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gilverrwrites · 16 days

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Hiiii could you do a forbidden hero x villain romance of captain boomerang and reader? Thank you in advance 🙃

No Use Mending Bridges

Captain Boomerang/Reader, 2.7K words

He'd been everything to you then. Now he was a crumpled mess, laying broken and battered on your couch. Rated: M

Ko-Fi || Masterlist || Request Info

CW: Mentions of blood and violence , swearing, angst, arguing, unhealthy relationship dynamics, betrayal, lying.

Please know: I think you are absolutely wonderful!

The view through your peephole is distorted; it makes his head look bulbous and alien-like, but despite the skewed image and years of no-contact, he’s still immediately recognisable. Fully prepared to tell him to take a hike unless he wants a free ride to the police station, you swing the door open only to be halted by the unobscured sight of him. His coat and gloves were torn and bloodied, one hand clutched to his ribs, the other supporting his weight on your door frame.

“Hey, stranger.” He splutters between bloody coughs. His face twitches in pain at each syllable. There’s a cluster of nasty reddish-purple bruises forming around the left side of his face, and he appears to have lost another tooth.

“What the fuck George?!” Confirming the coast is clear with a quick scan of the hallway, you herd his limping form into the apartment, where he unceremoniously spreads across the couch. “What the hell did you do? Why even come here?”

“I didn’t do nothin’.” His speech is slurred, and you’re not sure if it’s because he’s drunk, injured, or both. “I had nowhere else to go.”

“Just stay still.” You instruct as you begin rummaging, looking for your first-aid kit; it must be somewhere here. “And don’t touch anything!”

By the time you locate what you’re looking for and return to his side, George is unconscious. His pupils constrict as expected when you shine a light on them. Moderately happy that he’s not concussed you allow him to sleep as you clean him up, disturbing him only to remove his coats and boots.

By the time you’re done patching him up, it's late into the night. You don’t really want to leave him alone… because he might steal something, not because you’re worried about him. But because you’re exhausted. Resolving to leave him alone for a few hours, you pack up your kit and head to the kitchen to grab him a glass of water and some painkillers.

When you return, he’s awake, barely. Bleary reddened eyes watch you in silence as you place the glass and pills on your coffee table.

“Can you talk?” You ask.

“Oh yeeeeeaaahhhhh.” His speech seems worse now than when he’d arrived. “Ripperrrr.”

He must have really got his shit rocked. Or gotten really pissed before getting his shit rocked. You wait for him to say something more, to thank you for taking him in and fixing him up. He sits there watching you back, threading his tongue between the new gap in his teeth. As more and more time passes it becomes increasingly apparent that he has nothing to say to you. Ungrateful bastard.

Although it shouldn’t surprise you, really. Years ago, when you’d been an item, you’d patched him up plenty of times, bailed him out of prison, even gotten into fights for him, and he’d never thanked you then, either. It was always someone else’s fault, someone else’s burden. He was a martyr, and you’d believed him, every time. Right up until you’d caught him red handed, fist full of stolen cash in the middle of Central City National Bank’s vault. Although every fibre of your being wanted to hear him out, to forgive him, and take him home, you knew then and there that there was no coming back from this moment.

He knew who you were and the things you stood for, and he’s barefaced lied to you, going behind your back, living a double life as a criminal.

Shaking with anger, humiliation, and heartache, you did your best to shut him out as you hauled his ass down to the CCPD, swearing never to look back. And you didn’t; you never looked up his record, never googled his name, never asked your mutual friends about him. However, that didn’t stop you from hoping for a card in the mail every holiday, or scrolling through your camera roll with a tub of cookie dough whenever you thought about him too much or turning down every offer at a date with literally one else.

He'd been everything to you then. Now he was a crumpled mess, laying broken and battered on your couch.

“Who did this to you?” You ask, maybe because you want to hear his excuse, or maybe because you really want to know who is responsible.

“Why? You gonna arrest 'em?” Between the swollen face and the way he keeps lolling his tongue around, it's difficult to make out an emotion until he follows up with what is clearly intended as bitter sarcasm: “Myyyy hero!”

You have mixed emotions. You almost want to be proud of him for not immediately giving you a name and for feeding you a story about some guy who totally started it, but really, you knew it wasn’t that. He’d probably deserved it, probably been caught with his hands in the proverbial cookie jar by a hero bigger and stronger than you, with less emotional attachment. Or maybe he’s just intentionally being a dick, still mad at you for putting him behind bars.

“I don’t arrest people, George.” You take a deep breath, determined to sound professional. “But if needs be, I will turn them in to the police.”

“Don’t ya know; Snitches get stitches.” The more he refuses to tell you, the hotter your blood runs.

How dare he turn up here, asking for your help, then refuse to let you do your job. You’d had every right to turn him away, but you hadn’t. The least he could do was tell you why he’d darkened your doorway.

“You were a mess. You are a mess, and you know it, or else you wouldn’t have come here.” Your composure is slipping, each word growing louder and more agitated than the last. You care far more than you should, and you know it, that is the problem. “Whoever did this to you must be held accountable for their actions.”

“’Must be held accountable for their actions’, blah, blah, blah. Do they teach ya all that fancy talk at crime fighting 101 or whatever it is you do?” All the colour drains from his face as he watches your reaction, the way your face twists with anger. Instant regret. “Alright, alright, am sorry. That was uncalled for. I just… can we talk about it in the mornin’?”

“Will you still be here in the morning?”

Caught in a half lie, George falls silent, turning his head to avoid your gaze. All that red-hot rage leaves your body, replaced with a similar emptiness that settles in your chest. You’d barely gotten him out of your system when he’d turned up, and now he was practically gone already. It was for the best, really. No use mending bridges and making up with him; it would do neither of your reputations any good.

“Right. I’m going to bed. Goodnight George.” You’re gone before he can respond.

The creak of footsteps against hardwood flooring stirs you from half-sleep. For a thief, he’s awful at keeping quiet. The smart thing to do would be to check on him. He was probably halfway out of a window with his pockets full of valuables, but whatever he’d taken would be a small price to pay to not have to look at him one more time.

Light from the hallway peeped into the room, not bright enough to blind you, but enough to put you on alert to the door opening. Confused and on edge, you dart up, finding George stood at the end of the bed. He’d removed his shirt and jeans, exposing some minor cuts and bruises that you’d missed, and leaving him in nothing but his briefs. A sorry sight for sore eyes.

“Forgot how uncomfortable the couch is.” He informs you nonchalantly.

“You picked it, ‘didn’t wanna pay more than $50 on a doghouse’.” You did you best to imitate his accent, earning you a laugh. The sound was strange, you hadn’t realised you’d forgotten it until you heard it again.

“Can I?” he gestures to you, to the bed.

“How bashed up is your head? Hell no.” You pull the sheets tighter around yourself.

“Oh, come on, ya said it yourself am a mess, an’ that lumpy old thing ain’t exactly helping.” The way he waves his arms around must hurt, must be agitating his wounds, and pulling his bandages loose, but the movements are so familiar, so quintessentially him, that you can’t help but smile. Clearly knowing he’s found a weak spot, he comes closer, dropping to his knees, elbows on the bed, head cradled in his hands as he bats exaggeratedly large eyes at you. “Technically, it’s our bed anyway, so… Please?”

“Fine.” He’s pulling the sheets back before you’ve even finished. Wriggling his ass against the mattress, batting the pillows into place, too late to take it back now.

“Is that my pillow?” He asks, pointing to your side of the bed.

Originally, you’d taken it because the smell reminded you of him, but it had been such a long time. It no longer smelled of him, and you could claim that you don’t remember. “Not anymore.”

“’Fine.’” He mimics you for the second time that night, probably payback for your atrocious attempt at Australian earlier.

Awkward silence befalls the room. It’s not as bad as it had been downstairs, not as hostile, but the tension is still thick. When you’d patched him up earlier, the air had been pungent with blood and steriliser. Now though, he filled the bed with a familiar spicy musk that made you more comfortable than you’d anticipated. You wondered if you’ll wash the sheets right after he’s gone, or if you’ll be swapping the pillows around once more.

You risk a peek at him, curious if he still the same up-close, all scruff and rough and homey. His green eyes are already staring back at you. Caught out, you refuse to shy away, allowing him to watch you watch him. He’s leaner now, and you note a few tattoos you don’t recognise across his upper arm and chest.

As the minutes pass, the tension simmers. It’s almost peaceful, being so close again. It all feels so intimate, so easy, at least until he says the dumbest thing you’ve heard all day.

“What happened to us, aye?”

“What happened? You lied to me, for basically all of our relationship. You humiliated me.” Once it started coming out, it didn’t stop. Unconsciously, you sit up straight, keeping your distance as you continue to rant. “You can’t just talk your way back in here and pretend like it didn’t happen. I trusted you, and you made a fool out of me.”

“Hold on now, it’s not like that.” He remains calm, still laying back in the bed, amused by your sudden outburst. His laid-back attitude had been so charming when you’d fallen for him. Now it pissed you off.

“Then what is it like, George?” His brows don’t furrow until you reach the end of the sentence.

“Stop it.” He finally sits up, hunched to ensure eye contact. “Stop calling me that!”

Even during the worst spells of your relationship, he’s never eyed you so intensely, not in this context, at least. Back then, it might have scared you, but now you were relieved to see some real emotion from him, even if he’s picking at a scab you don’t want touched. You know exactly what he’s getting at, but you don’t want to address it, so you repeat your earlier question. “What is it like?”

“You’ve never called me George before today.” He rebuffs your question again, zeroing in on his own issue. He’d never liked his birthname, so you’d never used it—not until you’d needed a way to distance yourself from him.

“George never broke my heart.” Your voice is a whisper but he’s close enough to hear it. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing as he mulls over your words. Every second is like torture until you put a stop to it. You grab his pillow from the bed as you stand. “This was a mistake. Take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Please don’t.” Calloused fingers wrap around your arm, not hard enough to bruise but firm enough to keep their grip as you’re tugged back onto the bed. “I’m sorry for what I did, for all of it—the fights, the stealin’. And I’m sorry I didn’t say sorry sooner.”

Those same strong fingers drag along your arms, attempting to offer comfort. Unable to muster the resolve to fight it, you let him pull you deeper onto the bed, encasing you in an embrace that is both unwelcome and wanted.

“Do you think there’s a way we can fix us?” He asks, voice cracked. He draws closer, nestling into the nook of your neck as he awaits your response.

You’ve laid awake in this very spot missing him for such a long time. Praying that one day, this exact moment might happen, but there are things you have to be certain of first. “Are you just saying all this to get laid?”

There is hesitation that briefly fills you with dread before he replies carefully. “No.”

“Will you give it all up?” You cup his cheeks, pulling him up until you’re face to face, where you can watch his reaction. You’re both so close, so ready to fold, but you can’t give up your morals, so maybe you can convince him to change. “The whole rogue thing? Will you quit?”

“Darlin’… Loving you has nothing to do with -”

You interrupt him with a kiss, a desperate attempt to change his mind before he commits to his statement. He tastes like copper and malt. Blood and beer. It reminds you of every kiss you’d shared before now. You shove your tongue inside his mouth, craving more, and he shudders in response.

When you pull away, he watches you with a dazed expression, scabbed lips pulled into a dreamy smile.

“That was ace.” Your foreheads press together, and he closes his eyes, thinking, preserving, you’re not sure, but his smile gradually falters. “But would ya do that in front of the bonze?”

“I would.” It’s an instant response, but once it leaves your mouth you know there’s a stipulation. “If you reformed.”

“We’re just goin’ around in bloody circles.” He releases you, hands thrown in the air as he falling back against the bed with a frustrated grunt. A giggle escapes your lips at the sight, but once he’s settled, you start to miss the warmth of his body with a force you hadn’t felt since the night of your breakup.

Unwilling to let the moment go just yet, you encroach his side of the bed, resting your head on his chest. He signals his approval by stroking his hand against your back.

“We’re supposed to be enemies, you know?” You’re talking to him but don’t have the strength to move in a way that allows you to look at his face. “I should hate you, why can’t I hate you?”

“Well, it’s pretty obvious why.” He gives your shoulder a playful nudge. “Am just lovable.”

He laughs at his joke, wholeheartedly. You laugh, humouring his attempt to lighten the mood.

When the laughter dries up, you lay together in silence yet again, so many pauses, both of you so uncertain how to move forward. The beat of his heart thumping beneath your ears is the only sound you can make out.

“I just gotta pull one last job.” He cuts through the quiet.

“What is it?” You make the effort to angle your head upwards, but he halts you by placing his hand on the top of your head.

“Can’t tell ya.” He taps his fingers against your head the way he would a table, one fingertip at a time. It’s a nervous tick he’d picked up a long time ago. “Nothin’ personal, just don’t want ya tryna’ stop me.”

Could you call yourself a hero if you let him do whatever he was planning? If you didn’t take preventative measures, or hold him responsible for yet another crime?

“Digger, please don’t make me regret this.”

When you wake the next morning, the space beside you is empty and cold. The wrinkled outline of his body in the sheets serve as the only proof that anyone had been there the night before. No noises rung through the flat, no footsteps, no echo from the TV, no running water. Fighting through morning fuzziness you stumble out of your bedroom, searching for your missing bedfellow, only to find an open window and an empty wallet.

#captain boomerang x reader #captain boomerang imagine #george digger harkness x reader #captain boomerang #digger harkness x reader #digger harkness #ssktjl #suicide squad kill the justice league #gilverrwrites

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astroboots · 1 year

Text

RED FLAGS ║ PART 9

CO-WRITTEN WITH @THIRSTWORLDPROBLEMSS

Pairing: Steven Grant x female reader x Marc Spector (x hints of Jake Lockley)

Summary: You and Steven finally reunite. Or alternatively: Marc is a dummy and makes questionable decisions as always.

Content: some angst, serious talks, so much talking.

Word Count: 8,400

Series Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | Thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

[PREVIOUS] - [NEXT]

"Sorry that I've been gone so long, love."

He stands in the dimly lit hallway, perfectly framed in the open doorway like a still-life portrait, and for a second it makes you doubt that you are looking at the real thing in flesh and blood.

The novelty print shirt in bright mismatched emerald green and cream is a sight for your sore eyes, as is the familiar oversized grey jacket over it. It’s Steven’s favourite, soft-worn and starting to fray at the cuffs.

But despite the familiar clothing, he looks... different somehow.

You’re not quite sure why at first. Something about the way he’s holding himself. His shoulders are held back, chin up, and for the first time since you've met him, he’s no longer hunching into himself trying to take up less space.

It's enough to give you pause, and make you doubt that it's Steven who is fronting at all. Is this Marc on your doorstep in Steven's oversized clothes?

No. His hair is loose and softly tousled, raven curls messily crowning around his head and falling into his eyes in a way that would have Marc obsessively trying to wrestle them into submission. And there's no mistaking those wide brown eyes or the South London accent.

It's definitely your Steven. Or… well, Steven at any rate. Whether or not he’s still yours remains to be seen, doesn’t it? All you have to do is open your mouth and ask, but... you can’t.

You’ve imagined this moment hundreds of times in his absence, endlessly rehearsed your apology to make quite sure you cover every mistake and wrongdoing, but now that he’s here, standing before you, you’re paralyzed. Your throat has closed up, feet cemented to the carpet, and the only thing you're capable of is staring at him in silence.

Steven isn't moving either.

Cold air blows through the empty hallway, wringing out all the warmth inside your flat. The chill settles into your bones, nipping at your toes.

Dropping your eyes to the ground, you measure the distance from your bare feet across to the toe caps of Steven’s sensible black trainers. You're barely more than a foot apart, yet the gap feels as unbreachable as a bottomless chasm.

You know the only way to bridge it is to say something. But your mouth refuses to cooperate. Your tongue is as heavy as lead, and you can't budge it.

All you need to do is say something. Anything.

Welcome him back. Say hello. Invite him in. Just bloody well say something!!

“Do you want to–”

“D’you mind if I–”

You blurt the words out at the same time, both stopping mid-sentence as you catch yourselves.

Then you're staring at each other again.

God, the two of you together are a comedy of errors, but right now you can’t be sorry for it. The familiar ridiculousness steadies you, and you find yourself smiling just a bit despite your nerves.

“Sorry. Sorry,” Steven apologises, a small matching smile blooming on his face, “You go first.”

"I was just going to ask if you wanted to come in."

The smile on his face spreads, and your heart catches at the warmth in his eyes. Suddenly the gloomy hallway and your situation both seem a little less foreboding than they did a moment ago.

"I'd like that very much."

You step backwards, and Steven follows you into your flat, taking off his shoes before closing the door behind him.

"Would you like to sit down?” you ask, “I can make you a cuppa?"

It feels a bit cringy, offering such British platitudes to him when it's the first time you've seen him for weeks. The unfamiliar tension is eating at your nerves.

Thankfully, Steven takes your awkwardness in stride.

"Actually, I was hoping you and I could talk," he says, still smiling at you reassuringly.

You nod dumbly, making your way further into the room. In the last few weeks, all you’ve wanted was to know how Steven’s been. If he’s okay, and how he’s felt about everything this whole time. But now that he’s here and you can finally ask, a part of you is scared to find out, because the answer might not be what you want to hear.

"...If that's alright, that is?"

In front of you, Steven tilts his head, brows knitting in a concerned expression, and that, finally, is what gets you moving.

"That's– I mean yes, of course. I'd like for us to talk too."

Steven walks over to the sofa, and makes himself comfortable. He looks so polite sitting there, calmly waiting for you as he's looking up at you expectantly.

He settles one hand on the seat next to him, patting it as an invitation for you to join him. He does it with the gentleness of someone trying to coax a nervous stray when it strikes you that you've just been standing still gawking at him silently this entire time.

This gentle calm is not what you have prepared yourself for in any of the imagined scenarios. Somehow, his kindness makes guilt spread like wildfire in your gut. There are so many things you could have done better if you could have a do-over.

"I'm sorry," you say.

It slips out of you without forethought, and Steven's eyes widen. Your stomach sinks to the floor at the way the smile slides off his face.

"Come sit with me,” he asks, and when you’re still not moving, he continues, “...please?"

You look down at your feet, still frozen to the spot. You take a deep calming breath, and finally take a step forward, closing the distance between you, step by step until you finally reach the sofa and sit down next to him.

