She hasn't said anything, talking to Gale about the "deep stuff" has never been easy, but she's grateful for his friendship over the last few weeks, and for the fact that he seems to have put his feelings aside. It's as if he's stepped down. As if he knows, even without her saying it, that she's made her choice.

As she sees him now --joking and laughing with their siblings, blissfully unaware of what the world is about to unleash on them-- she has to admit that she hasn't been very fair to him, either. Whether she's meant to or not, through her silence, she's also been stringing him along.

Not this time, she promises.

Peeta and his group reach the bakery's stand. A few feet away, a handful of vendors are already setting up the bonfire.

While Rye talks to his brother's companions, Peeta slips his hands into his pockets and scans the crowd. When he finds Katniss sitting under the tree, he stills. His smile falters.

All the way across the Meadow, Katniss reads the self-doubt, the all too familiar question in his eyes. "Did I misunderstand?"

"You didn't!" She wants to yell at him. But she doesn't. She can't. She knows what he sees: Gale and her, laughing and sharing a bag of nuts.

Enough!

Katniss pushes the bag of pistachios into Gale's hands. She stands up and brushes the bits of nut dust which have fallen on her lap. "Alright, I'm off!"

Gale raises a questioning eyebrow. "Where are you going?"

"To the bonfire. I'm meeting a friend there."

Her answer does nothing to satisfy Gale's curiosity. "A friend? Who?"

Katniss crosses her arms and glares at her hunting partner. "What is this, Twenty Questions? You're not the only person I know, you know?"

"I didn't say I was…" Gale shrugs. "I just—,"

The look of utter confusion on his face makes her laugh. This is what I would have done back then, she realizes. I would have just laughed. Because, while I owe him honesty, I don't owe him any explanations.

She's still smiling when she adds, "I'll see you later." Her eyes find Prim's --if her sister is surprised by this sudden change in plans, she doesn't show it. "Are you going to meet up with Penny now?"

"Yeah," Prim points to the spot where the main road from the Seam reaches the Meadow. "She's meeting me there in a few minutes."

"All right. Come find me when you're ready to go home. OK, little duck?"

With Prim's assurance, Katniss spins on her heels and begins to walk towards the line of booths and the bonfire beyond.

As soon as she makes Peeta out in the distance, her heart skips a beat. He's standing to the side of the pile of kindle which will soon become a roaring fire; chin up, back straight. His blue eyes, a reflection of the summer sky above, follow her every move.

XXXXX

"Hey!" Peeta says as soon as Katniss is close enough to hear him over the ruckus of people lugging the large pieces of wood they'll use for the bonfire.

"Been here long?" she asks.

"No," He points in the general direction of the booths. "I just took a quick look at the stalls with Delly and the others."

"The others?"

"Yeah. Sam and… Lena."

"Lena?" The warm tendrils of embarrassment creep up her neck and color her cheeks. She knows she's being nosy, but his hesitation intrigues her.

"The carpenter's daughter," Peeta explains. When Katniss doesn't say anything, he adds. "She's one year below us in school."

"Ah!" Katniss nods— as if Lena's age is enough to explain why she's never heard of her before— and then, because she simply can't stop herself, she asks, "You're friends with her?"

"Um…" Peeta glances around. His eyes dart through the people around them, but they can't seem to settle anywhere.

If Katniss didn't know any better, she'd think he was trying to come up with a lie, but she knows that's not the case. Peeta is a smooth liar, and he's only hesitating because he wants to tell her the truth. The fact that he's having such a hard time coming up with the right words makes her uneasy.

Peeta's eyes finally find a neutral place to land --Katniss is not surprised to discover he's chosen her braid. He did that sometimes, she remembers.

"We're not friends," he says, somewhat defensively. "We're… acquaintances… I guess. I don't really know her that well… yet."

Katniss nods. She doesn't need any more explanations, she gets it. Peeta's relationship with Lena isn't really about friendship —or romance— it's about practicality; about planning ahead.

District 12 isn't big enough to have three bakers —four if you count Peeta's father. It seems that the Mellarks have started looking for an alternative trade for their third son.

It's much too early to guarantee a wedding, of course. Engagements can be broken, and Peeta and Lena still have a few more reapings ahead of them, but that hasn't stopped their families from trying to find an advantageous match for their children.

A sad smile lifts Katniss's lips as her heart slowly takes in the news. Peeta, her old Peeta, the boy who once told Panem he'd had a crush on her for as long as he could remember, is currently engaged to a girl he barely knows.

She wants to be mad at him for never telling her; for allowing his jealousy over Gale to fuel his anger when it was him who was involved with someone else all along. But she can't. Not when he's here, standing right in front of her and ignoring all others; risking his mother's wrath and his father's disappointment just to spend a few minutes with a stubborn girl from the Seam who still hasn't thanked him for saving her life.

The flash of a memory breaks through her thoughts, and she sees Peeta walking out of the room after agreeing to marry her.

That was the second time that choice was taken away from him. Katniss thinks. No wonder he was so upset.

This new realization floors her, but the fleeting stab of pain she feels for having put Peeta through that useless charade acts like a wake up call, a reminder of the hatred she harbors for President Snow and her need to be rid of him.

Before the darkness can pull her any deeper, Katniss asks, "Want to take a walk?"

"Sure!" A hint of relief paints Peeta's smile as he signals to the field behind him. "Lead the way."

Resisting the urge to slip her hand in his, Katniss leads them behind the line of booths and towards the fence. Some people are already walking there to escape a bit from the crowd, so it's not as if they're alone, but the air is fresher, and it's far less noisy. With the woods so close by, she can even hear herself think.

"So… last day of school, huh?" Peeta says.

"Yup. Got any plans for the summer?"

"The usual: help out at the bakery, watch the recaps… You?"

Katniss smiles, this conversation is so painfully ordinary, so utterly conventional. It's like no conversation they've ever had, and yet, it feels like the most promising one ever. Eager to keep it going, she answers, "The usual: help out at home, trade, watch the recaps…"

Peeta laughs. "Looks like there's not that much to do around here."

They're about to reach the place where the grass turns to gravel when Katniss stops and reaches for Peeta's elbow. "Listen, I need to tell you something."

Peeta stops. His eyes flit between the point where she's touching his arm and her face. "You OK?"

Katniss nods. She wants to say that, "Yes, she's fine --perfect even," but she can't. Her heart is beating a mile a minute, and she's as nauseous as if a swarm of angry tracker jackers was buzzing in her stomach, but she can't turn back now.

With trembling fingers, Katniss slips her hand into her hunting bag and pulls out a bundle —as wide and long as her extended palm— wrapped in a worn linen handkerchief. "Thank you," she says, presenting Peeta with the package.

Peeta's jaw drops. "What for?" Too stunned for words, he shakes his head. "I haven't—,"

"For the bread," she cuts in trying to keep her voice from cracking.

Peeta stands still, looking at the bundle like it's a piece of the moon that has somehow landed in her hands.

"From when we were kids," she adds, hoping the words he once told her will help him understand.

It works. Peeta's eyes open wide, and she knows: he remembers. "Katniss, that—,"

"That was ages ago," she finishes for him. "I know. I should have said something sooner." She pushes the little bundle in her hands towards him once again. "I know this isn't much. But…"

Tears pool in her eyes and she tries to blink them away, but she's too late; a couple of them run down her cheeks, past her neck, and land on the faded linen blouse she carefully chose for her first outing with the boy with the bread.

Embarrassed by her display, Katniss wipes her cheeks dry with the back of her hand. Peeta's tentative touch on her elbow stills her motions.

"Katniss, please don't cry."

She nods, smiling a little through her tears. "I just need you to know that I remember --that I could never forget-- because without that bread my sister and I wouldn't be here today."

Peeta's eyes glisten with the tears he hasn't shed, the tears he's trying so hard to keep inside because this is the second time they've ever spoken, and he doesn't want to look like the kind of person who can't control his emotions.

But she knows better —and she knows him— and she knows he's hurting because, even though he did plenty, Peeta's always wished he could have done more.

"Katniss, I—,"

Once again, she offers her gift. "Just take it, please?"

Peeta's hands wrap around the small parcel holding it as carefully as if it were a bomb. "OK. But, just so we're clear, you didn't need to do this. Seriously, you don't owe me anything."

They've had this conversation before, so she knows he means it. It was the kind of thing that drove her mad about him, the fact that he could do something without expecting anything in return. She used to think it was because he was a pampered brat, a son of privilege who could afford to hand out tokens and ponder about the injustices of the world because he had everything he needed and more, but she knows better now.

Peeta's life is far from perfect, but he's still generous, and kind… and incredibly stubborn, and she's not going to waste the precious time they have left by arguing with him.

With an exaggerated eye roll that shows him she doesn't agree, she lets the matter drop. "Yeah, yeah. Open it," she instructs.

With the same delicate movements he uses to frost the most detailed cookies, Peeta unwraps the little bundle. Six brand new pencils, a different color each, appear on his palm.

As if afraid that someone might snatch them away, Peeta closes his hand over the pencils and brings it to his chest. "How did you know?"

Katniss shrugs. "I guessed. I knew you decorated the cakes and the cookies, so I figured that maybe you like to draw, too."

"I do. I just…" Peeta looks down at the bunch of pencils. He's holding them so tightly she fears he might break them, but the look of awe in his eyes tells her he won't.

"So…," Katniss nods towards the pencils when she can't take the silence anymore, "are they OK?"

Peeta beams at her —infatuation written all over his face. He looks so radiant and handsome that she has to wrap her arms around herself to keep from reaching out and touching him.

"Of course, they are, Katniss, they're perfect!" His cheeks turn pink as he unwraps the pencils to take a better look. "I've never had anything like this before. My father used to give us bits of chalk to play around with when we were little, but I've never had a set of new pencils all of my own. I…," His eyes find hers. They're still a bit shy, but there's a glint of seriousness in them she knows all too well. "Are you sure this is OK?"

"Yes." She nods for emphasis.

The old Katniss, the one who lived this day the first time, wouldn't have agreed —buying six brand new pencils was an extravagance she couldn't afford. But this Katniss, the one who has been through two arenas and who knows her sister is about to be reaped, has decided that giving Peeta those pencils and settling that debt is far more important than keeping her coins under the mattress because, if history repeats itself, her mother and Prim won't need the money; and, if it doesn't… Well... she'll just have to work harder during the summer to make up for the loss.

"Thank you, Katniss," Peeta says, wrapping the pencils back in the handkerchief and slipping them into his pocket.

Now that the conversation is over, Katniss breathes easier. With a quick glance, she takes in their surroundings.

The summer fair is in full swing. The area with the stalls is crowded, people wait in line to buy one last glass of lemonade or a bag of popcorn while the group of men who were carrying the wood earlier lights the bonfire. To the side of the blaze, a three-man band strums their guitars with a lively tune. Couples from both parts of town have gathered around them, they smile and clap, tapping their feet in time with the music.

The smell of smoke and gardenias fills the air now that the sun is about to set. Before long, everyone will be dancing.

"Want to walk a little longer?" Peeta asks so shyly it makes her heart ache.

"We could take a turn along the fence," she suggests as she starts walking.

Peeta falls in step with her. His heavy footfalls crush every leaf and twig in their path. "So… um. What's your favorite color?"

Katniss bursts out laughing. She can't believe they're having this conversation again. They're exactly where she hoped they'd be.

Peeta tilts his head to look at her, eyebrows squished together in confusion. "What's so funny?"

"I don't know, it's just… Why do you want to know that?"

"Well… I like colors. They're everywhere." Looking back at the Meadow, he adds, "There's an entire language hidden in the shapes and shades that surround us —a language that speaks of life's moments, of the connections we make, the bonds we forge— but its words are constantly changing. I'd like to capture them, to commit them to paper so I can remember them --enjoy them-- even after they're gone."

Katniss smiles. She's never heard him say those things before, but she's seen the things he can do. The moments and ideas he can capture on paper. I wish I could freeze this moment, right here, right now, and live in it forever. Her mind whispers.

Before her memories can pull her down the rabbit hole of pain and longing she knows all too well, she mumbles, "It's green."

"Green?" Peeta's smile is so infectious she finds herself mirroring it as she nods in confirmation.

With a sigh, Katniss turns to look out into the woods. The sun is setting behind the mountains. A spectacular orange and yellow blaze lights the sky behind the tall firs and maples that surround the district.

"And you?" she asks, even though she already knows the answer. "What's your favorite color?"

Peeta looks up to the sky. "See that band of golden orange lighting the clouds?"

"Mm-hmm."

"That's it."

XXXXX

They spend the next hour walking along the edge of the Meadow; never too far from the action, but not too close either.

As they walk, they talk about things that are at once familiar and somehow entirely new and, before she knows it, they're already laughing together.

As they're about to turn around, Peeta gets a bit more serious and talks about his brothers. He says he's happy for Bran —who is about to get married to someone he loves— and a little envious of Rye, who's one reaping away from aging out.

Katniss listens, savoring his words and smiling at the things he says; not because she's supposed to --like she once did-- but because she's happy to be there with him and wants to hear everything he has to say.

When he asks about Prim, Katniss's eyes light up. Pride warms her words as she tells him as much as she can about her baby sister without bursting into tears.

Peeta listens and nods at all the right moments. The warmth in his eyes makes her feel beautiful and cherished. Under his gaze, she grows stronger and more powerful than she's been in months.

By the time they reach the bonfire again, night has fallen over District 12. The merchant booths are closing, and people have gathered to watch their friends and neighbors take a spin on a makeshift dance floor in front of the blaze. The crowd raises their voices in a happy song to keep the fear of the reaping at bay.

"I should go find Prim," Katniss says. "It's getting late."

With a curt nod, Peeta slips his hands in his pants' pockets. She's half expecting to see him bounce in place in that self-soothing tick of his when, instead, he stills. "Will you go out with me again?" he asks.

Katniss opens her mouth to speak and then closes it back again —suddenly unsure— but, before her brain can come up with an excuse to override her instincts, she blurts, "Sure. I'd like that."

Peeta's easy smile returns. They're so close to the bonfire now that the blaze lights up his face and makes him glow.

Forget about prep teams and fancy clothes, Katniss thinks, Peeta doesn't need Cinna and his artificial embers, he can dazzle the world just like this.

She's so mesmerized by him that, for a split second, she considers throwing herself into his arms and kissing him like she did in the cave… or on the beach. This could be our first kiss. Right here, without cameras, without careers, without mutts.

Her heart is beating madly, her hands longing to reach out, but she stops herself. It's just not right. The Peeta standing before her barely knows her. He's probably not opposed to kissing her, but he wouldn't understand.

Utterly oblivious to her reckless thoughts, Peeta asks, "Maybe we could do something tomorrow, you know? Um… after?"

After. One small word is all it takes to bring Katniss back to reality and to send her heart plummeting to her feet. Trying to keep the dread in her bones from taking over, she says, "That sounds good."

"I'll go find you once it's over."

Katniss nods, desperate for the conversation to be over. She doesn't want to ruin the beautiful afternoon they just spent with her tears, but the reminder of the upcoming reaping has sucked all the air out of her. "I'll be at the back… with Prim and my mother."

