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ansgar-martinsson · 4 years

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The Best Intentions - Part 24

She smiled into his kiss. “Are you asking me to go or telling me to go?”

“I’m commanding you,” he grinned back, his tongue sneaking out playfully to lap dog-like and wet at her bottom lip, making her laugh. He leaned back against the sofa, smirking in enjoyment of his own mischief.

“Arse,” she groused, wiping her mouth. “Commanding me, huh?”

“Yes. I am. And you’ll obey.” He chuckled as he lifted the remote and clicked on the massive television screen hung on the opposite wall. The screen flickered to life, the cable company logo splashed upon it. He pressed a series of buttons and tuned the station, the picture finally resolving into the familiar, rugged face of Jon Snow, the Stark direwolf displayed proudly on his gorget.

He peered down at Joline in question, his eyes flicking between her and what had changed to an image of an immense dragon on the screen.

“Eh. I’ve seen this episode already,” she shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to be watching it for long.”

“True,” Ansgar declared. “Quite true.”

“So, this picnic….”

“Ah yes. My event planners have spent tireless hours on this event, and you shall see just how brilliant they are, you know, in anticipation of the Opera House Gala and all that. They’ve hired out the Humlegården for the day, spared no expense, you see. There’ll be food trucks - lines and lines of delicious fare,” he sang temptingly, “an open beer tent, top notch entertainment, and a whole section of games and water play for the children, and….”

“Okay, okay!” she laughed. “I’ll go!”

“Of course you’ll go. I shall fetch you at noon,” he pressed a kiss to her nose.

“You or your driver?”

“Me this time,” he said. “In my Tesla. I still owe you a ride.”

“Okay, lovebirds,” Rose knocked on the media room door, leaning casually against the jamb. “It’s been a pleasure serving you tonight,” she said. “But Jacqui and I are bugging out of here. Dishes are clean, all that’s left is your dessert, which you’re taking a fucking coon’s age to shove down your gullets.”

Ansgar stood up and crossed to the door. “Go on, then,” he said, wrapping Rose, and then Jacqui in massive hugs. “Thank you so much,” he said, holding Jacqui at an arm’s length. “Everything was perfect.”

“Of course it was,” Rose gave him a hearty pat on the back. “You hired the best in Stockholm.”

Ansgar laughed. “I know I did. I settle for nothing less.”

***

“So this picnic,” she said again, after all of Rose and Jacqui’s leaving, all of the friendly goodbyes and handshakes, quips, thank yous and compliments. “Is this picnic another date, then?”

Ansgar gave a breathy, quiet chuckle. “It is. Number three. Four possibly if you count the motorcycle ride,” he said, “three, or four, of hopefully many more to come.”

“Four dates. One ending in a nasty row, one just us, one witnessed by two of your best mates who happen to be a couple themselves, and now one in front of all of your co-workers. Woah,” Joline’s eyes flashed. “Some might say this is getting serious.”

“Serious schmerious. I despise labels,” Ansgar said. “Who gives a fuck what others call this,” he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, gesturing between them. “Why must it be called ‘dating’ or ‘serious’ or the like? Why can’t it just… be? Why can’t we just… be together?”

“I don’t want to name it either, Sgar,” she defended. “I only want to… to be with you for as long as you’ll have me.”

“I honestly wish you’d trust me more. I am not out to use you and dispose of you when I’m through, I hope you realize that by now. I’m not only in this for the sex.” He leaned into her, curling his fingers around her chin, drawing her gaze to his. “I’ve already told you. You know damn well I can have any woman I want, any woman, should I only want a quick fuck. But that’s… honestly, that’s not what I want.”

“Isn’t it?” she challenged. “Isn’t that… isn’t that how you operate?”

“Maybe at one time I did. That may have been the man I was, but it’s not the man I am now.”

“I didn’t know you then.”

He laughed. “Probably a good thing. You’d have despised me.”

“You’re probably right.” She grinned. “I did for a little bit, dislike you. In the beginning.”

“Not for very long apparently.”

She shrugged. “I couldn’t help it,” she admitted. “I wanted you too badly to let your arrogance and pigheadedness get in the way.”

“Get in the way of having sex with me, correct?” he added.

“Of having anything with you. Any kind of… whatever.” She made a tossaway gesture, as if reluctant to finish her thought.

Of which, he caught on. “Joline, will you… can we… um…,” Ansgar hesitated. He made a face, pursed lips and furrowed brow, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“Will I what? Can we what?”

“Can we just,” he took a long breath. “Can we just enjoy each other’s company for the duration, whatever that duration may be? Can’t we just learn each other, know each other, pleasure each other for a while? Can we do it without worrying about labels or the opinions of others or what the future might hold? Can we do that, Joline?”

“You mean,” she said pensively, “take each day as it comes, be together, but….”

“Fuck convention,” Ansgar interjected. “Fuck the rest of the world and their ideas about how relationships should be.”

“Is that what we have, Ansgar?” She turned on the sofa, tucking her leg up under her, and faced him, her hands gripping his tightly, her eyes zeroed in on his, her face resolved, her voice steady. “Do we have a relationship?”

“Only if that’s what you want,” he looked down at their hands, twisted his palm-up, and entwined his fingers with hers. “If not, I’m patient. I’m willing. I’m content just to be with you, as I’ve said. I don’t care what we or anyone else calls it.”

“Ansgar,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

“Of course.” He quirked an eyebrow. “And may I do more than that?”

“Mmmm, much more.” She grinned. “So much more.”

“Shall I… bend the knee?” He smirked, and with a flick of his head he indicated the scene playing out the television - white-haired, fiery Danerys as she lorded over the icy Jon Snow, as she made that very same demand of him.

“Oh, you must bend the knee. You’ve no choice but to bend the knee.”

“As you command, my queen.”

***

He kept the bedroom dark save for the splash of the full moon and the red and green and blue twinkle of the Stockholm lights below. He guided her, her hands in his, his gaze firmly on hers as he stepped backwards, leading her to the edge of the massive bed.

“Turn away,” he murmured. “Face the bed. Your back to me. Stand still.”

She did.

“You are… exquisite.” His words carried on an astonished breath. He wrapped his arms around her, his nimble fingers twisting and turning the buttons of her blouse, opening her soft flesh up to the delicate explorations of his hands. He moaned, deep and heady as he pressed his body along the length of hers. Warmth permeated him, deep into his sex as he enfolded her in his arms, as he freed her breasts from her brassiere and weighed them, working the soft, pliant flesh like clay in his hands, as he caressed her exposed neck and shoulder with his lips and tongue, as he let her feel just how much he wanted her with a thrust of his clothed cock against her arse.

“Be naked,” he commanded, those selfsame fingers now working at the flies of her tight, embellished jeans. “Be naked for me, Joline. Please.”

She took a step forward, turned, and faced him. Her gaze was thick, intent, heavy-lidded and wanting. She looked nowhere but at him when she reached up and wriggled herself out of her black blouse, when she pulled the straps of her bra from her shoulders, when she shimmied seductively out of her jeans and panties and kicked them away. She kept her view squarely upon him as she stood before him, vulnerable yet defiant. Strong. Prideful. Regal.

“Lie down now.” He lifted his chin, indicating the bed behind her. “All the way up on my pillows. Lie down and put your hands over your head.”

She did.

She did and he followed. Still fully clothed, he crawled up, tenting her with his body. She lifted her hands, crossing them at the wrist against the immense ebony headboard. He stared in pure want down at her, his eyes dilated and monstrous, his nose flared, his mouth practically watering for a taste of her. He dipped his head and bit, growling softly as he took a mouthful of the peak of her breast and sucked in, rolling the tender skin around on his tongue.

She moaned and writhed beneath him. “Ansgar,” she cried.

“Quiet,” he hissed. “Say nothing.”

“But I –”

“No.” he demanded. “Say nothing. The only thing you are permitted to say is ‘radish’.” He grinned impishly at the word, rolling the initial ‘r’ and hissing out the sibilant last syllable through tight teeth and pushed out lips.

“Why radish?”

“If you want me to let you go,” he licked his lips, “if you need me to… untie you,” his eyes flashed, as did hers, “then you will say the word, radish. Otherwise you say nothing. Is that clear? Nod if it’s clear now darling,” he said in a schoolmatronly, sing-song tone.

She nodded. “Mmm hmm.”

“Nothing from you but moans and screams, do you hear me? Again, nod if you do.”

Her lips quirked up on one side in a wry, knowing, yet quite anticipatory smile. Like his did, her nose flared with want, and her eyes hardened with desire. A frisson of need, of fear made her squirm wantonly on the bed beneath him. She then, as he instructed, nodded.

“Good girl,” he purred. “Now, hold still. Right there. Don’t move.” He pushed off of her and knelt beside the bed, his fingers idly toying with her perked nipple. Rummaging in a bedside drawer he came up with a length of soft white rope. Unused. He showed it to her, and ran it through his hands, caressing it as if it were strands of her hair. “Do you want this, my darling? Do you want to wear these pretty bracelets for a while?”

She nodded.

“And what about this?” He reached back into the drawer and pulled out a long, black silk scarf. “Do you want this for your beautiful eyes?”

She nodded empathetically, the air huffing from her nose, her smile widening, teeth glowing white and bright in the pale glow of the room.

“Then you shall have them.” And with that, he took her hands and wound the rope expertly around them, fastening them to the headboard post. He gave them a small tug, leaned down and pressed a long, warm, pillowy kiss to the palm of each of her hands. “Are you comfortable, Joline?”

She nodded, licking her lips. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, begging for him to finish the job, begging for him to blind her.

And he obliged. “There,” he said as he lifted his hands from her head. “Pretty as a picture.”

She gasped and her head listed side to side. She sought him out by feel, by sound. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, tongue following, silently crying out for a touch, for a taste, for a kiss.

A kiss which he gave her. She opened her mouth hungrily, like a starving baby bird as he traced her lips with his fingers. He bent over her, following the caress with a deep, swift and violent plunder of her mouth with his. He possessed her, taking her air, taking all of her focus, all of her being into him through their lips. And when he finally broke away, she heaved for breath, her chest rising and falling, her head lolling on her neck.

“Christ, you’re a wonder to look at, Joline. You should see yourself. So perfect. But, I think I’ve given enough attention here.” He once again pressed his fingertips to her lips. His gaze rolled, like an ocean wave, down her body to land on the dark shore just above her legs. “I believe my touch, my teeth, my… tongue would be put to better use elsewhere.”

She bent her knees, spread her legs and canted her hips from the bed, crying out, keening with the knowledge, the suspense of exactly where ‘elsewhere’ was.

Ansgar smirked. “Hold on, my darling,” he gnarled. “You’re in for a bit of a bumpy ride.”

A breath.

The air around her pulsed, canted, and echoed like her heartbeat in her ears. It was too much and not enough, the anticipation, the waiting, the longing, the hungry valley between her legs clamping shut and releasing in exquisite want. Joline torturously awaited his touch on her, somewhere, anywhere. She prayed to Jesus and all his apostles and to the almighty God himself to end her torture.

Her ears strained for the slightest creak of movement to indicate where he was, how close he was to her. Her pores alerted for any shift in the atmosphere to tell her if he would put an end to her suspense. The only scents in her nose when she breathed in were the crisp and rich linens that she rested upon and her desire for Ansgar.

A pause.

The patient man wrung out the moments, musing and mulling over just where to touch her, where to begin. As much as he wanted to end his own suffering, he wanted to leave an indelible impression on her, his mark, his permanent tattoo of himself on her. He etched his position in her life, and… maybe, perhaps, something more.

Joline licked her lips, anticipation cascaded and coursed through her body, through her muscles, through her core until she was mad with it.

A beat.

And still, Ansgar waited, watching his influence, his mere presence caused her. Her skin puckerd and relaxed, colored and faced, warmed and heated further still. The humbling response of her breath knocked from her lungs, but he daren’t make a sound to give away his position or his plan for her.

Joline froze and held her breath, obeyed his command wanting to please him in whatever he had planned. He’d sensed and knew what she wanted their first night in bed, and she craved the mind erasing pleasure he could render from her body. No one had ever fucked her so thoroughly before. No question that he’d do it again, introduce her to new heights, new pleasures, new experiments.

A pulse.

Steve, her ex-husband, treated her well enough while they were happy. He’d learned how to pleasure her clitoris, then that became their routine. She always had an orgasm but the act of it felt functional and obligatory. Ten minues and it was done, a cheap thrill, a ride in the amusement park. As soon ass they were done, it was forgotten.

Many of her partners since her divorce had been the same. She never allowed herself to get close. All of them temporary. All of them of the moment. No more than an episode on television. Some were worth a repeat viewing, but most of the time, it was just as easy to change the channel.

A clench.

Joline didn’t know why, but Ansgar was different from all the racket that came before him. He knew, memorized and exploited all the pleasure zones, for his personal gain, bragging rights, a lover willing to do the darkest deeds his filthy mind unearthed. Fucking him wasn’t just about the pleasure, it was the entire experience of it. He didn’t just fuck her body, he fucked her mind and maybe… just maybe… her emotions.

When he finally touched her, a lazy drag of fingertips along her ribs, Joline nearly jumped out of her skin. The visceral reaction and violent start impacted her as if he slapped her. He didn’t; it was a tender caress that sent her reeling. A tender caress for her to focus all her sexual energy on, to bring them together.

A thump.

Joline gasped into a near scream and her back curled, her muscles taut, her breath burst in short staccato notes, her fingers clenched in the sheets. The next sensation she felt was Ansgar french kissing her belly button. His nose nuzzled the curve of her ear next. On and on, Ansgar continued to tease her body with his mouth, his breath and his fingers, all to keep her as suspended as a highwire.

His fingers traced the crevice between her legs shallowly.

A pause.

His teeth scraped at the sensitive spot behind her knee.

A pulse.

He blew a stream of hot breath across her peaked nipples.

A beat.

Wordlessly, Joline cried out in defeat, her skin on fire, her body tense with need, her center cramped with empty craving. She pulled hopelessly at her restraints, adoring every fucking minute of her sensual torture, the tingling, the tensing the pumping, the silent chanting of curse words in her head.

Finally, mercilessly, she heard the rasp of clothing removed from him.

#the best intentions

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pollylynn · 4 years

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Blackwing 602: Chapter 5—A Caskett Season 2 Multi-Chap of Indeterminate Length

A/N: Ever been trying to write something and you need your characters to just cross a damned room and they won’t? Yeah, just asking. No reason. IChapters 2, 3, and 4 are here on Tumblr. Chapter 1 is on AO3. If you don’t want to read the first part, all you need to know is that in “A Chill Goes Through Her Veins” (1 x 05), Beckett pockets what turns out to be a very expensive pencil when she’s in Castle’s office. This is technically just after Love Me Dead (2 x 09), but this doesn’t have anything to do with that.

Title: Blackwing 602, Chapter 5 WC: 1100

The outer velvet box, flocked with ravens, opens with a shunk as the top separates from the bottom. Home, far later than she should be, she sets the top aside on her desk. The bottom rests next to it, with its own nested box still snug inside.

That’s how things stand for a while after Hallowe’en—a while after the party. Then the day comes, windy and cold, when she tips the inner box, watered silk and tied tight with an intricate bow, out of the bottom. And again, that’s how things stand for a while.

She doesn’t forget about the contraband inside—the stolen property she means to make a gift of—any more than she’d forgotten about it for the months that she’d left the thing itself sitting at the far back of her desk drawer at work. But it’s not the focus of so much attention. It’s not the focus of any kind of ritual, daily or otherwise. Unless leaving that intricate bow—that fancy contraption—intact is a ritual.

It might be a ritual.

Its time has passed. That’s what she thinks whenever she happens to take in what now seems to be the funeral hue of both boxes, the embossed outline of each velvet raven. It all seems ominous now, not silly and festive and right as it had before, but she knows the change is in her. She knows it’s the month, it’s the weather, it’s everything.

It’s proximity to her birthday and the way the end of another year hastens toward her. It’s the holidays she won’t celebrate for the tenth year running, and she doesn't resent that. Really, she doesn’t. Thanksgiving, Christmas—she knows her place in it all and there’s not a single person rushing out of the precinct in a loud tie, an ugly holiday cardigan, an ill-fitting football jersey that she resents.

But after that—after the last calendar page flips—it will be. . . more than ten years. From now on—for the rest of her life—it will always be more than ten years since her mother was in this world. She will pass out of her twenties, sooner rather than later. She will enter her thirties and another decade without her mom.

She looks at her hands all the time now. At home and at work and everywhere in between, she looks at them and she can’t help counting each finger. Whether she’s typing or bumping the plastic curve of the vending machine with the side of her fist, whether she’s deftly wielding chopsticks or curling five fingers around the grip of her gun and bracing with the other five to face down a paper target—she can’t help thinking that they’re not enough. They’ll never be enough again to count off all the years it’s been.

She’s in her own head. It’s not unusual for her, for this time of year, it just feels that way. She snorts aloud when she catches herself thinking it. It is what she feels it is. That’s the profound-sounding truth she finds herself contemplating in the waning hours of her birthday, also known as Any Given Tuesday.

She’s had a call from her dad and cupcake from Lanie. The boys and the Captain know better than to even mention it, but Lanie is irrepressible. He—Castle—is surprisingly repressible. Surprisingly repressed.

At home again, far later than she should be, she sits with her chin propped in her palm and one elbow on her desk, and she contemplates that, too. Music comes low through her computer’s speakers. The five inadequate fingers of her left hand toy with the trailing end of the ribbon around the watered silk box, and she contemplates the fact that her birthday has all but passed without a word of acknowledgement from him.

He had clearly known it was her birthday. He’d been repressible—repressed—all day, not dead. He had jogged his knee and opened his mouth, then closed it. He’d looked expectantly at her, then looked away every single one of the thousand times she had caught him. But he hadn’t said a word, slipped a clandestine card beneath her desk blotter, ordered something ridiculous and timed it so that she’d find it on her doorstep, late in the day.