"I should never have lied to you," you say, looking down at your hands and scrape nervously at your cuticles. "I shouldn't have told you the way I did that night. It was insensitive and stupid, and it must've been upsetting and confusing."

Steven's expression is, for the first time you can ever recall, inscrutable to you. He's chewing at the inside of his cheek, no smile, no frown, just… listening. Your nerves are fraying under the sleeves of your sleep-shirt, but you press on regardless.

"I should have told you much sooner, as soon as I realized something unusual was going on. That day you came to my office after the first trip to your flat — I should’ve told you then. You deserved to know about something this important, something that affects your life and it wasn’t fair of me to keep it a secret. You deserved better from me. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m —"

You never get to fully finish your spiralling loop of sorries. Steven's arms wrap all around you, pulling you into him. He squeezes you tightly against his chest like he never means to let go.

"It's all right, love. It's all right," he murmurs warmly against your temple.

It’s exactly what you’d been longing to hear from him, but it feels surreal. Like it's all just too easy to earn his forgiveness. There's no rage in him. No shouting. No judge with a gavel, finding you guilty and sentencing you to a lifetime in jail to atone for your sins.

"But I lied to you for months, Steven. How can that possibly be 'all right'?"

“It’s okay. I’m not upset, I’m…” He pauses, loosening his grip around your sides and you chance a quick glance up to find him looking off to the side, brow furrowed. “Or, well– That’s not quite right, is it? I mean, it was devastating to hear, honestly, and I’m… not mad, exactly, but…”

He turns to look back at you, and you nod, encouraging him to continue even as you swallow down the sudden tightness in your throat.

“It’s just…” Steven continues, “You knew. Marc knew. It makes me feel a bit left out, I suppose? Being the last to know.” His head dips down, eye glancing off-site against, at the blank surface of your telly, before turning back towards you. “I feel like a right bloody idiot for not being able to figure it out on my own.”

"I'm sorry," you repeat. You don't know what else to say, how you can possibly make it up to him.

Steven’s hand comes up, settling warm against your cheek, his thumb rubbing against the apple of it before he tilts your chin up, silently asking you to look at him.

"You don't have to keep apologising."

Maybe it's the British compulsion in you, but you have to bite your cheek to resist apologising for apologising too much.

Instead you focus on Steven. Ready to ask the question you’ve been dying to ask while dreading it all at the same time.

“Are we… I know ‘okay’ is a bit of a stretch but… do you still want us to be together? As a couple I mean.”

He must see fear in your eyes, because he leans closer, wrapping his hand over yours reassuringly. “Yeah, I’d like for us to still be together. I love you. I'm here to stay. In it for as long as you'll have me, and this isn't going to change that. But I do need…”

Steven trails off mid-sentence, and looks down towards his feet as if the end of his sentence is etched there. From the slight frown on his face when he looks back at you, he most probably didn't find it, but he tries again anyhow. “I would like some reassurances from you though. That… um… well.”

He's still frowning, the struggle visible on his face.

“I know that this was a fairly”—Steven grimaces—“unique set of circumstances, and that you were under a lot of stress and doing what you thought was best for me. I understand that, but I... I need to know that you won't hide something from me like that again.”

“I won’t,” you blurt out immediately, shaking your head so forcefully you almost give yourself whiplash.

“From now on, we tell each other the truth, yeah?,” he presses, eyes wide and solemn, “Even if the truth is ‘I can't tell you that right now.’ Deal?”.

"Yes, yes, of course, Steven." You nod slowly, matching his seriousness, meaning it to the depth of your soul. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” he says simply, then he smiles at you, and your breath catches.

It’s one of those smiles—the kind that seem to light up the whole room—and relief bubbles up in your chest, washing away some of the tightness that’s made its home there since the last miserable time you saw Steven almost a month ago.

You’re not sure who initiates it — if you’re the one to lean up and close the distance, or if it’s Steven’s hand cupping your cheek that draws you closer — but, you kiss. A soft press of your lips together, but it feels like so much more. Like forgiveness. Like turning the page, starting a new chapter in your favorite book.

It feels like coming home.

The two of you stay like that for a long moment, you half-seated in his lap, Steven draped uncomfortably against the arms of the sofa, grinning at each other.

"And next time Marc says it's for my own good, just ignore him, yeah? Man isn't exactly an authority on what's good for anyone."

You laugh at his cheeky remark and a sense of relief rushes through you. It feels good to be able to laugh again without the constant anxiety coiled tight in the pit of your stomach.

You're amazed by how with the simple return of Steven, that dreaded knot has vanished. It's like it never existed and this happiness between you has always been here and never left.

It feels natural somehow, to be sitting on your sofa, cracking jokes, and with Steven's oh-so-casual tone, you almost forget, that tonight is the first time the two of you have ever mentioned Marc by name between you.

You lift your head up to meet his gaze, but Steven is still looking at you like nothing's wrong, like it's just another Saturday night.

"You called him Marc," you bring up as diplomatic as you can under the circumstances. "Does that mean–" you hesitate, not knowing how to phrase this without opening a can of worms for Marc if you had completely misread things.

Steven must know what you mean because he gives you a half smile and answers your unfinished question for you. "That I know about the little American man living inside me? Yeah, it does."

You nod, glad that some things seem to have been resolved at least. Though you know from experience that knowing about Marc, isn't even half of the battle.

Because Marc is Marc.

The man isn't exactly known for being loose-lipped and eager to share information. It strikes you that even with being forgiven, there’s still so much you and Steven need to fully share about what's taken place between the three of you since you first got entangled with each other.

"How much do you know?" you ask, and you shift your weight in his lap to make sure you're not crushing him underneath you. "About Marc. About what happened? About any of it?"

“He and I got to know each other pretty well. I wouldn't say he poured his soul to me... at least not voluntarily but–” he blinks rapidly as if rousing himself from a memory.

“He didn’t tell me much about what happened between you and him though. I know he made you promise not to tell me. But beyond that… not much,” Steven pauses as he searches for your eyes.

“I guess he thought it would be best if I heard it from you, and I’d like that too… Will you tell me about it? Fill me in on what I missed the first time around? I'd like to know what it was like for you.”

So you do. Steven tucks you in close to his side as you talk, watching you with those big puppydog eyes as you tell him about his disappearances.

The worry, the confusion, the fear.

About how the worst part was not knowing if he was safe. About the hours you spent imagining every awful thing that could have happened to him, terrified he had been taken hostage or that he was hurt and alone, unable to call for help.

"Is that– Was that why you were so upset that morning with the croissants? When you said you had a bad dream, was it really...?” Steven doesn’t finish his sentence, just looks to you for an answer as the word hangs in the air between the two of you, and you give him a small nod.

“How long was I gone for?”

“A little over a week.”

His mouth compresses in an unhappy line, eyes closing for a moment as he processes that.

“I'm so sorry, love," he says, taking your hand in his, fingers gently tracing the lines of your palm.

It’s clear that it hurts him to hear about how affected you were by his absences, but he doesn't try to stop you, and you don't sugarcoat it. You don't want there to be any more lies between the two of you this time around. Not even those of omission.

You hold tight to that ideal as you tell him about your encounters with Marc, how you got to know him slowly over months of text messages, short conversations, and shared breakfasts. Steven listens attentively as you confess your ploy with Marc to replace Gus and every confusing, sordid detail of what followed—your attraction to Marc, the near-miss of a kiss, even the mortifying sex dream you had in the taxi.

Steven’s eyes widen at your admission, the arm around you tightening convulsively, but he doesn’t interrupt or look upset, just surprised. Just listens attentively until you finish talking.

Once you do, he murmurs a soft, “Thank you for telling me, love.”

As terrified as you had been, all this time, of telling him the truth, it’s nowhere near as difficult as you’d imagined it would be. You feel better—lighter now that everything's out in the open, dragged into the light.

“So many things make sense now,” Steven utters, giving a slightly disbelieving shake of his head. “I was thinking that things kept being put away in the wrong places, but I just figured this place was haunted, not that I had a compulsive neat freak living in my body.”

You laugh at that and Steven reaches over to brush away a lock of hair that’s fallen into your eyes. “I had no idea I was gone that frequently. No wonder Donna has it out for me. It's a wonder she hasn't just fired me and been done with it.”

“I think there are employment law protections about those sorts of things,” you joke.

Steven lets out a quiet laugh of his own at your poor attempt at humour. The tension and weight that you have been holding all this time slowly lifting as you watch his expression. Relaxed with a sweet half-sleepy smile. He must be exhausted from wherever he and Marc have travelled to make his way to you.

“Can you tell me about… what happened between you and Marc in the time you were gone?”

Steven nods, then he settles his back against the armrest, shifting down until he’s lying down against the sofa cushions.

"After I... blacked out that night, I don't remember much. I was sort of conscious, but also not. Just seeing flashes and images. Like– Like looking out a window. Or watching something on the telly. I couldn't control my body, but I could see what’s happening. It felt like an out-of-body experience. It was strange.”

You shift down on the sofa to join him as he speaks, until you’re both lying down on your sides, squished together.

“And Marc and I– We didn't get along very well at first. Fought a lot, mostly, because well… Marc's not exactly the most forthcoming guy, and I didn't understand what was going on. But then somehow the next thing I know, I wake up, and we're in Egypt, and all sorts of crazy things are happening."

"Egypt!?" you ask, surprised.

"Yeah, it was amazing!!" he exclaims, darting upright on the sofa so suddenly that you nearly go sprawling arse-over-tits onto the floor. He catches you absently, barely pausing as you clutch at him, and helps you to steady yourself as he continues, "We got to go inside the great pyramid at Giza. A dream come true, that was! And that was just the beginning of our adventures!!"

His eyes are glittering. At the mention of Egypt, there are no more pauses in his speech, and the words race out of him a mile a minute.

"We chased people on the rooftops, we met up with a dodgy art dealer who had a mummy with a cartonnage that I got to decode. It turned out to be a coded celestial navigation map that led us to the long lost tomb of Alexander the Great, and– and–"

It all sounds like a grand adventure, and your mind is boggled by the idea that Marc would put together a treasure hunt in Cairo for Steven's benefit. It's quite sweet really, even if you can't possibly even begin to imagine Marc putting together the travel itinerary.

"And then–" Steven stops mid-sentence, the shimmering excitement in his eyes dimming as if he's getting lost in the replay of his memory. "Well... uhm... the next part, I'm–" he looks down at the floor, suddenly looking much more unsure of himself than he has all evening. "I'm not so sure, I can tell you the next part."

He shoots you a sheepish expression as he repeats the very same phrase he had made you promise him moments earlier.

"At least, I can't tell you right now."

You nod in understanding, even if your curiosity is disappointed. But instead of letting the disappointment fester, you pull Steven back down, snuggling into his arms.

He tucks his chin against the crown of your head as he continues to murmur apologetically into your hair.

"It's really more to do with Marc's… um… business. Wouldn't feel right for me to tell that part of the story without him here."

“So Marc’s not–” you hesitate, unsure of the terminology to use, and Steven shakes his head filling in the end of your question.

“No, Marc’s popped out. Or well… in, I suppose. He’s left us alone for the night. Said he wanted to give us some privacy so you and I could catch up,” Steven says as he runs the outside of his knuckles along the line of your arm.

It continues against the inside of your wrists before he finds your hand and interlaces your fingers together, squeezing your palm tightly in his. “We’ll tell you everything in the morning," he promises.

"It's okay Steven. I'll wait", you say, shifting your leg until your limbs are tangling together in an attempt to have your bodies touching as much as possible.

Right now you’re just happy to have this moment, with him here with you. It’s something you couldn’t imagine just twenty-four hours ago that waiting until morning to hear Marc’s side of it seems like such a negligible small sacrifice to make.

"I still can’t believe I get to have this,” Steven murmurs like an echo of your own thoughts.

“That first date we had…” His eyes are warm and crinkle at the corners as he lets out a small huff of laughter. “God, I couldn't believe someone like you was interested in me, you know? When you didn't show up at the restaurant, I thought for sure you'd realised how far out of my league you were. That wasn’t it at all though, was it?"

"No,” you let out a laugh of your own, relieved and vindicated to set the record straight at last. “You were the one who didn't show up! It was humiliating! I’d never been stood up before in my entire adult life."

You're still laughing to yourself as your fingers wrap around his golden chain, fingers tracing the outline of the golden David Star pendant, re-familiarising yourself with the comforting shape of it.

“Why did you come out at all then? When I called you on the wrong night after already standing you up. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d told me to get stuffed and blocked my number after that.”

“I almost did,” you admit, “but I didn’t have anything better to do. And besides, I thought you were cute.”

An image of Steven sat down in the corner of a small table, glum and small, flashes before your eyes. You see it play out in slow motion, the memory of it as vivid as ever as he spots you, with an ever-so-precious smile, lighting up the space around him makes your heart flutter in your chest all over again.

“I’m so glad I decided to come," you tell him.

“I’m glad too. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you. Or well– I can, but I don’t want to. This is so much better.” The corners of his lips curve, eyes warm, and just like in your memory, it seems to light up the whole flat and you with it.

Looking up into those big gorgeous brown eyes, you feel starstruck all over again. If someone told you Steven had single-handedly affixed every star in the constellation of the night sky, you'd believe them without a single doubt.

“I really love you, Steven.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I finally see that, love," he says as he tips down his head closer to you, eyes ever so soft. His voice is tender, earnest. “It means a lot to me, you know. That you knew about… well, everything, and still chose to stay with me anyway.”

For a long moment, you stay like that, holding each other in silence as you run your hands across his back, up and down his arms, along that sharp, beautiful jawline. His stubble prickles at your palm, and you cherish the tiny irritation because it reminds you that this is real. That Steven really is back, safe and sound, and still yours.

You’re lying on your sides in the cramped space of the sofa with barely any distance between you. Noses brushing, foreheads pressing up against the other’s as you refuse to let go of his hand. You ignore the fact that it's getting harder and harder to keep your eyes open, even as your jaw cracks wide open with a gaping yawn. Even as the morning light is starting to seep through the blinds, splashing golden light across the walls of your flat.

Instead, you smile at him, sleep heavy in your eyes as you squint them open so that you can still observe him. Not ready to let this night end.

“Sleep, love. We have all the time in the world to talk,” Steven murmurs softly, one thumb brushing up against the apple of your cheeks. “Not going anywhere, remember? And I can promise that for real this time.”

You wake up on your sofa.

Steven isn't there, limbs squished between yours in the position you had fallen asleep to last night. There are no folded clothes next to you, because you'd fallen asleep still wearing them last night. All you have is the quilt from your bed that has miraculously been moved on top of you.

It's also quiet. No running tap, no clinking of porcelain being put away, no crackling noise from the frying pan.

Digging your elbow into the cushions, you sit up and the quilt that's tucked to your shoulders, slides down to your waist. The cold draft of the room sweeps over you and makes you shiver. You survey the remaining space of your flat. No one else is here.

You frown, as you scoot out of sofa, wincing at the biting cold of the floor that eats into your toes. Barefeet, you pad over to the loo, knowing damned well that neither Marc nor Steven will be standing by the sink. Still it doesn't seem to stop the disappointment that sits like lead in your stomach at the sight of the small empty room.

There’s a part of you that’s tempted to ransack your own home. Search every corner, flip every cushion on the sofa, and get down on your knees to look under the bed. You don't, because you've been here before.

That first night when Marc was in your flat and had evacuated the premises by morning. He hadn’t left you a sign of life then, no breakfast, no clothing, not even a note.

It's probably why you don't spot it at first. Perched on cushion of the ottoman, waiting for you.

A small nondescript gift box that fits neatly in the palm of your hand as you pick it up, it feels heavier than you had expected given how small it is. Shaking it gently, you try to make out what it is, but there's just a faint rustling sound that doesn't give away any hints of what's inside. You look under the box but there's no note.

You kneel down on the carpet and scrape off the scotch tape with your nails as you open it. There is soft tissue paper inside and it crinkles with a pleasant sound when you unravel it to reveal a small metallic box.

Holding it in your hand, you inspect it a bit closer. It’s a kitschy jewellery box of cheap brushed brass. The box is etched with generic hieroglyphics that are often slapped onto the tacky souvenirs Steven sells in the gift shop. Except this one does not carry any museum branding. Given the professional pride Steven takes in the accuracy of Egyptian trinkets, you can’t imagine that it's a gift from him... which leaves only one other person that could have left this for you.

You crack open the heavy brass lid. A malformed shaped figure, half dog half man, springs up from the box. It's a little banged up, with its long snout and dented face, that must be depicting Anubis, as it slowly starts to spin around almost like a ballerina.

There's a lovely tinkling sound coming from the box. A melody.

It's a music box.

Something pleasant unfurls inside of your stomach. It sneaks up on you, travelling up your chest to the tip of your nose and you feel warm all over.

Sad and melancholy, you recognise it as a slightly off-key rendition of Moonlight Sonata. Whether the melody is wonky by design or simply shoddy manufacturing you can’t tell, but the imperfection only makes your heart fonder as you find yourself staring down at it with a dopey smile.

You're so caught up in your bubble, it’s almost enough to make you miss the commotion in the hallway outside your flat.

"Mate, watch where you're going yeah?" Someone grumbles outside your flat.

It's followed by mumbled apologies before your lock is being manhandled to the jingle of keys and the front door swings open. Then Steven walks in, hugging two large paper bags to his chest.

"Morning love! You're up already."

Your lips pull into a wide smile as you watch him precariously balancing the bags in his arms. They are tall enough to obstruct his line of sight as he makes his way towards your kitchenette, and he’s relying on muscle memory alone to navigate.

"Did Marc say good morning before he left?” Steven asks, as he starts setting down the bags on the kitchen counter. “I woke up in your hallway downstairs just now. Dunno why Marc dumped me there instead of coming up, or what is in these.”

He’s reaching into the bags to pull out containers that you know from the sweet breadlike scent of flour and butter wafting over the space of the flat, must be your breakfast.

“Pancakes,” you say as something in your stomach flutters, and Steven looks up at you confounded.

His head tilts down, eyeing the styrofoam box in his hands before opening the lid. Even from this distance, you can see the browned fluffy pancakes stacked inside.

“Oh wow, how did you–” he picks the container up staring at the bottom as if looking for a label or a text that would explain how you knew (even though the distance would have made it illegible even if there was one).