Peeta dips his head in a small kind of bow and takes a step back, putting some distance between them as if releasing her. "Go find Prim," he says --looking at her with that mix of admiration and tenderness which made her so uncomfortable in the past, "I'll see you tomorrow."

Overcome with a surge of affection, Katniss brings her hand to her chest. Her traitorous heart beats madly under her palm —asking Peeta to come back. "See you tomorrow," she repeats, ignoring the blood pounding in her veins as she turns on her heel to go find her sister.

XXXXX

It's a long night.

Katniss lays in bed, unable to sleep. Alone. Peeta is back in town, --sleeping in his old bedroom above the bakery for what will be the last time— and Prim has chosen the comfort of her mother's arms tonight. With no one to stop her, the huntress tosses and turns as she anxiously awaits the break of dawn

Trying to pass the time, Katniss reviews her plans for the following days: Go out into the woods tomorrow, and then to the town square. Volunteer for Prim. Get Haymitch to put the bottle down and help us. Follow Cinna's instructions. Train. Breeze through my interview with Caesar, and act surprised when Peeta declares his love for me. Go to the arena. Lay low until I can partner up with Peeta. Stay alive.

Her throat constricts as she tries to keep herself from crying. It's not an easy plan. There are too many variables, too many things that could go wrong —things she didn't notice the first time, but that could come back and bite her.

An then there's the people. She can't wait to see Cinna and Portia again —alive and well and thriving— but she's not looking forward to watching Rue and all the others die. And still, she knows she can't stop their deaths either. Her knowledge doesn't give her that kind of power.

What she can do, however, is make sure that her fellow tributes don't die in vain. This time around, she'll make sure that their deaths mean something; that their names aren't forgotten; that their blood isn't washed away.

This time, she'll make sure that President Snow is the one who pays.

#a second chance #things I write #everlark fic exchange #time travel AU

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hihoneyimdead · 4 years

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Gotta appreciate the Guild Family Photo here:

Hawthorne’s clutching his bible like an old southern woman clutches her pearls when she sees a gay couple walking down the street. Only he’s a bit more murderous. He’s looking at the camera like “You have looked up Shrek Rule 34 and you are going to burn in hell by my hand.”

Margaret looks like she’s stuck at a debutante ball. Like she doesn’t want to be there, really, but at least she’s getting free food out of it. All prim and proper but really just wants to kick all these old men’s dicks in and run away with the fried okra and eat it in the parking lot of the Cracker Barrel next door to the community center.

Melville wants to retire, but he’s still vibing purely because this opening is Pure Fire. He’s judging, though, and I think he’s judging Fitzgerald. Like “You say you are a warrior, but what kind of warrior wears cream into battle? Do you know how hard it is to get red stains off of cream? I’m not lending you any more detergent, young man.” and “Stop going into battle, young man. You’re going to die, and then who will run this organization? Miss Alcott? I’m retired. Fat chance you’ll get me back at the helm, so to speak.”

Speaking of Fitzgerald, he looks like he’s about to break out into a fabulous flamenco. Like that scene from the second Adams Family movie, only his flamenco includes him kicking you into submission with his X-treme Kickboxing Skillz. He throws the money like a dancer throws their rose petals. He knows how to Charleston and that’s it. “What’s flamenco,” he asks, tip-tapping his toes. “Isn’t that a kind of bird?” The answer, of course, is whatever he wants it to be, because he won’t listen to anything else.

Steinbeck looks like he’s at the county fair watching the pig-judging competition. They’re all good hogs, plenty big, but half of them are ugly as sin and the other half look like they were shaved. Is he the judge? Not this year. He can’t, he’s entering his own pig in. Her name is Petunia and she’s a fat bitch and she’s absolutely going to win. But as he stands there and watches the other pigs parade by, he feels threatened. Will he win? Will he lose?

Lovecraft is asleep. He doesn’t know where he is, he’s asleep. Steinbeck and Twain propped him up against a pole so he doesn’t fall over, not that he needs it. He’s barely conscious at any point to begin with. When he wakes up in twenty minutes, everyone else save Steinbeck will be back downstairs watching Shark Tank reruns and eating popcorn that they keep making Lucy make for them. He will wake up, turn his head around a couple of times, yawn, and trudge downstairs to take a proper nap in his room.

Twain zoned out about five takes ago. Because the photographer keeps asking for a serious photo and Fitzgerald is allergic to serious photos and everyone else just wants to go downstairs and watch Shark Tank. So they’re on take seventeen. He’s thinking about that scene from Tangled where the little old man comes out of the duck-themed bar in a diaper and singing. He’s imagining Fitzgerald’s face on the old man. He is going to photoshop that when he gets inside.

Not pictured is Louisa taking the photo. She’s decided this is her new hobby, mostly because Fitzgerald got her a camera for Christmas last year and she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that Twain is the photographer, not her. She wants this group picture to be perfect, and she knows it will be because both she and Little Women saw that it will be. Eventually. Soon. Hopefully. They don’t have long before they arrive in Japan, and she has a feeling that her calculations... weren’t perfect. For once. She screeches as another hundred dollars flutters off of the balcony.

Also not pictured is Lucy, who is downstairs sewing. She’s never liked getting her picture taken, so she’s in her room. In twenty minutes, she will be making popcorn for the others. She has to. She owes them everything. Including popcorn. In twenty minutes, she will sigh. Including popcorn.

Poe locked himself in his room the moment one of Fitzgerald’s aides told him that tonight is Guild Picture Night. He isn’t part of the Guild, not really, even though he is and he likes these people. Even Hawthorne, who scares him. And Fitzgerald, who scares him. And Lucy, who scares him. And Lovecraft, who doesn’t scare him but who simply confuses them. He has his own plans separate from Louisa’s, and he works on those plans as the Guild above takes its picture.

#i am not tagging this #this was simply me Fucking Around and Not Writing Like I Should Be #you can tell when i want to write but also Dont when i start doing character metas but bad #(i made separate kin assigning lists for the ada pm and guild on another blog rip)

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onlycags · 4 years

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Movie Night 9 | Çağlar Söyüncü

August: Barnes

- - -

This Saturday’s movie night is dedicated to my girl @chilly-me-softly because this is the first chapter she hasn’t read through completely before I posted it. Enjoy! xx

Alternate Title: Redemption

Çağlar hadn’t wanted to miss July’s movie night; up until two hours before, he had planned on going.

“Söyüncü!” Rodgers had yelled in the changing room after practice. “See me when you’re changed.”

He had followed reluctantly, noting the time on the clock before he entered Rodgers’s office. Even if whatever this meeting was ran over two hours, he would still be able to make movie night easily.

“Sir?” He asked, knocking lightly on the door.

“C’mon in, son. Have a seat.”

Çağlar sat down warily, wincing slightly from the tackle he’d taken out on the field earlier. “You okay?” Rodgers asked, taking off his readers.

“Yes,” he answered automatically, not wanting to admit weakness.

Rodgers shot him a look. “You sure?”

“Yes, sir.” Çağlar started to get up to leave.

“Sit back down,” Rodgers ordered, shocking the Turk into submission. “I was watching your performance during the EuroCup and I got worried, especially with that last match. You got subbed off after the first half and you were playing poorly. Care to tell me what’s been going on?”

Çağlar grimaced, running a hand through his hair. “It sounds stupid when you say it out loud.”

“Do I look like the kind of man who cares?”

“No, sir.” Çağlar took a breath and said, “It’s about a girl.”

Rodgers ran a hand over his face and sighed. “Forget what I just said, Söyüncü. I do care and it does sound stupid when you say it out loud. Spit it out - who is she?”

“She’s, uh, Maddison’s best mate.”

“[Y/N]? The one who comes around occasionally and is always visiting after matches?”

Çağlar nodded, looking down at his hands. “That’s her.”

“What’d she do to you? Is she messing with you? I can get a restraining order, we can take her to court, whatever needs to be done to get this taken care of.” He reached for the landline on his desk. “Hell, let’s get the PR team in here now and we can sort this whole thing out now. She trying to take you for your money?”

“No, sir. Nothing like that.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“She slept with someone else.” Çağlar blushed and looked away, embarrassed to be sharing such intimate information with his coach.

“Well…fuck.” Çağlar raised his eyebrows at Rodgers’s swearing. “Were the two of you together?”

“Uh, not officially, sir.”

“But you had enough feelings for her that it’s affecting your performance on the pitch.” He sighed again, muttering to himself. “Ain’t that just a kick in the nuts.”

“Sir?”

“Sorry. An American expression I saw on telly - my daughter suggested I start ‘binge watching’ this American Football program called Friday Night Lights because she swears I am, and I quote, ‘just like Coach Taylor’. Needless to say, I am a bit obsessed.” He chuckled. “Women get us to do the craziest things.”

Çağlar nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Now, let’s discuss possible strategies to get you out of your head when you’re on the pitch. You’ve been so good at it before, but I’m betting that it’s because you trained to put certain scenarios out of your mind while you play.”

“That’s right. I always strategized about how I could improve my concentration and minimize distractions. Now, with a new distraction that I have not planned for, it is hard.”

“Let’s go make it easy.”

Rodgers ran drills and plays with Çağlar long after Belvoir’s closing time. By the time he was done, Çağlar was sure he would be able to play and not think about you.

He went home, tired and weary, completely forgetting all about movie night. When he did remember, he sent you a two-word text: I’m sorry.

~~~

He was slower than usual at training the next day, something the lads noticed and teased him about, but Rodgers gave him no flack.

At the end of training, Çağlar and Madders sat in the ice bath, Madders on his phone texting someone a kilometre a minute.

“You okay, mate?” Mads asked, setting his phone down.

“Yes.”

“We missed you at movie night.” A pause. “[Y/N] was there.”

“I am sorry. I was training last night.”

“That why you were slow today?”

“Yes. I was working out ways to get her out of my head when I play so that I am not distracted.”

“That why you weren’t at movie night?”

“Yes. I was running drills with Rodgers until late.”

“Did they help?”

“I think so. We shall see on Saturday’s match.”

“Have you gotten a chance to speak to her?”

“I do not know what to say. I do not even know if she will want to see me.”

“Mate!” Madders sighed, exasperated. “She was looking for you last night. Trust me, she wants to talk to you.” Madders pulled out his phone. “You know where The Ivy Soho Brasserie is in Leicester Square?”

Çağlar nodded.

“Good,” Mads replied, “because you’re meeting [Y/N] in an hour.”

“What?! No - I cannot meet her.”

“Relax, mate. She thinks she’s meeting me. Just show up and talk to her.”

~~~

An hour later, Çağlar showed up at the restaurant, nervous to see you. You were seated at a table in the back, head buried in your phone. You looked up from your phone and your eyes met Çağlar’s. The shock on your face had him wanting to turn and leave but he walked over to you with more confidence than he felt.

“Hello,” he greeted, placing an awkward kiss on your cheek.

“Hi. I thought James was meeting me here?” you asked, looking away as he sat down.

“He wanted us to talk so he sent me instead.”

You shrugged. “Okay.”

The waiter arrived and the two of you placed your orders. You were grateful for the distraction - it was unexpected to see him here and you were still reeling from the kiss he’d placed on your cheek.

When the waiter left, the awkward silence returned. You took a sip of your water and sighed. “Çağlar,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

He reached across the table and grabbed your hand, desperate to touch you in some small way. “Please, [Y/N], can we start over?”

Your heart hurt - you were still reeling from emotions you still processing almost a month later. “I…I don’t know, Çağlar. Did you sleep with her?”

“No,” he replied, shaking his head vehemently. “She tried to, but I stopped her because she was not you. What you saw the day you FaceTimed me - that was her trying to seduce me again. I told her that day that she and I were over and that we would never be together like that again.” He paused, the expression on his face tortured as he said, “We can work past this - I forgive you for sleeping with Jack.

You were openly crying now. “I didn’t sleep with Jack. I kissed him the night before we talked and I almost did, but I didn’t. I wanted to move on so badly, but you’re in my head and I-”

Your food arrived, Çağlar asking for the check and some takeaway boxes. You could only agree, your appetite gone the moment you saw him walk through the door.

The two of you walked to the nearest park in silence. You tried to get your emotions under control, still reeling from the restaurant.

You found a quiet space in the park away from everyone at a picnic table.

“Can we start over?” He asked again.

You played with the takeaway box in front of you, trying to find words. “I want to,” you whispered. “I just don’t know how we can.”

“Come to movie night in a month and we will begin again.”

You hesitated, but ultimately nodded. “Okay.”

The two of you parted ways a short time later. It was going to be a long twenty-nine days.

***

You arrived a few minutes early to Barnes’ flat, wearing your favourite sundress that gave you confidence and let you enjoy the last few sunny days of a Leicester summer.

Harvey wrapped you in a hug the moment you stepped through the door. “I haven’t seen you in ages, [Y/N]!” He exclaimed, his face flushed.

You laughed, pushing Harvey off you after he almost suffocated you with that hug. “Barnes, it’s only been a month! Are you drunk already?”

He shrugged. “A month is too long.” He smiled at you, cocking his head. “And yes, I’m a liiitle tipsy.”

You ruffled his hair, giggling at his outrage. “You silly boy.”

You made your way into the kitchen, setting your six-pack of beer on the counter along with the snacks you’d decided to bring. Just as you were cracking open your first beer, your eyes connected with Çağlar’s. Your body reacted the same way it always did when he was around - you looked away, blushing a bit, shocked at how much it felt like the first time you were seeing him again.

He took his time approaching you, which gave you time to drink him in. His joggers hung low on his hips and his dark t-shirt clung to his muscled shoulders and arms. He smirked when he noticed you checking him out, his eyes going a shade darker. He stopped inches from you and you stopped thinking for a moment as the smell of his cologne overwhelmed your senses.

“Hello, I’m Çağlar,” he said, holding out his hand.

You took it, gasping a little at the contact. “[Y/N],” you said, blushing again.

“Nice to meet you,” he murmured, leaning in.

Just as you were about to say something, a cacophony of noise brought the two of you out of your own little world as Tielemans, Perez, Madders and Chilly arrived.

“Thank god you’re here!” Barnes said, waving his arms dramatically at the four boys.

“Don’t say a word about being us being late,” Madders muttered, rolling his eyes as he walked over to you and Çağlar.

“Hey you two,” he said, pulling you in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, Mads,” you replied, smiling at your friend. “Why so grumpy?”

“Long day - those three kept annoying the shit out of me.”

“Well, Kasper Van Damme should be arriving soon, so he should be able to protect you from the big scary boys!” Harvey called out, cackling.

James reached into a nearby bowl of popcorn and chucked a handful in Harvey’s general direction. “Hey! No throwing popcorn in this flat, Maddison!” Came Harvey’s voice again.

“Sod off, Barnes!” Madders yelled back, making you laugh, accidentally leaning back into Çağlar as you did so.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, putting a bit of distance between the two of you.

“It is okay,” he said, placing a hand on your arm.

