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starshipsofstarlord · 3 years

Note

Could I request a Bucky Barnes x reader smut? Basically she and Bucky have been together for some time and maybe it’d be a little angst where the two are talking about the future and Bucky not thinking he can ever have a normal future? Which would result in soft smut and later reader being revealed as pregnant so Bucky finally gets his family

I’m Home

Pairing | Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary | based on the request ^^

Warnings | angst, smut, oral sex (m receiving), fluff, pregnancy, mentions of death

Quick link to my masterlist, if you’re interested in reading more of my crap 😬

The Wilson’s boat rocked sturdily upon the water, swaying as the boats worked aboard. Your hand held the weight of a silver spanner, twirling it in your fist as though it were a knife, thinking of the long road ahead of you. Sam had the shield now, that was a good start, but still, there was a ways to go until the world recognised him as the captain that he was meant to be.

There was so much destruction ongoing in the world, what with the flag smashers, and whomever the power broker was, and surely, you knew on the shallow surface, that there would be masses more problems to arise. It was exhausting, to know that there was no end to the war on earth, and that you were surely going to be fighting the threats until you could no more.

Bucky felt the same; he had just gone from one war to another, losing everyone that he cared about along the way. Steve had given everything up to finally find peace, and yet, the two did not share the same opportunity. An escape was never laid at your feet, instead, the pair of you were trapped in the cycle of cruelty, being blended around in a shredder by reality.

“Hey.” A voice confiscated you from the lonesome containment of your thoughts; it was Sam’s hosting sister, Sarah. I’m her own way, though you doubted that she would never admit such a thing, she was a hero. She had become a widow, and not to mention she remained a stable mother to keep her boys afloat, as well as nurturing half the kids that lived within close proximity.

“Hi Sarah.” You put the tool down, giving her your ample attention as you stood, tugging your fingers into the loops of your jeans as you stepped out of the boat, and onto the dock. “Anything I can help with?” It hadn’t passed your attention that Sam and Bucky had disappeared, but not into ash like last time. Instead, they had walked off in the direction of the house, most likely meddling about with a ball, in the back yard with Jim and Jody.

“I just came to let you know I’ve made the sofa up for you and Bucky. Are you sure you’ll be all good, I could always kick Sam outta his bed and make him sleep on the living room floor?” The two of you had nightmares, if you were to be separated from him for even a night, it was certain that the pair of you would greatly suffer. That was something you didn’t want to burden any of the Wilson’s with, screaming in the middle of the night because flashes from your past struck an unconscious nerve.

“All good, and thank you Sarah. You didn’t have to let us stay here, we both appreciate it, a hell of a lot.” One thing that you had learnt throughout your years was to show gratitude. The smallest amount shared had the ability to spring up moods, and had even set you on a much more heroic path than the one that you had been originally been placed upon.

“You’ve earned your stay.” Sam’s sister shrugged with modesty, acknowledging the help that you and Bucky had not only given to Sam, but to her family’s legacy. The two of you had aided with fixing the old wreckage that had now returned to the form of a boat, keeping it afloat rather than permitting it to sink from the quarrels that Sam had with himself regarding fixing the damned yet meaningful port of transport.

“This life you have, it’s great. I get it’s not easy, but it’s beautiful. You have two wonderful kids, that you’ve done such a great job raising, and not to mention, these community that you have is so loving and kind, even to us outsiders.” The pair of you had paused outside of her front door, speaking. “Sam is lucky to have you, he truly is.”

“Well, maybe one day this life could be something similar to what you’ll have.” The sister of your friend smiled, though your mirroring expression retracted. In a stumble of thought, you shook your head, not believing that possibility. This all was... perfect. That was something that you had never had, nor would you think that you’d ever be permitted such a peaceful lifestyle.

“I don’t think that would work out.” You sincerely mumbled, feeling the sad swelling in your chest at the prospect of all the luxuries that life had denied both you and Bucky of. It wasn’t fair all the same, but the two of you were used to being denied human rights, let alone the simplicity of nothing more than a life together. “As nice as it sounds, me and Buck aren’t really cut out for all this I suppose.”

“The world does not choose who can and cannot have a family, there’s always a way. Just because you haven’t had the most ideal line of story does not at all mean that you can’t make it work, from as much as i know, you two deserve a life together, that doesn’t include being shot at, or shooting at other people. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta go for it, and hope for the best.” She gave you a final nod, before heading inside, and you trailed after her into her her residency.

The two of you went your separate ways, and there, you saw Bucky, sat up on the sofa, his hands clasped together as his eyes stared towards the tan bag, that concealed not the shape, but the Stars and Stripes of the infamous shield. It was much a relief that it was no longer in Walker’s toxic clutch, however its presence, among other things, were taking a clear toll on your boyfriend.

“You ever feel like we’re stuck?” The air was tense around you both as he spoke solemnly, it diverting to match the mood of his question. “Like we’re us, and I love us, but it makes me think that it’s it. Just me and you, on this path for the rest of our lives, never getting a compensated break, nor an average person’s future. I want this, what these people here have, not the combat that is aided by this metal arm, or the associations that stick to us like life lines.”

“All the time, it’s on my mind James.” With a sigh, you came to sit beside him on the couch, resting your head against his bionic shoulder. “I ever wonder if there’s a timeline of you and me where there’s none of this ruckus, we just have a nice little house in a quiet and accepting place, and maybe a kid or two in the future.”

“I’d give anything up for that.” He looked at you, almost wide eyed, as his hand slithered down onto your knee cap, rubbing small circles as he wore a blunt and endearing smile upon his infatuating lips. “I mean that Buck, that sounds...”

“Perfect?” He asked, leaning closer as he grabs your chin with his wondrous fingers, his nose brushing alongside your own as his puckered lips fell upon yours, earning a small hun of content from within you. “Because you’re perfect to me, and no matter what life we are encased in, I want to share it with you. I want stare at the night sky and watch the moonlight illuminate the side of your face, and the stars reflect in your entrapping eyes, that I want to look into like a medium’s orbs forever, because that is how I will see the future that I ever so hope for.”

“How long have you been working on that one Barnes, because you are usually not that smooth?” A small laugh erupted from your mouth, but you were quickly silenced as you felt a cold metal hand slither up and beneath the back of your tank top, rubbing along the seam of your spine, as his lips ran down the column of your throat, evoking small and delicate whimpers out of you.

“Shut up doll, because I really want to fuck you now, and those words leaving your mouth are making it kinda hard to concentrate.” A furrow imbedded between his brows, as you tilted your head at him, a smirk proclaiming your expression as you pulled the material over your head, and reached behind yourself to unclip the back of your bra.

“Kinda hard to concentrate, hun?” You asked nonchalantly as his gaze zeroed in on your bare breasts, his hands smoothing along your ribcage as he adjusted his grip of you so that he was palming at your breasts, and squeezing the nipples. “I want you in me baby, I’ve practically gone days without you inside of me.” Licking your lips, you reached down to palm your beloved through his layers, earning a positive groan from the former assassin.

“Hours, you mean. I fingered you on the road trip here.” Yes, that was true, however, it was only his fingers, not even the metal ones, and whilst you loved what they alone could do, he had to be discreet as you were sat on the back of the truck, which had carried the primary parts for the Wilson’s family boat. If you were to scream out, they’d have surely thought that you’d fallen off the back of the truck and pull over, or if they had much sense, they’d have noticed that there was more going on than two passengers sat side by side on the journey to their small neighbourhood by the docks,

“You heard me Barnes, otherwise I’m sure Sam wouldn’t have any problem if I came to his room in this state of undress that I am currently portraying.” Growling was never Bucky’s fortes, however the sound aggressively ripped through the tunnel of his throat, as he threw off his grey top, quickly unfastening his belt, as he awaited for you to strip the rest of your clothing before him.

But rather than doing so, as he stood before you, your hand had trouble resisting the sight of his cock that had bobbed to attention, and thus, you wrapped it around his toned flesh, giving it a couple jerks that had his head reeling back, before you tongued his tip, moaning to yourself at the taste of him invading your sensitive taste buds. “Love your cock.”

As soon as you said that, Bucky gently gathered your head in a ponytail so that it was free from bombarding your face, and groaned as quiet as he could as you sucked him in your mouth, running your tongue up the side of his shaft. “Is that a part of your dream world baby doll, the sight of my cock throbbing to be inching down that perfect little throat of yours?”

To answer him, you pressed your head down deeper, humming around him as your eyes ogled up at the sight of your super soldier, who was trying his hardest to keep his eyes open, and attuned to the sight of you. He held his bottom lip between his teeth, as you lightly gagged around him, pulling off him, and squeezing his balls, before running your hungry tongue along the middle of his sack.

“Always. It would be a dream if you made love to me right here and now though, I’m not sure I can wait any longer James.” Bucky took a long inhale, before ravishingly pulling down your jeans and panties in one go, and tossing you so that he was below your form, and you hovered over him, toying with his erect cock. “I love you so much Bucky, and I’m scared of what’s to come. I have a feeling that there’s gonna be a fight.”

“There’s always a fight doll face.” He rubbed his thumb soothingly across your jaw, pulling your hips down closer so that you were rubbing your slick folds against his standing cock. “But this is what we’re fighting for, the rest of our lives together. I’d be damned, one day after this, and if I were to die, I’d be a happy man. There’d be the memory of you to keep me forever happy in the afterlife, and not to mention, there’d be no more wars for me to participate in.”