“It’s Sunday,” you explain, but it only makes Steven even more puzzled, his eyebrows knitting closely together on his forehead. “Marc always makes pancakes on Sunday.”

At that, his expression softens into a warm smile. He turns back to the bags and pulls out a second styrofoam box and a handful of plastic cutlery. Carrying them over to you, he settles your breakfast on the ottoman before joining you on the sofa.

“Oh hey! That’s the music box," Steven exclaims when he spots it, unwound and now quiet, still perched in your lap, "I wondered why Marc insisted on hauling that thing along with us. I told him the hieroglyphics were gibberish, and music boxes weren't invented until the late 1700s in Switzerland. Not historically accurate at all."

Steven opens the styrofoam box labeled ‘Vegan’ and empties the included container of maple syrup over the pancakes inside as he keeps talking.

“Still insisted on getting it from that tourist stall though. He argued with the vendor for a good half hour even though they’re a dime a dozen and carried that little box with us the whole time. Protected it like it was a precious artefact."

Picking up the takeout box, he moves to place it in your lap, but his eyes linger at the music box already there. "Guess I know why, now.”

Your fingers curl around the music box, the soft glow in your chest, growing with every beat of your heart as you imagine Marc, haggling with a local vendor for this cheap little trinket. Your cheeks warm at the idea of Marc, keeping this thing with him, in his pocket, close to him, through the weeks that have passed, and you brush your fingers over the etched markings, imagining him doing the same and whether he was thinking of you as he did.

"I'll have to remember to thank him.”

"Why don’t you do it right now?" Steven asks you.

Your eyes dart up, and see Steven smiling down at you. Caught off guard, you stare at him blankly, it takes you a few to puzzle together the meaning of his sentence, still unused to the new reality that Marc and Steven know about each other now.

"Yes," you say, then you nod, your pulse beating excitedly at the prospect of seeing Marc again after so many weeks. "Yes, I'd like that."

Steven returns your nod, still with that soft expression painted across his face. He crosses his legs to sit upright in a more relaxed position as if to prepare himself. Then he closes his eyes, squeezing them shut for a long moment, deep in concentration, and then they open again under drawn brows.

It’s been so long since you’ve spoken to Marc that it takes you a moment to work up your courage. You feel oddly nervous like it’s the first school day back from half-term and you haven’t seen your mates all summer and you’re worried about how much you’ve all changed, what they’ll think of you. That same jittery feeling you get when you’re early at a restaurant and are seated by the table first as you’re waiting for your date, nerves alight anxiously looking out through the window to see if they’re arriving yet. Except, you’re in your flat, not a restaurant. And he’s not really your date, he's– he’s– the alter of your boyfriend, and now he’s sitting right in front of you.

You can’t seem to settle on anything clever or heartfelt to say, and in the end all you manage is a tentative, "Hi, Marc."

His eyes are soft brown and kinder than you ever remember seeing them. No longer stern and grumpy like you recall, instead his features scrunch up apologetically.

"Whoops, sorry."

That's not right. The South London accent throws you off.

“Still me, I’m afraid," Steven says, as he shoots you a quick nervous wave to prove it.

Biting down on his lower lip, Steven looks around himself. He seems bewildered as if he's looking for Marc and expecting him to pop ‘round from the corner of your fridge. "I swear this normally works," he mumbles.

Steven's eyes continue to roam around the room, darting from the fridge to your bed to the telly, until they finally settle on the short hallway that leads to your front door.

“Wait just let me– gimme a second will you?” Without any further explanation, he gets up to his feet and walks over until he’s standing in the hall in front of the full length mirror hung on your wall across from the door to the loo.

You watch in confusion, as you see Steven close his eyes and take a deep calming breath. You wait with a suspended breath, as Steven opens his eyes again, waiting for something to happen. You're not sure what, but what you don't expect is for him to proceed to have a staring competition with himself in the mirror.

"Uhm... Steven, what are you--"

At your question, he turns his head over his shoulder towards your direction, then flits back to the mirror. His expression turns sheepish as he realises how confusing this must be to you.

“Mirrors help,” he explains. “Or anything reflective really. Reflections lets us communicate with each other more efficiently when we’re not in sync. It’s a bit hard to explain, but it’s almost like having a window to the outside, yeah? Sort of a visual aid for whoever’s fronting to speak to the other. I’m not sure why that is but it’s worked for us so far.”

You're still a little bit confused, but you think you understand the gist of what he means. So you nod, and that little nod seems to be enough reassurance for Steven who turns back around, facing the mirror to finish what he started.

From the sofa, all you see is Steven taking deep calming breaths, staring intensely at his own reflection in the mirror. It reminds you a bit of those youtube videos of cute puppies who are staring at their mirror reflection thinking there’s another puppy in there.

Before long, Steven is vaguely gesturing towards the mirror with a small awkward waving motion and his reflection self mirrors the greeting.

“Hiya. So I know you might be a bit knackered from the trip and trying to catch a snooze, but if you want to come out and have a chat, now would be a good time.”

There’s a small, silent pause during which the line of Steven’s mouth purses to one side almost like a small pout, and then he tries again. “Any minute now, Marc.”

More silence. If anything is happening, then you’re not privy to it. But judging from the exasperated expression on Steven’s face. He isn’t privy to any changes either.

Another moment goes by, then another. Then Steven is grabbing the sides of the mirror, leaning in closer as if for privacy as he loudly whispers to his reflection in an agitated tone. "Stop being a child. You're embarrassing yourself. Embarrassing both of us, in fact. Making me look like a right knob, you are!"

Steven's mouth drops open, eyes narrowing like he's hearing something you aren’t. After several long moments, his shoulders stoop. He takes a deep sigh, closing his eyes briefly in resignation before he turns back to you with a small frown.

"Marc is... Uhm... He doesn't want– He's being uncooperative at the moment."

"Oh..."

You don't know what else to say. It feels like there was a balloon in your chest and someone walked up with a needle, pricking it. You let out a long breath you didn't know you were holding as the whole of your chest cage deflates with it.

Disappointment. That's what you feel, you realise. You hadn’t realised quite how much you were looking forward to seeing Marc again.

"That's– That's alright,” you say, trying to convince yourself, “He must be tired after everything. We can talk later. It's not like he's avoiding me or anything, right?"

Steven's eyes flicker away from yours, down to the floor and it stops you short.

"I'm… not exactly sure," he says bluntly, honest as ever. "He's resisting me. Refusing to take the body, which he hasn't really done before."

"Oh," you repeat again because you don't know what word can adequately convey the sudden pang you feel in your ribs out of seemingly nowhere.

You don't understand why Marc wouldn’t want to talk to you. Is he mad at you?

No that can't be. He left you on good terms. Holding you, comforting you when you were in shambles. You still remember the weight of his arms wrapped around you, when you were crying your heart out. The warm tone in his words as he comforted you and told you he was going to 'fix everything'.

Oh. Oh fuck.That bloody wanker!!

He wouldn't.

Except you know that idiot, and he definitely would.

Your fingers tighten around the cold brass of the music box, and you realise they’re trembling slightly.

"Steven, did Marc say anything to you before you came here last night?"

Steven tilts his head to the side, like a confused golden retriever. "Uhm... I don't know what you mean–"

"You said Marc was going to leave us alone last night. Did he tell you that? What exactly did he say?"

"Uhm..." Steven glances at the mirror, then darts his eyes back towards you. "He just said he wanted to give us some alone time. Wanted to let you and me talk properly and that he didn’t want to be in the way."

That seems innocuous enough, but if your intuition is right... If you know Marc well enough...

"Steven, what were his exact words?"

Steven shifts on his feet, staring up at the ceiling as if he's trying to replay the memory in his head. Whatever he's remembering is causing his forehead to crease.

“He said… he was going to give you and me time alone together. That he…” Steven's mouth presses firmly together until it’s compressed into a thin line as he starts to frown. “Wasn’t going to interfere anymore.”

Your stomach sinks.

It might seem innocuous.

But you know Marc. Know him too well now, to not know what exactly he is planning.

He was going to 'fix everything' by removing what the considers to be the problem from yours and Steven's relationship. Remove the 'interference' that he believes himself to be.

For fuck’s sake, Marc.

"Is everything okay, love?" Steven asks gently.

You shake your head, and there's a sharp sting that prickles behind your eyelids as you try to find the words. "I think Marc might not intend to front anymore."

"He wouldn’t,” Steven huffs, “that’s silly!” He shakes his head, but his expression bleeds into one of worry.

You let go of the music box, as you continue.

"He thinks that by avoiding me, giving us time alone together then everyone will be happier that way," you say, settling your hands on your knees as you grip tight enough that it hurts. "Because he thinks that he's interfering with our relationship. I think that's what he meant last night."

“But surely, he just meant for the night. That he wanted us to be able to catch up because we’d been away from each other for so long. I don’t think he…” Steven’s sentence trails off, and his gaze drops from your face before he turns back to the mirrored reflection.

“I don’t think he means permanently? That would be ridiculous wouldn’t it?” He looks at the silvered surface and his own form in it, almost accusatory, as he speaks.

“What– Is he just supposed to hide from us for the rest of our lives? That’d be absurd. We share the same body. He can’t seriously think that’s possible to keep up. Or that it would make us happy, would he?”

Except this is Marc the two of you are talking about. The same man whose grand plan was to hide from Steven for the rest of his life to ensure his happiness, and they share the same body. It is definitely something that Marc would seriously consider possible to keep up.

Steven lets out a disbelieving laugh then his eyes widen with concern, the laughter dying in his throat.

“Oh god,” Steven says. “He means it permanently. Marc is going to hide from us, permanently.”

~ Continue ~

a/n: to be notified of new writing updates follow @astroboots-writes and turn on notifs 🤡💖🤡

#oscar isaac #moon knight #marvel #marvel mcu #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #steven grant #marc spector #moon knight fanfic #moon knight fic #moon knight fanfiction #jake lockley #steven grant x you #marc spector x you #jake lockley x reader #jake lockle x you #moon knight x reader #moon knight x you

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her-midas-touch · 4 months

Text

Moonlit Escapades (Part-1)

(A little bit of fun camp wolfstar: In which Remus Lupin definitely shouldn’t be out of bed and just maybe Sirius Black isn’t that annoying)

@loving-the-marauders here’s something you might like <3

There’s an insistent rapping at his window. Remus starts, bleary-eyed, tearing his eyes away from the clock on the wall, it’s outline just barely visible in the fractured moonlight pouring in through the gap in the curtains.

He squints.

Sirius Black’s wide eyes stare back at him from the other side.

“Bloody hell,” Remus scowls “You again?”

It comes out louder then he intends. The bed creaks as someone stirs in the bunk above him. Remus bites his tongue.

Sirius can’t hear him, but he grins stupidly anyway, jerking his head back, beckoning Remus to meet him outside. Then he disappears, without waiting for an answer.

That isn’t the problem. Remus knows where to find him. It’s not the first time they’ve snuck out here at camp.

Remus should know better and this is exactly the sort of stuff that he absolutely should not be doing. It’s one of his parents’ stupid summer rules. He’s been following them long enough to have them convinced that he can be trusted for a summer.

He’d had to beg for it.

But screw that, right? That’s what he’s here. Change. And anyway he can’t sleep, so.

The back door’s usually open and he already has a spare key, a wonderful little thing he’d discovered earlier in one of the dusty drawers in the abandoned looking storage units packed away at the corners of the camp grounds.

He doesn’t have to go far.

“What now, Black?” Remus crosses his arms.

Sirius clearly doesn’t appreciate the new nickname; Remus can tell that much from the way his nose wrinkles in displeasure. It’s kind of cute.

Wait. Remus gives his head a shake. Focus.

“You wanna do something?”

“Do I have a choice?” Remus huffs, glancing around impatiently. The rickety wooden roof of the abandoned shack, which they’ve snuck behind—Sirius’s idea of a hideout—makes a painful creak at the slightest gust of wind.

He’s being a little paranoid.

It’s abandoned, and rumored to be haunted—probably another lie to keep campers out—so chances are, no one’s going to sneak up on them.

“Hey.” Sirius frowned “I’m not dragging you. You didn’t have to come.”

Which is true, except, it’s kind of pathetic, imagining Sirius awkwardly standing outside his cabin and waiting, even worse if he never bothered to show.

Remus has had it happen to him enough to have the good sense not to put anyone else through it. He’s simply gracious enough to save Sirius the embarrassment. That’s all this is.

“Where’s James?”

“Said his stomach still feels funny. Matron’s been watching like a hawk, or he would’ve snuck out anyway. And Pete’s been no fun. Too tired, apparently.”

Remus is quiet for a minute.

“Where are we going?” He asks, eventually. There’s no point denying it ; He’s curious. He isn’t the only one who knows it though. Sirius smirks.

“To the lake,”

“The lake,” Remus repeats.

“Yeah,”

“What for?”

Sirius looks at him like he’s asked the dumbest question in the world.

“To swim. Duh.”

Remus blinks at him.

“You want to take a swim." Remus repeats again, slowly

"In a random-ass lake. That probably has brain eating amoeba.”

It’s not a gross exaggeration. The amount of moss and swampy plants creeping up the bottom of the bridge is indication enough of what lies there.

“It does not. Probably,”

“In the middle of the night?”

Sirius doesn’t bat an eyelash “Problem?”

Plenty actually. But that can be worried about later.

“No. Not really.” Remus grins “Bet I’ll beat you there.”

He breaks off into a run.

Sirius’s voice chases him.

“Oi, cheater!”

He’s barefoot too, minor scratches on his feet from the scattered gravel, and wet dirt clinging to his heels.

The wind is cool against his already- stinging cheeks and he laughs, because this is the most alive he’s felt.

He hears another laugh, closer by now, and he knows Sirius isn’t far behind.

He risks a look behind him, and there Sirius is, flushed and focused.

Watching him.

And that’s when Remus spectacularly trips over his feet.

Sirius’s laughs draw nearer. That bastard.

He still stops to help Remus up. Only to immediately break into a run after doing so.

“Bloody cheater,” Remus whispers under his breath.

This time, there’s no venom behind it.

#wolfstar #wolfstar fanfic #wolfstar oneshot #marauders era #sirius black #remus lupin #sirius x remus #remus x sirius #the marauders #writing dump #just silly little guys #and more obliviousness #part 2 is going to be a lot more fun imo but I want this on my blog too

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rozcdust · 2 years

Text

Waste it on me

Angst route

Pairing: Takeomi Akashi x f!reader

Genre: Crack, SMAU

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Canon divergent, profanity, ooc, sugar daddy/ sugar baby relationship, age gap (both are consenting adults), suggestive, everyone is dumb

Taiju did the rational thing, even if he had to drag you out of the house kicking and scratching like a feral cat, awkwardly smiling and waving at a freaked-out neighbour in the process with a grown woman screaming bloody murder on his shoulder.

He called up the last therapist you shamelessly ghosted, told her ‘Ayo, she’s fucked’ and hauled your ass straight to her office, leaving only when he was sure you were inside with no way to escape.

Bastard.

“Y/n, pleased to see you again.” The therapist smiled, nodding at you to sit down on the sofa.

“‘Sup, doc?” Nodding stoically, you plop yourself down on the sofa, legs sticking over the armrest as you wiggle in place, getting comfortable.

“I’m good. By what Taiju told me, you haven’t been too good yourself.”

“He’s been snitching on me?”

“Not exactly. Just told me you’d need a talk.”

You let out an exhausted sigh, rubbing your face with your palms to soothe your nerves.

It’s been a while since you’ve been here, and you hated having to come back, even if you knew it did you well.

You liked your therapist, she was relaxed, sometimes cussing, something sharing your rage about your parents.

She was a good therapist.

“So, y/n,” The therapist tapped her pen against the paper laid out on her lap, pushing the glasses higher up on her nose, “Tell me, what has been bothering you?”

You let out a small huff, pondering how to word where your frustrations lay correctly, accurately, without sounding like a colossal asshole.

“I got into a fight with my not-partner-but-partner and best friend and said some horrible shit?”

“Why does that sound like a question?” The therapist tilted her head, shortly writing something in her notebook.

“They started it,” You huffed, crossing your arms, “Both of them got pissy at me out of nowhere and then I snapped.”

“I see. Would you mind telling me about the fights?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, suddenly dying for a cigarette, and proceeding the tale with a deep breath, recounted the events of those two evenings.

Your therapist only kept nodding, never interrupting you, jotting down brief notes in her notebook periodically.

“Okay,” The therapist took a deep breath, glancing down at her notebook as if she were carefully crafting what to say next, “So, clearly, a lot has happened at once, and also, a person you idolise has been mentioned to you in a bad context, which would be rough for anyone.”

“I don’t idolise Shi,” You groaned, frowning, “He has plenty of flaws, like, an abundance, sure, but he was a good man.”

“You may not idolise him on a conscious level, but subconsciously, he was your saviour. It is no wonder you got angry.”

“Okay, yeah, sure doc, whatever you say.”

She tapped her notebook, her cheek pressing into her palm, deep in thought.

A beat passed where no one spoke.

“How about you apologise to them first? Both your partner and Hakkai?”

What the fuck.

You shot up from your position on the sofa, eyes wide, staring at her fully baffled.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”

“Hey, just hear me out,” Your therapist raised her arms up in defence, “You want to salvage those relationships, correct? They may have started it, but you also said some nasty shit. If you apologise first, best case, they accept it and you both move on. Worst case, they don’t accept, you move on and they feel guilty. It’s a win-win.”

You blinked.

“Doc, are you suggesting I manipulate people?”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at her.

“Yes.”

You let out a small huff of laughter, falling back down on the sofa.

“Interesting advice, I have to admit,” Chuckling, you stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to find a fault in the perfect white paint, “I’m still so angry.”

“I can tell.” The therapist nodded, motioning for you to continue.

“I’m still so angry at my parents, and angry at Shi for fucking leaving me, and angry at Takeomi and Hakkai and angry at myself for still holding onto that anger.”

“I understand.”

“Why? What is wrong with me for being so bitter?”

Your therapist smiled, softly, pulling her glasses off her nose and on top of her head.

“You know, you are allowed to feel angry. It is an emotion that deserves to be felt, stop suppressing it. It isn’t as bad as people think.”

You looked at her sceptically, and she let out a small laugh

“Sure, when turned onto oneself, or others, it is destructive, but if directed correctly, anger is ambition. Anger is a good guide to know when people are crossing your boundaries. Some of the most successful people in the world are filled with anger.”