It’s surprising. And it’s satisfying in a strange way that suits the two of them. It’s him reading the room—reading her and where she is. It’s him, for once, not pushing his way into every corner of her life, but not withdrawing, either. It’s him being . . . present on her terms. It’s shockingly mature and respectful.

And it’s lonely.

Tonight with five inadequate fingers drumming against her cheekbone, five inadequate fingers toying with the ribbon of an intricate bow whose moment has passed, it’s lonely.

She tugs on the end of the ribbon in something more than frustration. The intricate bow comes undone. The watered silk sides of the box fall away with satisfying immediacy like the walls of a magician’s box. But rather than laying bare a space devoid of the lovely assistant in her fishnet tights and sequined body suit, they reveal the gleaming ebony barrel.

It’s an odd thrill to see it again, to feel it in her hand. It tugs her backward in time, just over two short weeks, two long, grey weeks.

The Bat Cave!

She hears his voice, bright and pleased that she wasn’t mad, that she remembered that first time, that the party was not going to end on a sour note between them. She feels the warmth of her own grin, because she’d been pleased, too. She’d been eager to mark the occasion—to celebrate . . . them, she supposes. Their partnership.

She’d been eager and she still is. She taps the eraser on the splayed out inner surface of the tiny magician’s box. She glances at her watch and sees that the last few minutes of her birthday haven't quite ticked away yet.

It’s too late to call Lanie, and she wishes it weren’t. She has a favor to ask and it’s going to sting a little. It’s going to involve some mumbling, some blushing, some swallowing of her own pride, and if it weren’t very definitely too late right now, she’d just as soon ask it tonight.

In the meantime, though, she presses the sharp, silky point of the pencil against her fingertip. She smiles to herself and envisions it, transformed. She whispers to herself—The Bat Cave—and wonders how early is too early to call Lanie in the morning.

She’s still eager. A/N: Blame having tricked myself to running nearly 7 miles in the snow with snowflakes attacking my eyeballs? It suddenly occurred to me that Kate’s winter headspace and rituals would kick in right after Hallowe’en. I think there’s probably just a chapter or two after this.

#Castle #Caskett #Castle: Season 1 #Castle: A Chill Goes Through Her Veins #Castle: Season 2 #Castle: Love Me Dead #Kate Beckett #Richard Castle #Lanie Parish #Roy Montgomery #Jim Beckett #Javier Esposito #Kevin Ryan #Fic #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fan Fic #Fan Fiction #Writing

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bitsandbobsandstuff · 6 years

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Best. Date. Ever.

Summary: This wasn’t quite what you had in mind.

Characters: Bucky x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A smidgen of murder. A splash of fluff.

A/N: This was written for the lovely @abovethesmokestacks ‘s summer challenge, and I’m a slacker who’s a week late, so thank goodness Pia’s amazing! This story came about because I was seriously coveting these shoes and because Pia gave me a super cheeky dialogue prompt, which you’ll find bolded in the story. Enjoy!

A/N 2: Check out Best. Proposal. Ever. to read more of these two!

If you want on or off the tag list, send me an ask!

MASTERLIST

Dress up, he ordered. Something fancy and sexy. I got a plan.

It sounded promising. A night at the ballet perhaps, or tickets to the opera. Dinner and dancing, maybe. Something classy. Something elegant.

After eyeing them in the window, you decide to buy that pair of outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo’s for the evening, anticipating something spectacular.

Well.

It was something alright.

*****

Black satin clutch tucked tight beneath your arm.

Quiet steps on the balls on your feet.

Gun drawn, cocked and aimed, you tiptoe down the dim hallway, keeping to the shadows, avoiding the puddles of yellow light spilling from vintage sconces lining the wall.

The target looms ahead, a heavy black door at the end of the corridor and a steady stream of quiet curses slips from clenched teeth as you move, damning his dumb ass to hell and back.

Eyeing the narrow beam of light lining the bottom of the door, you pause when muffled laughter slips beneath the crack. Momentarily confused, you wonder if you have the wrong room.

Nope.

“Answer the fucking question,” a frustrated voice suddenly shouts, followed by the dull thunk of metal slapping skin. Bucky’s responding groan is long and low, a guttural sound ripped from deep in his chest.

It sounds desperate.

It sounds wounded.

It sounds – excessively theatrical.

Of course.

Is it possible to roll your eyes so hard you see your brain?

Leaning into the door, you press an ear to the thick ebony wood. There’s a hum of unintelligible muttering and then plain as day, you hear Bucky’s cheerful response.

“Yeah, no. Feels like you’re hard of hearing there, big boy. You wanna hand me that knife? Let me clean out your ears real nice and careful like? Or maybe you were that stupid kid sitting too close to the TV growing up, watching cartoons while your Mommy was running around banging the mailma – ow! Fucking ouch god dammit, what the hell’s the matter with you?! Who the hell stabs someone? That fucking hurt!”

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh.

Here’s the thing.

Now and then, the avenging gets slow. It happens occasionally, not often, but enough for you to discover an interesting personality twist. When the avenging gets slow, Bucky Barnes gets bored. And a bored Bucky Barnes is – concerning. Full of pent up energy, leaking sarcasm and sass, he has a small tendency to find trouble.

It’s not trouble, it’s called saving the world, he always argues.

It’s not saving the world, it’s called gratuitous chaos, you always respond.

The voice comes back, full of fury. Electricity pops and sizzles and suddenly Bucky swears at the top of his lungs.

“Wait, wait, wait, stop! Damn, fine, fine. You got me, just stop, please, I’ll talk, I’ll talk, let’s talk…about the fact that your mom was totally fucking the mailman, I mean come on – “

The sound of electricity buzzes louder and he howls in pain.

“Say it again,” you hear the voice snarl, followed by Bucky’s breathless reply.

“No joke man, you touch me with that thing again, I’ll shove it so far up your ass you’ll shit sparks for a week.”

In addition to the whole trouble thing? He’s also a massive drama queen.

“This is bullshit, Bucky” you hiss at the door, glancing at the absurdly expensive heels and reaching to brush dust from the toe. “I’m so fucking pissed at you.”

Seriously.

Clutching the gun tight, you carefully turn the knob and with a deep breath, hip check it open. And yep. The reveal is exactly what you could have anticipated, because you know Bucky Barnes way, way too well.

Dangling by his hands from a wide steel beam, his wrists encased in what appears to be a reinforced cuff, Bucky swings gently, the toes of his black boots barely brushing the ground. His faded grey t-shirt is slashed down one side, soaked through with thick splotches of blood and clinging to his body like a second skin. Twitching his head to shake away sweaty strands of dark hair, you see the impressive array of purple bruises painting his face, extending down his neck.

He looks terrible. Awful. A beaten man in terrible pain.

Except –

The anguished grimace fades when he sees you, morphing into a shit-eating grin. Wiggling his fingers in a mocking little hello, he gives you a wink.

What an ass.

Hearing the swinging door, the man in front of Bucky spins, raising a gun in one hand and a taser snapping lime green sparks in the other. Frustration is etched in every line of his face, which is, to be fair, a common expression for anyone talking to Bucky.

“Drop the gun,” he bellows, shaky hands holding both weapons in front and sounding for all the world like a two-bit security cop in a low-budget heist film.

Throwing him an impressively impatient scowl, you shake your head.

“Listen, I’ve had a long day and these heels are killing me and I just wanted to spend one night without worrying how I’m getting blood out of my clothes in the morning. So since that fantasy’s shot to shit, can you please just not?”

“Don’t try to distract me!” he yells in response. “Drop your gun or I’ll shoot you both!”

Looking past him, you meet Bucky’s wide-eyed, innocent blue eyes.

Innocent blue eyes. Seriously. What a crock.

“I’m fucking pissed at you,” you warn Bucky, pointing the gun down at your shoes. “These were expensive.”

He pokes his lip out in an exaggerated pout and swings himself playfully in the restraints. “Don’t be mad honey baby, it’s all part of the plan.”

“Jesus. I shudder to think what else you have planned.”

The guy follows the exchange like a tennis match, head swiveling in confusion, until he focuses on you again and opens his mouth to shout another disappointingly dull threat, but you hold your hand up to silence him and he looks unbelievably put out by the gesture.

“Look, I’m really not in the mood, alright? I gave you a chance.”

Flicking your eyes to the bloody, sweaty man dangling behind him, you cross your arms and wait.

Here it comes.

Vengeance fills his features, a blinding smile of murdery glee, and in the blink of an eye, Bucky curls his knees to his chest and hoists himself up with the metal arm. With a casual kick, he hooks his thighs around the man’s neck and squeezes tight.

Dropping both weapons, the man scrabbles at the dirty legs locked around his neck, panic flashing through his face.

“You sir,” Bucky states, as the man chokes, trying to wrench free, “are a real dick.”

With a graceful twist of his hips, he snaps the neck with a jarring crunch. The body collapses in a heap and Bucky glares contemptuously for a second and then proceeds to aim several childish kicks at the head, but his toes are just out of reach and he flails uselessly in the air.

He looks up in annoyance.

“Hi. Little fucking help here please?”

Stepping over the body, you rummage through the pile of electronic gadgets and random torture devices strewn across the table. Locating a small purple device attached to a SpongeBob keychain, you dangle it in front of him.

“Apology first.”

“No worries, I accept your apology,” Bucky says graciously. “Now get me down.”

“No asshole, I want an apology. You said dress up and now my Jimmy Choo’s have blood on them.”

“Okay fine, I’m sorry.” Skeptical of his quick submission, you punch the unlock button slowly and the cuff releases. Bucky drops to his feet, rubs the red chaffing around his wrist, and gives you a wide smile. “I’m sorry you’re a wet blanket who doesn’t appreciate fun, but anyway.”

He anticipates the move and ducks when you snatch a knife from the table and fling it at him, letting it smack harmlessly against the concrete wall behind him.

“I swear to god, you’re lucky you’re hot Barnes. It sure as hell’s not your personality that keeps me around.”

“The hell do you mean? I’m charming as fuck,” he argues. Wetting his busted lips, he uses the collar of his shirt to wipe away the pool of blood caked in the corner of his mouth, while interested eyes trail down your outfit.

Strapless black silk dress falling to your knees. Diamonds dangling from your ears. Bright red lips. Black Jimmy Choo heels with a flirty little feather on the side.

His smile turns a shade darker and ten shades filthier.

“You look smokin’ hot. Nice.”

“And it’s apparently a waste. When you said dress up, I sort of assumed we’d be doing an activity other than murder.” Tossing the keychain on the table, you come closer to scan his impressive mess of injuries. Probing the thick muscle below his ribcage, he sucks in a strangled breath as your fingers brush the source of blood still soaking his shirt.

“Buck – “ you start, but he cuts you off.

“Don’t baby me, I’m fine. Me and that bag of dicks just had a little disagreement over one of his brainless questions.”

“How did he go from asking questions to sticking a knife in your gut?” you ask, trying to tug up his shirt to confirm the damage.

“No, I will not have sex with you!” he says loudly, pushing your hands away. “God woman, keep it in your pants.”

“I’ll punch you in the knife wound Bucky. I really will.”

Sighing loudly, he stops struggling and lets you pull apart the remaining shreds of his shirt. Examining the blood under his fingernails while you examine the slow leak of blood down his side, he shrugs nonchalantly.

“If you must know, he just got a bit pissy because apparently suck my dick wasn’t the correct response to that question.”

Life with Bucky Barnes is akin to chasing an aggressively accident-prone toddler, so you’re actually prepared for this situation.

Opening the silver clasp on your clutch, you search for the extra-absorbent bandages you threw in earlier. Folding his hands obediently, Bucky rests them on top of his head and watches with a serene expression while you wipe away the blood from around the wound, before ripping open the bandage and applying it carefully to his skin.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” you ask, paper held between your teeth, “to try being a little less mouthy?”

Straightening the remains of his bloody t-shirt and wiping your grubby hands on his jeans, you look up to find him grinning.

“It did occur to me. But where’s the fun in that?” He holds his hand out expectantly. “On to part two. Did you bring my gun?”

The worst. Honestly. Sometimes he’s the worst.

“Yes, I brought your gun, you ungrateful douche.”

Lifting the edge of your skirt reveals the narrow straps of a black thigh holster, with Bucky’s favorite Glock strapped in place. He bites his lip and gives you that filthy smile again, crowding in close.

“Ugh. Dammit that’s so hot. Here, let me help,” his fingers snag the silky fabric, trying to pull up your skirt.

Slapping his hand and giving him a warning knee in the balls, he grunts and backs away with his wounded puppy face. Unclipping the gun, you flip it around and hand it over.

“Keep it in your pants Barnes, we don’t have time. The show’s about to start.”

Standing up straight, he salutes you with the barrel of the gun and cocks it dramatically.

“You’re the boss. Lead the way, you sexy little minx.”

*****

Navigating the labyrinth of halls, you find the back staircase leading up to a maze of crevices and hidey holes helpfully built into the rafters of the enormous ballroom. Finding a slot near the edge, you crawl into position, the smooth silk of your dress picking up the thick film of dust, making the slide easy.

God. Dammit. Bucky’s spending tomorrow morning getting this dress dry-cleaned and you better not hear a breath of argument from him.

“Seriously, I’m so fucking pissed at you,” you whisper, knowing full well his annoying super hearing will pick it up and sure enough, he rewards you with a stifled laugh.

The space is dark, muted light from the ballroom’s sparkling chandeliers allowing you to stay hidden from prying eyes down below. Bucky follows close behind, wiggling in next to you. Getting comfortable, he sighs happily and turns to you, gaze drifting from your face down your bare shoulders, over the swell of your ass, and that filthy smile appears again. Reaching down, he massages the back of your knee and runs his hand up your thigh, trying to pull your dress up again.

“Lemme see your panties.”

“For god’s sake, do not say panties, you weird fuck.”

“Fine. Lemme see your underpanties. Are they lace? Tell me they’re lace. You know how much I like lace.” His hand wanders further up to find your black lace covered bottom and he gives a whispered yes of delight.

Ignoring the wandering hand squeezing handfuls of your ass, you open the black clutch again, extracting four paper-thin pieces of metal. Clicking them together reveals a lightweight air-rifle with a narrow scope affixed to the top.

Bucky’s eyes light up.

“Gimmie,” he says breathlessly, releasing his death-grip on your ass and reaching grabby hands toward the weapon.

Still ignoring him, you prop the rifle on the ledge in front of you and peer through the scope, searching for the reason you’re stuck in the dirty ceiling of this exquisite ballroom, instead of somewhere fashionable with people making jealous remarks about your amazing shoes.

Bucky nudges you.

“Gimmie,” he says again.

“No, Bucky.”

“Yes, Bucky,” he insists, now trying to tug it from your grip. “Did you forget I’m the best shot the US army ever had? I even have a certificate that says so. You can’t argue with my certificate, it’s not patriotic. Captain America’ll arrest you.”

Still searching through the crosshairs, you peel his sticky fingers from the barrel with one hand.

“You drawing a picture of a gun, writing ‘Bucky rules’ on it, and taping it to the refrigerator does not mean you have a certificate.”

He gives an indignant little squawk. “Uh, I didn’t tape it to the ‘fridge, I superglued it to the ‘fridge. That fucker’s never coming down.”

“Can you please shut up? I need to focus.”

“Come on honeycakes, let me have the rifle,” he whines softly, resuming the light strokes down your thigh.

“No. I know you. You’ll shoot the guy in the eye just to prove you can, he’ll realize something’s up, and it’ll blow our cover.”

“Why would I do that?” His voice oozes shocked sweetness.

“Because you’re a showoff,” you mutter.

“I’m not a show-off,” Bucky argues and somehow in the narrow space he manages to crawl on top of you, straddle your hips and start licking your neck. “Sometimes I’m just vindictive, I can’t help that. Now come on and give me the rifle, hmm? Please? I got stabbed earlier, you should let me have my way. If I have internal bleeding and I die later, you’ll feel really bad about not giving me this one little thing. Come on, hand it over.”

He sucks your earlobe and tugs with his teeth.

Long ago, this strategy might have worked.

He is charming.

He excels at sweet talk.

He is murderously adorable.

The only thing working against him now – is that you know he’s completely full of shit.

“Get off me, you weigh a ton,” you respond instead, wiggling your shoulders to shrug him away.

“Did you just call me fat?” he whispers. He bites your ear harder.

“Maybe,” you shiver at the petulant huff warming your neck.

“I am offended.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not, but someone with less self-confidence might be and would you like that on your conscience?”

“I’ll manage.”

In that moment, the crosshairs find him, a tall man dressed in an impeccable black tuxedo, his blond hair slick and shining. Even though he’s dead set on being an annoying little shit, Bucky instantly recognizes your posture change and goes motionless above you. Taking a deep breath, focusing on the small mole on the back of the blond’s neck, you gently squeeze the trigger. With a twitch, the rifle silently expels the microscopic dart and you know it’s a direct hit when the man scratches absently at the patch of skin above his collar.

Bucky gives a hum of approval and plants a sloppy kiss on your neck.

“Nailed it. High five,” he says and reaches between his legs to slap your ass. “But how come you’re always so mean to me? And why the hell does it turn me on so much?”

Breaking down the weapon, you pack it back in the purse and snap it shut.

“Because you’re a fucking masochist.”

“True. So – now what?”

“Now we wait.”

As the words leave your mouth, the chandeliers begin to dim, the hum of voices dropping as the crowd of people shuffle to their seats.

Folding your arms, you lay your head down to wait. Bucky finally stops fidgeting, settling on top of you, balancing his weight on his forearms and resting his chin on your shoulder. He smells like attic dust and irony blood, but his heavy presence is a warm and comfortable weight.

All fades to black. Absolute silence.

The single note trembles in the darkness, the vibrating twang of a cello. Low lights slowly illuminate the small platform at the front of the ballroom, revealing three musicians and the sudden haunting whine of a violin shatters the stillness.