“I’m not going to let you die Buck, even hypothetically. We saw how your little hypothetical synopsis went last time.” Tapping his cock against your clit, a breathy sound evicted from your lips, as you stared down at the two of you intimately touching, the sight alone making you more turned on and impatient. “No one is allowed to kill you, otherwise I’ll unleash hell on all their flag smashing asses.”

Giving him one last stroke, you guided his tip towards your entrance, removing your hand once you had him situated, so that you could rest it upon his sturdy shoulder, and sink down on him, the feeling of him stretching you being the most euphoric sensation that you had ever endured. Hushed moans ceased from the both of you, as Bucky’s hands gripped your ass cheeks, only adding to all of the pleasure that was erupting within you.

“Think your pussy is gonna kill me before anyone else does; your so tight.” His pitch had rose, as your fingertips danced along the left side of his handsome face, invisibly connecting the dots of his beauty marks. You allowed the pair of you to adjust for a simple moment, before you began to raise your hips, sliding up his super soldier rod, only to slide down it again.

The actions were repeated, as your own hands trailed down his warm skin, to drag down the golden lines of his vibranium arm, only to bring the weapon to your mouth, and kiss every black finger up, as you tried your best to muffle the moans that were hoping to reap free. “So fucking big, I love you and your cock.” You muttered, your sight turning blurry as Bucky realised that it was his turn to do the work, and thus, he thrusted up into you, making echoing sounds of your skin slapping together reverberate around the room.

“Love you more.” He gritted his teeth, pulling his metallic hand away from your numb lips, so that he could swirl the elegant digits around your clit, the action provoking whimpers to rapidly surpass your exterior, as you bit harshly onto your own lip, and screwed your eyes shut. “Cum for me doll, want you to cover my hard cock in everything you have. Come on baby, you can do it.”

Without much thought, as your mind was too scrambled to do so, you reached for Bucky’s spare hand, pulling it to your mouth as you sucked on his fingers as though you were blowing him. A low moan that was dialled down from the presence of his flesh digits, ran from your mouth, as you began to bounce your hips, chasing and eventually reaching your high. You came around him, pushing him too over the edge, his seed filling your walls, as you collapsed atop of him, huffing from exhaustion as you removed his salivated hand from the realms of your mouth, resting your head against his panting chest.

Stringed sighs fell from Bucky’s breath as he tried to catch his own breath. His hands rubbed your back, not only to comfort you, but also to subconsciously pull you closer against him, and his softening cock that was still inside you, and was keeping his cum plugged within your tender and pulsating walls. If life was easier, there’d be more time for this, and that, but for now, it was just every now and then. Maybe you’d win this fight and survive until the next one, but maybe, you’d lose and never battle again.

Life was precious, that was something that you had not only learned as an avenger, but also something that had been told to you by Isiah. That man thought that you deserved a normal life, no fighting, no super soldiers. He himself was the biggest yet silent critic of those with additional strength, but his opinion was never going to sway you, not as you stared out into Sarah’s backyard, and watched the man that you loved play with the boys.

They had the shield, and were whisking it through the air like a frisbee; dangerous, yes, but again, life could only amount to so much without an ounce of pain. A content and satisfied smile absorbed any pain on your face, you were enraptured with the sight of Bucky like this, he was like an uncle to these two kids. He was no captain America, that was for sure, but you didn’t want a man in Stars and Stripes, all you wanted was him to be at peace, and it was a fact unbeknownst to him, that you had made such an alternative to that.

“Still want all this?” Sarah emerged, a cheap yet formidable bottle of wine pursed in her hand, as she held two clear and tall glasses in her hand. You hummed, watching as she poured the thin red consistency into one glass, but as she went to fill the other, you held out your hand, shaking your head. The woman was confused, last time you had visited, and were entangled on her sofa with the limbs of your boyfriend and a shaggy old blanket, you had kindly accepted her offer.

“Sure do.” You sighed, staring out into the green abyss where Jim was hanging from Bucky’s arm like it were a branch. “How do you do this, this whole mother thing? I’ve never been able to wrap my head around how you make it look so easy, it’s just, you do such a good job.” Your palms rested flat on your thighs as you laughed at Sam ordering Jody to jump on Bucky’s back, as he fell down in faux defeat.

“It never is easy y/n.” She placed the open bottle down, along with the mismatched glasses, that were asymmetrical considering one was half filled and the other wallowed in emptiness. “But every step of difficulty is worth it. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss their father, but they’re my priority. For Jim and Jody, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do, and you’d understand that if you ever opened yourself up to giving your life of heroism up to have all this.”

“I might have to.” Twiddling with your fingers, glancing up at your boyfriend, realising that he was in fact not looking over, you clasped your intwined hands over your stomach, smiling softly to yourself. “And maybe not having another option is the best option for me and Buck, because we don’t have to fight with ourselves over being included in our duties, we have new ones.”

“You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” Sarah asked, resting her nurturing hand upon the tile of your shoulder, prompting you to turn your face towards her. There was a conflict in your eyes, it was something that she recognised her younger self having once worn. It was the idea of putting everything aside, all for a child, everything that she had ever known, so that she could put her baby boy first. “Does Bucky know?”

“He will.” You shifted your head down, unsure of yourself. This had been what you had wanted, and whilst you still envied Sarah for the role she had, you were hurt. A part of you wanted to be an avenger until you were nothing but a soul drifting in the abyss of non existence, another didn’t want to let the knowledge of being a carrier for a new future crumble you. “I just need a moment to tell him.”

“I’ve got it.” She sent you a wink, picking up the items she had brought out, before she called on Sam and the kids to come inside. Sarah had gifted you the opportunity of revealing the truth to your partner with no one else around; you appreciated that. As he stalked closer, you met him halfway, sinking into his arms as he hugged you.

“Looked like you were having fun with the boys.” You verbally noted, loving the feeling of him running his fingers through your hair. “You’re amazing Bucky Barnes, to me and to everyone. I just, don’t want you to freak out on me, I have something big, really big, to tell you, and-“

“Baby, I know.” He smiled, pulling back so that he could look you in the face. “I have super human senses, I heard their little heart beat for the first time yesterday. We’re having a baby, and I couldn’t be happier about it. In fact, I want to ask you if you’ll accept my question of making Sam the godfather.” You nodded, tears standing in your eyes, as you brought the man down for a kiss.

“Yes. But I’m not sure that he’ll be praising us for making a baby when we technically created him or her on the couch inside.” Bucky shook his head at you, kissing your forehead before walking inside with you, preparing to tell the Wilson family, that had along the way became your own, the good news- well, not the sofa bit.

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joonie-beanie · 4 years

Text

The OM! Boys + their reaction to you walking into the room naked

My HC for this may be slightly different than the tiktok challenge (I assume that’s what you’re referring to), but hopefully you still enjoy!

(MC/Reader is GN)

Lucifer:

He doesn’t bother looking up when you step into his study--too absorbed in his current work. He needs to read through the proposal on his desk and have the signed papers to Diavolo by morning, and it’s already nearing midnight.

“Lucifer.”

“Hmm?” He doesn’t give you his attention, at first. He’s used to you coming to check on him when it gets late, pestering him about coming to bed and getting some much needed shut-eye. “I’ll join you shortly. I need to finish up here.”

“Lucifer,” you try again, tone a little annoyed. He pauses at that, not used to hearing you upset. He sets his pen down with a sigh--gloved hand combing through his dark hair.

“Yes, Y/N, what--,” his voice cuts off as his gaze finally finds you. You’re leaning against the doorframe to the room, arms hugged in front of you, and a playful look in your eyes.

There’s not a shred of clothing on your body.

Seeing that you have his attention, you don’t bother saying anything. Simply watch his reaction--loving the way his crimson eyes widen in shock.

However, it doesn’t take him long to recover. He presses to his feet, and steps around the wooden desk, a handsome grin on his lips.

As he approaches you, his demon form materializes without warning.

“You’re lucky that I could use a break,” he tells you, hooking a finger beneath your chin and forcing you to face him. There’s a sadistic glint in his gaze, one that has you swallowing the saliva pooling in your mouth.

“But don’t think I’ll be kind. As much as I’m thrilled to see you present yourself to me like this, next time, you need to be patient. Now--,” his wings flutter, and you gasp as he cages you against the door. His fingers curl around your throat.

“Prepare yourself.”

Mammon:

He’s in the middle of looking up “get rich quick” schemes on his DDD when you enter his room without knocking.

“Oh~” he greets lazily, not bothering to turn away from his current task. He knows it’s you, because you’d messaged him earlier, asking if he was free, and alone.

He had assumed that you just wanted to spend some one-on-one time with The Great Mammon, and who could blame you?

“Mammon,” you call, a purr to your voice that makes the Avatar of Greed pause. Turning away from his DDD, he looks over and sees you leaning over his pool table, with your palms pressed against the edge of the wooden surface.

You’re...stark naked.

He can’t see your ahem nether region thanks to the height of the table, but he can see the tops of your hips, and there’s a very clear lack of underwear.