Schmeichel, Evans and Vardy arrived shortly before the movie began, Barnes huffing in annoyance, causing the three men to roll their eyes at him.

You tried to figure out where to sit, torn between wanting to sit next to Çağlar and hanging out with Mads. Just as you were about to give up, Çağlar grabbed your hand. You looked up at him, a questioning look on your face.

“Sit with me?” He asked and you nodded, smiling shyly.

You let him lead you to the sofa, automatically curling into his side as Barnes turns the lights down.

The movie opened with a New Orleans jazz scene that was obviously set in the eighties or early nineties. “What even is this?” Madders asked, obviously still in a mood.

“Only the best, weirdest spy movie ever!” Barnes replied. “One of my American friends introduced me to it.”

“What’s it called again?” Perez asked, grabbing some popcorn out of a nearby bowl.

“More importantly: how does Barnes have American friends?” Evans teased.

Barnes shushed everyone, citing the movie night rules. “It’s called Undercover Blues, and I have American friends because I’m a social butterfly,” he pouted, making everyone turn their attention back to the movie.

You were utterly fascinated. It was an American film you hadn’t seen before, which seemed to be rare these days. Everyone seemed to be enchanted by it - even Kasper laughed out loud multiple times. Stanley Tucci, Dennis Quaid, and Kathleen Turner were amazing, the comedic timing off the charts.

“Hey, isn’t that Aunt Petunia?” Chilly asked when the antagonist came on.

“It is,” Barnes confirmed, his expression serious. “Fiona Shaw is a goddess.”

You laughed, snuggling deeper into Çağlar. It felt like the first few movie nights again, the two of you cuddling on the sofa while everyone else watched the movie. You could feel his heart beating underneath your fingertips, enjoying the feel of him next to you.

The movie ended, everyone still slightly confused by nineties-American humour but you had thoroughly enjoyed the movie. “Can I take you home?” Çağlar asked, appearing at your side as you walked out of Harvey’s flat.

“Sure,” you said, butterflies in your stomach as you remembered the last time he took you home.

You sat in the passenger seat, fiddling with your hands. The deja vu was intense, struggling to remain calm as you thought about what was going to happen when the two of you got to your flat.

“Walk me to my door?” You asked, your voice shaking slightly.

“Okay.”

Çağlar walked next to you, silent. He stood behind you as you put your key in your door. You turned to him.

“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?”

“No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head. You tried not to let your disappointment show, but Çağlar wouldn’t let you hide your feelings from him, placing a hand underneath your chin and making you look at him. He tucked a lock of your hair behind your ear.

“Go on a date with me.”

#cags series #movie night series

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sleeplesssheep · 4 years

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Veni, Vidi, Vici (part six)

He was tall, handsome and steamy. Salt and pepper hair sat upon his head like a crown of wisdom, and a mark of brilliance. The human man’s eyes were pools of sparkling cobalt. This human was a doctor, which was obvious from the white coat and stethoscope wrapped around his neck. Doctor… Daddy- same thing.

“Oh, but Derek, we can’t!” Cried a much younger medical resident, similar to the stethoscope- this woman wrapped her arms tightly around the handsome Doctors neck and began to cry loudly.

Derek leaned away from the brunette, and looked lovingly downwards at her.

“I’m not going to stop loving you, Meredith. I can live without you, but I don’t want to live without you. And I’m going to do everything in my power to prove it.”

A loud sob broke through the room, quickly accompanied by hiccuping and cursing. Popcorn suddenly flew out of Breanna’s hands and gently bounced off the large television at contact.

“Don’t do it, Meredith! Don’t leave him!” Brea cried out in frustration, hot tears puddling over in her eyes. The expensive charcoal polyester couch shook under her as Breanna moved quickly off it, shedding the cashmere blanket that previously covered her naked legs.

“Ugh!” The witch groaned in frustration as the television quickly switched to commercial. Just as an older man was discussing his lack of erections as of late, Montclair entered the room wearing a bewildered expression.

“What the devil is going on here? I have a conference call in five minutes-” The Vampire's red hair appeared a dark brown in the evening light as he walked around the living room to examine the witch. Seeing her teary eyes, the Roman immediately startled and became alert.

“Oh, you have no idea! Derek, and Meredith, well they’re soulmates and they don’t even realize it yet- but I do! And she won’t give him a chance because--” Breanna sputtered about pacing, her face becoming flushed as she ranted.

Realizing that there were no vampires, witches or demons making an attempt on her life Baldwin relaxed. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply in an attempt to calm himself. Deus, this television thing was a mistake.

Breanna and he had come to an agreement of sorts. She couldn’t leave the property without him, nor make contact with others (this included work emails much to Breanna’s annoyance). In return for this submissive behavior, which was not usual for the witch, Montclair would provide television for entertainment and allow her to contact her Aunt’s and cousins on occasion. Both of them knew this peace treaty of sorts would only last a few days as Breanna was planning on voicing her issues soon.

However, the vampire had yet to inform her that a) her Aunt Emily had perished and b) that her cousin Diana and his brother, Matthew, had run away to the past in an attempt to escape prosecution.

To be plainly put, he wasn’t looking forward to the upcoming phone calls. But, deceiving her was necessary for her safety.

Baldwin dragged a hand down his face and checked the time on his Rolex.

“Two minutes,” Baldwin reminded Breanna, distracting her momentarily.

In Baldwin’s brief moment of self pondering, Breanna had begun to levitate around the room muttering to herself angrily. At Baldwin’s interruption, however, she fell to the ground and landed gracefully on the tips of her toes. As time passed (today was the eighteenth day that they had been sharing the apartment together) Breanna had become more casual around the vampire. This resulted in her constant humming while cleaning or cooking, as well as her use of her magical powers. Not that Montclair was going to admit it, but this pleased the beast within him.

Despite her new level of comfort with him, he had yet to reach that level with her. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, just that Baldwin’s guard rarely fell down and when it did- that was something momentous.

“What did you say?” Breanna’s eyes cleared and she flushed with embarrassment as she realized how caught up she had been in Greys Anatomy. She quickly took in the vampires bewildered expression, his iPhone in one hand and his gold Rolex shining upwards at his face. Clearly, he was busy and didn’t have time for this.

‘Oh fuck meeeee,’ She sang in her head. In an effort to distract herself before she combusted from the mortification of this whole evening, Breanna began picking the popcorn up.

“I have a conference call in two minutes and it simply cannot happen if you are shouting and running about like a child,”

Part of her ego wanted to roll her eyes at his comment, while the other part stung to hear him compare her to a child.

Rude vampire.

Breanna muttered an apology under her breath and continued to restore the living room to its previous cleanliness. Little did she realize, however, the silk robe she was wearing just so lifted in a way as she bent forward, attracting the vampire’s eyes immediately.

Just as he would occasionally feel her tingling eyes on him, she felt the icy patches blossom right on her bottom. Breanna whipped up immediately, her hands squeezing the popcorn so hard it began to crumble.

Neither of them addressed what had just happened, instead, Baldwin returned to his office and Breanna to the couch. But, before either of them had settled down into their separate activities, both served themselves hefty glasses of wine.

It was, after all, the best tonic for a supernatural.

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

The next morning Breanna sat perched in front of a vanity in her room. Despite being adjacent to the vampire Montclair, she never saw him enter or leave it, and never heard anything from him. Montclair had given her a large bedroom that was decorated beautifully. It had dark wooden floors that were sparingly covered with a white area rug which contrasted pleasantly with the dark navy walls. Two french doors opened up onto the street below (after her railing adventure Montclair had taken up to put chairs on each balcony in an effort to curb her much more risky method of viewing) and took up most of the right side of the room. On the opposite wall was a fireplace so giant a Volkswagon bug could fit inside, and surrounding it was a collection of antique-looking chairs.

In fact, her entire room was kinda ancient. Breanna was an anthropologist and could easily appreciate such aged furniture and creations, but her specialty was not in goods but rather the people that made them.

Using the mirror in front of her, she eyed her bedroom once again- taking in the extravagant curves, lines, and details in the expensive furniture.

Definitely French.

It was early morning in London, around eight o’clock or so. The witch stared blankly at her reflection as she thought of home. Her cat and the Madison Country neighborhood were sleeping as of now, unconscious to the rest of the world.

Suddenly, a shine of white caught Breanna’s attention.

“Jesus, is that what I think it is?” She leaned forward and brushed her hair to the side revealing a single white hair. Goddess, the vampire was aging her. Though Breanna had never dyed her hair, being pent up in this apartment for more then two weeks was starting to make her a little stir crazy. She thought of Diana, her cousin, and her beautiful straw colored hair.

“It’s good to change,” Breanna encouraged herself.

A simple spell came to mind and soon enough Breanna was chanting. When she opened her eyes to see the results, the witch grinned excitedly. Just as Baldwin was beginning to knock on her door, she threw it open to go see him. Both of them huffed awkwardly as Breanna almost flew into Baldwin. In an effort to keep her grounded (literally) Baldwin grasped her upper arms and forced her feet back to the ground.

Blond wisps of hair floated around the both of them, crackling quietly as the magic left Breanna’s body. Her hair reminded Baldwin of a wild octopus- its legs waving around erratically.

“Good morning, Miss. Bishop” Baldwin took a small breath as he examined her new hair and in doing so was assaulted by her scent. Jasmine, bluebells with the undertone of burning electricity. He had never seen a witch uses her power to dye her hair.

“So, what do you think?” She bounced up and down, shaking the vampire’s hands off of her. Breanna’s once amber hair, close to Baldwin’s shade, in fact, was now a honey blonde. Straight as a pin, it finally settled down onto her chest.

“You look like your cousin,” He commented.

Both of them noticed it wasn’t a compliment, rather just a statement of facts. Not that he would ever tell her, but Baldwin thought she was beautiful with her original coloring. Of course, now that he thought of it- two red-haired supernaturals moving about London would not be subtle.

Baldwin sighed as he moved passed into the witches’ room, doing his best not to breathe her smell.

“You’ve met my cousin?” Breanna followed after him until they were both in front of the balcony.

“Mmhmm.”

“What kind of answer is that?” She exclaimed.

Baldwin eyed her from the corner of his eyes, realizing his mistake. He noticed the dark patches under her usually bright face, making her pretty face seem sick and sallow. The witch had not been sleeping well lately, and whether she had begun to notice this was unclear. Those who slept often didn’t remember their dreams, but Baldwin had heard her nightmares the night before.

He shook his head and peered down at the quiet street below them. A gentle rain had started, cooling the air.

“Baldwin, it is time we discussed this whole situation.” Breanna’s voice was confident and allowed no room for objection. The vampire turned from the balcony, his mouth parted open. Before he could speak, shout or do anything, Breanna held up a single finger.

“I have stayed in your home. I have listened to you, respected you, and done my best to understand this situation. Something which, might I add, my cousin nor any other witch with some amount of sense would do. I trust you, only because my Aunt does. It has been more than two weeks, Baldwin, I can no longer sit by and wait. The Congregation is after me yes, I understand that. I am not stupid- I am just done with all of this nonsense.” Breanna spoke quickly and her hands fluttered about with each sentence. When she finished, her hands came to rest firmly on her rounded hips.

Montclair processed everything she said. The witch made logical points, but it did not change the fact that they were in danger. More so, she was. He began walking out of her room and as he reached her door, Baldwin called back to the expecting witch, “We are calling your Aunt today. I thought it would be good to fill her in on everything- as well as share my findings.”

As the door closed behind him Breanna cursed and sat on one of the chairs in front of the fireplace. This lack of communication on his part was begging to get the best of Breanna’s usually calm and docile soul. Sourcing her anger she shot a stream of fire into the hearth, igniting the logs immediately.

“Goddess, guide me…” Breanna whispered, her face glowing from the flames.

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Later in the evening, Breanna and Montclair had settled in his office. The witch had never actually been in his office and was not the least surprised by its size, decor, and oppressive ambiance. Breanna sat comfortably in a Victorian age chair across from Montclair and eyed the surrounding room while he was calling her Aunt. Floor to ceiling bookcases covered three of the four walls and held hundreds if not thousands of ancient books. Breanna’s fingers itched to touch them.

She snapped out of it when a strong, familiar voice called out.

“Hello, Baldwin.”

“Aunt Sarah!” Breanna called out, ecstatic. Her voice was high pitched with excitement and relief. She had attempted to call her aunt the other day but the older witch did not answer.

“Brea, baby. How are you? Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I am so sorry baby, about this and when you get here I’ll tell you everything-”

Baldwin coughed and interrupted Sarah, caused Breanna’s hazel eyes to flicker up to him in confusion.

“Sarah, I am sure you want to catch up with your niece but at this moment I have some pressing concerns. As we know the Congregation is looking for Breanna, and though they have yet to trace her here, I imagine they will soon enough. Breanna is under the impression that it would be best to bring her to Sept-Tours, but I am not sure that is the best move. Tell me, is Ysabeau with you?”

“Yes, she is right here with me.” Breanna paled at the French name, recognizing it from countless warnings and horror stories told to her as a child. It must be taking a tremendous amount of strength from her Aunts to be within the same walls as Ysabeau de Clermont.

Breanna breathed deeply and closed her eyes and felt that if she concentrated enough, just the sound of Sarah’s voice was enough to transport her home. Montclair smelled the change in Breanna and was suddenly aware of her inner sadness, and fear. The young witches breathing slowed, and her hair vibrated gently.

“As much as I want to bring Breanna home, her safety is my priority. Tell me, what should I do?”

On both sides, there was a pregnant pause. The vampire, Baldwin Montclair, asking for other thoughts? How rare it was of him.

Breanna was shocked out of her spell by his question and eagerly listened to what her Aunt would say. In the back of her mind, she made a note to question Baldwin later on his witch killing vampire mother Ysabeau.

“I don’t know, Baldwin. I think bringing her here where we can protect her as a family would be best, would it not Sarah?” Ysabeau’s voice was soft, her French accent was heavy.

“Perhaps,” Baldwin sighed heavily, “it would be best.”

“I don’t want to bring more trouble, if this is what we will do- perhaps it is best to stay and hide.” Breanna spoke quickly, coming to the realization that the Congregation could follow them and harm not only her family, but Baldwin’s. It was not until hearing the voice of her Aunt that Brea felt this way.

Baldwin looked sharply at her, disgruntled by what she had said. A flicker of respect burned in his eyes as they looked upon eachother. Despite only knowing Montclair for less than a month, a never meeting his family, Brea did not want to bring trouble to their door.

“Do not underestimate my family, Bishop.” He scolded her.

“And do not speak to my niece like that, Montclair.” Sarah was quick to snap, her anger could be felt by both Breanna and Baldwin, despite her being hundreds of miles away.

Breanna’s heart swelled and her stomach dropped. She looked into Baldwins brown eyes, pleading with him silently.

“We will be there by next week.” With one click, Baldwin ended the conversation.

The two of them sat in silence for a moment, deep in their own thoughts. Breanna wrapped her cashmere cardigan tighter around her torso and sighed softly. What had happened to her life? Icy patches bloomed along her face as Montclair examined her expression. He wished to know what she was thinking. Her dark eyebrows were turned down in a frown and her eyes were staring blankly at her jean clad pants. Breanna’s lips opened in thought then closed once again.