The air overflows with music, Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Bach, a symphony of classics bleeding together, never pausing. Bucky stays still above you, his only concession to movement when he occasionally presses his lips to the space behind your ear, breathing in the familiar lingering scent.

And sure, he drives you bonkers half the time and he may be utterly full of shit, but a simple fact remains.

Nothing in the world, beats the feel of his mouth on your skin.

Ninety minutes of magic fly by and applause fills the room as the lights come up for intermission, the audience leaping to their feet. No one notices the blond man seated halfway back, slumped in his seat, nor the shadowy figures of two people energetically arguing as they slip from a hidden exit in the back.

*****

From a distance, you spy the neon sign, the only beacon of colorful life along this desolate stretch of highway. Bucky perks up and bounces in his seat.

“There it is! Pull over.”

“Bucky, no. I’m tired and you’re bleeding on my leather seats and I want to go home and shower.”

“But I’m hungry. I’m literally wasting away.”

“Figuratively. You are figuratively wasting away.”

“So, you agree then, I’m wasting away and we should stop.”

“Oh my god, fine.”

Swerving into the parking lot with a screech of tires, both of you clamber from the vehicle still debating his rampant disregard for basic language definitions and stomp into the brightly lit Taco Bell. At this lonely hour, it’s nearly empty, minus the energetic high school kid with headphones using his mop as an air guitar, the line cook playing Jenga with a towering stack of tomatoes, and the bored woman behind the counter, chomping her gum and watching your bickering approach with interest.

Glancing at Bucky, you flinch at the image. The harsh light throws his wounds into sharp relief, bruises already fading from dark purple to sickly greenish-yellow. The gray t-shirt is shredded and stiff with blood and sweat and what appear to be chocolate fingerprints, lifted from the half-melted M&Ms he found in your glove box.

To be fair, you don’t look much better. The previously elegant heels dangle from loose fingers, speckled with blood and holding two wilted feathers. Covered head to toe in dust and cobwebs, your knees are scraped up and your polished toes curl bare against the floor.

What the hell possessed you to walk barefoot into a 24-hour Taco Bell you’ll never know, but alas. Here you are.

Bucky saunters up to the register and slaps his grimy hands on the counter, giving the woman his most charming smile and what he believes to be a sexy wink. She simply raises an eyebrow and snaps her gum.

“Hello. I want the dollar menu,” Bucky says, squinting up at the sign.

“Which items?”

“All the items,” he replies promptly. “And a diet soda please, not a regular one. I’m cutting back on the calories, apparently I need to watch my weight. The lady here says I’ve been pudging out.”

Pinching the non-existent fat on his washboard of a stomach, he gives her a conspiratorial nod and points back to you.

“I most certainly did not say that,” you huff, glaring at him.

“Yes, you did, you called me fat earlier,” he reminds you. “Remember? When I was on top of you and tried to pull up your dress?”

The woman stares at him and blows a pink bubble. Her eyes slide to you and she gives you a slow nod, the kind that clearly says nice.

“No,” you say sternly, pointing a warning finger. “Christ no. Do not encourage him.”

Bucky laughs, the sound of his husky voice echoing through the restaurant and dammit, he looks like someone threw a brick at his face and used him to sharpen their knives, but he’s still the most attractive man you’ve ever met and how’s that for annoying?

Fifteen minutes later, you’re back on the road, flying along as Bucky holds tight to his food and watches the highway intently, counting out road signs. Finally, he points to a small green number.

“This is it, last stop,” Bucky says, his voice brimming with excitement. “Slow down, the road’s there.”

Arguing is futile, so you follow his directions, turning off the highway and bumping down a narrow strip of unmarked road. The path winds further and further and you wonder at his end game, until the trees suddenly clear and you hit the brakes in surprise.

The night sky extends in front of you, an infinite black road to the stars twinkling above the black ocean waves, a dazzling full moon low on the horizon. The secluded beach is empty, a quiet world existing for you and Bucky alone – and when you turn to him, you see him watching you with an adoring grin.

That damn smile. It gets you every time.

“I swear Barnes, you’re good. You’re really good,” you admit and Bucky tips his head back and starts to laugh.

Climbing from the car, you dig out a plaid blanket from your trunk, and with heels and soda in hand, the echo of crashing waves pulls you through the darkness. Finding a flat space, you fluff the blanket out and collapse, stretching out with a soft groan and closing your eyes.

Bucky drops his bag full of cheesy beef burritos and chicken quesadillas and caramel apple empanadas and kicks off his boots with a matching groan of pleasure. Falling to the blanket he rolls onto his stomach and tears into the food, making his way through each item in silence. Long minutes tick by as the damp breeze blows over your skin and you begin to doze.

“You know,” he finally says, chewing thoughtfully. “I’m calling it. Tonight? Best. Date. Ever. Gonna be hard to top this.”

Rolling to the side, you prop your chin in your hand. “Come again?”

“Yeah, I planned it perfectly! The whole night, it was all things you wanted to do.” He finishes chewing the last bite, tucks the wrappers into the bag and sits up on his knees, ticking off the evening’s events.

“So first, we did a fun couples activity.”

“Me saving you from an ass beating and you snapping a guy’s neck isn’t exactly a couple’s activity, but sure.”

“Second, I got us private box seats, so we could go to a – sold out I might add – classical music concert.”

“I mean, again with the murder and now a massive dry-cleaning bill, but okay.”

“And to cap off the perfect date, we’re having a romantic moonlit picnic on the beach.”

The sarcastic quip balances on the tip of your tongue and in all fairness, Bucky expects a sassy response. Sass is the bedrock of your relationship.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, you absorb the pure beauty of the glowing white sand and of Bucky’s handsome face, reflecting on everything about him that led you here tonight.

He’s incorrigible.

A pain in the ass.

Ridiculous.

Passionate.

Hilarious.

Adorable.

The love of your life.

Damn. You’re head over heels for this idiot.

Nodding slowly, your lips curve into the smile he loves so well, the one that melts his heart, the one he went to outrageous lengths to pull from you tonight.

“Yeah. You’re right Buck. You pretty much nailed it.”

Bucky grins at the compliment. He picks up your left hand, brushes specs of sand away, and places two kisses on your finger.

One above your wedding band, one below.

Contentment sings through his veins and he threads his fingers through yours.

“Happy anniversary honey.”

“Happy anniversary Bucky.”

“Do me a favor, yeah?” Bending closer, he rubs his mouth lightly against your forehead, your nose, your lips. He drinks up the word with a blissful sigh when he hears your reply.

“Anything.”

“Get those heels back on, I ain’t letting them go to waste.”

Laughing, you hand him the shoes and he pulls your legs apart and crawls between them, slipping the heels gently on your feet one at a time, leaving wet kisses on each ankle.

The filthy smile is back.

He tugs up your skirt.

And this time, you go with it.

*****

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#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #piassummermadnesschallenge #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes fic #bucky fic #bitsmasterlist

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swishandflickwit · 5 years

Text

Marichat/Adrinette — somehow i know (he's always with me) 1/1

Summary: Somehow, they always find their way back here.

Adrinette + piano + Identity Reveal

Sequel to anywhere you go (let me go too)

Words: 10.8k

Rating: General Audiences

Warning: Stormy Weather 2 spoilers!

AN: Me working on the sequel that no one really asked for instead of finishing the ones that were asked for lmao.

As the French would say, c'est la vie.

Also on ff.net | AO3

Other writing

"You snore in your sleep, you know.”

Marinette gapes.

“I do not!”

Beside her, Chat Noir giggles and though she feels heat creep up her face in whorls of blooming red—she cannot help but laugh along with him.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about!” he reassures with an innocent bat of his eyelashes.

(It should have been her first clue)

And because she is Marinette, she rolls her eyes but believes it to be the end of that particular line of conversation, anyway.

(She should have known better)

“Besides, it was a cute snore,” he continues boldly. “Like, really cute. Like—”

Chat proceeds to emit some rather inelegant snorts. Rumbling, gurgling, disjointed and completely over exaggerated growls which seem to stem deeply within his throat in harsh exhalations. She would have worried, had he not been expelling them at her expense.

(She really, really should have known)

“Get out,” she deadpans, or at least she tries to, amongst his obnoxious grunting and chortling.

“Like an adorable, black-haired, blue-eyed, baby pig,” he wheezes.

“I will push you off this this balcony.”

He halts his amusement in favor of flexing an arm in front of her.

“Not with these muscles, you couldn’t—Eep! ”

It is her turn to laugh something fierce and relentless as he squeals his surprise—a tinny, high-pitched and utterly girlish sound that tickles her to no end—and scrambles for the metal balustrade, though it remains stationary beneath him.

“You were saying?” she inquires sweetly, guilelessly, even as her hold on his bicep remains his only salvation from slipping off his precarious perch on her railing.

(As if he couldn’t catch himself! And not that she would let him fall, of course.

...maybe)

“Marinette,” he whines. She does not capitulate, seeking retribution for herself with another cackle.

“Say the words,” she coos. He narrows his eyes at her. “What words?”

She sticks out her tongue before huffing. “You know…”

Another mewl from Chat, before he sighs. Marinette crows her victory and delight.

“I’m sorry,” he yips through gritted teeth. She tuts.

“I’m sure you can do better than that,” she comments, leaning into his space in feigned flirtation as she drops her voice and teases him airily. Something shifts just then. It drains the mirth from his face, slips the smile from his mouth—but not the light from his eyes. No, that is ever glowing… ever present. But there is something serious about the way he looks at her every time he does it, and he has done it more often than not in the past week since they played the piano together at midnight, her falling asleep on his shoulder, him taking her home and then tucking her in.

Internally, she groans as the memory of the morning after comes to her and she saw she was no longer in the school but in her room. In her bed. There was only one way she could have gotten there, considering her last recollection was of Chat Noir’s elegant fingers flying over the keys, the stark contrast of his ebony gloves against the white scales enticing her designer’s eye as remnants of the music he played swirled within her mind and lulled her to slumber.

Thinking about it still makes her blush like mad, though nothing salacious happened. Yet no one but her parents, Alya and Tikki had ever seen her asleep. So for Chat Noir to, it was a moment of vulnerability, and it was… private. It felt intensely intimate. It was sacred. She doesn’t know where they stand because of it, and now it's as though they are not in the same place in their companionship—is it a parallel plane or has it ascended? Or maybe they hadn’t moved at all and she was building it in her head? And it isn’t as if she’s uncomfortable with this new stance they are taking with each other. If anything, their friendship feels stronger than ever despite the masks they continue to wear, both the literal and figurative kind. But even that armor is slowly chipping away, chink by little chink, so that she has to be careful around him lest she give herself away. And she wants to. Bon dieu, does she ever want to.

(To the point that she begins to ask herself, in the nights when Tikki falls asleep before her and she has only her thoughts for company, so what am I waiting for? Why don’t I just tell him? )

(She knows why)

But she doesn’t tell him the truth of her identity, and here they are. And it’s moments like these, when he looks at her and it’s as if everything apart from the two of them fades, she just, she does. not. know. She does not know anything except everything is changed. Somewhere between him saving her and promise me and a forehead kiss. Between sunsets and macaron snacks and late night rooftop conversations. Between the smiles and the laughter and the music and his arms around her… things are different.

They are different.

“Marinette,” he murmurs, hands easing so that one finally grabs hold of the bannister while the other… the other one inches ever so gently up the length of her arm. She's never been more grateful for her blazer, as it conceals the goosebumps that trail in his wake, his fingers dancing up her porcelain skin so it feels more like the ivory of a piano than flesh.

“Marinette,” he trills once more, her gaze ripping from the path he makes so she meets his eyes. He bites his lip, as if to contain his smile. She pouts, and that's when his hand meets its journey's end at her chin, his thumb tracing the bow of her bottom lip.

“I am sorry, princess.”

She groans at the nickname he can't seem to let go of. He chuckles at her obvious ire, though it doesn't dim the sincerity from his apology.

“Ok, not a princess then,” he yields, albeit with a hint of that omnipresent mischief. “But do be an angel and save me from this perilous height.”

She rolls her eyes, all the while she ducks her head to hide her own grin.

Angel, he called her. She likes that.

She steps back so he has room to put his feet down but she doesn't stray far, not that she could even if she wanted to.

(She doesn’t want to)

The hand that had been holding the railing now nestles comfortably on the curve of her waist, as he lands on both feet in front of her. When he straightens, she finds their bodies have aligned in—what she is increasingly finding to be—addicting ways. He is pleasantly firm in all the places she finds herself to be doughy, and from all the times they’ve been tangled up in each other in their superhero personas, she is entirely too aware of how he is lean beneath the leather of his suit. He is grounded, stable, which her all too clumsy self finds reassurance in.

His hand moves lazily, sensually, from her waist to the dip of her spine, just shy of her derrière. The wind feels crisp despite the heat bearing down on them from the sun’s unhindered radiance and she feels taught with it, her muscles alternatively coiling and relaxing so that her hand twitches against his biceps. He lets out a soft breath as she (reflexively, she tells herself, it’s a reflex) cossets the leather where she holds him, wishing with all her might she was touching skin instead.

Yes, the shift in them from that fateful night is never more evident than it is now—the air around them filling with a strange yet not unwelcome charge that makes the hairs on her arms stand on end, her belly tingle with an inexplicable excitement and her heart cry out for more of his touch. It feels as if there is a thread around her that binds them and all it would take is a slight pull from him for her to unravel right before him.

There is a look in his eyes, hungry and desperate but oh so fragile too—as if he would just as easily come undone if she so much as tugged at that string. He hums Angel of Music under his breath when he takes a step closer, drawing her to him with the hand low at her back. Hope tinges his dark gaze when she doesn’t protest at his proximity.

Pull, pull, pull.

It makes her wonder if he would unwind if she plucked at that invisible connection, only to twine himself around her. She tilts her head upwards just as he cants his forehead against hers. He closes his eyes, his droning of Angel of Music fading into something unfamiliar yet calming all the same.

Pull, pull, pull, pull, pull—

“Marinette!”

She sucks in a sharp breath and reels back, opening eyes she hadn't realized had shut in the first place until they meet orbs shrouded in rueful, tourmaline hues.

The thread stiffens for another second, just as loathe as the two of them to let go, before finally falling limp and taking all the static electricity of the moment with it.

“I think,” he rasps, voice low and gravelly that he has to clear his throat twice before continuing. It flatters her, especially as she remains feeling weak at the knees. “I think,” he tries again, “that's my cue to leave.”

She knows this. Agrees, even.

If only her hand would cooperate and surrender him.

She curls her digits just a bit tighter, a shudder going through her when she feels his muscles bunching powerfully beneath the suit as he treads impossibly nearer, accommodating her clutch.

You could stay, she wants to utter.

“My dad baked macarons for dessert. It's his specialty…” she says in lieu of such ridiculous pronouncements or a more appropriate goodbye.

(And there goes her mouth too, oh will nothing of hers ever follow her command?)

He grins lopsidedly though his eyes insist on narrowing. “Oh, you don't fight fair,” he returns though she gleans that what he really means is, I wish I didn't have to leave.

Her name pierces the now stale air once more.

“Your mother calls,” he says, rather unnecessarily, a grimace set upon his mouth. That he didn’t want to go as much as she herself wished he wouldn’t gave her the strength to withdraw her hand.

“À bientôt, minou,” she bids in strained articulations, with an even more strained smile, before swiveling on her heel towards her trap door and trying in vain to disperse the bereavement she gains when his gloved hand slips from her back.

She has not taken two steps when she senses the touch of leather on her own hand. He drags her back into his atmosphere and she endeavors to tamper the flutter that arises in her stomach by pasting a faux frown upon her lips.

“Yes?”

His answer falls from his mouth, though not in words. He raises their clasped hands to his chin so that his every measured inhales, his slow exhales, bathe her skin. She expects a kiss upon her fingers, as he is so fond of them whether she is Ladybug or Marinette. And though he does this indeed, she is jolted when he retreats only to wrap warm lips around another knuckle, and the next, and the next, till the entirety of her is ablaze and his kisses seem scored into the very marrow of her bones.

“Till we meet again.”

With the sun sinking low in the horizon behind him, Chat Noir’s face is a study in shadows. But if his visage was the night sky then those eyes, oh always his eyes… they were the glistening diamond stars of the eventide.

“Mon ange.”

And then he is gone, taking all the oxygen with him.

She almost sinks to her knees, having not apprehended how much she was leaning on him till he had disappeared. She braces herself against her metal balustrade to catch her breath, the hand he had marked clutched close to her chest as it continues to buzz with the feel of him.

From her purse erupts a giggle, then Tikki is floating serenely in front of her.

“What was that about?”

Marinette huffs, albeit still in a bit of a daze.

“I hardly know anymore, Tikki.”

The Kwami, never missing a thing, narrows her gaze pointedly onto her hands—the same one still cradled delicately close to her chest while the other fans her overheated face. At her observation, she stills.

“Are you okay?” Tikki inquires, not bothering to hide the teasing glimmer to her tone.

Marinette bites her lip before she rolls her eyes.

“Shut up.”

Tikki's laugh is so hard Marinette is certain it echoes all the way up into the galaxy.

Her mother summons her for dinner one final time and with seemingly Herculean fortitude, she follows. But ensconced as she is within the comforts of her own home—her parents laughing jovially before her, her belly full with a hot and delicious meal prepared lovingly by her father—try as she might she cannot escape Chat Noir. How every time he looked at her his gaze crept along her skin like a living touch, how his actual touch felt branded onto her soul, the manner with which he kissed her or held her—as if she was invaluable treasure—and the effect with which he breathed her name, so softly but with so much gravity, like her name was both too precious to be uttered in anything but humble inflections yet it held so much power, too, because he believed her to be strong and fierce that to say her name any other way would be a fault (and it was only her name! Who knew one could divulge so much meaning onto a name? Of course, only Chat Noir could)—it all drove her wild with wanting.

Though she refuses to answer Tikki's question aloud, it is how she knows—without a shadow of a doubt—that no, she is not okay. So long as he is around her, stealing her breath and making her go weak in the knees, she would never be the same again.