“Wh--!” his hand flies to cover his mouth, a brilliant blush blooming on his face. “Where are your clothes?!”

You blink innocently. “I figured you might like this type of surprise. But if I’m wrong~”

You fake a disappointed sigh, turning and acting like you’re going to exit his room.

Immediately Mammon is on his feet and vaulting over the pool table (quite literally). His arms wrap around your torso, hugging you protectively back against his chest. You can already feel that he’s semi-hard as his pelvis rubs against your ass.

“I...of course I like it,” he mumbles, pressing a soft kiss to your neck. “Ya just surprised me, is all…”

You giggle, lifting a hand to pet through his hair. “Would you like me to stay, then?”

His arms wrap tighter around you, teeth nipping at the skin of your throat. “As if I would let ya go anywhere looking like this, silly human...you’re staying here tonight.”

Levi:

When you excuse yourself in the middle of the game the two of you are playing, saying something about needing the bathroom, Levi doesn’t think much of it.

His attention is solely on the screen of his computer, concentration through the roof as he completes the boss battle without your help (he really hadn’t needed your aid, anyway. He just loved spending time with you in person, and in game.)

Levi is in the middle of picking up all the rewards the boss had dropped following its defeat, so he doesn’t notice you return to the room.

“Levi.”

Blinking, the Avatar of Envy glances over his shoulder, hearing your voice behind him. The moment he catches sight of naked body, his brain short circuits.

With a surprised yelp, he instinctively swivels in his chair to face you, but his headphones catch--yanking his head back, and effectively making a mess of everything as the taut cord shoves an army of gingerly placed figurines from atop his desk.

Perhaps you should have waited for him to get his new wireless headphones from Akuzon before attempting this trend with him…

“Oh dear,” you sigh, an embarrassed blush spreading on your face as you survey the damage you’ve done. Levi is the same color as a tomato, his wide orange gaze shifting between your naked body, and the ceiling. Like if he stares at you too long, he’ll self-destruct.

“I’m sorry,” you say after a moment, sighing. “I thought surprising you might have been fun, but…”

Your voice trails off, a shiver raking up your spine as you feel something slick curl around your ankle. When you look down, you note it’s Levi’s tail. His demon form has materialized without you realizing.

“No, i-it’s fine…,” you see him swallow harshly, his tail continuing to wind up your leg. He tugs you forward, closer to him. His hands hover near your waist, his eyes soaking in the sight of you. You can see a tent beginning to form in his pants. “Can I touch you?”

You nod, and in the next beat, he’s all over you.

Satan:

Per usual, he’s engrossed in a novel, so he doesn’t notice your disappearance behind a particularly large stack of books. Nor does he hear the sound of you shedding your clothes.

Thankfully, he can’t miss the sound of his name falling from your lips.

“Satan.”

He turns his gaze away from the book, pausing when he sees you standing a few feet in front of him, completely nude.

His eyebrows raise high on his forehead, grin tugging at his lips. Silently, he moves to place the book face-down on the arm of the chair.

His obvious satisfaction at your surprise has you unable to stop yourself from smiling.

“Like what you see?”

“You could say that.”

He presses to his feet and makes his way towards you--emerald eyes soaking in every inch of your revealed skin. When he finally reaches your side, his hands immediately reach out to grip your waist. His fingers give you a gentle squeeze.

“Is there some special occasion I should know about?” he asks, chuckling. You shake your head, reaching up to cup his face. His smile widens at the action, gaze falling to your lips.

“No occasion. I just wanted to see how you would react.”

“And is my reaction what you were hoping for?”

You lean in, connecting your lips with his. “Mhm~”

The two of you share a few kisses, before Satan is backing you into one of the many bookshelves, his knee slotting between your legs.

He leans in, mouth hot against your ear.

“Getting the full experience of my reaction may take a few hours, just so you know.”

Asmo:

The Avatar of Lust has never heard of the human world challenge, same as his brothers, but he’s always more than open to seeing you naked, that’s for sure!

So, when you excuse yourself in the middle of your study-session--returning a minute later, and calling out his name so playfully--he’s thrilled at what he finds.

“Ooo~! Look at you!” He starts fanning himself, leaning back in his chair as he regards you with rapt attention. His honey colored eyes drag from the top of your head, all the way down to your feet, and back again.

“Will you turn for me?” He asks, biting his lip. You’re tempted to roll your eyes, but do as he asks--slowly rotating yourself so he’s able to see every inch of your nude skin.

“Gosh, you should absolutely do this more often.” There’s a slight groan to his voice, a show of his satisfaction at your bold present.

“If I did, I have the feeling I’d never leave your room,” you respond with a laugh. Asmo jumps to his feet, making his way to your side. His fingertips roam over the skin of your arms, and he leans in to kiss you.

“Did you want to continue our study-session like this, or should I clear the bed?”

You smile against him. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

Asmo giggles, and before you know it, he has detached himself from you. He works quickly to clear his mattress of any notebooks, and loose papers.

“Shame on you for tempting me like this, when I’ve got a test coming up soon,” he scolds you, but there’s no real anger in his voice. Once the bed has been cleared, Asmo crawls atop the plush sheets and settles on his side, staring at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

He beckons you with a roll of his finger. “Come here, darling.”

And you’d be a fool to disobey the Avatar of Lust’s command.

Beel:

He has invited you over to watch his favorite cooking show, but you’d left during the commercial break to go and grab some snacks (the ones he had already prepared long gone--filling his stomach).

It only takes you a few minutes to return, but since the program has started up again on the TV screen, Beel doesn’t bother looking up at the sound of the door opening.

“Y/N, hurry, they’re finishing up the dish,” he says, mouth practically watering. You silently make your way to his bed, dropping the snacks beside him. He mindlessly reaches for a bag of chips, attention still on the TV.

“Beel,” you finally speak. For the first time since your return, his purple eyes shift to look at you.

What he finds has the chip between his lips falling onto the sheets--his newly opened snack forgotten about. His adam’s apple bobs against his throat as he swallows, and you squeal in surprise as he suddenly reaches out--dragging you into him.

You end up straddling his lap, one of his large hands gripping your waist, while the other moves to cradle the back of your head.

Just like that, his favorite program is forgotten about.

“Itadakimasu,” he grumbles, mouth connecting with your shoulder.

He doesn’t question your lack of clothing--doesn’t need to know the reasoning for your current actions.

All he knows is that you taste better than his snacks, and are more entertaining than the cooking program.

Besides, he can catch the rerun later.

Belphie:

You decide to surprise him while attempting to wake him up from a nap.

After entering his room, you carefully shed your clothes, and then approach the side of his bed. He’s thoroughly snuggled beneath the covers, just his eyes, and messy hair peeking out from beneath the piles of blankets.

“Belphie,” you call out quietly, shaking his shoulder.

He groans, pulling away from your hand. His eyes don’t open, his groggy brain not ready to be awake yet.

“5 more minutes.”

You breathe a laugh, posing a hand on your hip. “Belphie, look at me.”

Despite not wanting to be awake, the Avatar of Sloth begrudgingly cracks his eyes open. His gaze falls on you, and you can see his eyes widen ever so slightly--the cogs in his brain beginning to move.

He stares at you for a few long seconds, eyes trailing the length of your naked body.

“Hehe~,” he extends his arms, the covers folding down as he reaches out and makes a grabbing motion at you, revealing the grin on his face.

You laugh, but nonetheless step forward into his waiting hands. Immediately he’s tugging you onto the bed beside him.

“Can you start waking me up like this from now on?” he asks, folding your head beneath his chin. His fingertips roam across back, settling near your waist.

“I have a feeling that if I do, we won’t ever actually get out of bed.”

He chuckles at your words, mouth moving to your ear. His teeth tug at your earlobe, and you can’t help but shiver.

“Hopefully that’s not an issue, because I don’t plan on letting you go now that you’re here.”

Solomon:

Despite being a magically inclined human, Solomon is a human nonetheless, so he’s aware of the tiktok challenge.

However, he never actually expects anyone to do it to him.

You’re chilling in his room at Purgatory Hall when he excuses himself to go and fetch a beverage. When he returns, he finds you right where you had been when he’d left--lounging atop his bed, on your stomach--but all of your clothes have disappeared.

For a half second, he wonders if he’d forgotten about a spell he’d cast on you as a prank. However, judging by the teasing grin on your face, and the glint in your eyes, your clothes have disappeared of your own volition.

Then, he remembers the tiktok trend.

“My apologies for not rushing to jump your bones like many of the men do in those videos.”

He walks over and calmly places the coffee mug in his hand on the nightstand. The bed dips a moment later as he moves to join you on the mattress.

However, rather than settle down beside you, he grips your shoulder and rolls you onto your back. Solomon then leans over you, caging you in as he lowers himself just inches from your face.

“While I may not have reacted like you expected, I’m more than happy to give you the same outcome.”

You grin up at him. “Which is?”

He smiles mischievously, his fingertips moving to dance across your ribs. You can feel magic buzzing on his skin.

“I think you know.”

Simeon:

Nothing can prepare Simeon for the moment he swivels around at his desk--his name falling from your lips, and beckoning his attention.

You’re over for a study date, and had excused yourself to the restroom for a moment.

“Yes, Y/N--?” his voice catches when he spots you there--standing in the doorway to his bathroom in all of your glory.