“What is it, witch?” Montclair hid his curiosity beneath the layer of contempt in his voice.

“The Congregation will know that we will have relocated to Sept Tours, will they not? You are a member of the council, charged with bringing me into questioning. They surely will trace our movement…” Breanna looked deeply into the vampires eyes, and stood bracing her hands on the dark surface of his desk. Her hair begin to rise ever so, its strands vibrating in the air. “Unless we convince them that we have remained in London, they will quickly guess where we have gone.”

The Bishop witch was right, Baldwin grudgingly agreed. He, of course, had already thought of this and had a plan to trick the Congregation.

#venividivici #vvv #DiscoveryofWitches #baldwin de clermont #Baldwin Montclair #baldwin x oc #matthewclairmont #diana bishop

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skyprincess212 · 4 years

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Wait. Before I go. Heres a reupload of my little space QnA with some updated answers.

Do you sleep with a stuffie? Mhmm. I sleep with a panda and a bunny and 2 reindeer

Do you have a CG/daddy? Nope. I'm not looking either. I do have a friend I'm talking to but I dont think they'd be interested because of my whole situation right now

How many stuffies do you have: I only have like 10 here and then about 20 at my mom’s house

Favorite time of the year: Wintr cuz its my birthday and christmas but santa is supr dupr scary cuz hes supr tall and stuff and he smells weerd

Favorite disney princess/prince: Repenzel cuz shes from tangled

Favorite little space sweet/candy: cheetos puffs

What do you do while in little space? I play the sims or runescape. Sometimes i’ll color but a lot of the time i just wanna cuddle

Stuffies or blankies: i got both

Favorite animal: cat

Favorite hobby: listening to music

Favorite disney movie: Tangled cuz the mosick is supr pretty and i can sing a lot of the songs

Do you use a paci: I used to have these really cute hello kitty ones but my ex found them and cut them up and set them on fire. I have one from the dollar tree but i’ve hidden it a lot better now

Do you use diapers: no but im sort of curious

Favorite color: blu and pink

Whats your zodiac sign: capricorn

Describe your ideal little date: ok so. They’d dress me up supr dupr cut. Then we’d go to the park and feed ducks and do nauhaty stuff and then we’d go to the mall and go shopping and then we’d go and have dinner where they’d order for me because im too little and cant red and then we’d go hoome and do nauhaty stuff and then we’d watch disny movies while eating ic cream and then id be the little spoon on the bed while they red me a story and then we’d fall aslep with him holdin me all tigt and warm like a little coocoon

Build a bear or disney stores: disny

Do you participate in pet play and if so which animal? Mhmm yes i do. I’m mainly a kitee

Do you have a blankie: mhmm its reely big and blu and soft and warm

What is your little/middle age range: Little age is from 2-7, middle age is about 9-12.

Do you have any pets: mhmm a black kitee named raven

Favorite tv shows: i only have Netflix so money heist, atypical, and supernatural. I kind of like word party too tbh

Favorite game: the sims

Favorite disney character: Pascal. Repenzels frog

Favorite tv show character: maybe Dean??

What do you eat when its snack time: cheetos and chips

One little space thing you want: i really really want an actual paci from those little space websites so i dont feel like im biting my tongue all the time. Or maybe a cut pink and blu paddel with either “Sir” or “Daddy” on it for nauhaty stuff

One unique thing about you: I can sing really well and i know a lot of songs

Favorite little activity: making sims while drinkin juice but then i gotta pe real bad cuz juice makes me gotta pe

What would your dream playroom/bedroom look like? Well little me wants greyish with pastels to make everything look cute but gothic. Cute everything. That’s for the bedroom. Ideally, id want my own room and id only be allowed into the main bedroom if i was told to be. That way, they can stay with me until I fall asleep and have other people over if they want. It would be filled with toys both innocent and not so innocent. A lot of books since I love to read. Maybe a little computer area too

Talk about someone special: I dont have anyone like that right now.

Favorite little space drink: apple juice

Whats your little space name: i dont really have a set name. Just call me whatever you want

Last picture you colored: i’m not sure where the coloring book went or else id show you

What are your fears: that no one actually loves me and everything is just one giant lie. That people won’t except me for who i am. That this is all just a dream like in the matrix or something

Are you a little 24/7? I really really want to be but i do have sub space too and occastionally Domme space too since i’m a switch. Well… its like 80% submissive/little and 20% Domme. But yeah if i could live the lifestyle 24/7 i would

Favorite smell: popcorn

What always puts you in little space? sammich and lollipops. I really wanna watch it together with my friend. He liks thm too I think

Whats your little nighttime routine? Ok so nauhaty stuff and then help me brush my teeth and brush my hair and help me put pjs on and then sleepy time

Whats your morning routine? idk I dissociate half the time so i have no clue

Do you have a favorite sippy cup? I don’t have any right now. I’ve been kind of scared to get any since my abuser found all my little space stuff. That was not a fun time

Favorite dessert: cupcakes or oreos.

Favorite little space song: i see the light from tangled. I sing it supr good and its supr pretty and its the best

Do you have any little friends? yup. I got a couple

How long have you been a little? since i was 19

How did you discover you were a little? my abuser was yelling and screaming at me as usual and i just kind of slipped into little space. I was like wtf is happening. I then looked up what happened and i guess i used it to cope with my abuse at first

Are you open about it? Sort of. Some friends on Facebook know

Does anyone in real life know that your a little? I don’t think so

Do you have any little gear: mhmm and some pet play stuff too. I have one good collar and leash. I have some collars and chokers. Some paws, I used to have a tail but Josiah stole it and won’t give it back. I have a ton of skirts and dresses but only a couple are really for little space. Most of the rest of them put me into subspace because of how short or tight they are

Funniest experience in little space: so my mom called me once and since I was in little space I couldn’t talk very well especially not in full sentences so she just hung out and said she’d call me later

Worst experience in little space: I was raped and beaten up by my abuser. It was the day he found out about me being a little

Cg’s nickname: I dont have one but I'd call them 'sir' or 'daddy'

Favorite cartoon: either adventure time or the grim adventures of billy and mandy

Explain your username: my name is Sky and I'm a princess duh

Favorite little outfit: i wear my pink dino onsie

Dream little outfit: just a cute little gothic pastel baby

Hardest cg rule to follow: i dont really have any rules and the ones that i do have are really easy to follow

What makes you happy in little space? Being told im the cutest babee grl ever. It makes me squeal and giggle and blush or when I get called cuti or um idk

What makes you sad in little space? When my friend and I cant talk :(

#little #little space #me #mine #qna time #qna

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ravenvsfox · 5 years

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hello meghan my love my darling when are you going to post the next chapter of the rockband au???? you should do it on or before the 2nd for absolutely no personal reason at all. but anyway ilysm???? i hope you’re doing great now that it’s starting to warm up (seasonal depression whomst?) 💖💖

(hello ily honeyy happy happy happy birthday I’m sorry this is late)

Neil wakes up, as usual, to the pinging of a text message. He doesn’t bother to look at it. He knows what it will say; the unassuming number, the conspicuous silence whenever he writes back.

He rolls over so that the thinning comforter pulls and sticks beneath him, and he slits his eyes against the pre-dawn light.

Yesterday he’d deleted the number ’36’ from his messages and jammed his bare feet into his boots. He’d walked all the way out back to the dumpster with the cellphone cracking in his fist before his fear won out, and he’d pocketed it again.

He knows what day the zero should fall on. He’s learned to dread countdowns because he’s lived to see what comes on the other side of them, surfed the sand in an hourglass as it ebbed out from underneath him.

The monsters keep him busy, and so do the Foxes, now. They pull him in different directions, divide his attention, pique his curiosity. He’s acutely aware of how devastating it will be for him when he has to leave them, what a terrible thing he’s done by letting them close enough that they’ll notice when he’s dead.

But no one endures like the lonely people who end up at Palmetto, and he knows no one will stumble for long.

He reaches into the swath of blankets and holds the phone in his hand. It buzzes again, the nudge of the same message insisting upon being read. He feels frustration crest and fall in his chest, and then he wonders if anyone else is awake. Sometimes Andrew will get up early and make eggos, or Kevin will go for a run before the sun is up, but they’ve been inconsistent while they sloshed through the songwriting process.

He’s heard Aaron making endless pots of coffee and Nicky in the basement, practicing licks without an amp in the middle of the night. Once, Neil wandered down and knelt the wrong way on the couch to watch him play. He wasn’t quite awake, and the music twanged against Nicky’s goofy grin and made Neil smile back at him.

Now that Ausreißer’s album is edited into submission, sent off for packaging, all of their tireless work crystallizing somewhere, he’s promised Foxes that he’ll record a vocal for them. It’s strange to think of them wanting his serious voice worked through their bright sound, incongruous as salt in coffee. It’s even stranger to think of the way his voice will be broadcast after he’s dead, perpetually echoing after his disappearance.

Their album is set to be released in a week, and then the next leg of their tour will roll up to meet them, and sometime in those delicate, dwindling months, Neil will be found. He fantasizes about leaving a ripple when he’s taken, and then he thinks better of it. When his mother died, he watched the fire take her skin, and her hair, and her eyes, and he thought, death would be easier if we didn’t let ourselves matter to one another.

He lets the phone sink back into the sheets, and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress. Someone knocks twice on the door, just the edge of a knuckle. Andrew.

“It’s open,” he says.

Ever since Andrew had burst in, answering questions that Neil hadn’t even thought to ask, he’s taken to leaving his door unlocked.

Andrew opens the door and promptly crosses the room towards Neil’s dresser, not even sparing him a glance. His hair is unkempt, a riot of blond that won’t part correctly, fluffed up from sleeping on it wet.

Unlike the rest of the monsters, who’ve buckled back down into their routines, Andrew’s been acting increasingly erratic. He’s been self-medicating more often, and holding himself back from something so effectively that Neil can’t quite see what it is. Sometimes he seems to glitch out, cutting himself off mid-sentence, cagey and self-contained.

The drugs should make his tongue looser, but mostly it seems to make him say more of everything. It’s harder to find whole kernels of truth in a bowl full of bravado that’s puffed out like popcorn.

Andrew puts both hands on the knobs of Neil’s drawer and waits there. Neil nods, amused. He’s long since found a lock for the bottom drawer and secreted away his money and information. Andrew pulls the top drawer out, sawing it back and forth when the dufflebag catches. He digs briefly through Neil’s small selection of shirts, and picks out something in faded green. He throws it and some light-wash jeans in Neil’s direction.

“Up, get up. Renee’s already at the studio.”

“You have today off,” Neil says.

“Well deduced,” Andrew says. “I’m driving you.”

Neil hesitates. “I’m fine with walking.”

“Do what you want,” Andrew says flippantly. “I have an errand to run near the studio, and you can come with me or you can waste Renee’s time and mine.”

“That’s not manipulative,” Neil says sarcastically.

“I’m giving you a choice,” Andrew says. His gaze finds the burner phone nestled in Neil’s bedding, then trails up to catch his eye.

“Yes, okay. Just let me change.” He’s secretly glad to be ferried to the studio, to have earned Andrew’s passenger seat, and to not have to think about who could be tracking him on foot. Andrew crosses wordlessly to the threshold of his bedroom and closes the door behind him. He can hear him shifting his weight outside, guarding Neil’s privacy.

He dresses quickly and quietly in the clothes that Andrew picked out for him, feeling strangely flushed about the whole thing. He doesn’t want Andrew to know that he’s doing exactly what he suggested, or that it’s become a habit for him to do so.

They leave not ten minutes later, after he’s stopped in to use the bathroom and splash water on his face, teasing fingers through his hair and swigging Nicky’s mouthwash.

Andrew waits at the door, turning keys over in his hand, hair still wild, belt buckled kind of askew with the tail of it sticking out.

“Are you ready?” Neil asks tentatively. Andrew cranks open the screen door in response, and steps out into the sweet spring morning. Neil follows, watching his even gait, the full, yolky yellow of his hair.

They climb up into the cold barrel of the van. When Neil reaches for the dial to turn up the heat, Andrew catches his wrist.

“I can’t get any warmer.”

It’s around this point that Neil suspects that Andrew might already be high.

Maybe balancing the creative chaos of their album with the newness of Neil has taken more of a toll on Andrew than it has on the others. Something about working constantly, writing feelings into rhymes that you can chew and rinse and spit with has made him itchy and distracted.

“Did you take something?” Neil asks.

“Not yet,” Andrew says, reversing violently onto the street, much too broad a maneuver for such a large vehicle. He clips the opposite curb before he cracks into drive and takes off.

Neil watches his inscrutable face, the tightness around his mouth and the brightness of his eyes. He can’t tell.

“No one drives like this when they’re sober.”

“You know I do,” Andrew tells him. Neil does. He’s seen Andrew stoned, laughing like he doesn’t want to be doing it, the way people do when they’re being tickled. He’s also seen him drunk, soaked through with sweat, sticking to the seats, and he’s seen him storm-cloud sober. He always manages to make it feel like the van is on ice skates.

“Did Wymack ask you to hold my hand?”

Andrew considers this for a moment too long. “Depends on what you mean by that.”

“Babysit me,” Neil clarifies. “Drop me off and pick me up so I don’t cause another incident.”

“No,” Andrew says simply, turning left so sloppily that he almost clips a crossing pedestrian.

“Then why would you—why are you doing this?”

“Million dollar question.”

“Is there a million dollar answer?” Neil asks.

“There are no million dollar answers,” Andrew says. “There are disappointments.”

“So no one asked you to do this for me.”

Andrew looks at him. “You may have noticed that I do not do what people ask me to unless it’s in my best interest.”

“You’re not as selfish as you want people to think,” Neil says, looking away, out the window. The studio is creeping up on them, three intersections way, then two. He’s come to know the route well, imagining the bends in the road when he’s trying to fall asleep. “Defending Kevin could bring the yakuza down on you, and you’ve always known it. Just like you had no guarantee that killing Tilda for Aaron wouldn’t kill you too.”

“Most people wouldn’t give murder as an example of selflessness,” Andrew says. “Does it make you feel better, to make us into good people?”

“No, actually,” Neil says honestly. “It makes it harder to pretend I’m one of you.”

Andrew pulls up into the shaded side of the studio, and Neil breathes out heavily. The honesty comes so much easier now; after those first botched pricks to his veins the blood has just flowed and flowed.

“Here,” Andrew says, pulling his keys from the ignition and prying the ring open. He slips a little bronze key from the loop and hands it to Neil. “To our front door. Allison’s going to drive you home, and none of us are going to be there to let you in.”

Neil’s hands go cold with surprise, and he opens them both for Andrew. “Just for today?”

Andrew shrugs and drops it into his palm. “It’s yours.”

“Why?” Neil asks quietly, pressing two fingers to the ragged edges. The metal is still warm from Andrew’s hand. He thinks of his name looped into a contract, thinks of sharing a microphone with Kevin and bumping fists with Matt. He pictures himself unlocking the door to a home on a residential street and hearing their record playing somewhere inside.