“I don’t understand, doc.”

“Allow yourself to be angry, you had a tough life, it’s fine to feel it out. And after you feel, act.”

Bang.

Hakkai looked up from the stove, furrowing his brows.

Mitsuya wasn’t supposed to come home for at least another two hours, and since the epic fight between the two of you, there was no one to unexpectantly show up and annoy him.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Turning the flame on the stove down to allow the food to simmer without burning, he wiped his hands on his apron, cautiously creeping to the door in order to twist the key.

The banging stopped.

Taking a deep breath in, he opened the door.

And was met with a fist to the face.

“WhaT THE FUC-“

“I AM SORRY!” You screamed before he could as much as look in your direction, sprawled on the floor holding his painful, but not bleeding nose.

This was almost definitely not*** what your therapist meant by ‘Utilise your anger’, but hey.

If it works, it works.

“Y/n, wh-“ Before he could finish, you plopped yourself on top of him, gripping onto his shirt, burying your face into his neck.

“I am sorry for what I said. It was fucked up.” You mumble against his neck, nuzzling your face further in.

For a few seconds, Hakkai said nothing, cogs turning into his brain as he tried to figure out what to say, to yell at you or hug you back.

“I was angry, but that doesn’t excuse it. And you’re my best friend Hakkai, and I love you so much, and I hope you can forgive me.”

He blinked.

And when you felt his arms wrap around your back, you knew you were forgiven.

“I’m sorry too.”

🔖Taglist (closed): @1818cigarettes @dilf-city @wakasa-wifey @rinsie @kisekihany@missarabellla @bajifairyy @cryszus @r-xochitl @levistiddies @bxnten @spookygeto @graythecoffeebean @yukihime-mikeys-girl @mukounisuru-gashadokuro @sunahyejin @crybabylisa @yamaguccitadashi @minoozi @trashmemebitch @frogtits1 @sup-zfam @whydohumansss @xashiui @bontens-whore @nqctre @kennyb0y @chaoticyuna @haitanihime @adeptiixiao @denkis-sluttyboy @wakasagurl @dontfollowmelol @yukimaniac @nahoyas-nymph @somniari-94 @haikyuu-simps-assemble @gulfkfl @lumi-does-some-stuff @hana-patata @snowyseungs @sanzuswh0re @itsyournumber1whore @lem0nsquizy @nana-phobia (second taglist in the comments! please let me know if i forgot to tag you 💕)

#tokyorev #tokyo revengers #bonten #takeomi x reader #takeomi x y/n #takeomi akashi #mitsuya takashi #hakkai shiba

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mariacallous · 1 year

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its both the late great Barbara Jordan and the late great John Lewis' birthdays today

Two great Americans, and two people I've admired for a while.

“What is it about the Democratic Party that makes it the instrument the people use when they search for ways to shape their future? Well I believe the answer to that question lies in our concept of governing. Our concept of governing is derived from our view of people. It is a concept deeply rooted in a set of beliefs firmly etched in the national conscience of all of us.

Now what are these beliefs? First, we believe in equality for all and privileges for none. This is a belief -- This is a belief that each American, regardless of background, has equal standing in the public forum -- all of us. Because -- Because we believe this idea so firmly, we are an inclusive rather than an exclusive party. Let everybody come.

I think it no accident that most of those immigrating to America in the 19th century identified with the Democratic Party. We are a heterogeneous party made up of Americans of diverse backgrounds. We believe that the people are the source of all governmental power; that the authority of the people is to be extended, not restricted.

This -- This can be accomplished only by providing each citizen with every opportunity to participate in the management of the government. They must have that, we believe. We believe that the government which represents the authority of all the people, not just one interest group, but all the people, has an obligation to actively -- underscore actively -- seek to remove those obstacles which would block individual achievement -- obstacles emanating from race, sex, economic condition. The government must remove them, seek to remove them.

We -- We are a party -- We are a party of innovation. We do not reject our traditions, but we are willing to adapt to changing circumstances, when change we must. We are willing to suffer the discomfort of change in order to achieve a better future. We have a positive vision of the future founded on the belief that the gap between the promise and reality of America can one day be finally closed. We believe that.

This, my friends is the bedrock of our concept of governing. This is a part of the reason why Americans have turned to the Democratic Party. These are the foundations upon which a national community can be built.”

We were beaten, tear-gassed. Some of us was left bloody right here on this bridge. Seventeen of us were hospitalized that day.

But we never became bitter or hostile. We kept believing that the truth we stood for would have the final say.

This city, on the banks of the Alabama River, gave birth to a movement that changed this nation forever. Our country will never, ever be the same because of what happened on this bridge.

Eight days after Bloody Sunday, the President of the United States, Lyndon Baines Johnson, delivered one of the most meaningful speeches ever made by any President on the question of voting rights.2

He said, "The time of justice has [now] come. I believe sincerely that no force can hold it back."

He went on to say, "It is right in the eyes of man and God that it should come."

He said, "At times, history and fate History and fate meet at a single time and a single place to shape a turning point in man's unending search for freedom."

He went on to say, "So it was at Lexington and Concord. So it was [a century ago] at Appomattox. So it was [last week] in Selma, Alabama."

Each of us must go back to our homes after this celebration and build on the legacy of the March in 1965. The Selma Movement is saying today that we all can doing something. So I say to you, don't give up on the things that have great meaning to you. Don't get lost in a sea of despair. Stand up for what you believe. Because in the final analysis, we are one people, one family, the human family. We all live in the same House, the American House, the world House.

We're black. We're white. We are Hispanic, Asian-American, Native-American. But we're one people.

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hollers-and-holmes · 2 years

Note

Story tag game: the thing with the kid and the assassination?

This one exists very clearly in my mind but I’ve only got about three chapters dredged up and actually written 😂 Some of it is posted on AO3, I’ll smouch an excerpt from there. Basically a teenager joins the Rangers because his religious sect wants him to establish himself as a plant and then kill Aragorn who they consider a usurper. Once again I chose the dreaded First Person, because I have a condition or something.

Four weeks. A month at the tender mercies of Sador son of Sadroc, Captain of the Rangers, chief provost, judge, and executioner, connoisseur of quality miseries and curator of time-honored torments.

There are six of us. I am the oldest, the others stripling cadets, fourteen or fifteen years old, gangly and speckle-faced, their voices still fumbling around for a man’s timbre and often laying hold instead of something far more girlish in the pitch. To a one they can outrun, outshoot, outfence, and outstrip me over rough ground, so I don’t spend much time pointing out their adolescent absurdities. Don’t talk much at all, which has always come easiest to me.

I get the impression it is not customary, this arrangement. The other fellows certainly gave me strange, gawking looks when I joined them in their tiny gap-slatted little barracks on the edge of the camp. Now that I think of it, I suppose it is strange there are no more recruits my own age. I know they run continual continuous training for the army proper down in the River Camp, trying to get those common lads as handy with a sword as they are a pitchfork. Why there aren’t more of a similar sort up here, I haven’t yet determined.

Maybe it’s the food. Beards of the Avalôi, it is vile stuff. Slop the color of what spurts out of a spring-fluxed calf. Must make it that way on purpose so no one complains that there’s never enough.

Not enough sleep, either. Some days I run around feeling like a fat man, like my flesh is too heavy to hold on my bones. I have never spent so much time awake in the dark; we return in it and leave in it and sometimes trek right through it until the sun creeps up again and saner people rise full-rested.

It occurs to me that I am soft.

They’re good lads, though. Once the gawping is over they aren’t too hard on me. They’re too young to rag me bloody the way an older bunch might have.

Slowly, I lag a little less. Hit a few more targets. Narrow the gap in number between bruises I take and ones I dole out.

My trousers get looser and my belt tighter.

Sador cusses us a lot and whacks around a lot with the flat of his sword and calls us all little girls in lace knickers and makes us spend hours out in the undergrowth trying to move through it secret as ghosts, which we inevitably fail at, and the cussing and whacking and name-calling can recommence.

When we camp he sits up smoking and watching the dark and I don’t think he sleeps. Does he sleep? I have not seen him do it.

We build a bridge in between the drilling. What that has to do with soldiering I have yet to lay ahold of, unless it serves as a good stand-in exercise for being told to move faster and shut up while you’re at it.

I stand with a brutally heavy beam across my shoulders, waiting for the crew to fill the pylon-hole with mortar and set the post. The Captain leans up leisurely against the weight I’m holding, not doing much to share the load.

“You don’t want to be here, lad,” he tells me conversationally. He carries a plug of dried galenas in the pocket of his grey fatigues and lifts it out two-fingered to carve away a sliver with his beltknife and pack into his bottom lip. “You’re not fooling anyone, we know what you left behind. A pretty little inheritance. An estate at your leisure when all this is over and done. Men like us are the ones who die so men like you don’t have to. Why don’t you go home and let us?”

The the muscles of my back and legs are starting to cramp. I keep my eyes out on the hills. Somewhere far behind me the faint roar of the river. That bridge would have taken more than the backs of half-grown green recruits to put up. This little tributary a trickle in comparison with old Hoarwell.

“These lads, you know,” he goes on, leaning a little heavier, his knife now whittling away at the stony calluses at the top of his palm, “These lads, they were born to it. They were skulking around like shadows before they’d started to lose their baby teeth. Medlinion there is the fourteenth in a line, Ranger’s all of them. I’ve already got to watch my step he’s so quick with a sword. He was bred and raised to wear the Star. These others are like him. But you…” he taps me on the collarbone with the tip of his bright little knife. “You were bred and raised to hold out that big gold ring for serfs to kneel and kiss.”

I have not worn the thing since I have been here. Sometimes the things this bastard knows rub me right down to a gall. But I do not take his bait. There are cranes there in the field beyond the little river. I see them standing, stepping, ducking down to drill the sward. Spring is here in earnest, despite the hard frost still brittling the grass each morning. My mother and her ladies will put in the early fields, soon.

The beam gnaws my shoulders. The Captain leans in closer yet. He says to me, “If you wanted, you could have a gold-liveried charger and a seat at the officer’s table every night. I know the commission your father’s name would buy you in that troublemaking Tarîkthôr’s little club.”

I can smell the sweet, sticky herb he’s chewing, the molasses that holds it packed together, the danker, staler stench of old man’s breath, like dry white mold. The cranes light up at some unseen startlement and strive into the sky, clattering at one another their strange, repeated cries. They look far too gangly to fly, but fly they do, and drift to motes on the cold grey horizon, and disappear.

The old man says very softly, “What are you doing here, usurper’s son.”

Men come then, their pylons buried at last, and lift the beam from off my shoulders to fix it in its place. I step out from under its weight and my back feels like a decrepit’s back, that straightening it might snap me in half like a dead stick.

But straighten I do. I am bare to the waist. It is warmer today. Or maybe the cold is ceasing to trouble me the way it used to.

I bend for the next beam and heave it up while my muscles shriek and plead for mercy and I say as I shuffle past, “I’m here because I like the food.”

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recapcrew · 1 year

Text

Week 36 Transcript

Video

Intro

Extra extra, read all about it! Welcome to the Empire’s Recap, and today we will be going over the chaos and drama of our (somewhat) respected rulers!

This week we have the long awaited video from Oli TheOrionSound, in which many things happen including meeting the hermits, saying goodbye to the hermits, and realizing parenthood is stressful!

Oli

Our story begins with a quick recap of Oli’s time on the Hermitcraft server, including but not limited to leaving sign graffiti and writing the Christmas song “the real jim sheriff”.

Eventually his travels lead him back to the Olipelago.

In the 4 months Oli has been gone, he gained a lute—

[OLI] –cheek for the journey, goodbye god! …Nooo! No! I’m in Sanctuary! God has pushed me off the stairs! The bloody nerve of these Gods!

[NARRATOR] —Hosted a festival—

[OLI] –pretty penny! We’re rich, boys, we’re rich! Woo! It’s thanks to you, it’s thanks to you, and most of all it’s thanks to me!

[NARRATOR] And dealt with some inter dimensional visitors.

[OLI] What's your sick goal you short charlatan!

[NARRATOR] Who of course couldn’t resist visiting the great Olipelago!

[OLI] Don't read that, don't read that, ey!

[GRIAN] Debt? You're in debt To Gobland? YOU NOW OWE 81 DIAMONDS??

[OLI] Yeah, I've only made two episodes!

[NARRATOR] Also, our sincere apologies to Katherine's tailoring shop for the brief period of “Hermitopia not being in a glass box”… not that it seems to stop anybody.

One of the Hermits, Pearl, who looks incredibly like God who pushed him off a cloud, visits the Olipelago and helps out a bit despite the allegations. Probably having a rough time of it on the road to el dorado.

The Olipelago has expanded tremendously with its incredible second tent solely for beetroot. It is somewhat appropriate that the bard is the only one who lives off beets.

But disaster strikes! The dragon egg is starting to hatch!

[SHELBY MUTTERING] Temperature looks normal…

[OLI] What’s the diagnosis, doc?

[SHELBY] Well, not only am I not a doctor but I have exactly 0 medical training--

[OLI] Mhm mhm

[SHELBY] --but as far as I can tell… it’s a boy!

Pix and Gem reject the idea of having a dragon on the surface and Many an attempt to destroy said egg occurs - because it keeps coming back - before an understanding bridges the gap between Oli and surprise adoption.

To be a good parent you must have somewhere safe for them - so of course Oli builds a tiny Sydney opera house for the child and then goes searching for parenting advice.

[OLI] You’re a pesky little man aren’t you!

[NARRATOR] Lizzie’s parenting advice pretty much amounts to severe paranoia - Oli takes notes.

Pix’s advice is child labour, but considering said child is a copper aging facility he can be forgiven.

Joel, being Hermes’ parent, should have some good advice, but he doesn’t seem to know anything about children despite having several. He recommends… dancing?

Brief interlude for flirting with Sausage's dad, and then we meet the other father of Hermes, who actually gives reasonable advice as they watch the sunset. Before suddenly the egg starts to hatch - too late to back out now!

Sausage and Oli drag the egg to Shelby as she's the only one on this server even vaguely knowledgeable and they take the egg to the sun temple in Sanctuary to keep it warm enough.

[SHELBY] Deep breaths! I don’t—I’ve never—I’m not ready to be a mom, I have student loans—

[OLI] You’re not having the child, no! I’m having the child!

[SHELBY] Oh!

[NARRATOR] They set a fire surrounding the egg, and Oli ends up sitting on it to keep it warm before it starts to float in the air.

Some severe magical stuff is happening on this server, and Oli slips off the egg and his new dragon child lands at his feet.

To be continued…

Jimmy

In other news, Tumble town has been given a very odd copper statue of a cod! The mesa feels like an odd place to put that…

Anyway, to finish the rails to the train station Jimmy needs some iron in bulk supply. Unfortunately he doesn’t have any iron, let alone diamonds to pay False to use her iron farm. That’s an easy fix though, just gotta go mining!

This mining adventure quickly goes wonky however when Jimmy finds a strange old man in a cave. Apparently he used to be the old sheriff before Jimmy rolled into town, and had gotten stuck down the mines while chasing a bandit.

[OLD SHERIFF, ACCUSATORY] Where did you get Wednesday?

[JIMMY] Who—uh, it’s Friday right now. I—I don’t think you—

[OLD SHERIFF] No, I’m not talking about the day, I’m talking about that hat on your head! Where did you get Wednesday?

[JIMMY] No—this is the Sheriffs hat. Take a look, this is the Sheriffs hat, what do you mean?

[OLD SHERIFF] You think I don’t know that, I am the Sheriff!

[JIMMY] …What?

[NARRATOR] This is a prime opportunity to learn how the old sheriff earned his respect - being very short doesn't exactly inspire his fellow rulers to respect him. The Old sheriff agrees on the condition he can see the town again.

Jimmy shows him the outside and learns that apparently before Jimmy got there the town was called Midweek, because of Wednesday the hat of course.

[OLD SHERIFF] I’d be like, “Good morning how you doin’”, I’d tip Wednesday, and they’d say, “Is it midweek?” and I’d say “Everyday is midweek, ‘specially in this town!”

[JIMMY STARTS TO LAUGH]

[OLD SHERIFF] And they would absolutely love it, they’d chant my name, I’d catch them criminals and I’d throw ‘em behind bars!

[NARRATOR] The tall Joel statue does scare the old sheriff but he’s a man of his word, so he takes Jimmy back to the mines and teaches him the meaning of Respect.

Jimmy takes the old sheriff to the saloon and gets a small pep talk before he goes to show his friends and fellow rulers what he’s learnt from the newest - oldest? - Tumble Town resident.

[JIMMY] Okay.

[OLD SHERIFF] And you tip Wednesday and you say, good morning ma’am, good morning sir, good morning they, good morning them, you say good morning to everythin’, you hear me?

[NARRATOR] Jimmy saddles up his horse and rides through the Golden empire to get to the Greatbridge where he meets Gem, Sausage and Fwhip.

The three of them start teasing him over his height - the old sheriff's lessons don’t seem to work no matter how he tries! It’s really hammered home when Gem, one of his only allies that truly respected him, is given Sausages sword and kills him…

He is fed up with this disrespect!

Lizzie

After some reflection, Lizzie and the Critter Council decide to ally with fWhip, after multiple months. But the transport connections between those two empires is quite unsatisfactory… But no worries! Mayor Lizzie will bless anyone departing or arriving Critter City with a much more beautiful tram station and see! There is already some traffic!

[LIZZIE] What is the meaning of this?

[LIZZIE, READING] Dear Mayor of Animalia, come to the Drip Tavern to continue the discussion we had in Tumble Town. Burn this note before you arrive. fWhip of Gobland.

[NARRATOR] After some problems involving 12 gunpowder, three people, and explosives, Lizzie and Fwhip decide to make their own gunpowder farm. They each have their own task, fWhip’s got the beacon and Lizzie’s got the cats.

[FWHIP] Oh no, Lizzie… What efficiency do you have on your tool?

[LIZZIE, OVERLAPPING] I don’t have efficiency 5.

[LIZZIE] Wait, don’t look at me, I’m embarrassed! I’ll be right back!

[NARRATOR] After digging, it’s building time, and the creeper farm is officially done; but creepers are not the only thing falling.