The Angel’s heart feels like it may beat straight out of his chest, his mind momentarily blue-screening as he stares at you.

“Wow,” he eventually breathes, raising a gloved hand to cover his blushing face. Despite obviously being flustered, his gaze still roams across you--only his mouth and cheeks hidden from view.

“Despite being a celestial, you’re truly the angel among the two of us.”

That gets you blushing, your arms hugging at your sides. Seeing you turn pink at his words has Simeon feeling a bit bolder, and he presses to his feet, moving to join you.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you into a tight hug, and he presses a kiss to your forehead.

“You’re so beautiful.”

“No you,” you mumble in response, pouting up at him, and wondering how he’d managed to turn the tables on you so easily. Simeon only laughs, leaning in to connect your lips.

“Thank you...shall we move to the bed?”

Oh.

“Yes, please.”

Diavolo:

Diavolo had been informed by Barbatos at the end of the student council meeting that you were waiting in his office for him.

Without a second thought, he had left to find you--assuming you wanted to talk about sometime in private with him. Which, honestly, he didn’t mind in the least, considering you were always good company.

However, the last thing he expects to find when he steps into his office is you, sitting behind his desk, in his oversized leather chair...completely nude.

You fold your hands onto the wood, smiling at him.

“Good evening.”

There’s a playful glint in your eye, one that has Diavolo’s initial shock wearing off quickly--replaced with amused interest instead.

Closing the door behind him, the Demon Prince slowly makes his way around the desk.

“Is there something you need to tell me about?”

“Oh, no, I just wanted to surprise you,” you giggle, gasping when Diavolo suddenly reaches out and secures your waist.

He lifts you out of the black chair, seating you on his desk, and stepping between your spread legs. A blush dusts your cheeks, eyes widening as his grip slides down to your hips--his handsome face just inches from yours.

“Well, I certainly enjoy this type of surprise.” Diavolo grips your chin with his fingers, and guides you into a soft kiss.

“Perhaps you should surprise me like this after school hours more often.”

Barbatos:

While staying the weekend at the Demon Lord’s Castle, you volunteer to get up early and help the royal butler prepare breakfast. It’s a large job, considering the brothers, and other exchange students are staying over as well.

“Good morning, Barbatos,” you greet, stepping into the spacious kitchen. The butler, standing in front of the stove, takes a moment before turning to address you.

“Good morn--,” he begins, but pauses when he sees your state of dress. Or, rather, undress, considering you’re wearing absolutely nothing.

A light blush dusts his cheeks, and he coughs to clear his throat.

“Have you misplaced your clothing? It’s not wise to cook in such a state.”

“I just wanted to see your reaction,” you respond with a laugh, stepping further into the room. He notices that your clothes are bundled in your arms.

“Well, perhaps it is a good way to start the day off,” he comments, smiling as his eyes roam over your figure.

Then, he’s moving away, walking to the edge of the kitchen to retrieve something you can’t quite see. When he returns to your side, you note that he’s holding a plain, white apron.

“I hardly mind such a sight to accompany the breakfast preparation, but I’d prefer if you not injure yourself.”

He slides the neck of the apron over your head, and then moves to your back--tightly securing the ties. You shiver when his gloved hand traces the length of your spine.

He smiles charmingly at the reaction.

“Shall we get to work?”

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ecrivant · 3 years

Text

mind’s eye | jean kirstein

(jean kirstein x reader)

jean reflects on a memory of you and his wishes for the future. takes place in that undefined year after the battle for shiganshina.

word count: 1.5k

a.n. – simply me revolutionizing the x reader fanfiction subgenre by hardly including any romantic aspects. approach this as a self-indulgent jean kirstein character study.

He was never struck by his own exhaustion until he found time to rest. He had learned to carry it, bearing that weight, grudgingly, out of necessity. Thinking of you and your abject willingness to shoulder his burden with him. Selfishness pressured him to concede, to lighten his own load and pass it off to a disposed other, but he did not wish that on you, on anyone. He saw those around him buckling under their own weight. So he carried his. But, in moments of solitary repose, he would find himself collapsed under his own burden.

He sat high above the city, himself having snuck onto the walls past curfew. Overlooking the terrain outside of Wall Maria. The night was cloudy but the ground, clear. The moon, sliced crescent and half-enshrouded by tenebrous clouds, cast a low, even glow. The hazeless air revealed several miles of flat country, distantly and ultimately swallowed by oscillating hills which followed the curvature of the earth. The breeze numbed his exposed skin; winter neared. The leaves on the trees had long since tinged and fallen and decomposed among the detritus, and the now-disrobed branches, like sainted arms proffered towards the sky, swayed, noiseless, their prayers unheard. A silence, disrupted only by his own presence. This barren landscape was marked by an austerity, a quietly plaintive cry uttered by and for some unknown in an unworldly call and response. He realized he had never verily looked at the lay of the outside land. No one had ever been afforded the luxury of regard—landscapes were heretofore solely backdrops of violence—but things were changing, and only with hindsight could one say whether for better or for worse.

He thought of a memory. From a night like this one. You, in the light of the moon, hair glowing and itself luminescent, a fond smile on your face. Airy laughs, timid glances. Instinctively, he shook his head as if to cast it off, familiar with the dangerously seductive quality of his memories. He always worried that if he indulged himself in remembrance, even for a moment, he would render himself incapable of facing the present, for the comfort of memory was beguiling and often lured him like some Ogygian temptress. But he was so flattened, so exhausted by that incessant weight. Was he not allowed some form of respite? Annoyed, defiant, he unfocused his gaze and dissolved into this thought of you.

It commences behind the barracks. He waits, anxiously tapping his foot, hoping your rendezvous would not include Sadies as an unwelcomed third. His pedal movement shakes the unlit lamp in his hands, a quiet toll of metal on metal. Your hooded figure soon rounds the corner, eyes flashing in the dim light, easing his nerves. You walk ahead on the path, he behind you and dragged by an unseen force. Your allure, he posits, always the romantic. Still facing forward, you speak his name, a quiet utterance jettisoned into the woods ahead of you. He hums in response, liking the way your vocalization rings out, clear, in the brisk air. An innocuous invocation of his attention.

“Did I keep you waiting?” An audible smile, coy.

“Of course. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

A quick laugh, ephemeral, your hood quivering. Your lanterns clink as you walk, the only indication of your movement, as your steps fell silent on the padded forest floor. Cresting a hill, you stop, finally turning to face him. Hands held out with a flourish.

Standing on an overlook, his eyes fall on the view before him. A valley, bathed in dark cobalt. A vast loch tenants the basinous land, flanked by a thick canopy of trees, the mass its own verdant topography. The water, mirroresque. Moonlight captured in scattered reflection. Low-hanging mist, gathered in clouds like a cottoned assembly, divine overseers looming over their aquatic terrain.

“Not bad.”

Your proud smile.

“Thanks, Eren showed it to me.”

Eren, a challenge, playful. He refuses to acquiesce, hiding annoyance, feigning indifference. He instead sits at the interstice between the dirt path and the grassy encroachment, opting to say nothing at all. You seat yourself next to him, head resting on your knees.

“I’m impressed. Someone says ‘Eren’ and you usually see red.” He notices how your head bobs as you speak, chin pushing against your kneecaps.

“So, you’re trying to be an ass, then?” A playful query, devoid of malice.

You turn your head to him, smirking, a wide, toothless smile. Shrugging, you give a noncommittal answer. He admires you; he never really gets the chance to. The way moonlight and shadow compliment your features. It’s nice.

“What’s with the look?”

His eyebrows shoot up, questioning.

“What look?”

You laugh at him—he loves the way your laugh never degrades him. It’s bubbly, effervescent.

“You look like you just fell in love, Kirstein.”

His smile drops. He’s flushed—had he always been so easy to read? Suddenly self-conscious of all the moments past in which he revealed himself and you stayed silent. Your body turns to face him.

“Such adoration,” you remark quietly. An ostensible taunt infused with a subtle sincerity.

“It’s okay, it looks nice in your eyes. Makes them shine. I like it.”

He swallows. When did you get so bold? He looks around, towards the sky, between his feet, anywhere but at you. He feels you inching towards him, a mass of warmth. Swallowing his pride, he looks you in the eyes. They’re affectionately gazing at him, questioning, asking for permission. He stays static. Nervous, excited. The setting, the cool breeze—the perfect backdrop for the memory of a first kiss, he thinks. Always the romantic.

You lean in and press your forehead to his, pausing. His head spins, drunk on potential. You whisper something, barely perceptible:

“Pretty boy.” A simple remark, lovingly stated like an assertion of fact. Dizzying. You pull away, and he falls forward, disoriented. Embarrassed by the meek sound of disappointment that leaves him. Your hand rubs at your neck, involuntary, sheepish.

“I’m not sure if I want this to be the memory of our first kiss.” Funny, he thinks, how the idea crossed both of your minds. Such a slavish focus on mnemonic posterity.

Maybe you were right, though. When he thought of this memory now, it filled him with an inexplicable exhilaration that the memory of your first kiss did not.