“You live there,” Andrew says, bored. “It’s convenient.”

“It’s more than that,” Neil says fiercely. “You know it is.” He wishes suddenly that he could give Andrew a key to something, an access code to a vault of secrets or a missing piece that would topple Riko’s threat. Before he’d found a stolen twin and a frantic cousin, he had even less of a home than Neil did. The teeth of the key eat into his palm.

“Do not lose it,” Andrew says. “I’m not cutting you another one.”

He knows that he would never misplace this proof of the flimsiness of Andrew’s apathy, this symbol of belonging, this ticket to normalcy. He also knows that Andrew would make him another if he really needed it, and that it means something distinct to both of them.

Andrew watches him mildly. “Go inside. Find your Foxes. If they try and wash your voice out with shitty effects, walk away.”

Neil smiles a little. “You told me yesterday that you don’t care about musical integrity.”

“I don’t want to hear you complain when the track flops,” Andrew says.

“Right.” Neil pops the door open. “I’ll see you at home,” he says tentatively, and when Andrew waves him off, he closes the door between them.

He lets himself uncurl his hand to look at the key, slowly, like it’s a living thing, something he unearthed. He studies the pattern of it, the tangy metallic smell clinging to his fingers.

When he looks up again, Andrew has pulled away. He forces himself to ease the key into his pocket and lower his eyes before the van disappears around the corner.

______

He finds Renee alone in the biggest upstairs studio, sipping demurely from something that smells natural and fruity. She smiles warmly at him when he comes in, and he feels caught in the suspended moment between springing the trap and suffering the consequences.

“You’re early,” she says.

“Interesting. Someone told me I was late.” He shrugs off his jacket and drops it over a music stand.

“Interesting,” she echoes.

Neil crosses his arms. “Where are the others?”

She pauses with the rim of her travel mug at her lips, then lowers it again. “Struggling to get out the door, probably. Allison likes to take her time primping.”

“Okay,” Neil says, uncomfortable to find himself alone with the only person at Palmetto that he can’t really read. “Warm up?”

“If you want,” Renee says easily. Infuriatingly. “Or we could talk, like Andrew so obviously wants us to. I recognize his machinations when I see them.”

Neil considers the slender silver cross at her neck winking in the overhead light. She has the nimble, capable hands of a musician, and the inexplicable ability to garner the respect of someone like Andrew. It’s more than enough to warrant his curiosity.

“What could he possibly want us to talk about?” Neil asks, sitting gingerly in a stray chair across from her.

Renee shrugs. “He’s not usually forthright with details.”

Neil tilts his head and decides all at once to play along. “What is it that he likes so much about you?” he asks.

Renee takes his rudeness in stride, her mouth pursing a little with amusement. “He discovered that we have a lot in common. Rich histories of bad situations and terrible exit strategies. The only difference is that I have my faith and he has his nihilism.”

“And what exactly constitutes a bad situation, for you?”

He’s seen Andrew’s sleeves of scars, he’s seen him wake violently from dreams that never seem to be anything but nightmares, and he’s seen that shallow look in his eyes that says that he’s been hurt as badly as he can be, and everything else is just smoke after fire.

He can’t see any of that on Renee. Her faith is gentle as candlelight, her mannerisms easy as warm water, and he doesn’t like the waxy, tepid feeling of being around her.

Her smile cinches, as if yanked closed by pursestrings. “How much time do you have?”

Neil shrugs. “As much as you do.”

She pulls a hand awkwardly through the hair at her neck — as if, for a moment, she was expecting it to be longer.

Neil waits. Renee sighs. The overhead clock ticks.

She tells him methodically about her mother’s whirlwind of abusive boyfriends, the years that compounded into a deadly pressure that would only give when she took knives to it. She doesn’t hesitate when she tells him about causing her parents’ death, running with gangs until it landed her in juvie, and then into foster homes. For a moment, Neil can see something of Andrew in her face like a familial resemblance.

Renee worries a fingernail in her mouth for half a second, distracted, before she explains what Stephanie Walker did for her. The way music and faith entered her life at once, twin forks on a lightning bolt. Church choir first, and then violin lessons.

Cruelly, he resents her for having someone who desperately fought for her, for letting her mother die so quietly in jail. He also understands, for the first time, why he’s been so unsettled by Renee; she walked out of her tragedy and shut the door. Neil can never latch his while Nathan’s foot is wedged in the gap. He has the most unsettling feeling that Andrew’s door has been wrenched off of its hinges.

“So why aren’t you with Andrew?” he wonders aloud. It’s not the right thing to say, but it’s the only complete thought he’s had since she started talking. Her story reads like a high quality forgery of Andrew’s. Renee complements him just as well in friendship as she does in music.

She smiles like she was expecting this question. “Why would that matter?”

“It doesn’t,” Neil says quickly. “Matter. I don’t care. It just seemed like an obvious fit.”

“We’re kindred spirits in some ways, and I have a hunch that we’ll always be friends. But I’m not his type.”

“I can’t imagine who would be, if not you,” Neil says. He doesn’t mean for it to come out as an accusation, or a compliment, so it sits uncomfortably between the two.

“That’s a puzzle,” she says, smiling impishly.

“You know the rest of your band is placing bets on you?” he asks.

She laughs. “Sure. Gotta pass the time between sets somehow.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“Not at all. Allison’s in on the joke, and that’s half the fun — bluffing together. Finding your allies.”

“In on— in on which joke?” he asks, vaguely frustrated.

Her eyes drift sideways, away from him and towards the door. She pushes up her sleeves carefully. “Andrew and I aren’t just unlikely. We’re impossible.”

“Why impossible?”

She shrugs. “I don’t date men, if I can help it.” Neil barely has time to process this before she adds, “and Andrew doesn’t date women.”

“Oh,” Neil says dumbly.

“I wouldn’t spread that around, though,” she says. “It’s not common knowledge just yet.”

“So why would you tell me?” he asks.

She smiles again. “If he suspected that you were curious about my relationship with him, and still engineered this conversation, I don’t think he would be surprised to know that I’ve told you this particular truth.”

Neil turns this thought over in his head. Andrew puts his secrets at such a remove that he completely avoids being confronted about them. Their impact disperses and melts away before he even makes an appearance.

He thinks about Andrew’s complete disinterest in the fans who throw bras at the stage and shake posters with his name on them. He doesn’t think their gender has anything to do with his apathy, but those instances still tint and change in his memory.

Renee sits good-naturedly through his bout of silence, and then she says, “I hope I helped uh— fill in the blanks a little more for you. I know I don’t really know anything about you, even though we’re all really trying to. Your bandmates though—you breathe the same air and play the same songs day after day, so they can’t help but know you a little. And I know them. So maybe we can be friends someday too.”

Neil feels a distant pang of regret that he won’t be around long enough to prove her right or wrong. He’il be pried from this life with the abruptness of a needle lifting from the middle of a record, and the truth will die, unspoken, on his wasted tongue.

He doesn’t reply, and lukewarm silence stretches between them until Allison comes teetering into the room on platform heels a minute later. She puts her iced coffee on the table and tugs affectionately on the ends of Renee’s hair, and Neil thinks, of course.

A memory surfaces—Andrew twisting dye into his hair and his eyes slipping involuntarily closed—but Dan and Matt parade into the room, arms full of store-bought water and gatorade, and whatever the thought was going to be slips away.

_____

It takes them hours to nail the recording. Neil is dissatisfied with every take, Dan keeps thinking up ideas to beef up their harmonies, and Matt messes with the controls, stripping back the distortion to ‘show off Neil’s pipes’.

They break for lunch at 1pm, and Neil finds himself drifting away from the others, wandering all the way downstairs and through the door, out to the shade where Andrew had left him that morning. He takes out a cigarette that he’d stolen from the console in the van, and the backup lighter from the bowl of keys in the foyer.

He lights up, flame chewing its way towards his fingers. He turns his back against the brunt of the cold and keeps his shoulder to the wall, hair washed forward over his eyes by the wind.

A car rolls up somewhere behind him, and then there’s a snap like a briefcase being closed.

Someone says, “Nathaniel.”

Neil whips around. His fingers tense so that the cigarette nearly snaps in half, but he clings to it and the lighter, the only weapons on his person.

There’s a sleek black SUV parked several spots away, and Riko Moriyama is leaning out of the open side door.

“It is time for us to talk,” he says.

Neil takes a step back. He can see at least two other people in the vehicle, and when he looks up, the shades are drawn over every visible window in the building.

“If you run it will only drag this process out for all of us,” Riko sighs. “We don’t offer civil discussions often. I would take this rare opportunity.”

“You have a knack for making threats sounds like kindnesses,” Neil says. “But then, most bullies do.”

“Get in the car,” Riko says. “Or your real name goes violently public.”

Neil’s teeth clench hard enough to crack. He drops the cigarette on the pavement, and walks forward two steps. “Can I say goodbye?”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Riko says, and his upper body disappears into the car. Neil follows him in, trying to conceal the way his legs have gone stiff with terror.

In the cab of the car it is just Riko across the expanse of cool leather in the back, and two older men whom Neil doesn’t recognize in the driver’s and passenger’s seats. They peel smoothly out of the parking lot and onto the street.

“They’re expecting me back,” Neil says. One of the men in the front passes Riko an ornate black cane, and he levels it in Neil’s direction.

“I don’t want to hear anything from you until I have finished speaking. In fact, do not talk unless you have been prompted to. I already know everything about you that I care to.”

“I’m at a disadvantage then, since all I know about you is that you are a sadomasochist with the bravado of a much more interesting person.”

Riko raps the cane into the side of Neil’s head with such force that his teeth clatter together and his ears ring.

“I guess pleasantries are over, then,” Neil says.

Riko regards him with distaste. “In another life, perhaps, you could have been an asset. Your father’s reputation precedes him. We might have recruited him if he were as easy to pin down as his son seems to be.”

“What would the yakuza need with another butcher?”

Riko raps him on the hands this time, a warning. “Don’t. Speak.” He watches the redness bloom immediately on Neil’s knuckles with flushed pleasure.

“It would be easy enough to send word to his colleagues and have them at Mr. Hemmick’s front door in a day or two, but I’m not sure that you wouldn’t stir up a mess in the meantime. The publicity from your death could bolster Ausreißer’s success. The disappointment from hearing that you’ve left voluntarily is a boycott and a think-piece away from cutting them off at the knees.”

“You want me to leave the band,” Neil says incredulously.

“Of course,” Riko says.

“I’m aware that you have sway in many circles, but not here,” Neil says. “The people in this studio are inside each other’s pockets more than they’ll ever be in yours. They won’t accept this. They won’t.”

“Your interpersonal connections mean nothing to me. Kevin belongs on my team. Andrew and his monsters have been a nuisance, but you are an insufferable offence.”

“So you’re removing your biggest threat?”

Riko’s lip curls. “I found vermin in my house, and I will return it to the sewers where it was born unless it gets out of my way.”

“Even if you did scare me with your posturing, my hands are tied,” Neil says. “I have a contract. He—they won’t let me go.”

Riko’s expression shifts, sand dunes moving in the blowing wind. “You think the drummer will protect you?”

Neil doesn’t reply. He doesn’t want to betray Andrew’s position. He’s like a pipe bomb in a mailbox or a chess piece in check.

“Oh, Neil. He couldn’t even protect himself.”

“What,” Neil says flatly.

Riko waves the cane in a relaxed circle, like he’s deciding where it should land. “I would have thought that someone with your trust issues would have done better research on the people around you.”

Neil stays silent.

“Andrew was a foster kid, yes? It’s chaotic for kids in those crowded houses. So many mouths to feed. Or fuck, in Andrew’s case. I’m sure it was traumatic for little Andrew to be passed around like that, from bed to bed. No wonder he’s so hot and bothered over our intervention. He knows what it looks like when someone’s overpowering him.“

“You’re lying,” Neil says, thunderstruck.

“Mention Drake Spears to your little bodyguard and see how quickly he loses it. Or better yet, just look up the Minyard trial. Andrew can drink the past away, but he can’t erase it from the news. Drake was a fascinating man. Not that rapists in uniform aren’t common, but to break someone like Andrew in I’m sure takes a little extra finesse.”

Neil lunges for him, and Riko counters a beat too late with the cane. Neil clips his eye, and the cane makes contact with his throat a second later. He splutters and reaches, trying to get a hand around Riko’s throat.

“That’s not true,” Neil’s saying, over and over. He twists the flesh on Riko’s neck, scrabbling at his clavicles, physically pressing him to be honest.

Riko looks annoyed, but not deterred as he holds Neil’s hands at bay. “How did you think he got to be a monster, exactly?”

It knocks the breath out of him. His grip sags. He’s aware suddenly that the car has stopped moving, and that anyone in it could kill and dispose of him without so much as interrupting their day.

“You’re not a monster because of what other people do to you,” Neil says, seething.

“Nonetheless. Leave the band, or one of the other members goes missing,” Riko offers. “I don’t care which, but Andrew is so nicely broken in already.”

Neil’s hand darts for him again, and Riko catches it, bored, cracking it back at the wrist. The door pops open at Neil’s back, and he’s hooked halfway out of the car by one of the other men, forearm screaming with pressure where Riko has him clamped in his fist.

Cool sweat breaks out on his brow from the pain as Riko leans down to face level, nails piercing his skin.

Before he can speak, Neil chokes, “you can’t set Andrew up. I won’t let you.”

Riko looks suddenly fatigued, and he lets Neil go so that he rocks back onto the sidewalk. “The more you underestimate my family’s clout. the more people suffer by our hands. You must understand that I am the only thing keeping any of you alive right now.”

“You’re wrong,” Neil says.

“You’re likely to be dead by summer, Nathaniel,” he says evenly. His eyes are black in the shadow of the open car door.

“That’s not my name.”

“If you want to lose allies and make new enemies in the meantime, it is your choice. But I don’t want to see you on stage again.” He shuts the door quietly between them, and Neil stumbles back several steps, momentum almost overbalancing him.

He watches the SUV depart and thinks of all of the leverage they have over him, how laser focused their will is to scrape Ausreißer off the charts and clip Neil’s loose end. His defiance had almost no affect on them at all. He had rubbed up against Riko’s temper, sure, but it was no harder than squeezing the trigger on a gun that’s already in your hand.

He squints distractedly at the studio several metres behind him, the bustle of midday spilling through the streets. The pleasant murmur of a city heralding in the end of Neil’s life.

He keeps thinking, if Riko knew about Neil’s past, he had no reason to lie about Andrew’s.

He keeps thinking, how could he be stupid enough to imagine that he had the biggest secret in the band — like Andrew wasn’t writing him a roadmap with songs, like his past wasn’t melted down and repurposed into lyrics.

He thinks, the target on his back just swallowed everything and everyone around him.

He thinks, I have to talk to Andrew.

______

He can’t bring himself to go back inside and excuse himself from rehearsal. There’s no explanation that they would accept without also understanding that he’s dragged them all down into danger with him.