Deciding they’ll meet back in one hour, Lizzie takes advantage of the beacon to finally finish her ores bundle. She digs one massive hole underneath Stratos to find her diamond ores. After multiple bumps along the way, she finds it.

[LIZZIE] Look at this stuff, isn’t it neat, wouldn’t you say my collections complete?

[NARRATOR] Back to the creeper farm and it’s rewarding! Fwhip and Lizzie decide to expand the storage but there is something odd lurking around.

[FWHIP] Can you see that?

[LIZZIE] What is—What is that?

[FWHIP] What is… in there?

[LIZZIE] Oh! Oh my gosh I saw something in there!

Outro

And with that, join us next week for more chaos and shenanigans! Thank you for watching, liking, and subscribing, and thanks to everyone helping with the project, check them all out below!

#empires recap #empires season 2 recap #transcript

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dishtothedeath · 11 months

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two heads are better than one | bonbon 3.1 | re: alfie, fergus, morgan

Ace Attorney, Danganronpa, what in the? Maybe the devil was in the computer, because the more Bonbon hears about these sorts of games, the more he’s quite sure that it’s all just, ten kinds of messed up. Who the hell would greenlight this?

Regardless of, murder games for sale, something bothers Bonbon about the whole thing, something presumptuous. Like parents coming home to a house that's too clean after a night out, like an unexpected compliment, too tidy, too easy, too presumptuous. Filled a gap with chewing gum and expected them all to walk on it like it was a bridge.

“Can we? I mean, say no t’folks with brown hair?”

The crux of what happens is so neat when Fergus lays it out— too neat, if he’s honest, and some of the inconsistencies in the logic fail to stand their ground in the House of Bourbon. He has to interject, if not just to find the truth.

“It’s weird how we keep goin’ back an’ forth, right? This killer was tryna crush Emil in one go— until they ain’t. This killer was somebody strong an’ sturdy— until they chose a method that says they ain’t. This killer was highly confident an’ prepared— until they left stuff behind, until they ain’t. Clean at cakeside, but left the scene of th’crushin’ bloody? Put the fake hair in the clothes, but didn’t get rid’a the wig, even though they had time’ta put on a whole party hat? Sought t’squash Emil, but their tablet was jus’ fine to put up later?”

A shake of his head.

“There’s way too many things that makes it look like we got two different pictures of a guy that can’t come together. That’s why I can’t really agree with yer arrangement of events, Fergus— an hour’s only a lotta time ‘till it’s not. If the point was t’quickly crush Emil an’ the murderer messed it up, why take out the cake before the trap got popped? If the whole point was’ta get the head off, why set up the trap in th’first place to crush them? If they were jus’ led over an’ crushed, why was Emil’s tablet not pinned under with ‘em in a pocket, an’ the killer could jus’ take it out? If they wanna make the hair in the compactor look like it was th’culprit's, why leave the wig out for everyone an’ their mama to find? Where’s the time fer them t’get out of that disguise an’ clean, on top’a everythin’?”

Too much inconsistent with assuming one in either way. Do they have a hapless killer who botched their own trap trigger? Or a master murderer who planned the whole hellish display? Concepts that are irreconcilable in a single person—

—but possible, if you were working in two.

“That’s why I think Morgan’s got it right. We’ve got someone who ain’t strong ‘nuff to wrangle Emil down on their own, so they’d need a trap, but we’ve also got someone strong ‘nuff to do the dirty work of settin’ it up and doin’ the murder act. Someone who knew how we’d think’ta go through evidence and use that, an’ someone who could break the cameras an’ clean it all up after the fact. Someone who could lure Emil in with a talk over to the weird radio, an’ someone who could sit in wait to make the doohickey go off. Someone with a vision, an’ someone who could execute it."

That’s just too much for any one person to reasonably set up and be done with. In his opinion, the silhouette of the orchestrator comes into view. A rancid, feckless figure, like a scourge.

“Most of all, I think. With all the set up, with all the display? Whoever did this has an eye fer TV. Somebody who was real intent on makin’ this whole affair a show.”

#submission #ch3 #bonbon

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the-apprentice-lia · 2 years

Text

blood to blood, ashes to ashes.

Your hair falls in limp curtains on either side of your face as you spit blood, letting your head hang. You hiss quietly as the cold air hits your bloodied lip— every inhale feels like fire, let alone the piercing ache in your chest and the cut down your arm.

Your arms are fastened with chains to the ceiling, pulled taut as they rub your wrists raw, and you can't help the cry of pain as he pulls your chin up roughly to meet his hard eyes again.

Your favourite cable-knit jumper is discarded somewhere in the dank, damp room, and your collared shirt is ripped and bloodied.

"Where is Natasha Romanoff?" He speaks softly, slowly, yanking you forward by your chin again. After all, there is no one here to speak over him— and in the quiet of the room, perforated only by the deafening ringing in your ears, his voice is so loud it makes your head hurt.

"Who?" You manage to gasp out before his boot meets your stomach again. A kaleidoscope of colours bursts before your eyes, amorphous, dancing, abstract shapes blurring and running before your vision as your scream cuts off when he pins you to the wall by your already bruised neck.

"Don't play games with me, Professor. I could always just kill you and leave you here for her to find." His tone is almost jovial for the murder threats he delivers so casually. He spreads his hands, raising his shoulders slightly as if to say, 'you have a choice.'

But what choice is that?

"You know she won't rest until she finds you. You'll never have peace again." Your eyes are filled with vehemence, malice permeating every second of the hard look you fix him with as he falters for a second— and then regains his countenance to take you in smugly again.

"And then she'd be playing right into my hands." Comes his playful tone. The message is clear: 'Anything you do, I'll find her despite it. Just co-operate.'

But when have you ever been one to listen to reason?

You think back to when you and Natasha were still dating, when you'd realised that your now-wife had been stashing handguns around the house.

—

"Nat, I know your job is a lot different to mine, but I found a handgun in the closets today!" You gesture towards the sleek, black automatic on the table.

"You can't keep doing this, Nat. Worrying that I'm not going to be safe. I'm a well-kept secret, aren't I?" You speak softly, taking her hands.

Those viridian eyes are hard, yes, but they're also filled with so much hurt and fear— and you know all she's gone through. The Red Room, her mother's murder at the hands of Dreykov, her little sister almost dying— things have been hard, and no matter how much you try to assure her that your campus apartments are safe, you know she needs these handguns around your home.

She needs to know she can keep you safe.

And so, you relent, telling her gently that she can keep five, and no more, in your shared home. She gives you that small half-smile, pulling you to her with an arm hooked around your waist as you bury your head in her neck, closing your eyes as the golden mid-afternoon sunlight filters through the blinds, turning that russet hair you love so much into a kaleidoscope of fiery reds and honeyed oranges.

Natasha knows you understand.

Later, she watches you read on the bed with a soft, open look she reserves only for you, and you can't help but try to reassure her. Although she's there with you, watching you, it feels as if she's miles away, the paperwork in front of her as she sits at the desk long forgotten.

"Nat... you know nothing's going to happen to me, right?" you speak softly into the quiet evening, and her head lifts as her eyes finally flicker up to meet yours.

"You don't know that, malyshka." she matches your timbre, and you set your book down, turning to face her as you tilt your head to the side.

"No, I don't," you admit into the quiet evening, watching as her jaw tenses again. "But I do know that whatever happens, you'll find me."

You bridge the gap between the bed and the desk chair in a moment, settling on Natasha's lap as her hands automatically come up to wrap around you, steadying you as you drop your head to press your forehead to hers.

"I trust you, Nat. With my life."

When she meets your eyes, they're filled with so much love for you that it almost takes you back, the near tangible force of her affection for you hitting you as she surges up to meet your lips.

Your hands wrap around her shoulders, and you know in that moment, that she'll never let you fall.

—

He takes in the steely look in your eyes, and knows you're not going to give him anything. He sighs, pulls on the chains holding you to the ceiling so you jolt, your various injuries screaming at you as you give a sharp cry.

"Well, maybe after a day without any food or water you'll see things differently." You close your eyes briefly, and when you open them again he's a hair's breadth from your face.

You inhale sharply. His eyes are hard as flint, searing into you in a way that makes you dread the next few days.

"I'll be back when you're ready to talk."

—

She can't think, she can't feel, she can't breathe.

You're gone.

You're gone, you're gone, and it's her fault, and everything's too much.

She throws the plate she's been looking at against the wall, feels a bit better. It clears her head.

And she's Natasha fucking Romanoff, and she's going to find you, just like she promised you all those years ago.

She realised what had happened about an hour ago— but she should have much sooner. It was after a fight.

—

"You can't keep doing this, Natasha!" You hate raising your voice, and she winces at the use of her full name, but raises her voice with you nonetheless.

"Doing what, my job?" She knows she's being unfair, knows that all you want from her is her time— but her mission didn't go the way she wanted it to and she's tired and somehow thinking rationally is too hard; it's so much easier to shout.

"I'm not saying you should stop going on missions, Natasha. All I want is for you to go on shorter ones—" you falter, and she realises that you don't sound angry at all. You sound tired, and pleading. "I just want time with you, love, that's all I ask— and I never get it." You run your hand through your hair in that way you only do when you're frustrated, and she just snaps.

She aches so badly to be there for you, but that red on her ledger stains her vision wine-dark every time she closes her eyes, every time she lets herself be happy with you, and some part of her screams for her to push you away before you get hurt— before she hurts you.

"I don't need you whining for my time like a child every waking moment! Maybe I just need you to leave!"

The apartment is silent. You choke back tears, stumbling back through the apartment to throw the door open as Natasha stands there, stock still. She only comes back to herself when she hears the door close softly, only realises what she's done when day turns to night and you're still not there.

Her thoughts are a mess of 'you've finally done it, you've finally ruined everything, finally pushed away the one good thing you have,' until she finally notices that you left with nothing but the clothes you had been wearing.

You haven't even taken your phone. And so she decides, she's going to find you, she's going to beg for your forgiveness; she'll be damned if she's going to push away the one good thing she has, the one thing she can't lose.

Her first stop is, of course, the library. It's the evening now, and she steps between the bookshelves in the dim lighting provided by the reading lights lining the stacks of books— she knows you curl up, knees pulled to your chest, by the bookshelves when things get really bad.

But her heart stops in her chest when she steps between the sixth and seventh shelves— it's right at the back of the library, where nobody would have heard you scream.

Your glasses, twisted and broken, lie on the floor, strewn to the side of a myriad of brutal scratches on the soft wood floor. There are little smudges of blood towards where the scratches and marks peter off.

Her head is empty. It's like she can't comprehend that something's happened to you, the thing she's been scared— no, terrified— of for years; and it's her fault.

—

And now, she pulls herself up from where she's sat with her knees pulled up to her chest for the better part of the last half hour, pulls out her latest burner phone, punches in Clint's number.

Because as much as Natasha Romanoff hates asking for help, she's not going to risk you.

—

You don't know what time it is.

No natural light gets into this tiny, damp prison, and for all you know it could have been weeks but for the fact that you're only hungry enough for it to have been about two days.

You haven't slept, haven't eaten, haven't done anything, save for been beaten bloody and starved, since you've been kidnapped, and by now the hours blend into one another.

As much as you love and trust Natasha, it's a perfectly plausible explanation that you'd simply decided to leave after she had shouted at you— for once, there's an explanation for you disappearing, and you've no doubt your captor knows this.

The large, metal door creaks open on its rusty hinges, and your heart drops into your stomach, adrenaline and terror curling through your limbs.

"She's not coming, Prof." his voice is still almost teasing, and you have to grit your teeth to stop the tears from slipping out.

"You think that's going to make me talk? You may as well kill me. I'm never going to tell you anything." You keep your voice as steady as it can be. If you're going to die, at least your last moments won't be spent pleading.

You can afford her that small mercy— knowing you had a quick death. There's no point in prolonging it.

You turn your chin to the side briefly, closing your eyes for a second as he reveals a sleek automatic from his pocket, cocking it and pointing it at your chest. You have no doubt that he's anything but an excellent marksman.

You're not going to go with your eyes closed, you make up your mind, as you stare right at him. Let him look into your eyes as he takes your life.

"Stop!"

Your head jerks up, your eyes meeting familiar green ones as she walks in slowly, hands held out in front of her as she takes you in with searching eyes.

She closes her eyes briefly as she notes that you're still awake, relief overwhelming her— and it's quickly overtaken by guilt. You look— terrible. You could never be ugly, not to her, but your lip is bruised and bloodied, there's a large red patch on your shirt that hadn't been there before, and you've got nasty-looking lacerations up both your arms.

She says your name so softly that you can't help the tear that traces its way down your cheek.

"Nat," you murmur, wincing as you shift against your chains. You try to speak, to warn her that she shouldn't be here, she can't be here, but she sets her gun on the floor, pulling two out of her boots and another from her jeans before she speaks again, her voice low and hard. "Hawkeye is waiting on the other side of that door. Let her go. You're cornered."

He gives Natasha a grin that makes her insides crawl, levels the gun so it points straight at you. "Ah yes, but they won't stop me before I put a bullet in your pretty wife."

She inhales sharply, gives you a quick glance as if to say 'I'm sorry,' and nods resolutely at your captor.

"Fine. What do you want? Money? Protection?" She's cut off as he chuckles bitterly, hefting the gun in his hand.

"So you really don't recognise me then?" He gives a deranged, unhinged laugh, searching Natasha's face as something more than hatred flickers across his face, raw and open.

Natasha wracks her brain, cursing her many missions and assignments over the years as she struggles to bring to mind who this man could possibly be. She treats the situation carefully, speaking quietly and neutrally as she gestures to the gun.

"I might. If you just put down the gun, we could talk—"

He cuts her off, his voice raised now. It breaks as he speaks, grief and loss lacing the words like poison. "No! I'm not stupid, Ms. Romanoff. I'm aware that the second I put this gun down, I'm a dead man— I know what happens to people who threaten your family." He flicks the safety off, hefts it in his hand again as you meet her eyes, silently conveying how much you love her in that moment as she tears her eyes away from you to face him.

"You killed my brother. You were a little fifteen-year-old, and you slit his throat as I watched. Do you remember, Ms. Romanoff? Ilyasanov Knezevic, at your service." He inclines his head as the colour drains from Natasha's face.

"Ilyasonov, I'm so sorry— I can't give you anything that could make up for that—" but he cuts her off again, his laughter maniacal and broken.

"Oh, no, dear Natasha. Blood is to blood, ashes to ashes. I'd see the walls painted red with mine and hers if it meant your ruin."

It only takes Natasha a split second to realise he won't be negotiate, urgency and fear flashing through her eyes as she bolts across the room to where he stands.

Oddly introspective as you watch the scene play out, you realise that the expectation that the moment would pass in the blink of an eye is a complete and utter lie.

Every moment seems as if it drags on to eternity, from the moment Natasha begins to run, to the split second where Ilyasonov's finger finally tightens on the trigger, to the impact in your lower abdomen that feels strangely as if you've been hit by a brick.

The moment time starts again, however, is when Natasha's horrified gaze meets yours. The world seems to hold its breath, sounds strangely muted as if you're underwater and not standing in a dingy basement with a gunshot wound in your abdomen. Everything fades away, save for the glistering, garnet liquid that stains your fingers as you touch them to your stomach.

It resumes again when you crumple to the floor.

Ilyasanov Knezevic has not known fear since a certain scarlet-haired assassin slit his family's throats in front of him. He finds it again now, as Natasha meets his eye.

(How funny, to understand an old friend just as the world flips and fades to nothing before his eyes.)

Knezevic's neck snapped ruthlessly and efficiently, Natasha runs like she's never run before, skidding to her knees just in front of you as she picks the locks of your chains with shaking fingers.

"Love? Hey, look at me. Please?" She can't keep the frantic, coursing fear from her voice as she hears the final lock click and she practically rips them off your wrists, lowering you gently into her arms as she smooths your hair away from your forehead.

Why is everything so quiet?

It's difficult to hear anything over the ringing in your ears, and you're just about to let sleep take you when her voice breaks through your daze. It's broken, and pleading, and your eyes flutter open to meet hers as she lets out a deep breath, pressing her forehead to yours.

"Please, malyshka. I need you to stay awake for me. Okay?" Her breath catches in her throat as she takes in how tired, how completely finished you look. This is her fault. "Hey, nod that you understand. I need you to nod!" she doesn't realise she's raised her voice, raw desperation lacing her words, until you flinch away, and she squeezes her eyes shut for a second before giving you that small smile of hers, smoothing her thumb along your cheekbone as your head rests in the crook of her arm. She can't do this, she can't do this, she can't lose you.

"Prosti, lyubov'." She presses a kiss to your forehead. "Please. I just need you to stay awake for a few more minutes, okay? Help will be here soon."

You smile at her softly, and Natasha's heart gives an unruly jolt as she sees the red lining your lips.

"Nat. You know I love you more than anything. Don't you?" Your voice is soft, laboured, and she winces slightly, tears slipping down her face despite her insistence that she has to be strong for you, that smile she only gives you tugging at her lips as she smoothes the hair away from your cheeks, peppers your face with kisses as you give her a quiet laugh, and then a deeper wince.

"I need you to know, that you have always been enough. Okay, Nat?" She nods her head through the tears, squeezing her eyes shut and then forcing them open to meet those sea-glass irises she loves to gaze into so much. "I love you. So much." Tears slip down your cheeks as you laboriously reach up your hand to cup her cheek. She places her palm over your hand, holding it to her cheek as she presses her forehead to yours.

"Just a little longer. Just a little longer, please, please." She begs, Natasha Romanoff begs you as your eyes flutter shut. She grits her teeth and then, where her left hand staunches the blood flow from your wound, gives you a good, hard press.

Your eyes fly open as you cry out, a broken off, raw scream as tears fall down Natasha's cheeks alongside you. Your breath comes in ragged pants, and she applies slightly more pressure as your vision goes white, your back arching off the ground and into Natasha.

"Shh, shh," comes her frantic voice, her lips pressing to your sweaty forehead in a quiet promise. You will make it out of here. You will.

When the S.H.I.E.L.D medic division arrives and Clint directs them to where you lie cradled in Natasha's arms, she almost physically cannot let you go. It's like a part of her is being ripped away, one she— she's not sure is coming back.

The flashing lights stain the grey sky a technicolored, tangled, mess, and a part of Natasha dies beneath the muted, bleached moonlight.