You had continued to talk, though his memory was hazy after this point. He remembered you mentioning joining the Scouts, to which he reacted badly: angry concern you had anticipated. You held him, hand in his hair, assuring him you were strong, you could take care of yourself: everything you knew he wanted to hear. He spoke of his mother, how he missed her. You cried together, though he could not remember why. He pressed a kiss to your cheek outside of the barracks, the early dawn gracing your complexion, warming it. In all, a memory sullied by hindsight. The last night before graduation, before Trost, before baggage began to wear the two of you down, spines curving under that weight. He still adored you, every version of you, everyone you had been and would be. Despite it all, he wished for you to one day return to that unburdened version of yourself. Maybe naively so.

“You know, the next expedition is to the coast. We’ll finally see the sea.”

He thought back to earlier today, your hand in his, ambling down a vacant side street. Excitement in your voice writ large—an expedition to a once-inconceivable, now within reach. He had glanced at you, your profile holding his gaze. The years had truly impressed on you a tangible density, a heaviness that bided in your drooped shoulders, the wrinkles of your brow, the sporadic grey in your hair. A dull, thoracic ache overcame him—you were a child, teenage, yet you carried the weight of a thousand lifetimes and had lived through a number equal. He was livid at the worldly injustice, the temporal excoriation. Stolen youth. Fairness was an antiquated concept, long foregone in exchange for a wholly inegalitarian system of cosmic justice—humans forced into meniality. Could you recoup? Get back the purloined years and people and solace that were justifiably yours?

He yearned to see your expression as you stood over that expansive azure. Soon, you would face that endless horizon, representative of new beginnings, possibilities, genesis, loosed of your burdens by some benevolent Parca. He verily hoped for your emancipation, realized through what the Scouts were to discover beyond the walls. Then, there would be time for your affaire—love, veracious, before a backdrop of utopia. It’s all he could hope for, a grail he quietly and firmly embosomed: an aspiration for your shared, future memories to be marked by self-actualized deliverance and impudent love.

—

thank you for reading! feedback is always appreciated! i hope you enjoyed this even though it’s not really explicitly romantic in any sense. it’s mostly jean ruminating + some yearning and pining for unachievable things. maybe the next piece will be completely, 100% soft. maybe.

below are the beginnings of a taglist! if you’re interested, drop a line and i’ll tag you in my writing posts! xoxo

taglist: @flam3bird

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #attack on titan imagine #attack on titan x reader #aot imagines #aot x reader #jean kirstein #jean kirschtein #jean kirstein x reader #jean kirstein x you #jean kirschtein x reader #jean kirstein imagine #jean kirschtein imagine #writing!

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zhaozaipalooza · 3 years

Text

Your Weekly Drabble! - Day 1 | Festival

The missing drabble for LuZhao mini-week where I brought to you Holi? — here it is! ✨

The court painter fiddled with the array of tools at his side - paled slightly, lips forming a curse - then quickly bit it down, stammering about getting a few supplies before he excused himself. Red curtains framing the prince’s portrait-to-be settled behind him.

Lu Ten sprang from his seat. He paced to drum out his annoyance through the silks lining the floor. When that didn’t work, he ducked out of the same opening.

A massive, tiled chamber cleared of the average riches piled in a palace room, sunlight streaming from the corridor outside, gave him more breath than his lungs knew what to do with. When the day glowed, he couldn’t resist the same - not as a child, not as a princeling aware of his place in a turning world, fire in his heart and fingers. Dance with me, sing with me, run with me, said the sun… and Lu Ten followed.

The rays guided his eyes over ornate fixtures, twisting pillars and rosy walls, to a guard stationed beside the open door. His helmet was clutched in a free hand to keep it from slipping over his eyes. He caught Lu Ten smiling, and mustered a look of confidence.

Peace that uncommonly smoothed Zhao’s face - in his presence, no one else’s - was knocked off when Lu Ten jabbed a fist into his side. “Yip!” His eyes bugged, rubbing at the sore spot.

“Loosen up! You’re only in charge of me and the, uh…” he cleared his throat, “snail sloth. And no thief is going to steal the wallpaper.”

“It’s only been half an hour.” He gripped the helmet. “Anything could happen. Do you know how much this sort of position pays? To serve inside palace walls? I’ll never go hungry again.” His lips turned firm. “I wouldn’t have managed to land it without your pull. I can’t go risking it now.”

Zhao grabbed in air when the headpiece slid neatly off his topknot. The prince tucked it in the crook of his arm. “You won’t go hungry again. Ever.”

“I promise.” Their eyes met, something of more absence than they knew what to do with fleeing their lungs.

Lu Ten blinked off the daze first, hauling him by the arm behind the curtains, where the painter had abandoned his things. He was first to press his lips to his and linger slowly, sweetly.

Zhao’s laughter was between a rumble and a sigh. “You thought you could get bored when I was right outside?”

“Pah... I have you around for more than that.” He strung a lock of Zhao’s hair around his knuckle, thumb skimming his cheek. Within an instant, Lu Ten tugged free, jumped onto the chair where he was meant to sit motionless for hours - looking so daring and heroic that it was comical. “We’re adventurers! The gods threw us together, watched us train together, conquer together. We’re meant to make history, not lounge around waiting for history to make out who we were from a painting.”

“Hm, now there’s a good point.” His disbelief mingled with awe in Lu Ten’s shadow - one he barely noticed. Zhao laughed more, the sound crinkling with a soft snort. How are you so full of life?

“We could cross the tundra, climb mountain ranges where airbender ruins still whisper to the living,” Lu Ten pantomimed an otherworldly sensation, with a swirling mock of airbending - Sozin’s descendants weren’t taught much in the way of regard. Neither was the nation; Zhao fought a grin. “Or! We could master our firebending under the greatest there ever were… the very first benders to learn from the dragons.”

“The Sun Warriors?” He leaned against the wall, hoping it wasn’t indecorous - some part of him would always feel like an ugly blot in the lap of luxury. Zhao’s memory tingled, “I read of them. Once. Sounded like a tall tale to me. If they existed, they’re far gone now.”

“I say they’re alive and well.” He hopped down. The legs of the chair jerked back. “Fire of every color thrives there. Blue, purple, green, all blazing hot. Colors that don’t have names! There’s a thousand stairs to reach the golden temple behind a sea of clouds, and once you-”

“Come on, green fire? Your head’s stuck in a sea of clouds. I say tundra.”

“Stuck in a- you hate snow!” The prince’s huff spoke easily for him after all the time they’d spent together: dream a little! He gave Zhao one of his father’s looks and went to the pigments sitting in neat boxes in a larger hinged case, and grumbled again. This one stood for that sore loser…

“He hasn’t even mixed the powders into paints. I can tell where he sourced some of them - the white is crushed seashells, it looks like. Fragile, tiny shells… Four hours is starting to look like ten.”

“Green fire, purple fire, ooh,” Zhao was teasing, “What’s next, each of them stand for a pillar of society? Yellow for contracts, green for tea, pink for… hm, intercourse? I think we should start with that one when we get th-”

A creative itch had sprouted a full-out snarkfest; the prince suddenly twisted, flinging a fistful of ground powder in his guard’s direction. Outside of these walls they were lieutenant and ensign, soldiers homeward-bound if luck was on their side.

“Or maybe it stands for paying a little more respect.” Lu Ten smirked, hands at his hips. “Not that you’ve ever followed that pillar of society.”

Zhao shielded his face too late, swiped off the glimmering traces. Face ajar and upturned at his nerve.

Here, they were a lot younger, and they were home. As young as they should be.

“So that’s how it is.”

One half-hour stretched out for twenty more minutes, the seconds passing like snow in a blizzard. Fun thinned time, after all, dragging the sun higher into the sky, melting down their reservations. “You want to learn from the Sun Warriors? Well, I’m twice the warrior you are, and Agni knows my family has the divine blessing of the sun - so why not learn a lesson or two?”

“You’re on.”

Lu Ten ripped each box loose and scattered them outside the curtains; clouds of mushed petals, the deep green of palm leaves, a reddish rust like clay shingles, and pale alabaster shells - all drifting in the air like trails of smoke. The prince was splattered, his friend powdered head to foot like a circus novelty, and their laughter shook the gleaming (once spotless) hall.

“Get back here, get back here- oh no you d- ack!” Fingers smudged like they’d been rooting in the royal kitchen and licking off cream, sleeves rolled and rumpled, armor stripped so their feet could race lightly back and forth on the slippery floor.

“I’m over here, old man!”

Endless, Zhao thought, let this moment be endless. Bare skin freckled in a dizzying prism of sight and scent; he’d thrown something of tartness, plunged through the aroma of flowers to streak Lu Ten’s beaming face. He ceded him the point, returned with a swipe of orange made from dried seeds, dusting the top of his head like a showy plume. He puffed out a pale wisp. Lu Ten folded, cradling his colorful, aching gut.

They ended sprawled wide, one on top of the other, undistinguished from anything. Littering the crook of his collar, neck, cheek, and ear with kisses, the one pinned muffling a fit with the back of his palm.

“Hey,” Zhao rolled aside, the both of them heaving, trained on the hazy light pooled in the ceiling. “Don’t fire that painter.”

“Huh?” Soaking in the quiet, Lu Ten glanced over.

“He’s new to this. Wracked with nerves. Who knows if he’s trying to make ends meet? Give him a chance.” Like you did me.

The prince thought it over. “Of course. Snap judgements are more my uncle’s thing.”