He let them believe that his problems weren’t active case files and bleeding wounds. He pretended that he could broadcast his voice and maybe the music would be so sacred that no one would come looking for him.

Neil takes the bus home, scraping together spare change from his pocket. He finds his key while he searches, and his heart sinks. When he’s slouched in an aisle seat, he looks down at the shape of his hands, the grit under his nails, the old slice across his pinky, and the key nested in the intersecting lines of his palm.

Rain starts to patter against the window, blurring the colourful shapes of people outside who were hopeful enough to dress for much warmer weather.

He whirs with anxiety, searching for an out so desperately that it becomes a physical act, a shaking and a sweating. He should leave the city while he can still bear to. He owes it to everyone at Palmetto studio to take such a volatile element out of their equation.

It used to be his favourite solution when things turned ugly, dumping his life and name and letting a car carry him to a new one. The ritual of dying his hair and popping in lenses always felt charged with possibility.

Now he can’t let himself consider it. The idea of never seeing Dan or Wymack or Nicky or any of them again, of abandoning his deal with Andrew and dropping his new key into the nearest storm drain — it’s different now.

They were the first people to squint past his face-paint and recognize him as a lost kid. They gave him a key and a home with a locking door and passed him a microphone with the name he chose taped onto the handle. They gave him all sorts of contracts, but most important was the unspoken one that, for a minute, looked like friendship.

He gets back to the house two hours ahead of schedule, but it still feels too late. He thinks about letting himself in but suddenly can’t stand the thought of walking into the home that he’s about to ruin.

He knocks and steps down onto the second stair to give himself some distance. After a minute, someone stirs inside, and then there’s a thumping of footsteps, and the whine of the screen door.

Andrew stares down at him through the mist of rainwater.

“You have a key, don’t you?” he says. Neil looks up into his wan face, studying the way he’s holding himself up with the door, washed out in the bleak light from outside. Neil climbs warily to the top step, feeling a lived-in sadness settle into him.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Got it in one,” Andrew says, smiling with one half of his face. “So very very perceptive all the time.”

It’s such bad timing that Neil laughs, then holds a trembling hand over his mouth. “I can’t have this conversation when you’re like this,” he says.

“Which conversation is that?” Andrew asks sharply. “Do be precise.”

“I need you sober,” Neil insists.

“You don’t need me anything,” he sneers.

“I’m making you coffee. And then we have to talk about the Moriyamas.”

Andrew looks immediately more alert. His hand slips from the door, and Neil just barely catches it before it closes on him.

“Why are you back early?” Andrew asks slowly. Neil closes his eyes.

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I came.” He should be hitchhiking over state lines. He should be in someone’s truck bed with the rain in his hair. He should be using the cold to forget what warmth feels like.

“Not a good enough answer,” Andrew says. He steps backwards into the entryway and turns, calling “keep trying” over his shoulder. Neil follows him solemnly, nudging the doors closed at his back. He steps out of his shoes while Andrew disappears silently into the kitchen.

When he rounds the corner, Andrew’s sitting on top of the dinky round table by the window, legs crossed beneath him. His cigarettes and lighter are at his side, and a bottle of Smirnoff is open on the chair behind him.

Neil moves towards the coffee maker, but Andrew snaps his fingers at him.

“Tell me why you left recording, no non-answers s’il vous plait,” he says. Neil hesitates, then climbs quietly up onto the table across from him, boosting himself with one socked foot on the cushion of a chair. Andrew looks surprised and red-eyed as Neil settles in, knee to knee.

He swallows thickly. “I have to leave.”

“You just got here,” Andrew points out.

“I have to leave the band,” Neil explains.

He waves this off. “Oh, no, I’m pretty sure we have our contractual claws in you, Neil Josten.”

“There are people, more now than ever, who have… more deadly claws in me.”

Andrew taps his lower lip thoughtfully. “Is it claws though, or is it talons? I know how the Moriyamas enjoy their raven motifs.”

“Riko’s threatening the band.”

“What’s new?” Andrew says.

Everything, he wants to say. Everything’s reaching a new and chilling level of dangerous.

“He stopped me on the street,” Neil says quietly. There’s a hand on his jaw immediately, turning his face towards the overhead light fixture. Neil lets his eyes unfocus in the harsh light. Andrew puts a finger to the bruise from the cane Riko was borrowing. “It’s fine.”

“You will be fine up until the moment that you’re dead,” Andrew spits, one hand moving to inspect Neil’s tender wrist.

“I’m fine if I can walk away,” Neil argues. “I’m okay if I stand up and move on, and that’s what I need to do here.”

“You took some heat from Riko and now you want to run away,” Andrew extrapolates. “Which is great, except you told me you weren’t ready to give up our deal.”

“I kind of assumed all deals were null and void in the event of a deadly threat.”

Andrew uses his leverage on Neil’s chin to tilt their faces close together. “I,” he says, “am a deadly threat. Riko is a little boy playing with his father’s knives.”

Neil flinches at his phrasing, shaking his head. “He has connections I can’t begin to understand. He told me things about my past, about yours—“

“Did he?” Andrew interrupts. His voice is the kind of inescapable cold that turns all of your exposed skin red, then blue, then black.

Neil tries to turn his face out of Andrew’s grip, and the pressure on him is immediately lifted. “Who’s Drake Spears?” he asks.

“Oh,” Andrew breathes, and then he laughs. “A dead man. Aaron’s gift to me.”

Neil’s face goes lax with surprise. “He killed him?”

“We like to keep our violence in the family,” Andrew says, smiling again, joyless. “Or rather, they did. We ended the cycle.”

“So Riko wasn’t lying about what happened to you,” Neil says slowly.

Andrew takes his cigarettes in one hand and shuffles them against the tabletop for a long moment. “Unlike you, Riko doesn’t always think that lying is in his best interest. It’s not one of his favourite sins.”

Neil stews in this revelation for a moment, trying to outlast the directionless rage streaking through him.

“I wish I’d known, before.”

“Why? So we could waste our time excusing ourselves in miserable circles for things that other people did to us? So I could explain to you what all of my scars mean and make you feel better about yours?”

“So I could have killed him myself,” Neil says fiercely. Andrew eyes him steadily. The rain picks up outside, and Neil can see it coming in through the window cracked over the sink.

“Is that supposed to impress me?”

“It’s not supposed to mean anything to you. It’s just the truth,” Neil says. “If I can’t kill my own demons, I—would’ve liked to kill yours.”

“Much too late for that,” Andrew shrugs. “Not too late to stay here with us. If Riko threatens you out of the band on his first try, then you’re not as tenacious as I thought you were.”

“I’m afraid,” Neil says, “that someone else will suffer for my pride.”

“It’s not pride, it’s trust,” Andrew says, and then his face clouds over like he’s sobering up, remembering himself. “In case you’ve forgotten since I reminded you two minutes ago, we have a deal. Protection for participation.”

He shouldn’t believe that this volatile, five foot nothing stage performer could rebuff the yakuza, but he does. He can’t look at Andrew’s eery, wavering certainty without wanting badly to trust him.

“Right,” Neil agrees, feeling hours-old tension ebb out of his shoulders. He came here, he realizes, knowing that Andrew would give him a reason to stay. “I’ll wait it out. But you have to promise me that you’ll watch your back.”

Andrew shakes his head and pulls a cigarette from the pack. “He can’t touch me,” he says, flicking his lighter open. His eyes are hazy as he props one hand up and smokes on autopilot. Neil’s not certain that he knows for sure who Andrew’s talking about anymore.

The tour isn’t for another couple of weeks. He can keep his face out of the news and slog his way through all of this new information, maybe turn over a solution somewhere in the muck. At the very least, he can spend these final weeks pretending that he’s not afraid of the dark at the end of the tunnel where the rest of his life should be.

______

It’s the bark, not the bite

the prelude to a fight

the gleam of bared teeth

when they catch the low light

the revving beneath

the thought that you might

with the last of your breath

get our ending right

Neil turns the demo down on the car radio, embarrassed, and Dan grins at him from the driver’s seat.

“That’s a sexy little lyric.”

“Shut up,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“I like the weird synth in the background, that’s baller,” Matt pipes up from behind them.

Nicky groans. “Don’t tell Kevin that, he thought he was a fucking genius for stringing together six notes by ear.”

Dan laughs brightly, easing onto the freeway that’ll carry them out of the city.

Their album was released at midnight, and they’ve spent the morning watching the charts and listening to Nicky read out reviews as they were published, waiting to see if they’d be rejected or absorbed into the musical bloodstream.

It was exhilarating to see the finished product saturating their little corner of music culture, to watch people forming opinions, and to pop up in playlists and news feeds. Someone had already posted a guitar cover of one of their tracks before noon.

Neil watched the locked door of their house and hoped furiously that Riko wouldn’t take this new music as defiance and show up to drag him away. Foxes had shown up instead, with congratulatory champagne and a novelty card for Neil that read “baby’s first album”.

Both Ausreißer and Foxes were scheduled to take the weekend off before they’re all launched into promotions and tours on opposite coasts. Dan had suggested a Palmetto-wide retreat to lake Jocassee, and Neil had jumped at the opportunity to dodge the pressure from the Moriyamas and corral everyone out of harms way.

“This is going to be such a rowdy time,” Nicky says, chin tucked onto the shoulder of Neil’s chair. “I can’t believe you convinced Andrew to come.”

“Yeah, what the hell,” Matt says. “How did you manage that?”

Neil shrugs. “I asked.”

“Oh, you asked,” Dan says, nose scrunching under her sunglasses. “Do you know how long we were playing nice with the monsters before you showed up?”

“Neil’s got that magic touch,” Nicky says.

“Just how magic a touch are we talking?” Matt asks slyly.

“Don’t,” Neil warns.

“He won’t let us bet on them,” Nicky complains. “He’s just like, not fun.”

“It’s bewildering to me that you clowns are wasting your time when we all know who Andrew’s into,” Dan says. She keeps talking, and Neil hears Renee’s name, but he’s uninterested in the direction the conversation is taking. He looks distractedly out at the sun-split highway.

He thinks of how quiet the other car must be, stacked with supplies, caught in that constant vortex of tension between the twins, plus Kevin with his headphones on as always. Or what Renee and Allison talk about, tucked into Allison’s baby-pink convertible, the wind catching their bleached hair.

“Damn, are they passing us already?” Nicky asks, and Neil looks back in time to notice the massive shape of the van swerving past on their left. He catches the tail end of Aaron flipping them off, and Nicky laughs, craning into the front to return the gesture.

“They left like half an hour later than us, what the hell,” Dan says, revving a little, reluctant to fall behind.

“Andrew’s driving,” Neil says. The van jolts awkwardly into the lane in front of them, and Neil smiles as it streaks ahead. “They’ll beat us by a mile.”

“If they don’t crash first,” Dan grumbles.

“Look at it this way — if it’s not that, it’ll just be some other disaster,” Matt says. “That’s what you sign up for with the monsters.”

“You say disaster, I say a great time. Am I right, Neil?” Nicky asks, flicking at his shoulder to get his attention.

“I’m staying impartial.”

“You literally can not fool me,” Nicky says, affronted. “You love having an opinion.”

“He doesn’t want to incur your wrath by agreeing with us,” Dan teases, winking sideways at him.

“My wrath? This is the guy who taunted Riko Moriyama on sight, and you think he’s afraid of me?”

“We all are,” Matt says solemnly, and Nicky socks him in the arm.

They keep bickering, but Neil mostly tunes them out. A song that he helped write is still playing at half volume from the sound system, rounded out by Kevin’s deft bass solo. The car is warm enough to lull him to sleep, and he can see the rest of the Ausreißer crew fading into the scorched horizon ahead.

______

They arrive in staggered bursts to a spacious cabin, swallowed in overhanging trees on all sides. It’s two stories high, with a broad, wrap-around porch — courtesy of Allison’s string-pulling.

The twins are sharing a bench when they pull up, talking seriously, and Neil has to squint to make sure he’s seeing them correctly. Three hours in a car together and against all odds they’re still sharing space.

No one bothered to unpack the van, so Neil keeps himself busy by hopping into the back and pulling out duffel bags. Allison and Renee arrive soon after with coolers full of booze and perishables, and by the time everything has been lugged inside, there are three guitars propped up and abandoned in the foyer.

It’s surprisingly easy, once all of them are talking at once. Kevin drinks enough to stay loose, which always seems to relax Aaron in turn. The girls sit on the floor of the dining room while Matt unpacks groceries. Nicky chatters about getting everyone hammered so they can play “sweet, genre-fucked music” together. Someone lights a joint, and it makes the rounds.

Neil hops up on the kitchen counter, and Andrew leans against the fridge beside him.

Neil relaxes at the sight of him. “Aren’t you glad you came?” he asks, a little louder than he intended. He can sense the others pretending not to eavesdrop, their conversation dropping and then starting back up again, overly bright.

“Remains to be seen,” he replies.

“You were talking to Aaron,” he says. Andrew stares passively back at him. “I’ve never seen you speak one on one like that.”

“It was a long drive.”

Neil hesitates. “Did you tell him—“

“Andrew,” Nicky calls. “I’m comin’ through with groceries, can you free up the fridge?”

Andrew moves wordlessly aside, and then all the way out of the room. Neil watches him go with a dull sort of disappointment. For someone who is so frequently difficult to parse, Andrew is such an obvious font of honesty and clarity that speaking to him sometimes feels like an antidote to his own lies.

“Come on, Neil,” Renee trills. “We’re talking about the collab.”

“I want to hear the track,” Kevin says.

“You want to critique it,” Neil counters, wandering closer.

Dan throws a hand out towards him. “Exactly!”

“I think I have a right to know how you’re utilizing my lead singer.”

“Oh jesus, Kevin’s going to start talking about music theory, isn’t he?” Allison says. “I’m gonna need to drink so much more.” Dan cracks up, passing her a mickey of spiced rum.

“We all do,” she agrees, raising a full bottle in toast. “It’s a Palmetto tradition. Work hard, play hard.”

“Thanks coach,” Matt snorts.

“C’mon, bring it in.” They all tilt bottles together, some of them unopened, eyes rolling. Neil can see Andrew watching from the next room, and when they drink, he takes a drag from his cigarette.

______

Neil drinks too much.

He’d half planned on it, but his stomach is empty and his anxiety is just barely held down by sobriety, and it all gets to him so fast. His elbows keep chafing against other people’s, and his fear keeps blinking back at him from between branches outside and through passing headlights and in his own reflection.

They’re all seven or eight drinks deep when someone brings out a guitar, and then it’s a chaos of bad singing that coasts into real singing, someone upstairs laughing hysterically with someone else, someone on the porch with a bong.

He likes how it feels, the old safety of staying numb, like the back of the bars where nobody knows you, so you don’t have to bother to know yourself, and there’s nothing to be afraid of except the throb of a hangover at the end of the night.

But it’s different, now. Dan gets in close and thumbs both his cheeks, and Allison puts little, almost undetectable braids in his hair. Matt tells him how happy he is that they’re all together over and over again. The longer Neil looks over at Andrew the more he’s aware that he’s looking for something that isn’t there.