—

When you come to, the first thing you realise is that there's nothing around your wrists.

You let your eyes flutter open, the harsh fluorescent lighting of your private hospital room burning itself into your retinas as you groan softly, bringing your hand up to rub your eyes— and then stilling as something is pulled taut.

As sound and colour come back to you, you notice the quiet beeping in the background and the blossoms of indigo blue and soured green and yellow that blare out at you from in-between the bandages covering your torso and arms. That's the next thing you notice. The muted throbbing in your abdomen.

And then it all comes back to you. The basement. Ilyasonov. Natasha— and... the gunshot. You bring your hand to rest lightly on your bandaged abdomen, and let your gaze flicker up from the monitor to the door, sweeping around the room until they land on a familiar redhead.

"Nat?" you call out before you can help yourself.

Her head jerks up as if she's been yanked, and when her eyes meet yours it's as if a part of her is restored. She's across the room in a heartbeat, her hands darting up to touch you— and then stilling, shaking, over you.

You give her a smile, and suddenly her hands are cupping your face, her soft lips are on yours, and you prop yourself up on your elbow to run your fingers through her hair. You gasp as she nips your lower lip, and she takes the opportunity to search your mouth. It's not consuming, not passionate and overtaking in the way you're so used to with Natasha, but rather soft and undemanding, filled with so much love and hope and relief.

When you finally break away, you pat the bed beside you, moving up so she can lie next to you. You wrap an arm around her waist, tucking your nose into her neck and just inhaling her familiar scent as she finally feels herself relax after days of worrying, of panicking, of not knowing. And then, your lips press gently to her neck and words are spilling from her mouth, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, please forgive me," words so foreign that you stop in your tracks and pull back slightly to look at her.

"Nat. You don't have anything to be sorry for. That was the Red Room. Not you. Do you hear me?" You feel her soften against you as her lips meet your hair.

"I— I don't know what I would do without you." She says your name so softly, so full of love, that your brow furrows against her neck.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere. You're stuck with me, love." You press another kiss to her neck as her arm encircles you, pulling you gently into her side even more.

"I know. I wouldn't have it any other way." Her voice is soft, quiet.

She rubs your back, sings to you, which is a rarity, as you fall asleep— and when you're finally sleeping peacefully, she tips her head back beneath that bright white light, and lets her eyes close, tears tracing their way down her cheeks as she exhales shakily.

She has you. She has you, and she knows it's going to be alright.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff/reader #natasha romanov/reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #kidnapping #reader insert fanfic #fanfiction #avengers #black widow #the avengers

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drarrily-we-row-along · 3 years

Text

Day 54: There Was Only One Bed

The case had been absolutely brutal.

Draco was completely exhausted, every muscle in his body ached, and it felt like every step might be his last before he simply passed out and fell asleep on the ground. And he was still so bloody cold, there weren't enough warming charms in the world to help him get warm.

Trudging along beside him, his feet dragging across the ground, he knew that Harry must be feeling the same. "The hotel's just up ahead," Harry murmured. "I can't wait to get a nice hot shower and then sleep for the next eight to ten hours."

He nodded in agreement, by morning the DMLE would be able to get a portkey to them so they could get back home, for now the room they were providing at the local muggle hotel would have to suffice.

The girl at the check in counter in the lobby was far too cheerful for Draco's taste, chattering away about the festival that was coming to town tomorrow and the weather (the weather of all things). Harry didn't help with his polite responses and his bloody adorable smiles.

It felt like an eternity but they finally made it upstairs and stumbled through the door only for both of them to draw up short.

"There's only one bed," Harry said.

"Yes, thank you for stating the obvious, Potter," Draco drawled, quietly panicking.

After a beat Harry suggested, "Why don't you go shower and I'll check in with the desk about it."

Draco looked over at him, "Are you sure? You're the one who got dunked into that icy water."

Harry nodded, "Your lips are starting to turn blue."

He rolled his eyes but gave Harry a little smile, "Thanks, savior."

"Fuck off," Harry laughed. "I'll be back," he added as he headed out of the room.

(Read more below the cut)

Draco turned the water as hot as it would go and climbed in under the spray, his body shivering as he slowly warmed up. By the time he got out and wrapped himself in a fluffy bathrobe that was hanging on the back of the door, Harry had returned. He'd stripped out of his wet clothes and put on the other bathrobe and was sitting at the desk, working on their report.

"What was the verdict?" Draco asked.

Harry turned and looked over at his shoulder, his eyes sliding over Draco's body covered only in a bathrobe and making Draco feel warm all over before he reminded himself that they were professionals. The other man couldn't possibly be interested in him like that, he chastised himself. He needed to get his head out of the clouds before he ruined everything.

"This is literally the only room left in the hotel," Harry said. "It's a queen size bed, though," he said with a little shrug, "We should be okay, right?" he asked, voice soft and strangely vulnerable.

Draco cleared his throat and put on his usual masks, the ones that kept anything more than friendship hidden, "Oh, I suppose," he replied and Harry gave him a relieved little smile. "As long as you promise not to steal all of the blankets."

"Promise," Harry replied, crossing a finger over his heart in a gesture that was decidedly not adorable.

Draco nudged him up from the chair, "Go shower, I'll finish these."

Harry nodded and rose, Draco watched his retreating form until he disappeared from sight. Then he turned to the reports Harry had started and picked up where he'd left off, steadfastly not thinking about Harry's naked body just on the other side of the door.

When he came back out, his long curly hair was hanging loose around his shoulders, weighed down by the water. He didn't let himself stare, didn't let himself wonder what it would be like to wrap his fingers through his hair and cover Harry's mouth with his own.

"I have some extra sweatpants," Harry said, completely oblivious to the way Draco was slowly dying inside, as he sorted through the muggle jacket he'd been wearing for the case and pulled out a little pouch. He reached inside, his arm disappearing to his elbow.

"Merlin," Draco said, watching him dig around in the bag, "Hermione's spellwork is really second to none."

Harry grinned at him over his shoulder as he dug deeper, "Right? Here," he said tossing a pair a of navy sweatpants at Draco, "These have a tie at the waist so at least they have a chance at staying up around your skinny body," he added before tossing him a DMLE t-shirt that was soft from all of the times it had been worn before.

"Thanks," Draco murmured, throat thick with the intimacy of wearing his clothes. He was fairly certain he was never going to recover from this.

"No problem," Harry replied, his dimple flashing at him.

Without another word, Draco headed back to the bathroom to change and to get a hold on his emotions because honestly, this was all feeling a bit too domestic and he needed to get a grip before he said or did something stupid.

When he came out, Harry was standing in just a pair of grey sweatpants, still digging around in the bag.

Draco's jaw literally dropped, it should be illegal for the other man to wear grey sweatpants, especially without anything else underneath. Lust spiked hot through Draco's body and his fingers itched to touch.

Harry turned to look at him, "I cannot find another tshirt in here," he said.

Draco tried to click his jaw closed and get the fucking blush that felt like it was covering his entire body under control before Harry noticed. "Sorry?" he managed.

"I can't find another tshirt." He repeated as he scratched the back of his neck, "Is it going to bother you if I sleep without one?"

Yes! Draco wanted to scream, Circe, yes. How was he meant to sleep when all of that skin and those muscles were right there?

"Draco?"

"Do you want this one?" he asked, indicating the one he was wearing.

Harry shook his head, "You get colder than I do," he said. "I run hot."

Yes, you do, Draco thought because Merlin, Harry was attractive.

"What?" Harry asked.

"What?" he replied.

"What did you say?"

Panic, absolute panic, flooded his mind when he realized he must have said that bit aloud, "Nothing," he said. "Just yes, you do run warmer than I do."

"So, it's okay for me to just sleep without a shirt?" Harry asked, sounding confused and uncertain and if the floor could just open up and swallow Draco whole, that would probably be preferable to this.

"Merlin," he said. "Sorry. No, it's fine, of course it's fine. I'm just exhausted."

Harry hummed sympathetically, "Me too." He nodded to the papers on the desk, "these can wait until tomorrow."

"Great. Bed then?" Draco asked.

"Yeah," Harry replied as he tossed the bag onto the pile of his clothes in the chair. He climbed under the covers on the right side of the bed and let out a low moan as his body sank into the mattress, "Godric, that feels good."

It was karma. It had to be, Draco was paying for every single misdeed that he'd ever committed.

"What?" Harry asked, sitting up on his elbows in bed to look at Draco, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

Harry's brow furrowed, "I don't know. What's bothering you?"

"Aren't you going to do something with your hair?" he blurted because it was the first thing that came to mind.

"My hair?"

He nodded, "Doesn't it dry funny if it's wet when you go to sleep? Do you ever, I don't know, braid it or something?" That seemed reasonable, didn't it?

Harry tilted his head at him, "No. Honestly, I don't know how to braid my hair."

"Let me," Draco said, then immediately cursed himself. Was it possible to just die from embarrassment?

But Harry didn't seem to think anything of it, "Yeah, alright," he said, sitting up cross legged, and turning his back to Draco.

After taking a slow deep breath and willing his racing heart to slow, he climbed on the bed and knelt behind him, "Tilt your head back a bit," he murmured and he started french braiding the other man's hair, his curls still damp but surprisingly soft.

Harry hummed softly as Draco's nails scratched lightly at his scalp as he gathered new sections to draw into the braid. "Feels nice," Harry murmured and Draco's mind was flooded with images of Harry laid out on the bed as Draco touched and kissed every inch of him; images of heady, hazy pleasure that made the back of Draco's throat feel dry.

"Good," Draco whispered as he continued to work his thick hair into the braid. "You have really fantastic hair," he said, "My mother has thick hair, I was always jealous, mine's so fine and wispy."

"I like your hair," Harry protested. "It's so shiny and it looks so soft. You've had nice hair since third year when you stopped slicking it back against your head."

He couldn't help but smile, "Just the personality that was a bit lacking."

"You turned out alright," Harry teased softly and something in Draco's chest warmed at the praise.

He summoned an elastic from the tray of office supplies on the desk and wrapped it around the end of the braid. "There," he said, "Now you won't wake up with your hair in your face."

"Thanks," Harry replied softly.

"No problem," Draco responded.

They stayed still for another long moment before Harry said, "Right, I'm half asleep just sitting here. Ready for the lights to be turned off?"

Draco shifted and slipped under the covers, "Yes."

Wandlessly, Harry turned off the lights and slid under the blankets, "Good night, Draco," he whispered.

"Good night." And there was a longing that settled deep in his chest to simply roll onto his side and pull Harry close. His fingers twitched to reach across the mere inches between them and hold Harry's hand in his.

He didn't know how long he laid there, listening to Harry's breathing, feeling the heat radiating off of the other man's body and aching to bridge the gap between them, all he knew was that, for the first time in his life, his feet weren't cold as he drifted off.

---------

Draco was having the most amazing dream.

He was laying in bed with Harry, their bodies all tangled together, as Harry kissed him. Draco's arms wrapped tighter around him, hands caressing, the broad, smooth planes of his back.

"Mmm," Harry hummed as he sucked on Draco's lower lip. When he drew back, he pressed hot, open mouthed kisses along Draco's jaw, licking and sucking as he groaned, "Mmm, Draco."

Surely, Draco had never heard his name before, it resonated down to the core of his being and made his entire body shudder as he arched closer and tipped his head back to give Harry easier access to his neck.

His fingers slid into Harry's hair, catching on the braid. And in that instant, he realized this was not a dream and his eyes snapped open. "Shite," he managed, shoving Harry back, "I'm sorry," he gasped, even as Harry flailed and fell on the floor.

"Ouch," Harry groaned.

"Shite," he repeated, "Fuck." He ran a trembling hand through his hair, tugging at the short strands as he tried to come up with some way to fix this, to salvage their partnership, to salvage their friendship. "Salazar, Harry, I'm sorry."

Harry sat up, on the floor, "Just to be clear, what are you sorry for?"

"Kissing you," he said. "Harry I never meant for you-"

"That's what I was afraid of," Harry groaned.

"Sorry?"

Harry shook his head and summoned his glasses so he could shove them on his face, "No, I'm sorry. This is all my fault." He looked up at Draco from where he was still sitting on the floor, "Can I be honest with you?"

Draco nodded.

"I have an embarrassingly massive crush on you."

He stared at Harry uncomprehendingly.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Harry continued, "And I know that you couldn't possibly feel the same," he hastened to add, "But I'm sure that sleeping so close to you made my subconscious-"

"I feel the same," he blurted because he couldn't possibly wait for Harry to finish that sentence, not when he looked so heartbroken.

"What?"

Draco tried to get off of the bed, got tangled in the sheet, and ended up sprawling on top Harry on the floor. "I," he said, rubbing at his rib cage where it had banged into the nightstand, "Ouch. I feel the same."

"Yeah?" Harry breathed, his fingers clenching in the tshirt Draco was wearing.

Draco nodded, "For absolutely ages. I-"

Harry's mouth covered his and stopped the flow of words but that was just fine with Draco, obviously his mouth had been made to kiss Harry and nothing more. Harry started trailing kisses all over his face and Draco couldn't help it, he started to giggle.

He could feel Harry's smile against his skin but he growled teasingly before Draco found himself quite suddenly flat on his back on the mattress with Harry's body over his.

"Did you just apparate us without a wand?"

Harry's head popped up from where he was sucking what Draco was sure was going to be a fantastic bruise on his neck, "It's not like it was far."

"That is ridiculously hot," Draco said, arching up against the hard planes of Harry's body.

"Let's see what else I can do to get you to say that," he said with a wink.

Unsurprisingly, there was no shortage of things that Harry could do that Draco found ridiculously hot.

---------

On their way down to complimentary breakfast the next morning, they were greeted by the man covering the check-in desk, "Good morning, gentlemen, I trust you slept well. Especially since you didn't have any neighbors on your floor," he added with a smile.

"We slept great, thanks," Harry called as he hurriedly ushered Draco toward breakfast.

"Wait a minute," Draco said, looking over at him. "You said that every room in the hotel was full!"

Harry cringed, "I lied."

He stared at him in shock for a moment, "You Slytherin!" he accused. "Look at you, using your cunning to get what you want."

"Well, I'd say it worked out just fine, wouldn't you?" Harry asked with a pout.

And he took pity on him, because he was honestly the most adorable thing Draco had ever seen and he was pretty sure he was in love with him. "Better than fine," Draco replied, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips.

And it was better than fine, in fact, it made a fantastic story for their wedding just over a year later.

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

Ho boy. This one got away from me. Sorry it's so long!

Day 53: First Anniversary | Day 55: Music

#100 drarry drabbles in 100 days #drarry #drarry drabble #drarry ficlets #idiots in love #there was only one bed #I'm weak for this trope #sos #Sorry it's so long!#thank you for the prompt!#I hope you enjoy it!

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userjoel · 3 years

Text

[ ♡ morning kisses ♡ ] ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

[ prompt ]

‘‘i’m not going to kiss you.’‘ ‘‘why?’‘ ‘‘because if i do, i don’t think we’re getting out of bed today.’‘ followed by the character placing a playful kiss on their lover’s mouth as they get out of bed (via)

[ pairing ] : tom holland x reader

[ warnings ] : a lot of kissing, they kinda sorta get a little handsy? it’s just very fluffy and i’m still trying to figure out what exactly warrants warnings so some kind feedback would be very appreciated...!

[ word count ] : 1.5k

[ note ] : this is my first ever fic, and it’s been a minute since i wrote...anything really? so i have no idea how this is going to read for others, but!! i had fun writing this, so i hope you guys enjoy!

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You wished every morning could be just like this: eyes coaxed open by the warm rays pouring through the windows, your frame safely tucked against Tom’s body with his arm draped over your waist.

Once you manage to blink away the sleep, you roll over to face him, being careful not to wake him in the process.

And he looks perfect. You lie there and run your eyes over him—it feels a little surreal to take him in this way. Just several hours ago he was on a plane coming back home to you after an excruciating month of being apart. But now, here he was — physically, actually here — lost somewhere deep in his dreams. By a rare stroke of luck you’ve woken up before him. So naturally, you're gonna use those valuable seconds by trying to memorize every little detail of his face.

Nothing has felt more relaxing. A little too relaxing, in fact, but you fight the sleep that threatens to creep back, fixating instead on the way the sunlight licks at the tips of his unruly brown curls, slowly inching down his features. And if the sun were allowed to touch him, weren’t you, too?

You hold your breath as your index finger reaches out and delicately traces along his brow bone.

When it seems clear the action hasn’t stirred him from his sleep, you continue to ghost across the surface of his skin, taking your time as your finger trails down his cheek bone, to the bridge of his nose, and to his lips. Then it lingers there for a second too long.

“I think I quite like this sort of wake up call.”

Your whip your hand away like it had just touched something hot, eyes blown wide in surprise.

“You’re awake.” The sentence comes out more as an observation than a question, and you can feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

“I... may or may not have been up since I felt you turn over earlier.” His eyes, still sanded with sleep and exhaustion, finally open to meet yours. But his ever-present, boyish amusement doesn’t fail to glitter from behind the chocolate orbs.

And it had always been these minor things that made your heart glow with warmth for the boy in front of you. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumble, a pout forming at the end of the sentence as you caress his cheek.

Tom hums in reply, leaning into your touch as he shakes his head, as though to tell you not to worry. His arms reach around you to pull you closer to him. “No, I’m glad you did. I reckon I should probably get ready anyway. What time is it?”

“No. Nuh-uh. C’mon, I just got you back!” Your hand comes up to cover his eyes, shielding his vision from the clock by your bed. “Unless by ‘get ready,’ you mean ‘get ready to spend all day with your loving girlfriend and not go to work’?”

“Y/N/N,” he groans playfully, shaking his head side to side to try and remove your hand, but you persist, a grin decorating your features. “The sooner I get out of here, the sooner I can wrap up and come back home to you love, hm?” He turns his head slightly, just enough to give the inside of your wrist a quick peck. “Give me my eyes baaaaack.”

Reluctantly you concede, but by parting your fingers just enough so he could peek between the gap. The corners of his eyes crinkle when he finally sees you, and before you can say anything else, he closes the distance to give you the first kiss of the day.

It’s deliciously soft and lazy, purposeful and loving. The feeling sends a kind of shock through your veins, reaching down to the tip of your toes. His lips move against yours with ease in the same way they’ve done a thousand times before, effectively bringing all your guards down — your hand comes down too, slipping behind his neck to toy with the hair on his nape. Your leg innocently tangles with his, bringing your bodies even closer together, and you feel his hand delicately moving from the your lower back to your ass, giving it a small squeeze.