“Oh gods, does he scare me.” They spent the little breath they’d scraped together snickering.

The Firelord’s firstborn accompanied the worrisome painter to pay his son a visit… No sooner had they entered the corridor did the spray of lavender on a flowerpot clue the artist to go lightheaded.

Iroh hurried to promise his compensation, divined the prince’s likely attitude to having to wash off and remain statuesque until dinner, and decided the best course of action.

The painter was redirected to capture the fiasco in a sketch, nearly abstract: both boys with their arms looped over shoulders, a smile held in their eyes as long as their warmth was close. The young man tutted under his breath as he improvised, following the stains and speckles on Lu Ten and Zhao with a deft fingertip. In the final touches, he seemed to have enjoyed himself, too.

“You should join us for dinner.” It was sundown. The prince held the piece of parchment gingerly, softening whenever his eye crossed it again.

Adventurers.

His father had extended the gesture, son nodding along. “No, no, I couldn’t.” Zhao held up his palms, still tinged with a sea of floral and earthen smells. “The pay as a royal guard is plenty, even for a temporary station… I can look after the rest myself. I know how.”

“It would be bad manners for us to let a guest leave without experiencing the most of their stay.” The general’s eyes twinkled. “And here is the best of the best! Meals so fulfilling they leave room for fifth helpings.”

“You are more than a royal guard here.” A warm, heavy palm took Zhao’s shoulder. “As close as you are to my son, I think of you as my own.”

All he knew, even decades after the best meal of his life, was that things would have gone a lot differently if he had refused.

- - -

What a dark path, the one that lay down the other fork in the road. Thankfully, in this life, Zhao had not strayed.

The city was rife with celebration, lanterns dazzling the canals as their reflections bobbed in the water. Brilliant red, jade, and silvery powders made from starch and ground herbs coasted the night air.

A young girl in braids scampered down the pavement - chin purpled, hair smattered with blues and greens - and leaped into Zhao’s arms. He spun on a heel with her momentum, hearing a shriek of delight before her fists anchored themselves in his front.

“This is the best! I never want to sleep again. And Ma bought me these!” She placed a warm cake before his face, expectant, and he nibbled off one end. Sweet bean paste.

Her smile revealed the gap between her teeth; snuggling to his chest again, she sighed in content. “It’s so pretty… How come this wasn’t around when you were a kid?”

“Well,” Zhao rocked her gently, an unconscious swaying that soothed her since she could crawl. “It’s actually for someone very special. He was alive when I was young. I knew him. Firelord Iroh wants the world to know him, too.”

Her eyes lit up. “I read about him in school. I tell my friends, ‘My daddy knew a prince!’ and they ask so many questions.” Zhao laughed softly, and she asked, “What was he like? Really like?”

He thought it over. “… Like this. Just like this.” Like what? Lights and colors flickered over the darkness, an endless sun, a glow that rose and went on forever.

“Wonderful.”

#ray's friday ficlets have evolved into: a palooza submission!#luzhao #sideburns are a war crime #zhao #lu ten #iroh #zhaozai palooza 2021 #your local clown writes!

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bennydwight · 3 years

Text

Dragon Age Oneshot

Shameless, indulgent, one-sided Varric/Inquisitor, because I understand why we’re not allowed to romance the dwarf, but that’s not gonna stop me from being bitter about it.