Strangely enough, she is just fine with that.

And even stranger though, is Adrien.

He is different around her, a change she traces all the way back to Con Rubato as well. He is more engaging with her, more conscientious. He would stand when she entered a room then sit only once she had, like a modern day Mr. Darcy. He takes her words in with an air of devout seriousness, as if everything she says has the power to change the world, even if she were just rattling off the afternoon specials in her parents’ bakery. Not three years ago, she would have squealed then died at his attentions. But now it merely confuses her. It is as if she has entered an alternate dimension where Adrien is the one who scrambles for any excuse to talk to her only to stutter his way through their conversations, whether to borrow a pen or copy her notes or set up study groups that she finds herself declining more and more.

The part of her that is still 14-years old rejoices at every look he sends her way, every genuine praise or bolstering shoulder graze. But Marinette has always been an all or nothing sort of girl. No, as Alya would put it, she is a “Ride or Die, Bitch” which would appall her were it not so true. She doesn't know how to do lukewarm or in-betweens, and so the Marinette of now would merely receive such affections with a befuddled slant of her head and a small, appreciative smile. That being said, her head is entirely too filled with thoughts of an overgrown, leather-clad, ridiculous yet charming cat. She should be embarrassed, or she would have been, if said cat was not showing up on her rooftop on an almost nightly basis under the guise of her house being on his “patrol route” when they both recognize it for the lie it is, a rose in his hand and a Phantom of the Opera tune purring low in his throat. Though, more often than not these days, each time he is around her he hums that same indistinct harmony—one he resolutely refuses to name with such stubbornness that she doesn't know whether to hate it for the vagueness or love it for its soothing quality.

(Who is she kidding? It's the latter. Definitely the latter)

Still, it is refreshing, for once, to not be part of a story wherein her love is one-sided. Because though they skirt around the topic, both grown yet still too awkward and shy to broach their feelings, it is there. She feels it, that heady tension… that ever-present pull in her navel that magnetizes her to him. It conquers her so keenly it is nearly impossible now to concentrate when they don their superhero personas; when every part of her is abuzz with his nearness—always close enough to touch but never quite able to bridge that gap. Never the right time, never brave enough.

But she knows he feels it too, even if he does give her funny looks when she's Ladybug and she's a little too late to throw her yo-yo or too slow to move despite the tapering of his flirtations because she's too busy being distracted by his, um, assets (she has become that girl now, bon dieu), and that's all that matters.

At least… at least, for now.

Because it's unthinkable to be anything but deliriously content during periods like this, where he arrives onto her rooftop and settles onto the chaise—right across from her—as if there's nowhere he'd rather be, as if he belongs there. Him and the smell of clean boy sweat and leather and that mysterious melody spilling from his lips like chimes hung out on a beachfront porch, light but resonant too. It ripples down to her sinew, till she is teeming with quiet satisfaction and unexpected fondness for the song.

“What is that?”

“What is what?” he replies coyly, though he knows that she knows that he knows he is perfectly cognizant of exactly what it is she's asking for.

“Dumb is not a good look on you, Chat Noir,” she grumbles.

“Everything's a good look on me, Marinette.”

She blinks, deliberately. He, too, is stunned into silence—his mouth intermittently falling agape and clicking shut, as if wanting to take the words back for the unintentional self-degradation but perceiving the futility of it. Wisely, he swallows the protest that no doubt wants to extricate itself from his mouth, clearing his throat instead before continuing as if he never said the quip at all.

She wants to laugh but recognizes the fragility of the moment, and allows him this one free pass.

“Right,” he says, and she picks up where they left off.

“You were about to tell me what it is you're always singing underneath your breath?”

He smiles archly before tutting. “Not so fast.” He wags a finger right between her eyes.

“Such impatience.”

She swats his hand away.

“Hard not to be, when I don't know exactly what it is I'm impatient for?”

He sighs, as if the confession requires a gargantuan effort on his part.

“If you really want to know,” he straightens from the sprawl he has settled himself upon his arrival, repositioning his arms which had been behind his head so that they are folded between his criss-crossed legs. She mirrors his stance, figuring that she ought to put some seriousness into her mien for all the pomp and circumstance he is displaying for her.

“It's a song I'm composing. On the piano.”

She gasps.

“That's wonderful! What's it called?”

His eyes widen, as if it hadn't occurred to him to give it a name.

“You know… I'm not quite sure, yet.” He stares at her for a beat, and his voice is rough when he declares, “I do have an idea, though.”

For reasons unbeknownst to her, she blushes. To hide this, she stands then, her hand outstretched towards him. His brows are furrowed but he accepts it all the same and follows when she pulls him to his feet.

“Well?”

This time, his dumbfoundedness is sincere.

“Well, what?”

“Let's go!”

“Go where?”

She rolls her eyes heavenward and fixes him with a look of utmost disappointment.

“What?” he exclaims again, arms crossing defensively across his chest before muttering, “Sometimes, I don't understand you.”

“Believe me,” she retorts, haughtily. “I know. ”

But excitement colors her countenance once more, till she is bouncing on the tips of her toes.

“I don't have a piano but there's one in the school! Take me there so you can play me the rest of the song. I've only heard bits and pieces and, mon dieu, I've never had a friend who could compose before. I know an actual composer! Can you believe it?”

She'd been talking a mile a minute and would have gone on, but she really does want to hear his original and with the school closed for the day, it means they would have to sneak in (not that it would be their first time). She couldn't exactly transform in front of him so she would need him to break the both of them in. Except he hasn't moved from his place in front of her. There is only that enigmatic smile and his bright eyes, gazing upon her like she is made of moonshine and starlight.

The ardor of his stare has her feeling all the blood in her body has rushed to her cheeks.

“What?” she retorts. “Is there something on my face?”

“Besides your beauty?”

She groans. He is such a cheeseball but damn if it doesn't get her. It gets her so bad that her blood redoubles its efforts of turning her face into a permanent tomato.

He laughs at her obvious modesty, amusement making him bold when he frames her hips between careful claws and gathers her in his arms.

“It's not entirely finished, you know.”

She pouts. “Oh.”

He chuckles again, thumb tracing the plump camber of her bottom lip before resting it on her chin.

“But when it is, I promise you mon ange,” (cue her breath hitch. Blushing intensifies) “you will be the first to know.”

He lets go of her chin so his hand can join the vine the rest of his limbs have made around her waist. And because he is a good head taller than her now, she steeples her fingers on his chest so she can rest her chin upon it as she murmurs, “Deal.”

“Deal,” he parrots.

Then, he adds, “Besides,” he shrugs. “I don't think you're ready to hear it.”

She scoffs. “What is that supposed to mean!”

Rather than answer her, he giggles a final time then nuzzles his cheek atop her hair. She grunts but obliges him by tangling herself around him as well, partly because it's not as if she can force him to (nor does she want to!) speak. But mostly, she likes this—the unconscious ease with which they fall into each other's arms, the subliminal fashion that compels them to gravitate towards each other's orbits and just stay there, like it was always where they were meant to be.

She likes him.

She wants to smack herself when the thought hits her. She likes him, like, really likes him! She might go so far as to say she…

Well, ironies upon ironies that after years of rejection, she now finds herself in the unique placement of desiring to return his affections, granted under a different skin.

And as if somehow linked to her thoughts, he shatters the silence (and her world) when he finally answers her.

“It means,” he starts in a solemn and susurrous murmur, “that I like you, Marinette.”

Her heart beating a tango and a salsa in her throat that her voice comes out hoarse, she replies, “I like you too, Chat Noir.” And because she is an idiot and a fool and afraid, she remarks, “As a friend.”

For a brief moment, he tenses beneath her hands. Then, with a steady sigh, he loosens, his arms travelling from her waist to grasp her biceps.

“And that is exactly what I mean when I say you're not ready.”

There's something broken there, when he says the words and she meets his eyes. It is with growing horror that she realizes she is the one who put it there—that ache and the hurt and the unabashed longing and she wants to eat up her words or not have said anything at all, just held him, tighter and tighter instead, till she was losing herself in him. She wants to take the last 30 seconds back, just anything, anything to erase the sadness that paints his face in the kind of darkness that swallows you rather than emphasize the points of you that are filled with light.

“Chat,” she cries, but he is all ready turning away from her.

And she lets him, because she knows. She knows that even with her powers, even with all the knowledge she claims of the Miraculous and the magic of this world, she cannot turn back time.

“It's getting late.”

“Wait—” she tries a final time, pleading with an invisible force, yanking with all her might at their unspoken tie, to get him to stay.

Pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull, pull!

But all the warmth and color is leached from her universe—

He is gone.

Later, much, much later, after begging off dinner from her parents under the pretense of fatigue, when the house is quiet and the bustling sounds of the Parisian streets fade as slumber wraps its lethargic arms around the city, Tikki comes to her and asks, “Marinette…” in that sweet, tinkling tone of hers, so free of judgment and eyes wide with concern, “why did you say that?”

She cannot help but begin to cry.

“I—I don't know.”

How could it have gone so wrong, so quickly?

Tikki touches a paw to her cheek, halting one of the tracks of her tears.

“Try, dear heart.”

Suddenly angry, she turns from her Kwami in such brusque movements that Tikki is forced to float away from her to avoid being crushed. A pang of guilt goes through her. It isn't fair to lash out at Tikki when truly, she's mad at herself. But she holds on to her anger because it grounds her and it feels so much better than the cloud of despair that looms over her, threatening to engulf her and whisk her away to where she feels empty.

“What is the point, Tikki?” she bellows, a bundle of limbs and blankets as she moves from her chaise to stare out her round window.

Waiting, always waiting—for a shadow, a flash of flaxen locks or a pair of sparkling emerald orbs

“It's done. A week has gone and he hasn't visited, not once. There's no point going over what could have been. It's better to move on.” She scoffs. “What am I even saying? There's nothing to move on from, we hardly started. ”

“I wouldn't call a three-year partnership ‘nothing', Marinette,” Tikki reminds her gently.

“It's done,” she snaps again with watery convictions, refusing to hear her Kwami out. But her voice still breaks when she emphasizes, “We're done.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Does it matter what I want? It's over.”

“But don't you see? It doesn't have to be!”

She whirls towards her and snarls, “You're such a hypocrite, you know that?”

Tikki doesn't deign her with an equal accusation or denial. She does not speak at all. She just stares at her with that unwavering comfort and understanding. The quiet brims Marinette with blind justification and the fortitude to hurl more vitriol, because if she doesn't fill the silence with words then she would surely fill it with sobs and she is so tired of crying over nothing.

So tired.

“First you tell me we have to hide our identities from everyone, even each other, and now you want me to run into his arms, shouting to all and sundry who I am. Make up your goddamn mind Tikki!”

“I won’t deny that. Yes, it was necessary in the beginning,” Marinette grins, something sharp and sarcastic and devoid of all humor. Though she confesses, the ease with which Tikki accepts blame takes away most of the exhilaration of her supposed victory.

“But you have to remember, Marinette, I have been here before. I have seen countless Ladybugs and Chat Noir incarnates for more than a thousand years. While we and the Guardians always hope for the best, a peaceful partnership, that is not always the outcome.”

It is odd, she thinks. She has always known Tikki was as old as time itself. But when her Kwami moves and speaks and thinks and views the world with such childlike wonder, it is simply too easy to forget. Now though, it becomes difficult to deny, not when the adumbrations that obscure her expression add years to her countenance so that she lists to the side with the weight of her age, her all too palpable grief.

“For every harmonious union there has been an equal and terrible clash. Even with all this power, we are not perfect. Humans are such…” a struggle crosses her eyes then, “well. I suppose that's the beauty of your species, isn't it? That even with so many things binding you together, each one of you is still made so differently, so inimitable, that your actions can never be one hundred percent predicted. It's wonderful,” she smiles briefly, before her sadness ultimately wins out. “But it also makes our jobs difficult, and not all Ladybugs and Chat Noirs are what we desire them to be. Every contretemps has led to any human-mitigated disaster you know—famine, plague, conflict, war. ”

Tikki's eyes transform to a haunted, bottomless well that is awash with misfortunes and loss that Marinette will never fathom in her lifetime. It depletes the anger from her sinews till only the despondency she had been fighting unremittingly to avoid, is all that endures.

“Tikki,” she snivels, sinking to her knees in absolution. “Tikki, I'm sorry. I didn't—I didn't know— ”

“It's alright, Marinette,” the Kwami coos, and it is with slack-jawed awe that Marinette regards Tikki's reformation from ancient, weary god to artless and optimistic Tikki, the Tikki she is more accustomed to. “You couldn’t have known.”

She drifts back to her cheek, pecking serenely at the curve before nestling there. “But what's not alright is this evident denial of your feelings.”

Marinette groans, bringing a hand to her face to swipe futilely at her tears.

“What are you afraid of? Don't you see how lucky you are, that Chat Noir has fallen in love with all sides of you?”

At the word love, her heart rattles beneath her ribcage.

“Is he though?”

“Is he what?”

“In love with me?”

Marinette detects a hint of mirth when Tikki replies with, “would that be a problem if he was?”

“Could I really be that lucky? For him to fall in love with me, twice over?”

Marinette yelps just then, when Tikki bites at her skin.

“Ow!”

“Only you could find some fault in a situation that would benefit both parties.”

Nursing her cheek, Marinette grumbles, “I just think it's too easy, is all. If something's too good to be true, it usually is.”

Tikki stares at her in horror. “Look at you, Marinette! Exactly what part of this has been ‘easy'? No,” she shakes her head. “You're afraid, and it's about high time you admit it to yourself!”

“Alright!” she bursts. “Maybe I am scared! But can you blame me? If we're to start a relationship, I want there to be no more lies. I want us to be together, like Alya and Nino are together or like my parents, properly together—not sneaking out, always waiting for the sun to set. That means no more lies, no more hiding, no more masks. It means, revealing our identities.”

Tikki's brows furrow in confusion.

“Well, we both know Chat Noir has no objections to that. And I've all ready said that I'm fine with that, too.”

“But I'm not!”

And there it is.

“Hawkmoth is still out there. If we know each other's identities and one of us gets Akumatized,” she shudders—real, quaking, anxious tremors rocking her body at just the idea, “I couldn't bear the thought of hurting him, if it were me. And if it were him, Tikki, I don't think I would be strong enough to fight him. No, I know I couldn't fight him. And I can't let Paris suffer because of my emotions… because of my weakness.”

It is a long time before either of them speak. And when the pregnant pause is broken, it is Tikki who offers a final piece of advice.

“You are worrying about something that hasn't even happened yet.”

It is a reproach, but Tikki manages to deliver it with such gentle sibilance, it merely makes Marinette weep harder despite her want to protest.

“Say you don't confess or reveal your identities to each other, or he confesses before you and you reject him, again, ” (she winces) “because of your fear. Who's to say that won't be the act that tips him over the edge to being Akumatized? Don't you see, Marinette? Either way, confess or not, the misery would be inevitable.”

“There must be some way to stop it? To control it?” she wails, desperately.

Tikki sighs, lovingly ruffling her hair.

“That's the thing about life, isn't it? There can be no peace without chaos, no joy without anger… no love without suffering—for how can we know happiness, true happiness, if we don't first know what it feels to be dispossessed?

“When we open our hearts, Marinette, we expose it to everything. Yes there will be pain, but there will be such pleasure, too. Such merriment behind the agony, such sweetness alongside the sourness of humanity. Wouldn't you rather have someone experiencing it with you, always by your side, than carry it all on your own?”

Softer, Tikki adds, “And wouldn't you rather that someone be Chat Noir?”

Marinette remains silent for a couple more heartbeats, before she breathes, “Yes.”

Tikki smiles.

“It's okay to be afraid, Marinette,” she affirms. “Just don't let it hold you back. In fact, if you're going to be afraid,” she pats her head and presses on even as she darts to her bed.

“At least let him hold your hand. Then you can conquer your fears, together. ”

Marinette thinks that's the end of this emotionally draining conversation when Tikki dispenses a final valuation.

“And if I could just counter one more of your arguments?”

She cocks her head in acquiescence because why not? She has nothing to lose.

“You don't reach my age and not learn a thing or two about humankind, particularly when it comes to love. There is a great deal of things, too great a deal of stupid things even, that one does for love.” At this, she shoots Marinette a playfully insinuating look, having been witness to all her teenage antics over Adrien. She blushes, scarcely stifling an embarrassed squeak.

“But they are great. From sweeping, romantic gestures to a simple birthday card from one child to a parent—each act of love possesses their own power, from the ability to launch a thousand ships to war or the persistence to find one's way home when lost or merely putting a smile on a friend's face. I suppose what I'm trying to convey is, love isn't a weakness. It never has been. Love has always been magic. Dare I say, it's more than that, even.”

Tikki smiles.

“It's strength. ”

She mulls over her Kwami's words for two more days which turns to a week before she gathers any semblance of a backbone. But then an Akuma attacks and there he is.

How has she never noticed how handsome he is? How dashing and strong and courageous?

The Akuma, Bridezilla, as she aptly names herself, was jilted from the aisle (“thanks for the encouragement, Universe,” she mutters upon finding out). Though her real beef is with men in general, and her runner of a fiancé specifically, she aims her weapon—a bouquet that shoots wedding rings that cut off the victim's movements—at Ladybug, as they've reached the portion of the battle where the Akuma gets desperate for their Miraculous.

In her distraction, having not seen Chat Noir for so long and now getting a sensory overload of him, his touch and his voice and his scent, she hadn't seen Bridezilla till she was upon her. Lucky for her (and this she muses in barbed resonance), Chat Noir jumped to the line of fire so that he bore the brunt of the attack, which meant that he fell in a heap on the floor. He was bound in rings that tightened further the more he moved, ensuring he couldn't use his Cataclysm to free himself.

“Chat!” she bawls, dropping to her knees in front of him and trying in vain to free him. She gasps when an inadvertent squeeze from her efforts causes his leg to twitch and consequently, the metal to contract.