Nicky looks solemnly into his eyes in the bathroom mirror and asks to see his tongue piercing. There’s a strange moment, when he opens his mouth, where he thinks Nicky might grab him by the tongue.

“Come here, come here, come here,” someone says, and Neil looks at Allison’s reflection where she’s hanging in through the doorway. “Convince Andrew to play us something.”

“I can’t,” Neil’s mouth says. He tries again. “He won’t.”

“He does whatever you want,” Nicky says, looking much too serious.

“You—no,” Neil says. “You guys ask for whatever you want. I ask what he wants.“

“Whatever,” Allison says. “Semantics. Come out here.”

Nicky puts his hands briefly on Neil’s hips to sidle by into the hallway, and he and Allison chatter all the way back to the sitting room. Neil looks blearily at his reflection. His hair is so long now, it softens the angles of his father’s features. Makes his eyes look less painfully blue. He blinks, and breathes, and tries to think about nothing.

His feet carry him out to the rest of them. Dan cheers when he enters the room. She’s so flushed, and even though she’s sitting, Matt’s holding her steady.

Andrew’s sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, his posture relaxed, lips wet, drink in hand. Neil walks as steadily as he can to his side. The room goes nearly silent.

“Will you play something?”

Andrew looks up at him flatly. “Why would I?”

“I want to hear you sing,” Neil admits.

“And?” He takes a sip of his drink.

Neil shrugs. “I’ll trade you something for it,” he offers.

After a long moment, Andrew says “I’m not interested.”

“I know you’ve been writing new lyrics,” he says softly.

Andrew watches him for a minute, then nods towards the place where his notebook is sitting unassumingly on the coffee table. “Then sing them yourself.”

Neil considers this. He retrieves the book and holds it in both hands, giving Andrew time to back out. He doesn’t, and someone breathes out behind him.

“Okay,” Neil says. “Fine.”

He flips to the centre and finds blank pages, then beyond that, two that are flush with words and annotations. There are chords written out for four more pages after that, and then just scores and scores of melodies and poems and the lucky places where they meet.

He thumbs through songs he recognizes and new, title-less ones, still standing, everyone watching his search with interest.

He comes to a page near the back with the title burn this, and it reads:

Hands off never used to be a bad thing

It would be better if I never heard you sing

I know it’s winter, you can’t tell me that it’s spring

I want you without wanting anything.

Then a few lines are scratched out before the next fragmented stanza. Neil looks up into Andrew’s face, and he’s already staring back, eyebrows hitched so, so slightly together.

Neil crosses the room, and wrestles a little portable synth out of his bag, carrying it over to the couch. Some of the members of Foxes ‘ooh’ dramatically.

He nudges it on, cracks his knuckles, and toggles a couple of switches. He holds the book open on his knee, and starts to arpeggiate the suggested chords that Andrew’s written above each line.

He sings, improvising the melody, those first four lines and then —

It was too easy not to feel

when the drugs still told me you weren’t real

I always knew you were here to steal

We started this, me back on my heels

and you—beneath me.

There’s more, but Neil can’t bring himself to keep singing. His throat sticks and his vision goes spotty.

“Kind of a bummer,” Matt says.

“I think it’s pretty,” Dan says softly.

“Hard to believe the monster wrote it,” Allison says.

“You must know by now that we can write good lyrics,” Kevin says, irritated.

Aaron says something, but Neil’s still stuck staring down at the words on the page. Something is angrily crossed out in the second stanza, just completely struck through, unreadable. He feels remarkably sober all of the sudden, and he trudges to the precipice of an understanding so large that he has to step away from it, or he’s sure it’ll call him down to his death.

Andrew stands, somewhere in the field of Neil’s vision, and lets himself out onto the porch.

“Whoops,” Matt says, when the door closes behind him. “Do you think we took it too far?”

“He offered the book up,” Allison points out.

“To me,” Neil says.

“Well, yeah, but I think ‘sing them yourself’ was pretty self explanatory,” Dan says, missing the point. “So are we supposed to know who that was about?”

Neil stands, and the synth slides off his lap and into the crease between couch cushions. He walks to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of water, downing it all. Then another. He tries to remember exactly what the lyrics said and finds himself less and less certain.

For the second time that week, he thinks, knees knocking with terrible anticipation, I have to talk to Andrew.

______

He finds him curled on the bench outside, drenched in the yellow light from an exposed bulb, still nursing the same whiskey from before. He looks up with what Neil now recognizes as carefully tailored interest.

“Why does Nicky think that you’ll do whatever I ask?” he asks, voice wavering.

Andrew taps his fingers erratically on the rim of his glass. “Presumably because your track record has been good so far.”

“That doesn’t really answer my question.”

Andrew’s lips purse. “Then ask a new question.”

“Fine. I’ll play,” Neil says. “What was that song about?”

“It was about wanting something that I can’t have.”

“I didn’t think you wanted anything.”

“No,” Andrew agrees. “Except maybe to see if you sound as good in bed as you do on stage.”

Neil sits down, hard. He’s half-surprised when gravity still works, and the wicker footstool catches his weight.

“You like me,” he says weakly.

“Not really,” Andrew replies, expressionless. “Want and dislike are not mutually exclusive.”

Neil dry swallows a couple of times. He thinks of their eyes connecting darkly in a bathroom mirror, Andrew’s fingertips gliding over his scars, the passenger seat left open for him, his mouth and then Andrew’s on the same flask. He thinks of lyrics on their own album about running and lying and wanting without taking, and he remembers the deal that has kept him upright and safe and sane for so long.

Andrew’s amused interest when he’s high, the cryptic things that Nicky said to him on the night they met, the conversations where he gives away his secrets but doesn’t feel like he’s losing anything, it all completely restructures in his head.

He’s dizzy, still drunk, one foot in the reality where he was little more than a hindrance to Andrew, and the other in one where he writes songs about how much he wants him.

“You didn’t tell me,” Neil says dumbly. “You never said.”

Andrew shrugs. “There’s no point,” he says. “I’ve thought about it. Written about it. But I know better.”

“Okay,” Neil says, even though it’s not. Andrew shifts in his seat, and Neil watches his broad hands, his shiny lower lip, his squared shoulders. The night chirps and smokes with faraway firewood, pitch dark beyond the line separating the porch from the wilderness. Andrew might be the brightest thing for a thousand miles. “Okay,” he says again, but this time it splits in his mouth, and he reaches for Andrew’s face.

#the boys are back in town and emotionally? they're doin bad #aftg #the foxhole court #andreil #tfc fanfic #rockband au #abuse tw #violence tw #drugs tw #this one is a bit of a rollercoaster tbh #sorry if this is kinda poorly edited I've been at this for hours and gd hours #mine #philosophium #ask #long post

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emotionally-imbruised · 5 years

Text

Late Nights

What happens when you get asked to write a certain concept, but have no idea what to do?.... You collab with someone as lovely as @hestylesno and create something like this mess. Enjoy.

This is a dom!Harry blurb.... or is ittttttttt

The obnoxious beep of the microwave indicating the bag of popcorn you just put in the appliance a couple of minutes ago, causes you to jump and snap out of the little faze you’d just found yourself in. You push yourself away from leaning against the doorway between the kitchen and living room to turn around, and glance at the machine; only to whip back around when you hear someone snickering from behind.

“Can I help you with something, Harry?” You ask your boyfriend of two months sassily, and scowl as he finishes bringing up the list of rom-com movies on Netflix for the two of you to choose from for your little movie night.

“Nope,” he responds, and shakes his head; letting out a few more chuckles, as you roll your eyes dramatically, and let out a huff. “Oh get off it Y/N, you were staring at me.”

“I was not staring,” you scoff, and place a hand to your chest defensively. “... I was waiting for you to pick something for us to watch.”

“Uh huh,” he replies with a smirk, and saunters over to you; leaning down to place a soft peck on you lips. “Weren't you the one threatening me by saying, and I quote; ‘I’ll dump your ass if you don't let me choose the movie this time,’ hmm?”

“You know I wouldn’t actually do that,” you groan, and his smirk widens as he leans down for another kiss. “But knowing you, we’d probably be watching ‘Love Actually’... Again.”

You deny him the kiss, and move away from him to go grab the popcorn; sending him a teasing glance as you go. “W-what do you have against Love Actually?” He stammers in disbelief, and follows after you with a pout on his face. “That’s m’favourite movie you know.”

“Oh you don’t have to tell me,” you respond jokingly, as you pour the freshly popped snack into a bowl for the two of you to share. “Believe me, I know.”

He goes to say something else, but stops himself when your phone dings with a new notification from bedside him on the counter; his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he glances down at the lit up screen. “Who’s Josh?”

“Josh?” You ask slightly confused, but then remember who he’s referring to.

“Yeah. Josh,” he answers grumpily, and looks away; making sure to not make eye contact with you. “You’ve got five missed messages from him, and a missed call.”

“Jesus,” you groan, and walk over to him in a huff. You pick up the phone, and roll your eyes at the missed notifications; becoming slightly annoyed with Josh at this point for not taking a hint, before looking back to Harry’s enticing green eyes. “Josh is my ex. No point in not telling you, because there’s literally nothing going on between him and I... He wasn't too thrilled when I told him I was seeing someone new, and wasn't interested.”

A small smile tugs at his lips as you tell him this, and he’s quick in smoothly snaking an arm around your waist; pulling you in for that kiss you’d just made him work for. “Good,” he mumbles against your lips, and you smile at the tingly sensation. “Now what do you say we get this movie night started, huh bub?”

“Lead the way,” you tell him as he grabs the bowl, and makes way back into the living room; you following right behind.

An hour or so into the movie, your phone hasn’t stopped going off with texts from Josh, and Harry is more than annoyed. He hasn’t said anything about it, but you keep sneaking glances at his scowling expression from where he’s cuddled up behind you with his arms wrapped protectively around your middle, and just know it’s bugging him. You find how jealous he’s acting kind of cute, but rather than addressing the issue at hand, you decide showing him how Josh means nothing to you anymore may work out a bit better.

You don’t say anything as you turn in his hold so you can face him, and look up at him longingly, even with his questioning gaze. “What’re you doin-.” He starts to ask, but you’re quick in tugging on his hoodie, and pulling him towards you until your lips meet his in a heated kiss. A moment later you’s pull away from each other to catch your breath, and he smiles while still looking at you questionably. “Wha’ was that for?”

“So you’d stop worrying about Josh,” you tell him as he leans in to meet your lips with his again.

“M’not-,” he begins but is cut off by you again… Not that he minds though, he’s a pretty big fan of the feeling of your lips pressed against his and no one else’s.

The two of you start making out, and it soon becomes pretty heated. This isn’t a new feeling, you’s have actually found yourselves in a similar position many times before, but nothing else after that. It seems like an endless cycle; you’s cuddle, then kiss, then make out, then… Harry seems to pull away. As if not wanting to push you into anything more than just a heated make out session with the two of you’s grinding on each other.

The noticeable bulge you feel rub against your leg let’s you know that he’s craving more just as much as you are, yet he doesn’t make a move to do anything else. Instead, he let’s you continue tugging on his sweater as you lean down onto the couch; pulling him with you so he hovers over top of you all without breaking the kiss. A small gutsy part of you makes itself known as you find yourself trailing your hand down his chest, along his stomach, and down further until you can feel his hardening member in your palm. A moan escapes your lips as you squeeze him a little bit… But then he pulls away.

And you look at him with uncertainty bestowed in your coloured eyes. Why’d he pull away? Thinking it’s just a one second fad, your lips return to his and he doesn’t pull away this time. It’s you. Because the way his hands are gliding smoothly just doesn’t feel right.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that while you were in your past relationships, your boyfriends were the ones who were dominating. Always making the moves first and being on top, so Harry not doing much and accepting his current position, did make you wonder.

"Are you okay?“ You ask, lips slightly swollen from the make out session. Before he can give you a reply, you’re off again. "You haven’t really moved much and I dunno, I just thought you’d be on top by now.” You ramble on awkwardly, the situation and enquiry allowing you to freeze on him.

You expect Harry to wave away your question and distract you by his hand returning to the back of your head so he can bring you into a breathless kiss. Yet he doesn’t. All he does is cover his arm over his eyes, his cheeks darkening as he mutters something under his breath. “What? I didn’t hear you.” You utter, puzzled and cautious over what he might have said. Urging him on.

His raspy voice has never endeared you any more than it has in this moment of time.“I’m a sub, like, I guess I like being told what to do."

At Harry’s confession, fireworks appear to go off outside of his house and it’s hard for you to stifle a laugh. It should be Bonfire Night but with him revealing his secret, it seems as if the whole of England is celebrating that he’s not dominant in bed.

"What?” He whines, cheeks flushing and nose scrunching as he covers his face with his hands, both palms placed on his chin. “Stop laughing, ’s not funny. S'not my fault I’m submissive."

And you continue laughing - not because of him pouting - but because the fireworks hadn’t stopped since. You trail your fingers over his hand and pluck them away from his face, your laughter coming to an end, but he’s so insistent to keep himself hidden that you don’t know what to do.

"You should be happy I’m a sub in this world, because I know I’m a Dom in another world.” Harry argues, angling his head to the side so he can hide it into the woolen pillow. “And if I was a Dom, oooh, darling,” Harry let out a groan, finally uncovering his face,“I’d fuck you through the night."

"Thank the heavens you’re submissive.” You sarcastically mutter as he kinks a brow as he looks at you offended. Bottom lip jutting out.

“You know you love me as a sub, you could do whatever to me … Like tie me up in bed.”

#collab #writing collab #hestylesno #harry styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles concept #harry styles drabble #harry styles blurb #harry styles fluff #harry styles smut #harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fanfic

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67-chevy-baby · 5 years

Text

I’ll Show You

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Rating: 18+ ONLY!!!!

Tags: Angst, Arguments, Bondage, BDSM, Praise Kink, Fingering (female receiving), Oral (male receiving), Throat-fucking, Unprotected sex (WRAP IT UP KIDS!), Begging (obviously), Fluffy ending, Language, and I think that’s it. HEED THE WARNINGS PLEASE!

Betas: @winecatsandpizza

Word Count: 3.6k

Fic Aesthetic: Yours Truly

Written for: @thehoneybeecastielfollows Elliana’s 400 Followers Fanciful Fluff Challenge and it also fills my Begging Square for @spnkinkbingo 2018

Prompt - #7: “You couldn’t handle me if I came with a user manual!”

From the moment you met Sam and Dean Winchester, you’d known your life was about to change. Be it bad or good was hard to determine, mainly because of what they did for a living, but a little part of it had to do with the fact that the elder of the two brothers didn’t seem to like you. You couldn’t put your finger on it. Anytime he exchanged words with you, it was always cold and dismissive. Sam assured you that his brother would come around, but you weren’t born yesterday. Dean had something against you, and you, being the stubborn woman you were, aimed to figure it out.