You hum against his lips for more; but that’s the exact moment he decides to pull away. And as much as you hated it, you knew as well as he did that one second longer and that would probably mean neither of you'd likely have a very productive morning. Not that that would be so bad for you, necessarily.

Tom rolls you over on your back, peppering your cheeks, neck, and collarbone with feathery kisses that you knew translated into an apology. He nestles his head on your chest with a quiet sigh, consumed by the silence and the rhythmical thump of your heartbeat.

“Wish I didn’t have to go to bloody work.” He mumbles against your skin, cuddling even closer against you as your fingers gently comb through his hair. "Wish I didn't have to leave you again."

But you both knew it went without saying that Tom loved what he did; how he couldn’t imagine being anything else but an actor. The physical and mental demand of his work, the exhausting, erratic hours, the different types of people he had to deal with on a daily basis — he could handle all of that, and then some. But when it came down to being away from you not just in the early hours of the morning but for weeks, and sometimes even months at a time… That was the hard part. Those were the moments when he dared to invite the addictive ‘what-if’s and tempting fantasies of an alternative reality where neither of you had any obligations to tend to, no urgent work messages to check on the phone.

“Duty calls, right?” You can still feel your lips tingle from his kiss. “At least you don’t have anything on your schedule tomorrow. Means I’ll get to have you all to myself.”

At that, you suddenly feel the weight of your boyfriend removed from your body. Tom props himself up a bit to lean over you, hands on the bed by either side of your head. There’s a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, suggesting something both sinister and delightful.

“For once you’re wrong, darling.” He grins. “I’ve got a full schedule tomorrow and a fairly good feeling that you're going to love what I’ve got planned out for you.”

You raise your brow. “'That right? Thirty-something days apart and suddenly you’re so cocky.” With a teasing smile, you drape your arms around his neck, gaze lingering on his inviting lips for a moment before lifting back up on his eyes.

“But fine," you begin, your voice just slightly hushed. "What if...you show me a little, tiny sneak peek, baby...and I can tell you...what I think of your little schedule so far?” With each passing syllable you pull him down closer to you –– bit by bit, and sneakily enough, you tell yourself. Your eyes flutter shut, anticipating what’s to come, but the kiss never lands. You feel the teasing tickle of skin on skin instead.

“Y’think I don’t know all about your antics, don’t you?”

“‘Antics’?!” Your open your eyes again with a frown. “I think some would call that the art of flirting. Or teasing. Or both. But I guess you wouldn’t know that even if it were right under your nose.” Your finger pokes the tip of Tom’s nose for emphasis.

He tuts and shrugs in acknowledgement. “Well tough luck, babe. I’m still not gonna kiss you.” A smile tugs at the corner of his lips, one hand leaving your side to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Why not?” You huff.

“Because if I do, I don’t think either of us are ever going to make it out of this bed.”

“But—” Before you can fully protest, you’re caught off-guard with the very kiss you were denied just moments ago. And maybe that was why, but somehow, it feels even better than the last. Your chin cranes up to hold his lips for as long as you possibly can, melting under his touch and savoring what you could.

He reluctantly tears away, much sooner than you’d like. He leaves you with a final peck against the tip of your nose.

“I love you. So much.” He rests his forehead against yours again. “And I’m sorry we can’t spend my first day back together, darling. But I’ll make it up to you, hm? I promise.”

“Pinky swear?” You hold up your finger between your two frames, and he doesn't think twice before looking down to loop his finger with yours. The pads of your thumbs press together to seal the deal, and he brings your interlocked hands up to gently press it against his lips.

It was a gesture frequently shared between you two — a secret handshake, if you will — but only for private moments like this.

“Pinky pinky swear.” He reassures, giving your hand a small squeeze before finally removing himself from the bed. “I’m gonna go shower now. Be good.” The mattress echos your groan as your boyfriend disappears from your reach and into the bathroom.

Your eyes glance over at the clock, frowning at the time and blaming it for the outcome of what had been, at one point, your perfect morning. It already felt like a distant memory.

#can you tell i didn't know how to end this #skdfsafj #writing really is like bearing your soul to the world #and like that's fine it's cool it's whatever #if it's bad...pls don't yell @ me #tom holland #tom holland x reader #tom holland imagine #tom holland one shot #tom holland fluff #tom holland fic #hope writes

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levitatingbiscuits · 2 years

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Aaaaaa I just found your drabbles on ao3 and the last clone obi killed me. Thank goodness for poor Rex, its gonna have to be Quin who spills the beans, isn't it? Or maybe they find out from Kamino? Damn. Please someone give him a hug. The fallout when the ruth comes out is gonna be rough for the Jedi. Amazing wroting thank you!!!

Anakin knew that the council would come looking for him eventually. They kept him on a tight leash, and every day it got tighter. Some days he thought it was a noose, instead, choking the life out of him, holding him back. Even so, his missions with Obi-Wan went haywire so often that he'd expected them to wait at least another week before sending someone to find them.

(...how many of those missions had been purposefully sabotaged by the impostor?)

"General Skywalker," Rex said from the entrance of the command tent, which was now serving as an interrogation room. His voice was slightly unsteady, and he was trying not to look at the fake slumped on its bloody knees at Anakin's feet. He must have felt uneasy that an enemy had slipped so seamlessly into their midst; it still mimicked Obi-Wan so uncannily that it had even given Anakin pause, at first. Now every sigh, every flinch, every word spoken in that stolen voice, just fueled his rage.

"What?" he snapped, panting from exertion.

"General Windu and General Vos are here. Cody's with them now, but he's not aware of the full extent of what you've been-- of the situation, I mean. They're asking where G-General Kenobi is." Rex's gaze skipped over the fake when he said the name, as if a part of him still thought the meat droid was anything like the closest thing that Anakin had to a father.

"That's what I've been trying to find out," Anakin said, aiming a kick at its jaw, where its beard was matted with blood. The familiar groan of pain that resulted made his teeth clench. "Hear that, sleemo? With two other Jedi around, I can just mind trick it out of you."

It wisely stayed silent. It had even stopped lying about its loyalty to the Republic, after Anakin made it regret it.

"C'mon, Rex, show me where they are," Anakin ordered, turning on his heel and emerging from the dark, close air of the tent to harsh starlight. The troopers flanking the entrance stiffened at the sight of him, as they often did after an interrogation.

"Sir, shouldn't you... clean up, before you see them?" Rex asked. Anakin paused, looked down at himself, and clicked his tongue in annoyance. He wiped the blood from his hands with an oil rag he kept for R2, gave his face a rough swipe where he'd felt a bit splatter earlier, and absently commended himself for having the foresight to wear black.

Rex was vibrating with nervous energy as he led him through the encampment, which had fallen into a disarray unheard of in the GAR. Restless 212th clones watched their every move as they approached the landing site. There was no 501st blue mingled with their gold, which was unusual on a joint mission--Anakin's men kept to their side of the camp, which was between the 212th and the command tent, and the other battalion rebuffed any attempts to bridge the gap.

From a distance, Anakin could already tell that neither of the other Jedi would listen to him. Windu was frowning thunderously, planted like a mountain with his arms crossed, whereas Vos was pacing back and forth like an agitated Lothwolf. Even Cody glowered at him, brow furrowed and scar pulled tight. There was no love lost between Anakin and any of them--he and Windu never saw eye-to-eye, and he didn't like it when Cody got uppity and criticized his tactics to Obi-Wan. Vos, however, was the worst of the lot; he hated how the man thought he was Obi-Wan's keeper, even though they clearly disliked each other. Obi-Wan was always a little cautious around Vos, wary and watchful, and no matter how Vos playacted at friendliness there was always anger in his eyes when he looked at him. Obi-Wan was the only person he never touched--even Anakin hadn't been able to escape a noogie or two as a padawan.

He'd pestered Obi-Wan about what happened between the two of them, why Vos was always around even though neither of them wanted him there. Obi-Wan would clam up, in that subtle way of his, redirecting him to more comfortable topics, and eventually Anakin stopped caring enough to ask. But his dislike of Vos stayed.

"Where is he?" Vos demanded, as soon as he caught sight of him. Anakin's lip curled.

"I don't know yet," he admitted, "But I'll find out."

"Skywalker, the report the Council received indicated that you've been torturing Master Kenobi, to the point that the troopers fear for his life. Now I'll ask you again: where is he?" Windu said, hand curling around his lightsaber hilt. Cody's head snapped up, and for a second Anakin wondered if he'd launch himself at him the way he did at Grievous.

"What report?" Anakin gritted out. Had one of his men betrayed him? The information about Obi-Wan being replaced by an impostor was need-to-know, but Anakin's interrogations were hardly quiet. Hell, maybe a 212th boy had heard what was going on and gotten the wrong idea. The situation didn't look great without context, even Anakin could admit that.

"The Chancellor recently uncovered that Obi-Wan was replaced with a cloned impostor, and he asked me to subdue it. I've been interrogating it to find out where Obi-Wan is. I'm not sure how much military intelligence has been compromised or who it's working for, but--"

Vos cut him off by grabbing his collar, ashen-faced, and growled, "You karking idiot, what the kriff were you thinking--"

Anakin shoved him off, itching for a fight, but Vos's attention had switched to the blood on his hands, smeared with tacky blood from Anakin's soiled tunic. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Anakin abruptly remembered that Vos was psychometric.

Cody and Windu were staring at the blood, but Vos looked back up, his expression hard. "Where is he, Skywalker."

"Vos--" Windu began, and was soundly ignored.

"Blondie," Vos said, pointing at Rex with stained fingers. "You reported this, right? Take me to him. Now."

"Rex," Anakin barked. Of all his men, Rex had betrayed him? Rex, who had heard the meat droid's lies about Obi-Wan being dead? Rex, who should understand why Anakin had to do this?

Maybe the Chancellor had been right. Maybe he should have just told them that Obi-Wan was a traitor. After all, the troopers might have turned on him in favor of the meat droid, if they learned it was another clone. But he'd thought he could trust Rex.

He'd thought wrong.

Rex hesitated, glancing at him, and then at Cody. He firmed his jaw and nodded to Vos. "Follow me."

Then they were racing across the camp, Cody at their heels. Anakin made to give chase, but Windu's hand clamping around his arm stopped him.

"Finish your report first," he said. "You can start why you're covered in a POW's blood, spy or otherwise, and finish with why you chose to act on the Chancellor's unsubstantiated claims instead of informing the council."

Anakin ripped away, spitting, "You can kriffing wait." And then he was running, fury a burning star in his chest. He was going to make Rex regret this after he was done with the first meat droid.

He reached the tent in time to see Vos cut the impostor loose. Cody stood stock still in the entrance, hand flexing on his still-holstered blaster. Rex was crouched by the central pole the fake had been tied to, murmuring softly, helping it slide down and rest on its side. Vos hesitated, then deliberately set his hands against its back to support it.

Windu arrived last, and let out a curse at the sight of the fake. Anakin was beginning to realize that his interrogations might have been a little excessive, and for a second he saw the scene with fresh eyes.

Against his will, he remembered how his mother had looked, when she died in his arms.

The star of wrath in his chest went supernova. How dare that thing make him think of the most painful moment of his life. That had been Obi-Wan's fault for holding him back, keeping him too weak to save his mother for the sake of his own jealousy of Anakin's power, just like this situation was his fault for being taken and replaced without any warning and leaving Anakin to clean up his mess, just like so many of the other things that had gone wrong for him since he became a Jedi. Anakin abruptly wanted to hurt the thing wearing Obi-Wan's face so much that he couldn't breathe.

"Not another step," Windu said, voice like ice, and then Cody was planting himself between Anakin and the bloody, broken, wheezing thing on the ground, blaster in hand and teeth bared.

"Hey, you," Vos was saying frantically, "You good? Can you hear me? Kark, he's burning up." He looked to the two 501st guards who were gaping into the tent. "One of you get a kriffing medic before you need one yourselves."

They bolted.

"I am..." croaked the thing, eyes hazy blue slits in the bloody mess that had been Obi-Wan's face, "Loyal... to the Republic."

"We know, General Kenobi," Rex soothed.

"Don't call it that," Anakin raged, something close to panic filling his lungs instead of air. He didn't want to see a thing he'd destroyed with his bare hands respond to that name, even though a dark, resentful part of him had imagined it was Obi-Wan, when he hit it, sometimes hard enough to damage the circuitry in his prosthetic limb.

"It's not Obi-Wan, it's a clone, a flesh droid, it replaced him, it said he was dead--"

"I know!" Vos yelled, rounding on him. His hands were gentle on the thing, though it looked like it hurt him to touch it.

"...Explain," said Windu, voice tense.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi died when he was thirteen years old," Vos said, the words bursting from him like they'd been dammed up inside him, straining to get out. "This is all that's left of him." His glare shifted from Windu to Anakin, sharp enough to gut him and filled with darkness, with hatred. "He's the only one you've ever known. And you did this to him."

Just like that, the supernova inside of him collapsed into a black hole, stretching and warping his galaxy into something unrecognizable. Not even Light could escape.

#oof that took forever lol #clonebi-wan au #my writing

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inevitably-johnlocked · 3 years

Note

Hi lovely 💖 I have a request for some reca for the community. I have no idea how to search for it but I have a burning need for fics involving John being a confident flirt or coming on to Sherlock and S being a blushing disaster. I know I’ve read some before (like the one where John is a wereslut lmao) but I can’t think of anymore. Anyone in the remaining hive mind got ideas? 💖💖💖 thank you for doing god’s work in these trying times and always being wonderful.

Hey Lovely!!

Ahhh I think the fics on my John Centric Fics / Sex God John masterpost might be good!

Here’s some flirting fics, so thank you for the excuse to start a new list!! <3 Of course, if anyone has any suggestions, please add your own! <3

FLIRTING

Sherlock and John Go Clubbing by wendymarlowe (E, 4,716 w., 3 Ch. || Clubbing, Dirty Talk, Dancing, Coming Untouched, Coming in Pants, Bi John, For a Case, Friends to Lovers, Flirting, Sherlock is Lost for Words, Sexy John, Mutual Pining, Possessive John, Floor Sex/Hand Job/Frottage) – John pinched the bridge of his nose - even for Sherlock, this was a new level of no bloody boundaries. “You want me to go with you to a gay club, wait around twiddling my thumbs while I let you get pawed by a criminal, then out-flirt him and talk you into coming home with me instead?” Part 32 of John and Sherlock's Kinky First Times

The Effect of Memory by testosterone_tea (E, 6,430 w., 1 Ch. || Praise Kink, First Kiss / Time, Fluff, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Confused Sherlock) – John has temporary amnesia coming off of anaesthesia after an operation and not only does he not recognize Sherlock, he starts flirting with him! After John recovers, he doesn’t remember the incident at all. But Sherlock does. Confusion ensues.

To Quote Malcolm Tucker; or, Get The Fuck In or Fuck The Fuck Off by kim47 (T, 8,484 w., 1 Ch. || Jealous Sherlock, Flirting, Cockblocking) – Sherlock is cockblocker and a prick tease and John is not amused.

A Brand of Gold by aquabelacqua (M, 12,757 w., 1 Ch. || Mutual Pining, POV John, Phone Sex, Texting, Masturbation, Long Distance, Drunk Texting) – What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: Flirting. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there. He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

The shape of the world around us by Salambo06 (E, 15,058 w., 5 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting || Lumberjack John / Botanist Sherlock, Different First Meeting, John Has a Beard, Light Case Fic, Flirting, First Kiss / Time, Masturbation, Love at First Sight, Horny Sherlock, John’s Bum, Bottomlock, Tenderness, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Shy Sherlock, Sexual Fantasies) – Looking through the bush, Sherlock felt his heartbeat quicken as a man passed in front of him. Sherlock frowned, trying to get a closer look despite the bush. The man was wearing a red plaid shirt rolled up to his elbows, and Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off the man’s arms. Muscular, slightly tanned with golden hairs along his forearms. For some unknown reason, Sherlock found himself imagining them around his waist, holding him tightly. Closing his eyes for the briefest second, Sherlock shook his head. Opening his eyes and looking back to where the man stood only a moment prior, he found himself alone. Great, now his only chance to find his way back to town was gone. “Why are you wearing a suit?”

Second Chance by SilentAuror (E, 15,816 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, Post-Divorce, Friends to Lovers, UST, Romance) – Now that John's divorce has gone through and the dust is settling, Sherlock thinks that he would very much like to see if there is any possibility of moving their friendship in another direction. The only thing is, he has no idea how to go about doing that...

Out of the Woods by SilentAuror (E, 20,471 w., 1 Ch. || Post S4, Romance, Slow Burn, Flirting, Drunk Sex, Practical Jokes, POV Sherlock, Bottomlock, Possessive John, Pining Sherlock, Frustrated Wanking, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Blow Jobs, First Kiss/Time, Virgin Sherlock, Love Confessions, Soft Sherlock, Dancing, Bum Appreciation, Hanging out with the Yard) – Sherlock is fairly certain that John has taken to flirting with him of late, but can't be entirely certain of it. At least, not until a case takes them into a forest, along with Lestrade's team and something happens that will change everything about their lives...

You're On the Air by prettysailorsoldier (M, 20,616 w., 1 Ch. || Unilock, Matchmaking, Radio, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Flirting, Bisexual John) – The Consulting Detective and The Woman dominate the airwaves of their university radio station, doling out advice on everything from meeting the parents to sexual positions. When their ratings start to dip before the holidays, however, manager Mike thinks it's time for some fresh blood, and who better to fill in the gaps than rugby captain--and notorious flirt--John Watson? Part 1 of 25 Days of Johnlock

Guilty Secrets by Ellipsical (E, 55,086 w., 16 Ch. || Post-TRF, Drumsticks, First Kiss/Time, Love Confession, Self-Sexual-Discovery, Anal, Rimming, Orgasm Denial, Butt Plugs, Cooking, Furniture Sex, Bath Sex, Rimming, Double Penetration, Prostate Massage, Anal Beads, Dancing, Romance, Tantric Edging, Internalized Homophobia, Case as Foreplay, Anal Beads, Tickling, Dancing, Dry Coming, Romance) – John has a prostate exam and discovers something surprising about himself. Experimentation follows. Sherlock wants to help. They're in love. You know the drill.