“Looks like she really wants to tie the knot with me, eh?”

She laughs, even as tears spring to her eyes.

“Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now.”

Floating above them, Bridezilla cackles.

“With her?" his frown deepens. "I can see why anyone would run.”

“Give up your Miraculous!” she snarls, having heard the tail end of their conversation.

“Mon dieu, shut up!”

Chat Noir spews a shocked chortle while Bridezilla flusters at the unexpected burst of her temper. Ladybug is known for her grace under pressure, after all, this is hardly becoming. But with Chat's oxygen depleting with every minute movement, her patience runs thin and her cool begins to simmer.

“I've just about had it with these putain de Akumas!”

Chat's eyes widen and she should be embarrassed but she is literally beyond caring at this point. She calls on her Lucky Charm in a most uncharming way that her ladybugs don't even bother to show up, the charm just lands in her hands. A stiletto. Personally, she would have poked the Akuma's eye and called it a day, but her Spots Vision urge her to use Chat's baton and a fire hydrant, from which she vaults herself and throws the heel like a boomerang, knocking it from the ex-bride's hands.

Ladybug extends her yo-yo to a lamp post and swings just in time to catch the Akuma victim before she falls hard on the ground. She lands them on her feet before sprinting for the bouquet, which she breaks to purify the butterfly, all in quick succession. Grabbing the shoe, she throws it in the air and cries out, almost hysterically when she sees Chat turning an alarming shade of white that is made even more deathly prominent against the blackness of his suit, “Miraculous Ladybug!”

The moment her ladybugs clear Chat to his feet, she bypasses his outstretched fist and launches herself at him at such top speed, they fall back to the ground.

“I'm sorry!” she wails even as she doesn't let up.

“Err—Ladybug? I kinda just got free from one bind but I'm pretty sure you're cutting off my oxygen this time.”

She squeals, apologies spilling from her lips as she springs from him. She propels herself to her feet, holding a hand up to him. She has to refrain from crumpling her face when she discovers they had been in a similar position not two weeks ago, her helping him to his feet so that he might take her to the music room in their school and play her his composition.

(A composition which she has rewound what little of it she knows in a merciless loop in her head in his absence, just to feel close to him again)

“So, you're good? Nothing hurts?”

He bevels his head quizzically. “Your ladybugs took care of it, like they always do.” He gives her a searching look. “Are you? Okay, that is?”

“Yeah,” she gulps.

This is it, she thinks. This is my chance.

“Actually—” she starts lowly just as he asks, “Are we near the Dupain-Cheng Bakery?”

She blinks her surprise.

“Um… yes. Why?”

He startles, having been focused on the direction of her home, as if he had forgotten she was there despite asking her a question. As if he were all ready somewhere else.

“N-nothing. Listen, I gotta go. Unless there's something else you need me to do?”

Upon her transformation, Bridezilla's bridesmaids had taken care of her, so there truly was no need to linger. Seeing this, he doesn't wait for her instruction. He nods his goodbye and leaps off in the direction of her street.

Her Miraculous trills, and Marinette races to the back door of her building just as Tikki releases her glamour. Her footsteps thunder up the stairs, her clumsiness nowhere to be seen for once, as she zooms past her parents and straight to her room in record time.

“Marinette?” Tikki inquires bewilderingly.

“He's here, Tikki,” she whispers in breathless timbres. “He left me, Ladybug me, just as I was about to confess because he's coming here. To me, Marinette me!”

She can hardly hear Tikki's excited chirps over the roaring of her blood in her ears. He's come back. He's come back to her!

“Chat!” she shrills, as she opens her trapdoor.

But when she pops her head to the roof, he is not there.

She waits, thinking she might have arrived before him. She waits for the sun to set. She waits, even as the cold seeps to her bones with a piercing quiver. Still, he does not come.

No, he has not come back after all.

“Did you and Adrien have a fight?”

Only nibbling on her sandwich lunch and half paying attention to her surroundings, she absentmindedly replies to Alya, “What?”

“You—Adrien—fight?”

The sound of Adrien's name stirs something in her, like wading through really thick mud before reaching the safety of the bank.

“Adrien and I?” she frowns. “I've hardly spoken to him these past few weeks.”

“Yeah?” Alya mirrors her downtrodden mouth. “Maybe that's the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

“Something's been up with the kid, but you know how Adrien is. You ask him if something's wrong, he'll just deny it with his stupid, phony smile. Although, Nino and I have caught him off guard a couple of times. It obviously has something to do with you though, because we ask him how he is and he'll say he's fine, it's just stuff with his dad or fencing or Chinese, blah blah blah. But,” she fixes Marinette with a suspicious glare over the rim of her glasses, “he thinks we don't see, but he gets this look in his eyes after, it's like, really sad—as if he's lost something? Then he stares at you.”

“Me?” she squawks.

“You really haven't noticed?” she returns, distrustful of her plain obliviousness.

“N-no,” she stutters.

“Hey,” Alya's attention becomes a blade, right through to her soul. It makes her sit up taller. “I know something's up with you, too, girl.”

“What?” she says, dragging the vowel out. “No way,” she denies, feebly. Alya does not buy it, it is written on her face, clear as day, just how much she doesn't believe her.

“Okay… then explain how you and Adrien just happen to get into this weird funk right around the same time. That's why I thought you might have had a row or something.”

Marinette shakes her head. Alya sighs.

“Be that as it may, Nino and I aren't making any headway. So,” she nudges her shoulder. “We were hoping you could talk to him. Now that you can speak more than two words to the guy without stammering up a storm,” she pouts at the reminder (will no one ever let her live that down?) “Who knows? He might actually open up to you.”

It is all too clear that her forlornness at, what she deems as, losing her chance with Chat Noir has made her selfish and blind to her other friend's apparent distress. She colors with contrition. So though she is hardly an authority in dealing with emotions healthily, she stows away her lunch and scrambles to her feet in a show of obedience. But a quick perusal of the courtyard shows no sign of Adrien, not even with Nino, who is conversing with Kim and Max.

“Where is he?”

“Nino says Adrien is practically glued to a piano, nowadays. You might wanna try the music room?”

Merde, she wants to shout. Of course, he is in the music room.

Her feet feels leaden but she forges on, walking an all too familiar path, all the while chanting, I am a good friend, I am a good friend, I am a good friend, in her head to bolster herself. She's operating under the adventitiousness that if she thinks it enough, she will become it. Power of attraction and all.

Besides, she does want to be a good friend, so there is that.

(But did it have to be the music room, bon sang! )

When she reaches the door of the place, she can hear All I Ask of You wafting through the wood. It steals her breath and seizes her limbs so that it takes her a better part of a minute to regain control of her faculties.

She will not cry. She will not be one of those girls who associates songs with people, thereby removing the joy from listening to said songs if the memories are not… optimal, when they hear it.

(Oh god, she has become that girl now, too)

He doesn't turn his head to her when she enters, doesn't acknowledge her when she sits beside him on the bench, doesn't even miss a beat when she joins him and plays the melody to his lower register.

When the final note is played to fruition, they sit there in silence—neither willing to break it, lost as they are in events brought on by the song.

Finally, when the quiet becomes too stifling, Marinette opens her mouth to say something reassuring except the connection between her brain and aforementioned body part seems to have fried somewhere along the way.

“He must have come to you, in your dreams.”

He startles, the movement oddly familiar, though she dispels the recognition that it pothers within her.

“Who?”

“You know,” she wiggles her eyebrows then abruptly stops. She wants to slap a hand to her forehead. How dare they! How dare her eyebrows betray her!

(Is she channeling Chat Noir now? Seriously? Is that where she is? Putain)

Adrien shakes his head, a perfect picture of puzzlement.

Shut up, Marinette, she implores herself. Don't say it.

But nope, her wires are still cut, as her lips form, no—it levels up and sings the words without her consent.

“The Phantom of the Opera!”

She cringes the moment she stops then pivots so that her back is to the keys of the piano, and Adrien is away from her line of sight. She is going to barf. She can string complete sentences around the guy now sure, but apparently she has traded the spluttering for... she shudders, singing. She crosses her arms, as if it could stop her from embarrassing herself further. She almost wishes for the stutter back.

What even is my life right now?

She expects him to leave, but Adrien has always been a kind soul. He chuckles, albeit a subdued sound, as if he's forgotten how, his sadness (so obvious, now that she is here and seeing, truly seeing, him) chasing any associations he might have had with happiness. When was the last time she had even seen him smile?

Too long, she concludes.

“Well, he is there,” he taps his temple then croons, in an exaggerated baritone, “inside my mind…”

It is her turn to be shocked and for a beat, they stare at each other, disbelief adorning the air between them at what they had each done.

And then, they are laughing.

They are laughing and it is as loud and as forthcoming and as fun as it had been that day in the rain, when he offered her an umbrella. For a moment, she allows herself to fall back into that girl. She dusts her old feelings off from the shelf she had placed them in and she allows them to come rushing back. She remembers then, why it is Adrien who occupied her thoughts for so long. She can see how easy it would be, too easy, to fall in love with him again.

But his blond hair and his green eyes invoke the wrong memories. She feels her heart whinge with longing for another man and she just can't. It wouldn't be fair to compare Adrien, to keep comparing anyone, to a shadow.

Drowning as she is in her thoughts, she doesn't notice Adrien has all ready turned away, fingers back to the piano as he plays Music of the Night, which then fades to Think of Me, till eventually he settles onto Angel of Music.

Mon ange.

She can hear Chat Noir’s voice forming the words, almost as if he were here in the room and she is taken back to that first night he played for her so that he is sitting beside her—his beautiful digits deftly serenading her, her head on his shoulder, their breathing syncopated.

She isn't aware she is crying till warm fingers touch the skin of her cheek.

Adrien has stopped playing.

“I didn't mean to make you cry.”

She didn't think it possible, but he looked even more upset than when she first entered.

So much for being a good friend.

“Ignore me,” she laughs awkwardly, his hand falling as she reaches into her bag, meeting Tikki's big, round eyes when she surreptitiously gives her a tissue. “Oh, I'm such a mess. I'm so sorry, Adrien. Ugh,” she sighs, wiping at her glistening cheeks. “This is not how this was supposed to go.”

“And how was this supposed to go?”

“Truthfully? I don't know. Alya and Nino were worried about you and honestly, I can see why. I came in here to try to cheer you up, which is stupid, I know now. I can hardly console myself. What can I possibly do for you?”

At that, she meets his eyes and all of a sudden, she understands what Alya means. There is something soft in his green gaze when he looks at her and something fond when he directs his endearingly crooked smile at her. It brightens his face and again, there is something so distinct about the twinkle in his orbs that it arrests her, stops the babble of her mouth and calms the restlessness of her wrung heart. A thought brews in her mind then, something big and something reckless and something dangerous, to be sure.

But the way her soul calls out to him, the thread of recognition in her belly going taut after so long without its other half, the look of him, his knowledge of Phantom of the Opera. It had taken her so long but now that it is here, it is like waking from a really deep sleep or rising from the pull of a frigid ocean tide—it is too difficult to ignore.

If she was right, bon dieu, if she was right...

“What troubles you, Marinette?”

Could it be this easy? she wonders, for the umpteenth time. If something's too good to be true, it usually is.

It's okay to be afraid, Tikki's sage voice floods her head then, overriding her doubts and lending her strength. Love is magic. Love is strength.

“What else?”

“I wonder if it might be the same thing that ails me.”

She gasps mockingly, “A boy?”

Marinette internally rejoices at the laugh she manages to wrangle from him. God, even his laugh!

Then, at the same time they utter, “Love?”

He nods, as if satisfied with their synchronization. She can hardly contain her beam. But the solemnity returns to his countenance and he asks her, “Are you in love, then?”

She nods, emphatically. “To the best guy I know. Next to you, of course.”

He looks so taken aback, she almost laughs. “Me?”

“Don't pretend you didn't know!” she points an accusing finger at him.

“Know? Know what? ”

“Oh my god,” it sinks in and she raises an incredulous brow. “You really didn't know?”

He throws his hands up in the air in frustration. “What are you talking about?”

“Adrien,” she starts slowly, as if he were a skittish animal she didn't want to scare into bolting from her. “Up until two years ago, I was madly in love with you.”

He blinks.

“What—what— ”

“I'm not anymore, obviously,” she continues flippantly, biting her lip to hide her amused grin. He is turning a peculiar shade of red, the hues of which had only ever been displayed by her before.

“I'm in love with this guy, but,” she sobers when she returns to the heart of the matter. “I don't know,” she sighs, jerking frustratedly at one end of her right pigtail. “I think I blew it.”

For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence becomes so oppressively awkward, she contemplates leaving when he, at long last, replies.

“What makes you say that?”

It is a quiet thing, the way he phrases the question. But it is made all the more compelling for its lambency, when there is an overabundance of hope lining every letter and syllable. She senses her own hope rocketing straight to the heavens.

“He told me his feelings, and instead of reciprocating I,” she gulps, the shame of her actions threatening to pull her down to her demons as she recalls that dreadful day. “I turned him away.”

He seems lost in his thoughts too, but rises just enough to mumble, “Why?”

She closes her eyes.

This is it, she psyches herself again. This is really it.

“Because I was afraid. I had loved you for so long, you see, that I had grown so comfortable with the thought that whatever love I gave could never be returned. But then he did, god, he did and suddenly I was afraid that I would mess things up so badly and then eventually, I just wouldn't be enough. There were… other factors, I was afraid of,” she glosses over this, just in case she is wrong. But if she is right, then it seemed prudent he be aware of it, too. “But it's not an excuse. The point is, I'm tired of being afraid, you know?”

She turns back so that she is facing the keys and then she is looking him in the eye, dauntless and ready.

“I'm tired of being afraid,” she reiterates, before altogether deflating. “I want to tell him, really, I do. But how?

“How do I tell someone that he is the first person I think about the moment I wake for the day and the one who fills my dreams at night? How do I tell him that his arms around me bring me the sort of warmth no blanket, jacket or heater could ever replicate? That for me the sun rises and sets in his eyes? That if I were a moon then he was the planet with which I choose to gravitate around? That my whole world is centered around him? That his soul seems bound to mine? His name scrawled across my heart because it belongs to him?

“How do you tell someone you love them? ”

The words had been building for so long, she gasps the moment they are out, like she had been holding her breath for just as long as she had been holding them in.

When she sneaks a glance at Adrien, there is an air of serenity about him that she hopes, hopes, hopes, is born from the baring of her mind, heart and soul. She feels naked, but invigorated too, a certain potency in the vulnerability—especially when he looks at her like this, with commensurate admiration, her words playing in his mind's eye to echo to his very actions.

“I imagine it goes something like this.”

His fingers poise gracefully over the keys, and then they are flying, singing, painting— a captivating scenery of a boy cloaked in shadows and a girl with midnight hair, the moonlight as their surface and the open air their dome and how they find sanctuary in each other. It pierces their heady atmosphere, that beautiful and mysterious tune that had kept her going on the days when loneliness comminated to cripple her.

—that same melody Chat Noir would hum to her, in the exposure of her rooftop and the moonshine pooling at their feet.

It starts soft, tinkling... excited, before climaxing to something sorrowful and dejected. But then, the tone shifts, and it is enchanting, bringing with it hope and passion and the happy chimes of church bells and an infant's laughter and above all else… love.

The last note fades from the room though it reverberates all throughout her body, leaving a pleasant tingle in its wake. She is crying again but she doesn't bother to hide it, doesn't bother to reach for a tissue. Not when he is there, cradling her cheeks like she is a most cherished gem, and catching her tears before they can journey the length of her face.

“Mon Ange,” he whispers, breath lingering like a zephyr on her lips as he answers a question asked long ago. “It's called Mon Ange. ”

Only one person in the entire world would know to call her that.

But she dare not let herself believe, not until she too is cupping his face, her fingers splitting into diamonds around the sides of his eyes in a facsimile of a mask.

Those eyes, oh always his eyes…

(It should have been her first clue)

She gasps.

(She should have known better)

“Chat… you… you— ”

His hands retreat from her face only to deluge her own, hold her to him.

“Yes,” he sighs. “Yes, it's me.”

(She really, really should have known)

He rests his forehead on hers, and then she is laughing as she is crying, gazing at him in uninhibited astonishment.

“It's you,” she breathes, “it's always been you.”

His smile stretches the breadth of his face, it's any wonder it doesn't hurt his cheeks or fly right off his visage. It is then she remembers, with another laugh.

“I suppose…” he pouts when she withdraws but she, too, cannot contain her smiles when she opens her bag and reveals, “now is as good a time as any to tell you.”

Tikki floats placidly up to Adrien's blatantly jarred exterior and touches his nose in greeting.

“Hello, Adrien. I'm Tikki,” she giggles, tipping his jaw up with a paw before resuming her introductions. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

But before he can formulate a reply, something or rather, someone, is shouting, “Sugarcube!” and whizzing between them to collide right into her Kwami.

Plagg.

Tikki squeals, waving apologetically as Plagg whisks her away to the vents without so much as a by your leave.

Adrien has yet to say anything, and she grows worried at his lack of response.

“Adrien?” she waves a hand across his face. He captures it and holds on, tight. And she has a sneaking suspicion he thinks what he says next might be unpleasant to her and his grip is so she won't float away in the aftermath.

(She harrumphs. This is three years in the making, nothing could possibly make her leave now)

“So close,” are his first words.

“Okay…?”

“So close, I could have figured it out and we might have been together sooner!”

His eyes are dilated with regret, bordering on hysteria.

“The Valentine's day card, the one shaped in a heart with a poem written inside.”

She blushes. “Oh yeah,” she coughs to hide her embarrassment. “That.”

“It wasn't signed but I knew, I knew it was from Ladybug because it directly answered my poem for her—word per word. Then you! You left me a note with that assignment and I thought your handwriting looked a lot like the one of the poem's but I brushed it off because I could hardly believe it. I couldn't possibly be that lucky? I'm so used to disappointment, otherwise, it just became easier to accept that I couldn't deserve you… both of you.”