The three of you were sitting in the library sifting through lore for a case. There had apparently been reports of a Djinn hybrid in the midwest, and you knew it had to be the work of Michael. Dean had his feet propped up on the table, a rather large dusty book in his hands. Sam was typing away on his laptop, the clicking of the keys being the only audible sound other than the occasional page turn. You knew that finding a way to kill the latest and greatest monster of the week was what you should be doing, but you couldn’t focus. Not when this whole thing with Dean was eating at you.

“I can’t do this anymore!” The book you’d been holding was thrown carelessly onto the table, the sound reverberating off the walls making both brothers jump.

Dean removed his boot-covered feet off the tabletop and planted them on the floor. You didn’t miss how his eyebrows knitted into a scowl or his signature eyeroll. “Giving up already, Y/N? You know, if the huntin’ life isn’t cut out for you, then you can see yourself out anytime.”

Sam sighed and gave Dean his best bitch face. “Dean! Whatever is going on with Y/N, I can assure you that you’re not helping!” He turned his gaze to you, his hazel eyes looking at you sympathetically. You’d normally just keep your anger bottled up inside, but something inside you snapped. Being a hunter meant everything to you after a demon killed your kid sister, and for Dean to question your loyalty like that had crossed a line. Your anger started to rise within you, like a sea of molten lava until you were no longer in control of your emotions.

Instead of storming off to your room and slamming the door for good measure like you normally would do, you stood and yanked the book Dean was reading out of his hand. You were gnashing your teeth together in such a snarl that it was a miracle they didn’t break. “You think you’re so fucking smug, don’t you Winchester? You think you’re this big badass and that nothing can touch you. Well, let me tell you something.” Your small hand grabbed onto the front of his shirt, bunching it up between your fingers as you got dangerously close to his face. “You don’t fucking scare me in the least bit!” The venom in your tone was palpable and with a hard push of your free hand, he and the chair went crashing to the floor.

Without giving him a chance to fire an insult back, you headed into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. You could hear Dean’s muffled voice as he spat angrily in response to his brother’s laughs. It only made the smirk on your face wider. Maybe now Dean will show you some respect.

The rest of the night was pretty quiet. You stayed in your room, scouring the internet for a way to kill the monster in question, and munched on some popcorn. The research came easily to you, your eyes scanning effortlessly through article after article. Even though you still hadn’t found a weapon to kill this Djinn on steroids, you knew your efforts would make Sam proud.

You felt his presence before he knew you did. He loomed in the doorway, leaning against it like it was the only thing keeping him from falling. “Can I help you, Dean?” You didn’t even bother to stop reading the article you’d found. He was probably just here to start something with you, and you had neither the time nor the energy to fight. Instead of replying, he pushed off the doorframe and stalked towards you, his shadow spreading across you and your keyboard.

You knew he was waiting for you to look at him, but you honestly didn’t feel like giving him the satisfaction. Why should you? He’d been nothing but an ass to you since you moved in. So instead of giving him what he wanted, you continued to read.

Apparently, Dean got tired of not having your attention because the next thing you knew, he’d taken your laptop and tossed it on your pile of dirty laundry in the corner. He crossed his arms over his chest, his jaw clenching as he looked down at you. “What the hell do you want, Dean? I’m trying to find a way to kill that fucking Djinn. You’re not still pissed about me putting you on your ass, are you? I mean, you kind o-HEY! LET ME GO!”

In one swift motion, he’d pulled you to your feet and shoved you against the wall. Dean’s chest heaved and his nostrils flared as he towered over you with his full height. “You don’t fucking get it, do you Y/N?” His forearm pressed into your chest, not hard enough to hurt you, but firmly enough to hold you in place.

Even at your disadvantage you still stood your ground. Your eyes narrowed perilously, certain that if looks could kill then Dean would have been done for. “Oh, you think I don’t get it?! Trust me, Dean. I think I get exactly what you’re doing. Ever since I came here, you’ve been nothing but hostile to me! It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it? You think just because I’m a woman that I can’t hold my own. Well, I’ve got news for you, Dean Winchester. I can do the job just as good as you any day of the fucking year!”

You were so caught up in getting your point across that you hadn’t noticed the amused look on his face. His laugh filled the small room as he let go of you. Tears streamed down his face as he hunched over, and it pissed you off that he thought this was amusing.

Finally, he swiped his sleeve over his eyes and took a few deep breaths to regain his composure. “Is that what you think? You really think I’m a dick to you because you’re a woman? Oh my God… I thought you of all people would at least get it.” He sighed and ran a hand across his face. “Look, Y/N, It’s not because you’re a woman. Hell, some of the greatest hunters I know are women. I’m trying to protect you! I don’t want you to go through what Sammy and I have gone through. You’ve already lost one family member, and I’ll be damned if you lose your life, too. Just… Let Sammy and I handle the hunts okay? You can hold down the fort here in the Bunker and be our research guru. That I know you can handle.”

It was your turn to laugh. “What do you know about handling anything? You could barely handle that case with the nest of nearly invincible vampires. What makes you think you can just walk in here and tell me what I can and can’t deal with? I mean, as long as we are on the topic, Let’s just be honest with ourselves, shall we? You couldn’t handle me if I came with a user manual!”

The look on Dean’s face darkened. It sent heat straight to your core, something that you could almost always control when it came to the elder brother. Normally, his asshole demeanor outweighed him being the sexiest man you’d ever laid eyes on. You swallowed thickly as he invaded your space again. His once sparkling green eyes now clouded with something new, something you’d only seen him offer to the occasional stripper or hooker that he brought back to the hotel. “Are you challenging me, Y/N?”

You tried to hide the fact that he was having an effect on you, but your flushed skin and rapid heartbeat betrayed you. Your answer came easily, and the submissive part of you that lay dormant for so long surfaced like a rekindled flame. “Yes.”

Dean brought one of his hands up to your face and cradled your cheek in it, the touch alone sent sparks through your veins. His freckles were so easy to see this close. Constellations mapped the entirety of his cheeks, and you briefly wondered if he had them elsewhere. Your eyes flicked from his intense gaze down to his lips, silently willing him to close the small gap between you and devour your mouth. “Now now, Y/N, is that any way to talk to me? I think you know better. Yes what, sweetheart?”

You looked down at your bare feet, Y/E/C eyes focusing on the remnants of the chipped polish on some of your toenails. Your mind contemplated what was about to happen. You could still back out of this, push him out of the way and run. That wouldn’t solve anything though. Running from your deepest desires, from Dean, was what you’d essentially been doing for months. It was now or never and quite frankly you wanted to give in. You wanted him to have full control over you, and you’d dreamed about it more than you’d like to admit. “Y-Yes, Sir.”

Two of his fingers rested underneath your chin, raising it so you were looking up at him. “Good girl.” His praise was the first nice thing he’d ever said to you, and you’d be lying if it didn’t make your heart sing. His lips closed the distance and pressed against your own hungrily. His tongue slid into your awaiting mouth and you moaned sinfully. He tasted of cinnamon and whiskey, just like you’d always imagined. Dean broke the kiss and touched his forehead against yours, his hands coming to rest in the curvature of your waist. “Go to my room, Y/N. I want you to be stripped and kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed before I get back. Do you understand?” Your response was immediate. Almost like a reflex, as it left your lips in a whisper. “Yes, Sir.”

He watched you leave the confines of your room before heading the opposite way. Your feet padded down the hallway and came to a stop outside the closed door of Dean’s room. It had been years since you’d been a sub, and even then they hadn’t exuded as much dominance as Dean had just moments ago. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you entered his room and closed the door behind you. The smell of his cologne wrapped itself around you like a hug. The familiar scent calmed your nerves instantly and soon you found yourself naked and kneeling at the foot of the bed just as you had been told to do.

Dean came in a few minutes later and set what sounded like something heavy on top of his dresser. You didn’t dare look up though. He hadn’t given you permission, and you wanted to show him that you could be good and obey him. “Look at you, doing what you’re told like a good little girl. See? I knew you could do this. I bet you’re soaking wet already, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Once again his fingers came to rest under your chin, tilting your head so you were looking up at him through your lashes. “Get on the bed.” He wasn’t mean about it, but his tone was firm and laced with an underlying warning of consequence if you disobeyed. Swifty and quietly you climbed onto the comforter and resumed your kneeling position. Dean walked around to the other side of you and sat down. He was still fully clothed, but you could clearly see his erection tenting his slacks. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s talk about the rules. You are to address me as sir, and only sir. Don’t cum until I tell you to, and if you ever feel uncomfortable with something that I am doing, then please use the safeword ‘cake’. Do you understand?

Hearing that your safeword was cake confused you at first, but when you thought about it for a moment it made sense. Dean was a pie fanatic. Especially if it was pecan pie, but you’d never seen him eat cake. Let alone mention it. So you could see how he’d come up with it in the end. “Yes, sir. I understand, sir.” Dean seemed convinced by your response so you stayed still and waited for his next command. You could hear him pick whatever he had brought with him off the dresser, and your pulse quickened at the thought of what he was about to do to you.

The bed dipped behind you, his hot breath fanned across the back of your neck making you shiver. “Clasp your hands behind your back for me, baby. I’m going to restrain you now so you stay still for me.” You brought your hands behind your back, interlacing your fingers together so your wrists rested against your tailbone. The feeling of the nylon rope being looped around your wrists made you impossibly wetter. The thought of being restrained and letting none other than Dean Winchester worship your body was enough to make you cum, but you couldn’t do that. Not when he’d specifically told you not to.

Dean made quick work of the black rope. He maneuvered around your torso, wrapping it around each elbow and tying a knot in the middle to lock your arms in place. The rest of it was placed expertly around your chest and tied off, the final knot resting against your shoulder blades. He let you fall headfirst into the mattress, your head turning to the side so you could breathe. He stepped back to admire his work. “A damn good job if I do say so myself. It’s not too tight, is it, darlin’?

You took a moment to tug at your binds and unclasp and reclasp your fingers. Everything still had circulation, but you still couldn’t break free if you tried. “No, everything feels fine, sir.” You heard him walk behind you, no doubt enjoying the view of you on display to him. “God, you look so fucking beautiful like this. Look at you… showing me that perfect round ass and that tight little pussy of yours.” He ran one of his fingers through your folds, and it took everything in you not to moan.

Your teeth clamped down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making any noise. “Mmmm just as I thought, soaking wet just for me.” The thick digit left you and you looked into his lust-blown eyes as his lips closed around it. “So good, Y/N. Now, are you ready for me to test you? Gonna show me what a good girl you are?” You shook your ass at him for good measure and replied without hesitation. “I’m ready, sir.”

Dean grabbed onto your hips and pulled you to the edge of the bed, his clothed erection applying slight friction to your needy cunt. He ran his middle and index fingers through your juices a few times before sliding them into you. “Be as loud as you want, Princess. Sam isn’t here to hear you scream. It’s just you and me.” Ever so slowly, he moved his fingers in and out of you, making you moan loudly. “F-Fuck!”

His pace increased, and you felt the coil of heat tighten. You were so close already and he’d barely gotten started. You felt your walls tighten slightly and you squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to control yourself. Dean knew how hard you were trying and you also knew he was competing with you. Using his skills to his advantage to see how much you could take. “Oh shit… shit shit shit… I don’t know if I can…. FUCK!” Dean curled his fingers so they hit that spot inside you with each thrust. Soon you couldn’t hold back any longer. With a cry of his name, you came hard, squirting all over his hand and the bed.

The white-hot orgasm nearly made you pass out, and by the time your climax was over you knew you were in trouble. You couldn’t see his face, but you were sure Dean wasn’t happy. “Tsk tsk tsk … Y/N/N, you knew the rules. I seem to remember you agreeing to them, and look what you’ve done. You’ve made a mess, sweetheart.” Just as you were about to apologize, he picked you up and set you gracefully on your knees. “Are you ready to show me how sorry you are?”

Balancing on your knees while you were tied up like this was difficult, but being this close to Dean’s cock made your mouth water. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry for disobeying you, sir. May I make it up to you by having you fuck my throat?” The groan that left his lips was downright the most sinful thing you’d ever heard, and you definitely wanted to hear him make that noise again. “Fuck… you read my mind, sweetheart.”

Dean began to circle you, watching you like a hawk would its prey. His tie was the first thing to go. Seeing him reach his right hand up and rip it off shouldn’t be as sexy as it was, but at this moment anything Dean did was sexy. He stopped in front of you and undid his belt and the top button on his pants, letting them pool carelessly at his ankles. Finally, he freed his cock and you watched as he pumped it a few times. A bead of precum seeped from the tip, and you leaned forward to catch it on your tongue. Your mouth closed around the head and Dean let you set the pace at first, more praises flying from his mouth as you took him in as deep as you could.

“That’s it, Princess… suck that cock. Mmmmm, you’re so fucking good at that. Taking my cock so well.” His hand fisted in your hair and you let him take over. You relaxed your throat as he took what he wanted from you, your eyes watering more and more every time he hit the back of your throat. “Jesus… you have one helluva mouth, Y/N.” He began to pant and his thrusts began to falter. His grip loosened on your hair and you whined as he pulled himself from your mouth. “Now, Princess, don’t you want me to cum in that pretty pussy of yours?” As much as you wanted to make him come apart with your mouth, having him buried inside you was more appealing at the moment. “Please, sir. Please fuck me.”

Once again he picked you up, moving you back onto the bed with ease. Dean crawled behind you again, placing a hand on each of your hips. Without warning, he sheathed himself all the way to hilt, both of you crying out in pleasure. Dean set a harsh pace, his fingertips surely leaving bruises on your skin. You knew you would be sore. He was not, by any means, lacking in size. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t allow you to adjust to him.

His thrusts began to falter, and you felt that familiar feeling come back. You tightened yourself around him, and he growled, fucking you harder into the bed. “S-Sir!… please sir!!! Please, may I cum? … F-Fuck!” You were so close to the peak of pure bliss that you could almost taste it. You just needed a little more. Dean grabbed onto the knotted rope in the middle of your back and pulled you so your back was to his chest. His other hand snaked around your body and circled your clit vigorously. “Fuck, Y/N… C’mon, Princess… Cum all over my cock. Let go, baby.”

A few more seconds of him fucking up into you and you fell over the edge taking him with you. Your walls milking Dean for all he was worth. He held you there for a few minutes, your heavy breathing in sync as you both came down from your high. Dean placed a chaste kiss to your back and pulled out of you. He took his time untying you, being careful not to irritate your skin further. Once you were free you stretched your arms and popped your knuckles.

Dean sat with his back to the headboard and pulled you into his lap, his hands rubbing your back gingerly. “You did so well, Y/N. I’m so proud of you. You’re amazing.” He kissed you sweetly and you melted against his chest, your eyes fluttering shut from exhaustion.

You listened to the steady beat of his heart and somehow made your brain form a coherent thought. “I’m glad we were able to settle things, Dean. I was beginning to think you really did hate me. I understand everything now.” He kissed the top of your head and held you protectively. “I could never hate you, Y/N. Not when you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you, Princess.” His words shocked you, but you were too tired to respond. Sleep came easy for you in Dean’s arms, and you couldn’t wait to wake up tomorrow to see what this new life with Dean brought you.

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