(Also feat. Dorian being simultaneously the best and worst wingman)

~~~~~~

"Oh dear what's got the Inquisitor so long in the face this time?"

Lavellan hid her startle well enough that Dorian didn't comment. Maker's breath, he could be stealthy when he wanted to. Observant, too, so she didn’t see much point in lying to him. "I'm in love, Dorian."

She felt more than saw his interest pique, and he slid down the stone wall to join her on the steps. Below them, the courtyard was abuzz with activity: Dennet and his apprentice busied themselves with checking the new stock of mounts, the merchants from Val Royeaux shifted primly as Fereldan soldiers examined their wares, and patients of the last battle milled around the surgeons camp. Among them, even from this height, Lavellan could see Cole's wide-brimmed hat bobbing along through the crowd of wounded like a leaf on a river, likely offering comfort to those who needed it. Varric's copper hair trailed along beside, either gathering intelligence for his next book, or ensuring Cole stayed within the confines of human morality. Nice that those two got along so well.

Far below, a soldier said something and Varric laughed, the delighted rasp floating up to reach even Lavellan's perch. Why must he do that to her.

"In love, you say?" Dorian continued next to her. "Anyone I would know?"

Lavellan sighed. "He's roguishly charming, dashingly handsome, entirely uninterested, and so far out of my league he may as well be the Black Divine."

"Dear me, have you fallen in love with me all over again? Can't say I'm not flattered, though I recall us having this conversation once before."

That drew a laugh from the depths of her lovesickness and she nudged Dorian with a shoulder. "You know the flame I hold for you in my heart will never extinguish."

"Alas, perhaps in another life." He chuckled back. "Who's the fortunate gentleman?"

"Oh please, if you think I'll out and tell you like some babbling maid chasing the butcher's son, I give you too much credit."

He leaned back, stroking his goatee with an interested finger. "Making a game out of it then? Very well, I'll play along. Ten silver says I can guess the lad in three tries."

A game was exactly what Lavellan didn’t want, but she far too much enjoyed Dorian's scowl when he lost not to play. The ten silver could buy her something interesting from the baker too, next time they travelled to Val Royeaux. "You'll be paying for my next pastry run, Vint."

"Better save at least some of that silver for larger clothing then." He made a show of tapping his chin, deep, deep in thought, the flash bastard. "Roguishly charming, daringly handsome... Just to clarify, you are talking about a lad, yes?"

"Oh, no. Making that distinction would narrow the field by far too much. If you weren't paying attention to the pronouns, that's on you."

Dorian glowered at her, but there was no real heat behind it while the gears of his mind were ticking elsewhere. "From the description alone, of course my first guess would have to be our distinguished commander? Not that I'd blame you, mind, he is quite the man."

Perhaps too much man for Lavellan, the commander was far too battle-ready for her to find attractive (though admittedly the scars did send something stirring within her). And Cullen's evasive reactions towards the advances of other members of the fairer gender betrayed a disposition more boyish than Lavellan expected. She imagined courting Cullen would be very much like courting the spirit of a farm boy in the body of a marble statue. "I flirted with him once, for fun. I was afraid he'd wet himself."

Dorian's laughter rang warm and clear through the courtyard. "That might explain why you couldn't tell him, the poor man would throw himself off the battlements."

Lavellan stuck her tongue out at him. "Don't make it sound like my affections are a disease to be feared."

"They certainly spread that way."

"You enjoy it, you all do. Maker knows none of you under my command have ever gotten enough hugs in your lifetimes."

"Something we all know you're desperately trying to correct."

"This game is timed, Dorian, if you don't use your guesses in the next ten seconds then you forfeit."

"Don't be silly, that was never agreed upon," he waved a hand flippantly, but settled again. "Sera-"

"Nope."

"That wasn't a guess, you didn't let me finish! I was going to say Sera is in league all her own, so it can't be her."

"It counts."

"It doesn’t. "

Lavellan never was very good at keeping a straight face, especially in Dorian's presence. "Fine, fine, you get one freebie."

"Then my next guess would have to be the Iron Bull."

Oh, she'd thought about it. Maybe Lavellan was just weak for big hands and a soft voice. And who could forget those muscles? But Iron Bull wasn't exactly secretive about his thoughts on relationships, thoughts Lavellan wasn't sure she could share in the long run. And maybe it would have been different if Iron Bull committed to the Inquisitor, but after an accidental (and awkward) run in with Bull and a kitchen maid, Lavellan was pretty certain she'd seen all she needed to regarding Skyhold's resident Ben-Hassarath.

Besides. She'd seen the silky way Dorian's eyes smoothed over Iron Bull's shoulders when his back was turned. There had never been two people she was less inclined to come between.

She shot Dorian a sly side-eye. "I'll leave the lovesickness to other, more suitable people when it comes to the Bull, I think."

He hid the hitch in his shoulders almost perfectly, but the pink dusting on his cheekbones was a little harder to explain away. To his credit, Dorian didn't try. "Ahem. Well, you mentioned 'uninterested', so it can't be the swooning--"

He trailed off, but Lavellan's sharp stare snapped to him, ears twitching up. "The what?"

"Nothing, a slip of the tongue."

"Your tongue is so slippery it's a wonder it doesn't slither out of your head. Now out with it, who were you talking about?"

Dorian heaved a mighty sigh, but his eyes shone in that way they did when he'd been sitting on a sweet bit of gossip for too long. "Very well, I promised Vivienne I wouldn’t say anything since you didn't need 'undue distractions', but since you insisted. One of your throne guards can't keep his eyes away from you."

This was news to her. "Wha- Are you talking about Davrish or Johannes? Or Tel, he fills in sometimes."

"The lad who usually stands at your left. Human, on the tall side, dark hair. Hard to see much under the helmet, but he's got a scar under his eye."

Davrish then. "He fancies me?"

Dorian laughed. "Like Solas fancies the Fade. He reveres you. Whenever you're in the Main Hall, he refuses to look anywhere else. He practically vibrates when you're judging someone, I imagine since he's never had a woman that close to him in his life. Have you truly not noticed?"

She truly hadn't. She'd spoken to Davrish several times around Skyhold, usually a casual bit of snark tossed around regarding the latest judgement, but never had she gotten the impression that he was interested. Perhaps since, whenever she frequented the Main Hall, her attention lingered elsewhere... "I suppose I'm usually distracted."

Dorian leaned closer, something wicked crawling into his grin like a desert lizard. "Distracted, are you?"

Lavellan huffed, crossing her arms tightly over her chest as if that could still her heart's rapid beat. "I'm the Inquisitor, Dorian, not all of us can lounge in the library all day, drinking cheap ale and commenting on whatever daily atrocity Solas is wearing."

"Oh, that reminds me, did you see the particularly awful armour he picked up during your last trip to the Oasis? I could go on for days about the state of the stitching alone-"

He definitely could, as proven time and again. Times like these, where her Tevinter friend really got on a roll, Lavellan could feign interest well enough while letting her mind wander to more introspective topics. She nodded and made appropriate noises at appropriate times to Dorian's impassioned ramblings, but once again her eyes sought the copper head weaving in and out of view of the crowd below.

As if sensing her seeking eyes, Varric pulled his attention away from Cole and stared straight at her.

Lavellan's heart stuttered to a stop. Even this far away, his eyes shone with the barely concealed mirth he always seemed to carry just under the crooked quirk of his eyebrow. The corner of his mouth pulled up in that roguish smile she loved as they made eye contact, and one hand (gloved, why always gloved) rose in a lazy wave.

Like a dunderhead, Lavellan practically tripped over herself to return the gesture, nearly catching her finger in one of the buckles of her clothes in the process. Varric didn't seem to notice, his smile widening before he turned back to his odd little charge.

Too late, Lavellan noticed Dorian had fallen silent beside her, his calculating golden eyes boring into her frozen face. She heard the dots connect.

"Oh."

Don’t make eye contact, don't make eye contact

"Oh, MAKER."

Lavellan spun on him, the tips of her ears burning under his scrutiny. "WHAT."

He stared back, expression refreshingly open for once, though it bore no malice. Only stunned disbelief. "Lavellan, the dwarf?"

Not trusting herself to speak around the dry lump lodged in her throat, Lavellan reached into her pocket and dropped ten silver into Dorian's unresponsive hand.

He stared at the coins as if in shock, though Lavellan knew him well enough by now to know when he was exaggerating emotion. Dorian and Sarcasm were old friends. "I can’t- Vishante kaffas."

"I know."

"Of all the available young matches here in Skyhold, you're wasting your time making doe-eyes at the single most ineligible person this side of the Anderfels."

"I know.”

"He's in love with a crossbow, for Maker's sake!"

"I KNOW!" Lavellan groaned, burying her head in her hands. "If you think I haven’t had this discussion with myself numerous times then you are sorely mistaken."

A beat of silence. "Although," Dorian started in such an oddly contemplative tone that Lavellan peeked out from between her fingers. The silver was gone, tucked away while she'd been marinating in her own self-horror, and his hand returned to its previous action of thoughtfully stroking his facial hair. "He is quite the strapping one." His face took on a haughty air. "And we already knew you had a penchant towards the witty."

"Not only wit," Lavellan sighed, and now that her darkest thoughts hovered at the forefront of her tongue, she found it nigh impossible to stop them from stumbling into the light of day. "He's suave, confident in a way that still eludes Cullen. He has all the easy, rugged attractiveness of the Iron Bull with none of his-"

"Expansive tastes?" Dorian supplied, entirely unhelpfully.

"-worldliness." Lavellan corrected coolly.

"He's quite the complainer. "

"He's opinionated, and most of them are right. Varric is warmth, and friendship, and a drop of sunlight in the midst of the rainstorm that is the Breach."

"I may vomit."

"I am taking that as a challenge. He is soft eyes and soft leather, and the feeling you get right after you make someone laugh. He's quiet nights by the fireside, the smell of ink swirling in the warmed air. He is-"

"-headed this way."

Lavellan was just about to admonish Dorian for his unsportsmanlike attempt to distract her from her flowering prose (it had really started to flow there, too!), but a glance downward found Cole nowhere to be seen, and instead one copper-headed dwarf tromping up the stairs.

All thoughts of poetry dissipated. He was coming straight for them! "Oh... oh Maker-"

"Don't panic," Dorian smirked, "with a nose that large, he can probably smell your nerves."

She didn’t have the chance to smack him before Varric reached them, breath laboured in the way that often happened when short legs were presented with more than five steps. Lavellan wondered why Varric chose to spend the majority of his days in the Grand Hall when it required so many steps to get there (and she refused to let herself believe it was because he wanted to be near her, no no). "Well, you two are looking chummy."

"Varric!" Dorian opened with no shortness of theatrics, "We were just talking about you!"

"Is that right?" Lavellan heard more than saw Varric's raised eyebrow as she pinned Dorian under a glare so hot it had been known to stop enemies in their tracks.

Dorian, having evolved out of the category of "enemy" some time ago, barely noticed. "Yes, we were just discussing your romance serial, the one Cassandra enjoys so much? Are you planning on writing more?"

Lavellan’s glare had taken on a panicked note, her friend going rogue before her eyes. How hard did one have to stare at another for them to spontaneously combust?

Varric, large as his nose was, didn’t seem to smell her distress this time. He laughed. "I am if Seeker has anything to say about it! Why, you're a fan too? Learning anything interesting?"

"On the contrary, I have an idea for another serial I'm sure readers would enjoy."

Lavellan’s shoulders relaxed marginally, head tilting at a quizzical angle. What was he doing...

"I don't usually entertain book pitches, but for you Sparkler? Let's hear it."

"It's about a famous, powerful young artist, who falls in love with a roguishly charming, dashingly handsome writer-"

Aaaaand there went her shoulders again, hitched almost to her burning ears. Back safely to Varric, she frantically mouthed "I'll KILL you, you sunnuvabitch", the rest of Dorian's blatantly obvious pitch drowning under the blood pumping in her ears. His mouth quirked up in the only indication he was paying her any mind at all.

Varric made a thoughtful noise, and she didn't dare turn round to look at him. "An artist and a writer, huh? It's got potential. And no one can say it's... unrealistic." Maker's breath, was he implying something? Was that tone barely concealed subtext, or just Varric being an asshole?

And Dorian couldn't leave it at that, oh no, never let it be said that Dorian Pavus did things halfway. "And say, if you do decide to write it, I'm sure our dear inquisitor wouldn’t mind illustrating. Surely you two have known each other long enough that working closely for prolonged periods of time wouldn’t be too agonizing."

Using her body as a shield, Lavellan flipped him off.

"It's certainly something to consider," Varric hummed, none the wiser to Lavellan's mortification. Unless... he was playing with her? "I'm sure my lady readers would appreciate another romance."

Dorian stared straight into Lavellan's eyes. "They certainly would."

"What about it, Herald?" Oh Maker, he was leaning over her now. The scent of warm leather drifted over her like the sweetest perfume-- NO, that was gross! Don’t think like that! "Feel like collaborating?"

"Sure," her voice came out more like a squeak than a sound, and Dorian couldn't quite hide his snort behind his moustache.

The creak of leather as Varric leaned back. "Peachy. After we take care of this Corypheus business, of course, even I understand that we have priorities. Speaking of, I gotta ask Seeker something. Dorian."

Dorian nodded in farewell, radiating smugness. Expecting her turn to be next and realizing at the same time that she hadn't looked at Varric a single time during this conversation, Lavellan finally turned to the dwarf.

Bad idea. She turned directly into that insufferable crooked grin. His hooded eyes glittered with mischief, like he was privy to an in-joke. The sun set behind him, haloing his visage with golden light. Varric himself couldn't have written this scene better, and Lavellan hated herself for thinking it. Her ears drooped under the weakness of her own body.

Varric's grin widened marginally. "Inquisitor."

"Bye," Lavellan breathed more than said. Dorian snorted again, louder, but Varric was polite enough not to mention it. He continued up the stairs and Lavellan managed until his heavy bootsteps faded away to melt into a humiliated puddle. She slumped over her legs, burying her face in her hands.

"Dear me, Inquisitor, your ears are a most delightful shade of crimson."

"Dorian?"

"Yes?"

"Once I can stand again, I am going to take my knife and cut out your tongue."

"Oh, I'd still find ways to humiliate you."

"I wont even use my nice knife. It'll be a kitchen knife. You'll suffer for days, just like I am now."

He patted her jovially on the shoulder. "Come now, Lavellan, surely you must know that Varric is crass and boorish, but he's far from an idiot. He'll nip this in the bud within the week and I need to get a decent amount of teasing in before then."

Lavellan punched him in the arm.

END

#dragon age inquisition #da:i #varric tethras #varric #lavellan #dorian pavus #dorian #Varric/inquisitor #varriquisitor?#writing #oneshot

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modern-inheritance · 3 years

Text

Modern Inheritance: Sycamore Blossom (Pt 2 of Torin’s Story)

Part 1 // PART 2 // Part 3 // Part 4 // Part 5 // TBC

~~~

The elf woman in the hall regarded his offered hand with a cool stare. She did not move from her seat, arms settled lightly across her chest.