He trails off.

“And are you?”

“What?”

He seems feverish now at all the little hints she might have left that spoke of her admiration for him. She remembers Papa Garou and feels a little bad.

“Disappointed?”

He hugs her then, his arms around her a habitual balm that feels like coming home.

He feels like home.

“I couldn't be farther, Marinette. I've fallen in love with you, twice now. Once is coincidence but twice?” He hums. “Twice is a pattern.” He runs his nose along the arch of her neck, before rubbing it against the bridge of her own. “One I hope to make again,” he kisses her forehead, “and again,” her eyelid, “and again,” one cheek, “and again, ” then the other.

Pull, pull, pull.

There is that force again, the one that links them together, in a nature so insistent, she is a slave to its command. She finds herself clambering to his lap and anchoring her hands in his golden tendrils. He receives her weight with nary a blink of an eye, like they have done this countless times before.

Pull, pull, pull.

Like it is right.

“Well then,” she says, her lips hovering exhilaratingly close to his. “What do you suppose happens now?”

With her towering over him, his answer comes in the form of the crane of his head as he gives chase to the succulent curve of her smiling mouth.

But the day has other plans when the alarm rings and an announcement blares from the school speakers.

“AKUMA ALERT, AKUMA ALERT!”

They simultaneously turn their heads to the windows and it is there Adrien walks, carrying her all the while as he surveys whatever damage the Akuma might have all ready caused. It's an inappropriate thought given the circumstances but the way he doesn't even think about letting her go, his muscles flexing beneath his shirt as he hauls her to him with ease—it makes her quite dizzy.

(She's in love, okay? Sue her)

“Duty calls?”

He sighs. “Duty calls.”

She gets down on her feet, her body sliding in delicious thrills along his on the way to the ground. They let go of each other at the same time, calling for their Kwamis, suddenly shy.

“I'm gonna—”

“I'll be—”

He waves to one corner of the room while she gestures to the other.

“Right,” they trill jointly before laughing.

They move to their respectfully claimed parts of the room, Tikki giving her a wink before she calls out her magic words and hearing the tail end of Adrien's too.

When the magic settles, she turns. Seeing Chat Noir standing before her and knowing it is Adrien beneath the mask makes all the air leave her body while also breathing so much energy into her core.

It's real, she says to herself. He's real.

It restores her confidence and she is leaping into his arms for a hug, one that takes no time at all for him to reciprocate so deeply, she is lifted onto the tips of her toes.

Pull.

“I've waited for you my whole life," he sighs. "It’s reassuring somehow, to know. You were always with me.” He cups her head. “My lady,” he whispers into the corner of her mouth. “Mon ange.”

“Mon minou,” she murmurs in kind before conceding, “I'm scared.” It's a hard thing to admit but with him, it is as effortless as a heartbeat.

Pull.

He holds out his hand.

“I won't let go if you won't.”

Pull.

She grasps his hand, before twining their fingers, loving the weight of him in her palm like that of a steady promise.

Pull.

“Never.”

Because it is one, she understand now. And like all promises made by lovers, they seal it in the only way they know how.

Pull.

With a kiss.

AN: Hope you had fun! Tell me what you think! :)

Also, come say hi to me!

#miraculous ladybug #ml spoilers #marichat #adrinette #marichat ff #adrinette ff #fluff #angst #with a happy ending #listen to the music of the night series #swishandflickwit ff

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lokikingofasgardslover713 · 5 years

Text

Finding Life Pt. 3

Masterlist

Finding Life Masterlist

Pairing: Brunnhilde x Luna - Skrull OFC

Warnings: Mentions of an attempt at suicide and forcing others to help carry out the act.

Summary: OFC is a Skrull that exposes herself in order to save the Avengers while on a mission out in space. Luna regains consciousness on the ship after she released a virus that forces skrulls to return to themselves, I explain it in the story slightly. Luna and the team are still on the ship and are in orbit around the earth. The team is reassuring the threat is taken care of before returning as well as helping Luna get calmed down, seeing as she hasn't been her natural self in decades for fear of being taken into custody. Brunnhilde and Luna have an established relationship.

A/N: Ok, so apparently I am choosing to ignore some parts of Endgame and hold to others.

Words: +1,600

————

“We had to sedate her,” the tech began as the Valkyrie entered into the observation room outside of the small infirmary. The green skinned woman in the infirmary curled up in the lush armchair dozing as she gripped tight to the blanket wrapped around her and an IV stand behind the chair.

“Why,” The Valkyrie spoke up as she stepped next to the tech, Steve was in the room along with Tony, Thor and Carol. Tony turned to the tanned warrior and she immediately noted his black eye along with how beat up Steve was as well.

“Luna panicked, tried to force us to kill her because she is convinced we were going to imprison her,” Tony spoke up as he met the Valkyries gaze.

The warrior paused; this made no sense. “Where did you find her? I had been attempting to track her down and let her know it was ok. She had left her…”

“In the hangar about to jettison herself into the sun,” Steve huffed out, not meeting her gaze for a moment before finally looking up for Brunnhilde to note the gash across his nose.

“She-. I don’t understand, why would we,” the tanned warrior began, looking between the five that were in the room. “She sacrificed years of covert operations to save us from rogue Skrulls that were headed towards earth. Can she shift? Is she even a she,” the Valkyrie asked, still confused about her lover that was sedated and green. It rambled in the warriors head if the woman, the Skrull was still in love with her, especially after the note Brunnhilde had found attesting to the love Luna had showed her over the past year. Telling the tanned warrior, she did truly love her and apologizing for breaking her trust.

“That’s the beauty of the virus the Kree invented,” the tech began to explain. “It paralyzes the gland that helps them to phase into anyone. In the process it forces them to revert to true form, meaning down to molecular level to what they were at birth. Luna was female thus she returned to female. The only thing that has technically changed is her skin tone.”

“But she has hair, Skrull don’t..,” Brunnhilde began still just as bewildered. The warrior was trying her best to keep a stoic appearance but had a feeling they were seeing through it.

“She’s only half Skrull hence the black hair,” Carol finally spoke up. “From what I can understand she was born on Tera, her mother a Skrull and her father Kree. I’m surprised Luna isn't blue due to Kree genetics being so dominant.” The blond woman finished as she looked over at the Valkyrie.

“But-. I still don’t understand why she panicked,” the tanned warrior spoke up, meeting Carol’s gaze before looking back to the Skrull curled on the chair.

“It was once intergalactic law that if it was found out that a Kree bred with an inferior species then both parents as well as the result were to be taken to Hala,” Carol explained preparing to say more but was stopped by the Valkyrie.

“No need to elaborate, I can guess what would happen. The Kree no longer have a foothold. There is nowhere or no one to take her to. It's an old law,” Brunnhilde spoke up.

“Luna doesn’t know that. It was outlawed but some rebel bands still practice. More than likely she would be forced into a breeding project. I don’t blame her I would have panicked to,” Carol spoke as they looked into the room the moment another tech entered to place something into the IV drip that hung over the skrulls head.

“What are they giving her,” Steve asked.

“Something to keep her calm when she wakes,” the tech spoke up.

“The virus; how long until it runs its course and she can shift again,” Thor now asked, it was a question they all wanted answered but hadn't dared to ask.

“I’m not entirely sure,” the tech began looking at Carol. The newest Captain looking troubled at what she was about to say.

“I know it wears off. I had been told it takes a month to run its course but the Skrull we used it on never survived that long,” Carol hushed and looked away.

“Is it alright if I go sit with her,” Brunnhilde began hinting to the Skrull. The monitors on their side of the glass showed the green woman was waking.

“Sure. Be prepared in case she panics. It has been several decades since she has donned her skrull form, so it is a shock for her still,” the tech admitted, turning to show Brunnhilde out of the room they were in and to the infirmary.

The room was quiet but for Luna’s steady breathing. The monitors running silent along with the IV drip thanks to all the technology. Thankfully the chair it appeared Luna had curled up in was large enough for the Valkyrie to perch on the edge next to her.

The warrior noted the oil black hair hiding Luna’s features as if she was ashamed of them. The tech told her Luna hadn’t taken well to waking up in her Skrull form but that was due to how long she had kept it. It would pass once she grew accustomed to it.

Leaning forward, Brunnhilde couldn’t help but to brush the ebony strands out of the Skrull’s face and behind a pointed ear. Unconsciously Luna tried to draw away, but it was no use. Bright purple eyes opening to slits enough for Brunnhilde to note the bright gold starburst surrounding the iris.

“I’m not mad,” the warrior breathed out not sure if the other heard. Calloused hand caressing along soft pale green cheek, tracing the purple freckles along her jaw before pausing at leaf green lips. “It’s alright baby. You don’t have to fear me. Any of us. You’re safe.”

The blanket moved slightly, it appeared Luna was moving her hands. The Valkyrie continuing to caress over the others jaw, the warrior shifting forward to look at the nasty cut over green brow. Thor had admitted to cold cocking the Skrull to take her out of the fight before she walked into the room.

Luna’s features contorted for a moment and a sigh passed green lips as a tanned thumb passed over them, the flesh feeling as soft as she remembered. This time the Skrulls legs shifted under the heavy blanket and it appeared she tried to straighten.

“Wake up easy. I don’t want them having to put you back out,” Brunnhilde spoke quietly, noting her eyes move back and forth.

“You’re on a spacecraft outside the earth's atmosphere. You saved us from a Skrull take over but at your expense,” the warrior explained calmly the moment Luna opened her eyes to take in the tanned woman before her. Without hesitation Brunnhilde reached into the blanket to take Luna’s hand, tangling tanned fingers with green, the nails still covered in purple polish.

“It’s alright baby. I’m not mad. I need you to stay calm for me,” Brunnhilde continued as she stole a glance to a monitor, noting the Skrull’s heart rate elevate and heard someone outside the door. “Luna,” the warrior began, purple eyes going wide.

Immediately the Skrull tried to tug away only for Brunnhilde to get to her own feet to assure Luna knew she wasn't being kept in the chair; but Brunnhilde refused to release her hand. Though it appeared Luna wasn’t getting up or what they had given her wasn’t allowing her to act too violently.

Finally shaking from the Valkyries grasp Luna looked her over nervously, trying to bury further in the chair and flinging the blanket to the floor. Pale green skin littered in patterns of purple freckles on display since she was only clothed in a tank top and cotton shorts. Hand going to the IV in her arm but didn’t dare mess with it.

The memory of the last time she had tugged the needle free led to her being sedated. Again.

“Why aren’t you screaming at me,” Luna nervously panted, eyeing the warrior who slowly took a seat back in the chair next to her.

“Should I? I mean; I should be screaming at you for trying to kill yourself, but not for this,” Brunnhilde smiled and hinted to the green skin. A tanned hand even daring to reach forward and caress along a pale green forearm. Luna was frozen to the spot.

“I never told you what I was. I’m going to be used as a test subject aren’t I,” her voice shivered. The Skrull still refused to believe it was this easy to be forgiven, especially after the tales her parents had told her before they were found out.

“No. And I’m only upset you felt the need to hide this from me for fear of someone turning you in,” Brunnhilde smiled, reaching to caress over the bruised eye socket earning a hiss before trailing it to purple speckled cheek.

“I’m going to kick Thor’s ass for hurting you,” the warrior laughed as Luna leaned into the touch.

“To be fair I did jump on Tony and give him a black eye before Thor pulled me off,” Luna smiled to show fangs. The Valkyrie smirking at the fact she had gotten a hit in on Tony.

“Doesn't matter. He’s still getting his ass beat for hurting my girl,” Brunnhilde smiled leaning forward to press her lips to Luna’s.

“Don’t ever hide this. Your beautiful like this,” the Valkyrie spoke across her lips the moment they released, and Luna relaxed into the chair. The Skrull nodded with the sentiment in the statement.

“How about you let me hold you,” the warrior spoke softly, another careful nod had the tanned warrior maneuvering to sit behind Luna. Slowly Luna turned sorely to her side in order to lay her head between the warriors breasts, tanned fingers lacing into ebony locks to massage over her scalp.

#brunhilde #brunhilde x ofc #brunhilde mcu #valkyrie

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ineedsomethingoriginal · 6 years

Text

You Don’t Belong Here (Chapter 2)

A/N: Me: *posts first chapter last Sunday* oh yea, I’m on a roll, i’ll get this done on Wednesday

also me: *posts this on Saturday*

so yea, I underestimated how long it would take to post this chapter so as I get in the swing of keeping a schedule, I think it’s safe to say expect weekly updates on Saturday or Sunday.

I made the chapter extra long to compensate (almost twice as long!) and to thank you guys for all the love I received when I first posted, thank you so much! so hope you enjoy!

Chapter 2

Chan took one last swig of coffee before he bolted out of his office, ignoring all the concerned looks of his employees/slaves (the terms are interchangeable) as he sped walked past. The others were already on their way, probably just arrived, but Chan was running a little late due to a phone call from Upstairs that warned him of something he already knew about.

He was on the last hallway before the throne room where he deals with serious matters, when he felt a pair of arms wrap around him lightly, trapping him in a hug.

“W-Woojin, now is not the time” Chan chided, feeling his eyes start to get droopy from being in the other’s embrace.

“When’s the last time you slept, and not under my influence.” The other asked, not releasing his hold.

“Two kids are in Hell, I think me getting enough sleep is the least of my problems” Chan replied, continuing on through the hallway.

“Who said you getting enough sleep is your problem, pretty sure sleep deprived Chan is the reason children aren’t allowed in hell.”

“That’s not one of the reasons!”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes, I’m sure, I was there when they made the rules.” Chan huffed, stopping at the grand entrance to the throne room.

A silence drifted over the two, staring down the doors in dread and anticipation.

“Remember, no cranky Chan, or almighty ruler of the 7 kingdoms of hell Chan. No traumatizing kids.” Woojin advised, trying to lighten the mood, before turning serious. “I read the file you sent us before coming here, and I think it’s safe to say those kids need someone to look up to as an older brother, and even if it’s obvious we’d be dead last in ideal choices, we’re the only choice they have.” he put a comforting hand on Chan’s shoulder “don’t worry too much though, I know you’ll be just fine.” and with that, the two focused their attention back on the giant entrance and releasing a breath he didn’t know he had, Chan pulled the doors open.

---------

As their eyes adjusted to the darkness they were left in, Seungmin and Jeongin glanced around at their surroundings. From what they could see, the room was relatively large, and when Seungmin took one of the lit candles and guided it around the room, they were able to make out other details. For one, the room was littered in expensive and frivolous items, everything lined in gold and encrusted with jewels that probably cost more than Seungmin and Jeongin’s lives put together but were places haphazardly like they were just ordinary items. Jeongin reached out a finger to touch one of the gems encrusting a vase, surprised when he felt the hard rock on his fingertips, either because it didn’t evaporate into dust or that he was actually touching an actual gemstone.

“Don’t touch that!” Seungmin hissed

Jeongin pouted but moved away from the table regardless, stopping at where Seungmin was staring at.

In front of the older, in the back of the room, a large platform stood before them. Seven, large, magnificent thrones seemed to stare down on them, sizing them up. Upon further inspection, each throne was completely unique, but all seemed to fit together perfectly. One was pitch black with gold lining, another one had a cup holder.

One was a dark ebony like the others, but was covered in deep gashes that looked like claw marks, the back looking like it had been made from battered swords from hundreds of years ago.

The centre throne was the largest of all and seemed to command attention- whoever sat in that chair must be the person in charge.

The throne at the right hand side of the centre one was wide, had the softest looking cushion and seemed the most inviting out of the seven thrones. It was almost beckoning them to rest a while on the seat big enough for both of them, though from the boys’ time with Ms. Yoo, they knew not to act on that curiosity.

Instead, they chose not to sit on any of the thrones, sitting on the platform the thrones were all raised on.

As they waited, tensions seemed to grow, relying on fidgeting with their fingers to calm themselves. Neither boy knew why they were here, though they knew now, this place was hell, but it seemed that they weren’t supposed to be here, why was that?

Before the boys could continue their musings, the room suddenly lit up; all the candles now sporting large flames illuminating the walls with horrific shadows. The candles seemed to be warning them of a presence making their way down the halls.

Seungmin quickly grabbed Jeongin’s hand and scurried to the back of the room, hiding behind the large thrones.

The doors slammed open, in contrast to the bellhop before who struggled to even open one, and the two boys curled in on themselves to hopefully make them less visible to whoever, or whatever, had entered the room.

They could hear chatter coming from the entrance until it eventually died down, probably wondering where the two were.

A voice spoke up, “didn’t boss say there’d be kids?”

“Don’t say it like that! It sounds weird.”

“Haven’t we established that I have no filter and whatever I think, just comes out?”

“Guys!” A new voice piped up, “they’re hiding behind our thrones, their auras are so strong they’re practically glowing.”

The boys tensed at that, how were they able to find them so quickly, they’d barely made a sound since their entrance.

“Woah! How’d I miss that?”

“Probably too busy eating to pay attention, Lix.”

“You know me too well Jinnie.”

“Hey!” They heard a voice call in their direction, “You can come out now, we’re totally nice demons!”

The boys stayed put, obviously making the demon mad. “Not even kids like me?! Geez, what’s it take to get some reactions from you guys?!”

“They aren’t just gonna come out like that, we should try a different approach-”

“If you come out, we’ll give you one of felix’s candy bars”

“Um no.”

“Okay never mind-”

“Okay, so obviously we know anything Jisung does is not gonna work, so maybe we should just wait for Cha-”

“We swear, Hell usually doesn’t fuck up like this-”

“Watch your language, Changbin!”

“Shit, my bad, wait. I mean-!”

There was a long sigh from the demon that seemed the most competent out of all of them, as if he really didn’t want to be here, but the sound of the door being open drew everyone’s attention away.

“Chan!”

“Hyunjin!” The one who had just entered greeted back, “what’s going on? Where are the kids?”