A Hundred Crimson Sols by elldotsee (E, 55,536 w., 16 Ch. || Astronauts AU || Mars Exploration / Space Travel, Slow Burn, Shy Sherlock, Scientist Sherlock / Biomed Engineer John, Alternating POV, Mutual Pining, UST, Angst with Happy Ending, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injuries, Suicidal Ideation, Zero-G Sex) – Will Holmes is a chemical researcher recognized widely for his contributions to the new Mars exploration program. Thanks to his ground-breaking developments, the IMMC (International Mars Mission Corporation) is one step closer to Martian colonization. Will and his team of scientists are headed out on the first of three manned missions before the first group of settlers arrive. Three days before launch, one of the crew has to be replaced. Will panics because...new people. The replacement is of course one John Watson, biomedical engineer and space hottie who was pretty sure he had retired from actual space exploration and was now content to work in the nice, quiet research lab. Can the crew survive this TOTALLY ROUTINE trip? Will they be able to endure each other for the looooooong trip in close quarters? Gonna be a wild ride... prepare for blast off. Part 1 of SpaceBois go to Space

floating through a dark blue sky by Lediona (M, 58,966 w., 15 Ch. || Notting Hill AU || POV John, Celebrity Sherlock, First Date / Time / Kiss, Past Drug Addiction, Angst with a Happy Ending) – Of course, I’d seen his films and always thought he was, well, brilliant -- but, you know, a million miles from the world I live in. Or, when John is the owner of a travel book shop and the famous Sherlock Holmes stops in one day.

31_Days_of_Porn_Challenge_2017 Series by distantstarlight (E, 96,540 w. across 31 stories || Prompt Ficlets, Assorted Kinks, PWP) – A collection in response to the 31 Days of Porn Challenge issued by AtlinMerrik! Thanks for doing that because this has been buttload of fun (that joke never gets old). All stories will be brief stand-alone one-shots.

A Further Sea by i_ship_an_armada & ShinySherlock (E, 125,492 w., 23 Ch. || Historical Pirates AU || Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Doctor John / Pirate Captain Sherlock, Sailing, UST / RST, Masturbation, Action / Adventure, Mild Angst & Peril, Romance, Shaving, Molly/Janine, Bottomlock, Hand / Blow Jobs, Past Drug Use, Slow Burn, Mild Violence, Facial Shaving, Happy Ending) – Here be a tale of adventure for both body and soul, but beware if ye be not of stout heart, for this be piratelock, ya savvy? Luckless ship's surgeon John Watson takes a chance, and finds himself eye to eye with The Ghost, the scourge of the seven seas and a definite thorn in the side of the blaggard, James Moriarty. But when John finds there's more to this most cunning pirate than be meetin' the eye, he has to choose... is it a pirate's life for him?

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #flirting #my fic recs #captain-bumble

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rozcdust · 2 years

Text

Waste it on me

Angst route

Pairing: Takeomi Akashi x f!reader

Genre: Crack

Word count: 1k

Warnings: Canon divergent, profanity, ooc, sugar daddy/ sugar baby relationship, age gap (both are consenting adults), suggestive

Bastard.

“Y/n, pleased to see you again.” The therapist smiled, nodding at you to sit down on the sofa.

“‘Sup, doc?” Nodding stoically, you plop yourself down on the sofa, legs sticking over the armrest as you wiggle in place, getting comfortable.

“I’m good. By what Taiju told me, you haven’t been too good yourself.”

“He’s been snitching on me?”

“Not exactly. Just told me you’d need a talk.”

You let out an exhausted sigh, rubbing your face with your palms to soothe your nerves.

It’s been a while since you’ve been here, and you hated having to come back, even if you knew it did you well.

“So, y/n,” The therapist tapped her pen against the paper laid out on her lap, pushing the glasses higher up on her nose, “Tell me, what has been bothering you?”

You let out a small huff, pondering how to word where your frustrations lay correctly, accurately, without sounding like a colossal asshole.

“I got into a fight with my not-partner-but-partner and best friend and said some horrible shit?”

“Why does that sound like a question?” The therapist tilted her head, shortly writing something in her notebook.

“They started it,” You huffed, crossing your arms, “Both of them got pissy at me out of nowhere and then I snapped.”

“I see. Would you mind telling me about the fights?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, suddenly dying for a cigarette, and proceeding the tale with a deep breath, recounted the events of those two evenings.

Your therapist only kept nodding, never interrupting you, jotting down brief notes in her notebook periodically.

“I don’t idolise Shi,” You groaned, frowning, “He has plenty of flaws, like, an abundance, sure, but he was a good man.”

“You may not idolise him on a conscious level, but subconsciously, he was your saviour. It is no wonder you got angry.”

“Okay, yeah, sure doc, whatever you say.”

She tapped her notebook, her cheek pressing into her palm, deep in thought.

A beat passed where no one spoke.

“How about you apologise to them first? Both your partner and Hakkai?”

What the fuck.

You shot up from your position on the sofa, eyes wide, staring at her fully baffled.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”

You blinked.

“Doc, are you suggesting I manipulate people?”

“No.”

You narrowed your eyes at her.

“Yes.”

You let out a small huff of laughter, falling back down on the sofa.

“Interesting advice, I have to admit,” Chuckling, you stare at the ceiling for a few seconds, trying to find a fault in the perfect white paint, “I’m still so angry.”

“I can tell.” The therapist nodded, motioning for you to continue.

“I’m still so angry at my parents, and angry at Shi for fucking leaving me, and angry at Takeomi and Hakkai and angry at myself for still holding onto that anger.”

“I understand.”

“Why? What is wrong with me for being so bitter?”

Your therapist smiled, softly, pulling her glasses off her nose and on top of her head.

“You know, you are allowed to feel angry. It is an emotion that deserves to be felt, stop suppressing it. It isn’t as bad as people think.”

You looked at her sceptically, and she let out a small laugh

“I don’t understand, doc.”

“Allow yourself to be angry, you had a tough life, it’s fine to feel it out. And after you feel, act.”

Bang.

Hakkai looked up from the stove, furrowing his brows.

Mitsuya wasn’t supposed to come home for at least another two hours, and since the epic fight between the two of you, there was no one to unexpectantly show up and annoy him.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Turning the flame on the stove down to allow the food to simmer without burning, he wiped his hands on his apron, cautiously creeping to the door in order to twist the key.

The banging stopped.

Taking a deep breath in, he opened the door.

And was met with a fist to the face.

“WhaT THE FUC-“

“I AM SORRY!” You screamed before he could as much as look in your direction, sprawled on the floor holding his painful, but not bleeding nose.

This was almost definitely not what your therapist meant by ‘Utilise your anger’, but hey.

If it works, it works.

“Y/n, wh-“ Before he could finish, you plopped yourself on top of him, gripping onto his shirt, burying your face into his neck.

“I am sorry for what I said. It was fucked up.” You mumble against his neck, nuzzling your face further in.

For a few seconds, Hakkai said nothing, cogs turning into his brain as he tried to figure out what to say, to yell at you or hug you back.

“I was angry, but that doesn’t excuse it. And you’re my best friend Hakkai, and I love you so much, and I hope you can forgive me.”

He blinked.

And when you felt his arms wrap around your back, you knew you were forgiven.

The end

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silverstarlightwrites · 3 years

Text

An alternate AU to this one that occurred to me just now

Team Seven take the mission to the Land of Waves. On the bridge, they fight Zabuza and Haku.

On the bridge, Naruto dies.

Something in Sasuke breaks, and he goes berserk. Haku and their ice mirrors scream as they flashboil in the black flames Sasuke summons forth, and it takes only a howl and a wild gesture to send Amaterasu blazing across the bridge to consume Zabuza and Tazuna as well. The stone melts underneath them, while Kakashi snatches up Sakura and flees, and it’s not until Sasuke feels the weight of wet clothes - crushing Naruto’s body to his chest, bloody and so absurdly hot - that he realises the bridge has disintegrated, and the water is burning.

It’s instinct and desperation that let Sasuke to douse the fires he’s conjured, and even then it aches and tastes like blood and acid, and he’s sinking when Kakashi whips across the surface to catch him, the moment the flames are gone.

Sasuke cries into Naruto’s chest, and refuses to let go. Sakura is cold and silent, and she neither speaks nor eats for the grim, slow trek back to Konoha. And it is slow, even further drawn out by the constant fluctuation of chakra from Naruto’s corpse, carried awkwardly and painfully by Sasuke alone.

It’s not Naruto’s chakra, of course. Kakashi dreads the inevitable questions, resolves not to lie when they come, and somehow their absence is even worse.

The moment they walk through the southern Konoha gate, there are Anbu all over them. They pry Naruto’s body from Sasuke’s arms, despite his shouting and kunai, despite the way Sasuke’s eyes ignite into blood red to fight-- But he doesn’t summon Amaterasu again, doesn’t expend the chakra he doesn’t have to try and kill their own. Sakura touches his shoulder, just two fingers, and her face is pale and hollow when she shakes her head, but it’s still more interaction than she’s allowed for the whole trip, and Sasuke obeys her. Blinks his eyes black, slumps in place, and then sags against Sakura.

She catches him, and he’s shaking, and she stares over his shoulder, unblinking, at the Anbu wrapping Naruto’s corpse in chakra-absorbing paper scrawled endlessly with Seals.

Kakashi isn’t sure what she sees, and he isn’t sure he wants to know.

One Anbu stays behind, and they instruct the gutted remains of Team Seven that the Hokage wants to see them. Kakashi can’t bring himself to intervene when Sasuke snarls and lunges, or when Sakura lets him. Doesn’t step in when Sasuke tells them to Fuck Off or when he punches them weakly in the chest - and the Anbu clearly thinks he’s simply not going to get involved, because when they try to catch Sasuke’s wrist they aren’t expecting Kakashi to move. Too fast to be safe, too fast for the chakra use not to burn.

Sasuke leans back into Kakashi as the Anbu trips, and Kakashi feels himself close his hands on Sasuke’s shoulders. “Don’t touch my kids,” he hears himself hiss, and if he doesn’t quite know when he accepted them as his then he doesn’t quite care either.

One of them is dead, and they won’t be permitted to mourn him properly because of the beast caged inside him without his knowledge.

The thought makes Kakashi sick. It all does, all of it. Konoha’s abuse of an innocent child, Kakashi’s complicitness in allowing it to happen. Hiruzen’s cruelty in allowing it also.

In allowing all of it.

Sasuke has lost enough.

The Anbu doesn’t need telling twice, and they leave Kakashi to cajole his kids into seeing Hiruzen. It takes more effort than he’d care to admit. Just physically, the three of them are a wreck - and it’s worse emotionally. Mentally.

“You let them take him.”

It’s the first thing Sakura has said since Naruto died - in a burst of blood and scarlet chakra - and Kakashi suddenly thinks he’s never felt anything so cold as her voice. When he meets her gaze, it’s like drowning.

“I had to. The Hokage will explain.” Because Kakashi is bound not to. By an oath that maybe he shouldn’t have taken, by a promise extracted by force. Why shouldn’t he tell them?

He doesn’t, of course. He scoops Sasuke up, and despises that Sasuke simply allows it, and offers Sakura a hand as they start walking. Sakura ignores it, striding ahead with her back too stiff and her hands clenched too tight. The walk to the Hokage Tower, while significantly shorter, is the same as the trip from Waves to Konoha.

Hiruzen ushers them into his office, tearful, and Sasuke struggles stiffly out of Kakashi’s grip. Red flickers and whorls through his eyes, and it’s impossible to know if he’s fighting to ignite his Sharingan or if he’s fighting not to.

“I’m sorry.” It’s low and mournful and wet. It’s insulting.

Sakura snaps. She flies into a rage, screaming obscenities. Her teammate is dead, and she’s never experienced loss like this before, and gods but she watched it happen, and no pitiful, pathetic ‘I’m sorry’ can ever undo that. That Hiruzen even tries sends her over the edge.

Nobody stops her. By the time she burns out, the office is torn apart, papers scattered everywhere and the desk overturned. Sakura has scratched her nails bloody against the woodwork. When she collapses to the floor and howls, Sasuke finally approaches her, sinks to her level, and wraps his arms around her.

Perhaps he understands, then. Perhaps a hug - so tight as Sakura clings back that it may be the only thing holding her together - is all he wanted after the horror of his clan’s slaughter.

Kakashi catches himself wondering if Sasuke ever got that hug, but he knows the answer.

Of course he didn’t.

Hiruzen explains to them what a Jinchuriki is. He explains the basic concept of a Bijuu, and gives them a short summary of the Nine-Tails. They take it blankly, too much to process over the top of their raw grief, but they look to Kakashi as if searching for confirmation and Kakashi nods. Tells them it’s true.

And then, because it’s not enough, it’s pathetic an explanation, he hears himself continue.

Because “He deserved better. We failed him.” Hears it spin, feels more than sees the way Sasuke and Sakura twitch and shrink, and then corrects himself. His own voice is like tar in his throat.

“You failed him.”

Sasuke and Sakura follow him out of Hiruzen’s office, and Hiruzen doesn’t try to stop them.

Kakashi sets the pack to watch them when they all end up at the war memorial. It wasn’t exactly a decision to go there, of course, but it never really is. All eight ninken are there already when they arrive, and they encourage Sakura and Sasuke to collapse and curl up with them, but Kakashi resists. He has something else to do.

And it’s dark by the time he comes back, his kids and his pack all bundled up in his far-too-tiny apartment, but he wakes them all the same. Demanding Naruto’s body back hadn’t been easy or clean, and the results of the chakra-draining done to preserve as much of the stray Nine-Tails chakra bleeding out of where it had torn free upon Naruto’s death is... messy.

Naruto’s body stays wrapped up the way Kakashi walked out of the Anbu Blue Vault with it. Only his head is visible, and his hair is knotted and matted with blood and oil, but it doesn’t stop Sakura from running her hands through it, or Sasuke from laying his head against Naruto’s chest.

Not enough people come to Naruto’s funeral. The whole fucking Village should mourn him, the child who protected them from the Nine-Tails for his entire, short life. His loss should have been overwhelming - it should have brought all of Konoha to a fucking stop.

But it doesn’t. Umino Iruka attends, and he’s quiet but he weeps ceaselessly the whole day. Sakura and Sasuke seem to welcome his presence, so Kakashi doesn’t nothing to discourage it.

Hiruzen shows up, perhaps halfway through. It takes all of Kakashi’s still-wan strength to hold Sakura back from trying to maul him, and Sasuke doesn’t fight one way or another when he lights up his Sharingan at the Hokage’s approach.

“Go. Away,” Sasuke snarls at him, and for just a moment it seems like Hiruzen might scold the boy, who’s been stripped of his family in half a dozen different ways, over and over again, as if he’s expressing his grief incorrectly, and that moment is all it takes for Kakashi to speak over all of them.

It’s the voice he used as the Hound. He hasn’t heard it for years. “You should go, Hokage-sama. You don’t want to make me choose a side here.”

Because Kakashi is loathe to fight Konoha at all, let alone its leader, but he knows without a doubt that he will. For Sasuke. For Sakura. If ever the decision must be made, Kakashi knows he will turn on Hiruzen in an instant if it would protect his kids from ending up like him.

Konoha would not make a broken blade out of Sasuke. It would not strip Sakura of her soul.

Orochimaru comes. He seeks out Sasuke, and the power he offers is too tempting for Sasuke to pass up - but he refuses to sneak away in the dead of night. Team Seven’s progress has halted in the aftermath of Naruto’s death; Hiruzen has tried several times to full the gap in their unit, but Sakura and Sasuke vehemently refuse to accept one, and Kakashi does not make them. He will not.

Naruto cannot be replaced. The gap can never be sufficiently filled.

And so comes the morning that Sasuke asks for their company in leaving. He’s been suffocating under Konoha’s weight for a long time, Kakashi realises that morning, and he’s finally reached his limit. Kakashi doesn’t try to talk him out of it; he won’t succeed. There’s no point. Revenge has been his motivation for so long that Sasuke will never quite learn how to give it up, and now he has so much more for which to seek vengeance.

It will only be Itachi first. After that, all of Konoha is culpable for Naruto’s death, and the endless suffering he endured before it. Kakashi is not fool enough to think he can change Sasuke’s mind.

Sakura agrees on the spot. She’s unrecognisable from the bubbly genin Kakashi took custody of from the Academy. She’s gaunt and messy and angry, and she’s forsaken her friends in order to follow Sasuke into the dark. She’s clinging to him, ferociously, in a different way than she’d tried to before.

She’s clinging to Sasuke the same way Kakashi had clung to Rin - how Rin had clung right back - after Obito’s death. Sasuke is her constant, her reassurance that Naruto’s absence won’t just be for nothing, that someone is going to pay for it. That she’s going to help make that happen.

You don’t want to make me choose a side, Kakashi had told Hiruzen, as if they were words of fucking prophecy. Because here are his kids, minds made up, choosing a side that Kakashi would rather flay himself than join - and yet, here he is too, and he knows already he’s going to go with them.

Choosing against Konoha tastes like ozone and fear and self-loathing, but choosing against Sasuke and Sakura is unconscionable. Even this, even this, Kakashi will do. Watching them die is a terror that keeps him up at night, a nightmare with its hands around Kakashi’s throat, a dread that’s getting ever colder. That this might lead to that outcome takes his breath away.

But the thought of not being there is even worse. Konoha forsook Sasuke when his family was wiped out, and Konoha forsook them both once again when they came home bloodied and shattered. Konoha has gone on the same as always, as if nothing even happened, and it always has when the whole world was supposed to shatter and didn’t - with Obito’s eye in Kakashi’s skull and Rin’s blood on Kakashi’s hands - and that truth does absolutely nothing to stay Sasuke’s hatred or Sakura’s wrath. They are young and angry and wounded, and there is no words Kakashi can say that will convince them to reject the power on offer, no matter how dangerous and untrustworthy the source may be.

And he refuses to let them do this alone. Everyone will want their heads, but Kakashi has fought and killed the best of them, and if - in the end - his only purpose is to protect his remaining kids, where he failed to protect the third, then perhaps the Hound yet serves a purpose still.

So Kakashi selects a kunai, and helps them score through their Konoha hitai-ite, and lets them lead him into hell.

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