Jeongin risked a glance behind the chair, five figures were standing near the platform of the thrones, while two more, one most likely being Chan, stood a little ways back.

As Jeongin’s eyes flitted around the room, he locked eyes with one of the demons, one of the two newcomers, with the same piercing gold eyes from the figure in the mirror, he cowered back under the intense gaze, though the demon’s eyes stayed locked on his.

“They won’t come out.” the voice that they matched to Hyunjin explained. “We’ve tried almost everything.”

They heard footsteps coming closer, before stopping a safe distance away.

“Hey,” the golden eyed demon said simply, sounding much more human like than any demon should sound. “You can call me Chan, the rest are Minho, Jisung, Hyunjin, Felix, Changbin and Woojin” each demon gave a little non-threatening wave when their name was called. “now you know who we are, we promise no harm will come to you. Something went terribly wrong Upstairs, and we’re all doing our best to fix it, but we’ll explain it to you if you come out.”

He moved to take another step but Seungmin and Jeongin panicked

“Don’t come any closer!”

Chan stopped, bringing his hands up to show that he meant no harm.

“We want to help you,” Chan said softly, “I want to help you, and if you’ll let me, I promise I’ll do my best.” he held out his hand “so please come out, our purpose is to help you right now, not hurt you. Nobody’s allowed to hurt you from now on. I promise.”

Chan smiled as he heard shuffling from the other side of the room, finally coming face to face with two, scrawny young boys who obviously were malnourished when they were alive. The younger boy’s thin sweatshirt was barely clinging on to his small body.

“Why are we here?” Jeongin spoke up softly.

Chan sighed, kneeling down in front of the two boys.

“Okay, how do I explain this,” he started, ruffling his curly hair, “do you kids know the mailing system?”

The two slowly nodded their heads, not getting where this demon was going with this.

“Okay, good. So you know how sometimes, someone else’s mail, gets sent to you instead?”

Another round of nods

“So, basically that’s what happened to you.”

“But we’re not mail!” Jeongin cried, “We’re people! How do you ‘accidentally’ send someone to hell?!”

Chan glared at the others behind him snickering at him for practically being scolded by a child, but the combined glares of the demon and the child shut them up.

“Jeongin” Seungmin said quietly, “I think it’s because we aren’t people anymore. We died remember?!”

“Hell doesn’t take children,” Woojin spoke up softly, “they still have purity left, and can’t be held responsible for their actions.”

“You can’t see it on yourselves, but your auras are really cute!” Hyunjin piped up, “I heard mine’s a gross colour of green.” Seungmin squinted at Hyunjin, and sure enough, a faint neon green haze could be seen around him. He turned to Jeongin and like the demon said, a faint rosy pink misted around the younger boy, pastel in contrast to the vibrant green of the demon.

“Your auras make it really obvious of where you belong, which makes it pretty dangerous to be around here for too long. I know we made a mistake, but we’re trying our best to fix it!” Hyunjin assured, giving them a cute smile that reminded Seungmin of an older brother telling them everything would be okay, instead of what Hyunjin actually was.

Seungmin looked over at Jeongin again, who had been quiet for a while. He had his head down in thought, his uncut dark hair like curtains around his face. Maybe he was a little harsh telling jeongin about their fate, but Seungmin wasn’t really thinking straight, a weird feeling had been bubbling inside him since he had exited the elevator, and Seungmin had been trying to distract himself from it.

Suddenly, a hand reached out to grab Seungmin’s wrist, he turned to face Jeongin, who was violently trembling with only Seungmin for support.

“S-Seungmin.” Jeongin sobbed, “it hurts.”

“What hurts?” Seungmin hastily asked, pulling the smaller boy into his arms, until he touched his wrist. “You’re burning.”

Jeongin flinched at the comment, and then began to shake uncontrollably, grabbing the attention of the others. The demons had rushed to the boys by now but Seungmin didn’t notice, the dull feeling he had before was flooding like a broken dam. He felt hot and claustrophobic, and all he could see now was a low ceiling, on fire and caving in; the last image he had seen before it had all faded to black.

Memories flooded his vision, forcing him to remember that day, that room, that moment of fear. He didn’t notice the hands that held him, too transfixed on the scene he was forced to recall, but when a hand was placed gently over his eyes he felt himself calming down, embracing the darkness and warmth of the hand as he fell asleep.

Woojin sighed a breath of relief as Seungmin finally stopped squirming, joining Jeongin in sleep as the youngest nestled himself in the demon’s arms. The demon smiled fondly at the boys before directing Hyunjin to take Seungmin, as he stood up with Jeongin still snuggled in his arms, light as a feather.

They all made their way down the hall, ignoring servants scattered around as they cowered away from their masters before entering a cozy bedroom, setting the two boys each on a bed. After tucking them into the covers, they shuffled out of the bedroom to let them rest. Woojin advised the rest to check on the boys every so often until they wake, closing the door gently as he murmured to the boys:

“Rest now, little ones”

A/N: was this chapter just an excuse to show how magical Woojin’s hugs are? why yes, yes it is.

#stray kids #stray kids au #stray kids fanfic

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thorn-ffxiv · 6 years

Text

|.devil comes a-callin’.|

I was one of those babies that wasn’t supposed to happen. Not an accident, exactly-- my parents would never use that word. When I asked them about it, my mother smiled and smoothed the wild curls from my childish face. My eyes were too big for my face, then. My parents would never admit that, either, but it was true. I looked like a deer caught spotting a hunter at all times.

“You were the happiest surprise I ever got,” she told me, and I nestled into her soft waist and hugged her, the words warming me from my head to my toes.

Nijah Salib and Django Finney met in Thavnair some twenty or so suns ago. Nijah -- my mother -- was the daughter of a fairly well off spice traders, but she was the middle girl of a family of ten. Her prospects for marriage were limited, given that her sisters were far before her in line to marry. And when a rolling stone from everywhere-and-anywhere showed up, all charm and dimpled smiles, the usually cautious Nijah fell into an affair that left her belly swollen with child. My father didn’t leave her, despite her family’s disapproval. He had never been the type to settle down, but this was a different situation.

My parents learned to love each other, I think. Maybe it’s not the kind of thing you sigh at in the storybooks, but it’s a pretty sort of thing anyway, in my opinion. They stayed together and married so that I’d not be a part of a broken and confused household. Mama left Thavnair to travel with Papa and his family, and after a brief fallout, became close to her family again not long after I was born. Two years after me came Ophelia, and nine years after me came Constance. Bless my parents for putting up with a pack of girls, most especially for putting up with Ophelia and I, constantly bickering and too close in age.

Constance, though-- Constance was - is - perfect. Ophelia was the only one of us who took after Papa, with straight red hair and bright green eyes. Constance came out looking like our beautiful Mama, like me, only with darker hair and eyes. She was crowned with ringlets of raven black and eyes of deepest brown, her skin the hue of caramel. I loved her as soon as I met her, looked after her almost like she was my own baby while my mother was busy dyeing and weaving and Papa was busy making ‘medicines’ to sell to the crowds at the carnivals we went to.

My sisters and I were always fussed over for being pretty, but I knew the real beauty would be the youngest, when she grew up. She was a sweet, bubbly baby with big round cheeks and even bigger, rounder eyes, the tips of her long ears poking out from behind her ebony curls. Even disagreeable and jealous Ophelia couldn’t help but to adore our baby sister. It was no wonder I was so protective over her, that I would have done anything in this rotten world to protect her and Ophelia both, as little as the latter and I agreed. I was the eldest. It was my job to protect them. Sometimes that meant doing things I wasn’t proud of, doing things that would follow me for a long, long time.

Mama and Papa never taught us girls our letters. I always wondered why Mama never took the time; she knew them. She was educated. Something about moving away from home broke her a little, I think. She didn’t care about things like you’d expect her to. Formal education stopped being important; worldly education was what would keep us alive. Papa had only stressed that it was important for us to know our numbers and math.

“Don’t ever let anyone cheat you from your gil,” he’d told me with an uncharacteristically serious face. “You hear me? You don’t let anyone treat you like you ain’t clever and smart. Remember your numbers and one day, you could damn well own Ul’dah yourself.”

Back then, Papa wasn’t as steady and reliable as he is now. He had a problem with drink, and I was sure that he smoked things rather than just pipe tobacco, things that made him hazy and erratic. He’d disappear for days at a time with no word, and though Mama was always a composed woman, I remember the terrible fight they got into when he came home one night, his eyes unfocused. That night she made him swear to never do it again, and he promised.

I guess folks can’t always keep their promises, though, no matter how much they intended to when they made them.

Mama had gone to Thavnair to visit her parents, leaving us with Papa and his promise not to leave us girls while she was away. He did it anyway. At first we thought it was just a late night, and then morning came, and evening again. Ophelia was frustrated, throwing a ball at one of the trees we’d parked nearby and catching it when it bounced back. I was serving Constance her dinner of popotoes and carrots. It was all we had; Papa was supposed to bring back more supplies, and I was never much of a hunter. Shooting down a squirrel in the Shroud with Papa’s bow and arrow wasn’t an option. I’d spread what precious little butter we had over Constance’s portion, hoping to make the vegetables more appealing. Thankfully, she wasn’t a picky eater.

I heard the man before I saw the man. His footfalls were heavy and haphazard, snapping twigs beneath thick-soled boots and breaking the tranquility of the Twelveswood. Ophelia glanced towards the sound and then to me, and I wiped my hands on my apron, unearthing a hatchet from a stump as I looked around the caravans to see who was approaching.

It was a hyur man, older, with mean, beady eyes. His beard was scraggly and stained yellow over the gray, and when he offered me a smile that wasn’t to be trusted, I could see that his teeth were missing or just as yellow as the stain in his beard. A rough, calloused hand coated in soot slapped against our caravan as the man steadied himself on it. I recognized the look in his dilating pupils; he was high on something. My grip around the hatchet tightened, and I put my arm out, signalling that Ophelia was to stay back when I started to hear soft footsteps approaching me.

“Well, hello, pretty thing,” the man slurred at me.

“Who are you?” I asked, wary, leaning back to make sure that I wasn’t in arm’s length of him.

“I’m lookin’ for Django. He -- hic! -- owes me somethin’. A large sum of gil, aye? You got it hidin’ somewhere ‘round here, girl? You the oldest?”

“Yeah,” I replied, watching the man as he took a step out from around the caravan. “I’m the oldest. Papa ain’t here right now. You’re gonna have to come back later, mister. He’s not here.”

“Fuck’s wrong with your accent? Ah-- that Near Eastern tramp your Pa married. Right, right... Well, I ain’t leavin’ without some kind of payment. I got your Pa some real good stuff, little girl, and he ain’t skippin’ out on me. No, no-- old Ash don’t play that game with none of his clients.”

The man was stumbling into our camp, now, and he barked out a laugh when he saw the hatchet I was clutching onto for dear life. I watched his beady eyes look me over like so many men had started to do, like I was a real woman. I fancied that I was. Looking back, it wasn’t right; I was still just a little girl. When he looked at Ophelia the same way, I felt a prickle of anger and anxiety. When his eyes fell on Constance and he smirked, I nearly cut his head off then and there.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said, raising my voice to make sure he heard me. “But you’re gonna have to come back later. Papa ain’t here and we ain’t got anything to give to you. He’s got all the gil with him.”

“I’m not leaving empty handed!” The shout came suddenly, and all three of us girls jumped. Constance was so startled that she started crying; I watched her lip trembling and the tears spring out of her dark eyes.

“She told you to leave!” Ophelia yelled back, always the spitfire.

The man turned on her and raised his hand, and I moved quickly to knock her out of the way, the blow meeting my cheek rather than hers. It was hard, knocking me back and making me drop the hatchet. When I blinked, I saw stars, and then I felt the man’s fingers in my hair as he yanked my head back roughly. I could feel his hot, rotten breath on my cheek as he leered over me.

“I’m not leaving empty handed,” he repeated, quiet and angry. “You get your ass in that caravan and you bring me every shiny bauble you’ve got, girl. I know your Ma’s got you dancing already and that the costume you’ve got probably costs a pretty gil. Go and get it!”

“I’m not going to!” I told him, angrily. “Leave! Leave right now! Get off of me, you old fuck! Stop it!”

“Oh, you’re gonna pay, little girl. If your Pa ain’t gonna pay, you are,” the man rumbled, reaching down for the hatchet that I’d dropped.

He let me go real rough-like, pushed me to the point where I fell onto the forest floor. That gave me the advantage, because he was right; I did have an expensive dancer’s costume in the caravan. It was a bulk of our bread and butter, me dancing in that. Most of the jewelry attached to it were old pieces of my mother’s that had been recycled, melted down, added to the filmy pieces of fabric. It was extremely valuable. He wasn’t going to have it.

Somehow my hand found the hatchet again, before his could. I wasn’t thinking too clearly. The man was raising his voice to Ophelia and Constance was wailing in the background, terrified, crying for Mama and Papa. I inhaled sharply, saw his dirty trousers in front of me with the patches over the knees. That’s where I aimed the blade, blinking when blood hit my face.

The man went down howling, and the two girls were screaming. There had never been such a racket in the Twelveswood. A strong breeze caressed my burning skin, and I felt an odd sort of comfort, like the spirits in it were trying to calm me. My eyes felt blind, and I felt stuck in the soft, wet earth that I had fallen onto. For a moment, it even felt like I’d gone deaf; nothing was reaching my ears until I heard Constance crying my name. From there, it’s all a bit of a blur.

I remember putting the girls in the caravan and leaving the man with his bleeding leg outside. It was by divine intervention, maybe, that my father showed up only a couple of hours after. He demanded of me, with whiskey on his breath, to tell him what happened. I told him. I don’t know where he went, but the man and him disappeared for a while. I learned later that he’d been brought to the Wood Wailers and that Papa told them that he’d found him hurt out in the forest.

Papa cried for the first time in front of me, that same night. It was messy and loud and he fell to his knees to beg for forgiveness from his daughters. Constance was wide-eyed and silent, Ophelia was angry. I was, too, but I didn’t want to show it. His pupils were barely back to normal. I just wanted Mama, who didn’t come home until two days after.

It was all horrible. My mother never even spoke loudly. For those unaccustomed to her, it felt like she was always almost whispered. That day, though, she snapped; snapped over what had happened to me, over my father’s broken promise not to disappear and leave us to our devices. She forced us to move out of the Twelveswood despite our plans to stay there for a couple of weeks, and instead we went to La Noscea. And though Mama managed to forgive Papa, over time, some things had changed.

Papa found Oschon and quit the bottle, only smoking tobacco in his pipe and preaching the word of the Twelve. He was more present, more protective, after that incident. He didn’t just let me wander off with any boy that I wanted to, even if it was for completely innocuous reasons. People we didn’t know were questioned immediately when they came upon wherever we parked the caravan, hospitality only being extended once we knew they could be trusted. Life became stricter in some ways, which was odd for a family that had had, previously, virtually no rules. I realize, though, that my life still had - has - virtually no rules compared to most everyone else. I can wander as I please, offer little explanation for what I do or where I go, and the same goes for Ophelia, who has gotten in more trouble and heartbreak with boys than I could ever hope to get into in my entire life. She has a knack for it.

Constance won’t be like that, I know. She’s gentler than us, calmer, sweeter, more naive and innocent than we were at her age. I apologized to her a thousand times after the incident. I’m hoping she’s forgetting it, now. I hope she knows that it was to protect her, to protect all of us. When I look into those eyes -- so dark that they’re almost black, but sweet as blackberries -- my heart swells with a love so deep and big that it feels like it’s gonna swallow me whole.

Avery loves her, too, and my whole family loves him back. It’s strange to see a little rich boy of Ishgard become a worldly wandering man. He’s so smart, educated, that sometimes I worry I’m not bright enough. Knowing how to pick pockets and how to dance isn’t enough. I know he doesn’t think I’m dumb, and I know that I’m not. But sometimes I wonder if he would rather someone who didn’t need to have him read the sonnets he writes to her, but rather read them herself, understand them when she puts her eyes on the page.

Then again, he has a very Finney-esque flair for the dramatic. His readings are good and entertaining and I think he enjoys them. It’s like having an actor around at all times, whenever he brings out a book or poem. I hang onto every word, acting like a little puppy dog in love. Suppose that I kind of am. He’s hard working and handsome, and he can make any instrument he touches sing. He’s good to me, so good to me. The man makes me happy. It’s as simple as that, really. We make each other happy. We make each other laugh.

There will be things he’ll learn about me, someday, that won’t be drenched in gold. I assume, too, that I’ll learn things about him that aren’t as sparkly as he is. That’s okay, though. That’s what love is, right? Taking the good and the bad and the ugly and loving them through all of it. It’s new, but it’s a good new. I have never, exactly, been afraid of change.

(( mention: @myterribleboysffxiv ))

#writing #ffxiv rp #ff14 rp #{of foxgloves and lilacs}#mateus rp #mateus ffxiv

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dorianegraye · 6 years

Text

Aesthetic Preferences

You’re sitting in the back row of the class with her, so obviously you’re not going to let such an amazing opportunity down to turn on your phone.

(Mainly because she likes it when you act like a rebel. Can you imagine soft delicate girls like her being into bad girls?)

Her giggles ring beside your ear and you almost get a heart attack. Maybe you’ll never get used to her laughter sounding like heaven on Earth. Maybe you’ll never be able to hear it one day. You don’t want to dwell on this. Instead your mouth stretches into a smile.

She asks if you’re going through your dorky online tests again.

You nod your head yes.

The smile becomes genuine soon after, because she lets out an excited squeal.

Dawn OR Dusk?

You choose:

Your fingers immediately fly to Dusk. The end of the day has certain hues that the start of it doesn’t. Every day when the sun sinks down the horizons, you try desperately to figure out how she feels. Does she mourn her separation from the sky every night? Or does she look forward to this moment the most of the day, when she can meet the moon? You’ve always loved the moon, though you do think she’s incredibly selfish. After all, the sun did sacrifice the whole galaxies of stars for her, so she wouldn’t be alone at night.

Then you hear her voice. “Shoot girl, you wound me,” she says, “I told me you like me because, ahh, lemme quote, ‘Ur smile looks like a sunrise’?. You just texted that yesterday gurlll~~”

And she’s back to doodling notes with that way too expensive pen while you turn your head away to blush like an idiot. (How does one doodle notes? She’s a fucking miracle.)

You chose: DAWN—61%

Stars OR Moon?

You choose:

The most cliche question you’ve always been struggling to answer whenever she asks you this. Her eyes are like stars—no, they’re actually stars, since you can’t imagine a metaphor could ever shape them so brightly. But the moon is serene, with that gentle aura around her which made stars willing to scatter for her, willing to face the darkness to paint her a beautiful backdrop. Moon makes you feel so safe, sometimes it becomes dangerous when you realize just how beautiful she is.

You hear her clap over-dramatically as you press the answer. Your heart races 1000 miles per hour. You don’t know what came up in your mind, daring to answer all these in front of her.

You chose: MOON—44%

Bike OR Drive?

You choose:

Finally, something practical which makes you sound less like a poet. You drive to school every day ever since a certain girl persuaded you to get a license. At least she understands yourlazy ass wants to prevent exercising at all costs.

You don’t expect her to perk up again, reminding you of that time when “we had tons of fun, you should’ve seen your face!”

You remember, without a shadow of a doubt. You were there staring at her all through the day as she joked alongside your other friends. In the summers last year, she had to choose the specific day for the sun to be boiling hot, just to take the squad out for a bike ride. It was as if she wanted to see how you--- head prefect who is unsuitable for her title--- fail profusely in front of her. In that close-to-mountain-cycling race, one that was guaranteed to be exhausting, she wins, because of course she has an amazing physique despite all that softness around her and of course she has to be perfect.

When she grinned like a Cheshire Cat successfully wooing Alice at you? You took the fucking leap.

You chose: BIKE---76%

Coffee OR Tea?

You choose:

The rest of the answers are an insignificant blur, all because the only thoughts flying through your head while you answer each question are her her her.

Coffee OR Tea?

You chose: COFFEE---83%

(She has this schedule to drag you to the nearest Starbucks or Pacific every single Monday. It happens so often you memorized what she drinks during what mood long ago. Green Tea Latte for book mood, and Cappuccino when she feels bitter.)

Sweater OR Crop Top

You chose: SWEATER---37%

(She thinks crop-tops are a bit too exposed, and she’s not used to doing that in front of people. You feel lucky your shoulder is the one she chooses to cry on.)

Horror OR Comedy

You chose: HORROR---40%

(The way she leans on you on horror movie nights. How she curls herself up under your chin while spilling that popcorn all over the place. You won’t exchange that for the world.)

ETC

You’ve ignored the clock for some time now, fully mesmerized in your own thoughts. It isn’t until 10 minutes before class ends that she leans in back to your personal bubble again, catching the question. You feel a drop of cold sweat trickle down the back of your neck.

You chose: PICNIC---29%

Flirt OR Hopeless Romantic?

You choose:

Eyes even darker than your ebony ones gleam, and for once in your life, you are dreading the sparkle in said eyes.

“C’mon girl! You’ve never told me anything about your interests in romance! At least tell me this! Whether my theory of your ass being totally gay is right or not!”

You ponder, truly. Your first friend, soulmate, and crush is her. It sounds desperate, but you’ve never had any sort of fantasizing on anyone but her. People walk up to you sometimes and say you can be bold if you want to, yet you don’t think you can ever do the task of suggesting something romantic in a casual demeanor. Not to mention all that romance novels you’ve read, written, and the future with her you’ve pined over consistently.

You gaze into onyx irises because that’s all you can do, with her forehead almost touching yours. It’s a messy scene, so unlike the novels. Here you are, you two are, at the back of the classroom, with the professor’s droning in the background. If you lean back, your chair will topple back and you will fall.

Like you haven’t been doing all these years.

“So? Are you a flirt, G?”

You chose: HOPELESS ROMANTIC---47%

You wonder why you aren’t dead yet with your heart thumping at this jackrabbit rate. Maybe you can finally test how far your ‘Gryffindor courage’ can get you.

“No, I don’t think so, you?”

“Me neither.”

She smiles, and it’s not the blinding ones she gives every single one of your classmates. This one’s new, not anything you can brand in your collected versions of her smiles. You stare hard because you might never be able to see it again. You take it in, inch by inch, etching it into your memory like your mother knits patterns on fabric.

So you smile, and her whole world topples in place.

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darkdarkmydesire · 7 years

Text

I really hope it wasn't (just an experiment)

Quick note: I've written seven chapters already, but will post them tomorrow, because it's 4:03, I have to wake up at 6:30 tomorrow and I'm half asleep as I type this. Enjoy, I look forward to your feedback.

Chapter 1:

Alec sat in AP Calculus on a Friday morning, trying to look like he was paying attention. It wasn't that he was bored, he just knew this particular material. Fine, he may be slightly bored, seeing as he'd had free time last night and decided to work ahead. So sue him, he was an inexorable nerd who genuinely enjoyed the absorption of knowledge. Although, it wasn't like he had the time to absorb said knowledge, in between work and managing living expenses and keeping Izzy and Jace out of trouble and spending time with Max. Ever since Alec had been kicked out of the house he had spent his childhood in, spent his time growing, crafting, building himself up to be the type of person he would not regret to see in the mirror, free time had become the distant call of a bird that had long since succumbed to extinction. Alec always had to be prepared for potential disasters, because being the oldest Lightwood sibling was no easy feat. Perhaps the obsessive need to be perpetually prepared had something to do with the "extenuating circumstances" of his swift departure from the Lightwood household, but regardless of origin the compulsion to plan had now taken up permenant residence in Alec's character. Usually he didn't mind it too much,albeit once in a while, he wished he didn't have one worry, or another perpetually lurking in the crevices of his mind.

Letting out a sigh, he tilted his face towards the window, allowing the dappled sunlight dance on his lashes. It gave the world a calming crimson hue. Alec loosened his shoulders allowing his mind to rest, slightly shivering in pleasure, as the breeze kissed his skin, bringing in the scent of fresh grass, balmy woods and a musk that was unique to summer.

Distantly, he heard the pause in Mr Beamers lecture and the murmur of conversation. Really, he knew he should open his eyes before he got caught shirking his obligation towards his intellectual pursuits, but the sun coaxed him to stay. Promising him wonders and the means of temporary escape. It was only due to the sun Alec continued to linger. It had everything to do with the G2V type star and nothing to do with Alec's choice in the matter. None at all.

"... Magnus Bane, I recognise a few friendly faces and would love to get even friendlier with some.", purred a silky voice.

Alec's eyes snapped open, fixating on the gorgeous man at the front of the class, but his brain kept repeating the same phrase "Magnus Bane". Alec continued to stare - none too subtly. Magnus had been Alec's boyfriend once upon a time and his best friend even before that. Of course that had been before he left for a fashion and design scholarship, though, now here he was, on the metaphorical doorstep of Alec's house, in Alec's college. However, thinking of the situation logically, Alec relented Magnus probably had had little choice in the matter. Wyoming only had one college. Magnus and Alec has been estranged for a lengthy period of time and his inexplicable,unforseen presence shook Alec, perhaps more than it should have. He thought of the years of silence that lay littered on the classroom floor between them, but perhaps it was only him who felt the shadow of their jagged edges. Alec had no idea where they stood now, if they even stood anywhere, or if Magnus would continue to spill the powdered glass that had become the silence, which encompassed their non - friendship in the preceding years at Alec's feet Even if Magnus couldn't have been standing more than a few metres away, Alec felt the distant to be insurmountable.

Being the self destructive imbecile he was, Alec finally allowed himself to really observe Magnus. Everything Magnus wore screamed do me. From his figure hugging, black jeans, to his silky sapphire button up, that was only buttoned up from the forth button down, revealing a tantalising triangle of toned, caramel chest and completely defeating the purpose of a button up. His lids were outlined with kohl, making amber eyes burn with an adroit intensity. Respectively, he supported blue highlights, contrasting his ebony hair. Even his silver studs and numerous rings became constituent to his allure: sleek and elegant. The twine bracelets curling around Magnus's wrists sparked interest in the knowledge enthralled sect of Alec's brain. They were embedded with various stones: amethyst, sapphire, fire opal and Alec couldn't place the name of most, let alone distinguish if they were real. The rocks should have stood incongruous, but instead radiated an exotic, new age feel.

Magnus himself had grown well: tall frame and defined muscle. Both arranged in a confident and loose manner, leading to the highlighting of certain slopes and ridges - much to the benefaction of his current observer. Alec's eyes jerked up, as he relinquished he had been ogling at Magnus longer than strictly polite. Only to face with none other than an amusedly smirking Magnus. Even his lips looked full and soft, perfect for biting. He was staring again. Not meeting Magnus's eyes, Alec quickly shifted his gaze away. Meanwhile, Mr. Beamer had reached the last stop in his welcoming speech and ushered Magnys to inhibit a vacant seat.

Praying Magnus didn't notice the heat crawling up his neck, Alec began burning holes in his notebook, trying and failing to maintain an air of nonchalance. Especially, as he felt a certain anthropoid drop down in the seat next to him. Especially, as agonising minutes passed and said anthropoid leaned closer, breathing in Alec's ear.

"Hey.", Magnus whispered chasing a shiver down Alec's spine, exuberance present in his tenor.

Swallowing his surprise, Alec lifted his head, "Um, hi.", he answered stiffly, running through scenarios of possible pitfalls, which would inevitably be caused due to Magnus's close proximity. Alec wasn't being standoffish, he was only trying to compensate for the impending destruction he was about to cause, after all how does one speak to a friend who had ignored your calls many months prior? There really should be a textbook for social communication, with formulas and contingency plans in place, in case of a dire need to "abort mission", such as Alec's brain was screaming now. There was the multiple presence of flashing red lights and a blaring siren too.>

Magnus on the other hand was amused, if not calm, ignorant of the evacuation of all common sense currently taking place in Alec's cortex. Mindlessly, all Alec could concern himself with was that Magnus was even more breathtaking up close, Alec could see each individual lash framing his eyes. They were exceeding average length. Leaning an elbow against Alec's chair, his eyes twinkled with easy laughter, this close Alec could smell him: sandalwood and citrus.

"Is this seat taken?", he asked.

Snapping out of his daze, Alec started. Jesus this was mortifying.

"Aren't you supposed to clarify that before sitting down?", he replied raising an eyebrow in question, immensely grateful to whichever divine source of matter held such turbulences in account, that his voice came out steady.

"So he speaks. I assumed staring was the epitome if your communicative devices.", Magnus countered not missing a beat, " Which was thoroughly disappointing seeing as you didn't run up and bestow me in sweet nothings. You see, Alexander, I was hoping we could get to know each other as well as before.".

Alec's heartbeat tripled, intending to follow the example if his common sense. What did that mean? He wanted to be friends again? More than friends? It wasn't like Alec to still carry a torch, he was an adult, nineteen years of age. But Alec's occipital lobe was in immaculate function, gracing Alec with the ability to appreciate the aesthetic appeal of Magnus Bane. Sweeping up the web of queries Alec had managed to weave in the duration of these miniscule seconds, he twisted his intangible broom and flung it out of the trapdoors of his mind. If that's how Magnus wanted to play, Alec would gladly follow the rules.

Lowering his voice, Alec wet his lips, "Yeah?, can't wait.", his eyes encaptured Magnus's, as Alec observed them darken, flicking to his lips and back, "To get to know each other, that is.".

Magnus's eyes flared with challenge and surprise, but as his lips parted and images of Magnus in another setting with a similar expression assaulted Alec's mind, Mr Beamers interrupted. Alec couldn't tell if he was disappointed.

" Mr. Lightwood, Mr. Bane, is the conversation you're having more important than you're ticket to a successful future? ", queried Mr. Beamer, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

Alec straightened hastily, " No Sir, we apologize, it won't happen again.", he reassured, letting nothing but the polished exterior of a model student, eager to please his superior shine through. Alec wouldn't let his pristine reputation be tarnished, thus intending to compensate for his slip up, Alec tuned back into the lesson, in spite of it's tedious content. Although, Alec didn't miss the scarcely disguised uttering of Magnus : " Ticket to a successful future.", he muttered, voice laced with a mocking edge. Hiding the smile threatening to encapsulate his features, Alec faced the front of the class, inclining against his chair. And if through unadulterated coincidence, Magnus's arm happened to be draped around it, he didn't notice. Much.

-------------------------------+

The rest of the morning proceeded without incident and by lunch Alec was starving. He quickly shuffled through the line, grabbing his food and made his way to the table he usually sat at. Unsurprisingly, Magnus was already there. Sitting with Izzy on his right and Clary on his left, her unruly ginger hair obscuring a scowling Jace from Magnus's view. Chuckling to himself Alec made his way to sit opposite them, stowing himself next to a frantic Simon, who was busy explaining the difference between a pure bred volcun and a half volcun to a very irritated looking Raphael. Jace was probably antagonised by the admiring glances Clary kept showering Magnus with, he was hopeless. Jace was not even keeping up the illusion that the obvious thunder rumbling across his face was the cause of an unrelated incident. Hostility pooled in his every gesture, dripping steadily down in the form of lexis, which had been thoroughly submerged in an ocean rotting citrus. As he sat down, Alec got no more then vague acknowledgements from the group, which he deemed acceptable, as even he had been ensnared in the effervescence that was Magnus Bane. Even Raphael and Simon kept their attention on him, despite professing to be intrigued in the contents of another discussion. It was just as well, Alec had a unit test in three days, any extra time for preparation was welcome.

He had just gotten into the rhythm of spooning his food without peeling his gaze off the textbook, while also managing not to upturn his only source of sustenance on the floor, when he realised the clamoring chatter at his table had fallen away. Looking up, Alec realised he had come under the laser focus of six pairs of eyes.

" Sorry, I didn't catch that. ", he inquired absently, reluctantly wrenching his stare from the equations that made up standard deviation.

Jace was the one to speak: " Simon asked if Magnus and you were a thing." , he deadpanned, unimpressed. Frowning, Alec waded through the arithmetics buoyant in his senses. Surely Magnus could answer that.

Mirroring Jace, Alec furrowed his eyebrows, "Yeah, when were 15. It went on for almost a year. Why?", he asked unimpressed at the extent of prying currently taking place.

" Just curious.", Simon quipped, " Though that is a long time. Were you guys serious?".

Before Alec could reply to the clearly inquisitive question, Magnus smoothly cut in, " No, just except experimenting.", he intoned with a wave of his hand. "We were 15, how serious could we have been?", he remarked coolly.

At his words Alec's frown deepened. Magnus's words struck a cord of pain in his chest. It shouldn't have hurt, their relationship was over years ago, but Magnus's vague dismissal of their proximity, was too close to his parents reaction when he had finally come out. It held the same cold, callousness his mother had held, when she declared Alec's confession to be a "fleeting phase, unbecoming, however still a phase". Granted they had been young, but Alec had never been confused about what he yearned for, petrified of his parents wrath, terror stricken at the antagonisation he was to endure at the prospect of living unashamed of who he was. Alec had been each one of those things, albeit indecision was never one.

" 9 months is a long time for experimenting.", seethed Jace slashing down Alec's tumultuous thoughts, arms folded, posture tense. He looked ready to jump out of his seat.

The words caused Magnus's eyebrows to shoot up, "How would you know?", he intoned, voice carrying a mixture of confusion and suspicion. What exactly Magnus was suspicious about, Alec had little clue.

" I'm Alec's best friend, why wouldn't I know?", he said, " Or, have you forgotten how friendships work?", he accused, alluding to the numerous unanswered texts Alec had left in the wake of Magnus's departure.

Jace was now trembling slightly, with barely contained rage, no doubt remembering how he had found Alec shivering in the alley - hungry and alone.

"Oh?", Magnus remarked unfazed, "Is that right?", an edge in his voice despite the taunting smirk he had plastered there.

Taking in Jace's clenched jaw and monochromatic eyes that blazed blatant hostility he saw reflected on Magnus, Alec made to diffuse the situation. He had no need of reliving, or even sharing that part of his life with anyone. All the people encompassing the table, were ones he he trusted, but Alec couldn't see the need to offer his menial sob story on an undignified platter. He was in no mood to open that can of worms, especially as Izzy glanced at Alec, face set in worry. As if Alec would burst into tears right this second, crying about his daddy issues.

Rolling his eyes, he flicked a fry at Jace, " Chill out, no need to go alpha male. Clary will still like you even if you're not the last man pissing.", he claimed, dissimulating the real reason for Jace's anger. Fooling no one, but managing to successfully cut through the tense atmosphere, Alec earned himself various noises of disgust.

Satisfied Alec's eyes drifted back to Magnus. Although Magnus was far from subdued, expression still containing a shadow of a taunt, daring Jace to lead the conversation back to the impending car crash it was to be. The glare Alec through in his direction resulted in nothing, but an innocent shrug. Shaking his head Alec decided to resumed his revision, unsuccessfully. Magnus's words kept ricocheting in his brain. Did Magnus mean what he said? Had that been nothing more than an experiment? Had Alec misread the situation for nine months? It certainly hadn't been an experiment for Alec, it was by no means the first relationship he had had. However, it had been the only one that had induced annoyance in him, at his own foolishness. Back then Alec had been willing to risk and perhaps accept his parent's inevitable anger and he had. He had done just that. In hindsight, after this revelation, he still wouldnt have changed his decision, although knowing Magmus saw that small infinity they had carved out of laughter, passion and pain as nothing but an experiment, made Alec feel churlish and childish. Like a fledgling, who had mistaken companionship for love. It did not sit well with Alec's conscious, however Alec decided the incident was of no consequence. It wasn't like it had mattered when he told his parents, or like it mattered now. He was over it, over Magnus, over them. The allure he felt towards Magnus now, was purely physical.

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