Torin waited, feeling the anxiety build from the base of his spine and creep up into his ribs as the seconds ticked on. What should he do? Pulling his arm back would be wrong, but leaving it out while his new jailer mulled over doing who knows what to it was starting to make his sternum hurt with built up tension. All he could do was wait, frozen as his heart hammered away.

Then the woman moved her gaze to his face and gestured slightly, slender fingers flicking a soft acknowledgement of his attempt at parley. “My name is Islanzadí Drötting. You my address me as Your Majesty or Ma’am.”

Torin choked at that, the realization of just who this woman was bolting through his brain. He yanked his arm back through the bars when she motioned again towards him. A dull clunk reverberated through the cell door.

“I will not speak to you through a grate. You may open the door.” Torin stared, dumbfounded, as the aged hinges slowly drifted the door inwards several inches. “You will not leave your cell. You will sit and answer my questions. Am I understood?”

The man’s heart felt as though it would burst.

“Yes Ma’am.”

This woman, this elf, the Queen of the Elven Nation, was giving him some modicum of freedom. As he carefully pulled the door open, fingertips barely gripping the edge of the barred window, Torin’s mind raced. He had spent the years in his cell watching and listening to the people of Gil’ead through the ground level window above his cot. His eyes became accustomed to seeing what people left unsaid, picking them out in an almost obsessive way to pass the time. The subtle movements of unspoken hierarchy, plots of betrayal and scrambles to the top, he saw every move in the twitch of a finger or the shift of weight from one foot to the other. The motivations and meanings behind them were all as simple as reading a nursery rhyme for him now.

By unlocking the cell, she– no, it’s Queen Islanzadí– the Queen had executed several strategic moves at once.

Her action displayed him a small kindness, but was not without its caveats. The removal of the physical barrier between them, with a display of magic no less, further enforced to Torin that the Queen had absolutely nothing to fear from him. His position of sitting on the ground while she occupied a chair reinforced the differences in their status, and put her physically above him.

Torin repressed a shudder as he settled down cross legged a meter back from the open door.

Once again he was a field mouse, the protective stone above his burrow removed so that he now faced the elegant hawk at the end of an inescapable ravine.

“Now,” Torin looked up, waiting for the Queen’s words. His arms tingled with anxiety again, and he had to resist shaking them to dispel the sensation. “Tell me how you knew the elf imprisoned here.”

The man breathed deeply. “How…how much do you want to know?”

Islanzadí’s golden eyes narrowed. “Everything.”

Torin bobbed his head and looked down at his hands. Flexed his fingers before folding them in at the second joints. “I…I didn’t know her name. She never talked.” A small smile made its way through the nervousness as he toyed with his torn knuckles, half scarred and half healed. “Well…she swore a couple times. At the General and…” His throat went dry again. He dug his thumbnail into one knuckle unconsciously to lessen the itch a new surge of anxiety swarmed into his hands. “At…at the other guards.”

“Other?” The sharp sting of the word made Torin flinch. She knew now.

The fresh gouge on his knuckle waited to fill with blood, white and empty with pressure as Torin clenched his free hand over the bent joints and hated himself for the words he spoke.

“I was one of them.”

Islanzadí was silent for a long, heavy moment. Torin did not dare to look up, already feeling the gathering thunderheads around the Elf Queen. Near black at the base, they towered over him, rumbling in discontent and contained fury across a windswept field. A tailwind to drive the hawk down upon her prey with vicious speed.

And then, as if halted by an immovable wall, they stopped. The clouds retreated somewhat to await their commander’s call.

Torin risked raising his eyes. Islanzadí was regarding him, eyes frigid and lips tight with restrained contempt as she drew herself up.

“My question still stands, Aldsson.” Her voice was reminiscent of the distant promise of thunder. “Explain yourself. Tell me everything that you know.”

Torin’s shoulders slumped lightly in relief. He would live, for now. He had a chance to tell his story.

“Yes Ma’am.” He wet his lips and again rain his fingers over his torn knuckles before he began. “I first saw her when I was being trained for High Risk Ward patrol…”

“What did she do?”

Torin flinched when Himel’s initial response proved to be a rough slap to the head. “What do you mean, ‘what did she do,’ you idiot?”

Torin shrugged apologetically, rubbing his now reddened ear. Himel was his guard partner, soon to be reassigned as the young man reached the year long mark at his post. After that, Torin would be free to patrol and work alone on any of the nearly empty wards of Gil’ead’s prison.

Cuffs to the head and gruff demeanor aside, Torin admitted only to himself that he would miss his companionship. The halls were lonely, and the prisoners were not much for talking if they had the rather horrific honor of occupying this particular ward of the prison.

“I’m just wondering, you know?” The young man again peeked through the barred window of the cell, watching the bloodied, unconscious occupant where she lay slumped on the floor. “The General is always so…brutal. She had to have done something crazy to have him as her interrogator.”

Himel pinched the smashed bridge of his crooked nose. The man was over twice Torin’s age and had been a guard in the High Risk Ward for longer than the youth was alive. To say he had little patience for the boy’s curiosity would have been a severe understatement. “It’s not our business what she did. She pissed off the King. Not to mention if you had anything between your ears you’d already have noticed that thing isn’t human.”

All the moisture in Torin’s mouth fled at those words. The fine sawdust of ingrained fear that coated his tongue was a familiar feeling. He always felt it when the General was near, every nerve telling him to run, or, better yet, find a deep dark crevice to cower in well out of his clawed reach.

Torin moved back from the cell door, hands twitchy with anxiety. “So she’s like…She’s another Shade, then?”

The youth’s partner snorted. “Course she ain’t.” Himel spat to the side, distaste coloring his features. “The General woulda killed any other competition if she were a Shade. That there’s an elf.”

“Are you serious?” At that Torin was back at the bars, straining to pick out any identifying features that would confirm Himel’s assertion.

“Of course I’m feckin’ serious, idiot.” Torin let out a whuff of breath as the veteran clamped a hand down on his shoulder and pulled him back. “And you’ll be seeing plenty of her. She’s not going anywhere any time soon. ‘nless the King himself wants at crack at at breaking the General’s new toy himself, that is.

“Come on. It’s almost lunch break and I want to get a head start on the mess hall. Pick up the pace.”

Torin risked one last glance at the elf’s cell before following Himel down the hall for the last lap of their patrol.

~~~

Sycamore Blossom: Curiosity

#Modern Inheritance #inheritance cycle #eragon #modern inheritance stories #the cyclists #Ket's Modern Inheritance Cycle #the inheritance cycle #arya #islanzadi #torin #torin aldsson #torin's story #gil'ead #torin is the manifestation of all my anxiety tics

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scribblesonpebbles · 4 years

Note

Sastiel omegaverse please!

Hi, thank you for this request! You hadn’t specified who you wanted as the alpha or omega, so I ended up going with my personal preference of Omega!Cas/Omega!Sam since I think they would make a very cute omega pair! I’m sorry if you wanted differently, but I’m sure that I’ll get around to writing Alpha!Cas and Alpha!Sam someday anyways. In this fic, human omegas don’t nest but omega angels do.

There is a bit of build up and eventually smut in this post so please be cautious!!! ~1500 words, you can read below or read it on ao3.

•••••

“Hey Cas, are you in there? The light’s on.” The angel heard his boyfriend outside of his room knocking at the door. Well, technically his old room. He moved into Sam’s ever since they started a relationship together.

“Yes,” Castiel said and began to panic a little. This was not the best time for Sam to come in. “I thought you had fallen asleep.” Everyday, Castiel would stay by his omega partner until the other man closed his eyes to slumber.

Sam opened the door. “I had, but I woke up shortly after. You weren’t there in my room so I went looking for you and I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but it’s just,” Sam took a breath, his cheeks pinkish, “I like it when you’re with me.”

Hearing that, the angel felt a warmth well up inside him. He wanted to embrace his lover and promise he’d never leave him again. Before he could express his sentiments, he saw the confused furrow in Sam’s eyebrows, his partner’s eyes directed at the blankets, pillows and clothes piled on the mattress behind him.

“What are you doing, anyways?” Sam asked, “Why do I see my jacket in there?” He took slow steps forward to examine the disarrayed heap.

“That is my nest,” Castiel supposed he couldn’t get out of this one, letting out a sigh.

“Your what, now?” His boyfriend was more puzzled than ever.

“My nest,” he repeated. “Omega angels, we perform a physical activity called ‘nesting’ from time to time. It is when we surround ourselves with soft materials and things that smell good to us,” explained Castiel, who noticed how Sam’s eyes were focused on him, absorbing the information. “It’s a bit similar to how you humans ‘sleep’. When we nest, we relax ourselves and replenish our grace. Besides that, we also build nests for our heats.”

“Wow,” Sam’s voice had a tinge of awe, “That’s fascinating, I never saw anything like that in the angel lore I’ve read.” The hunter was vibrating with excitement about the new information, but then frowned. “Cas, you never nested when you spent your heats with me.”

The angel averted his eyes, “I didn’t nest with you because,” he paused to take a shaky breath, “I was worried of what you’d think. Angels don’t sleep, don’t eat... I know how that unsettles humans. This too would be viewed as a strange angel tradition,” his voice trailed off to a whisper, “A-and I didn’t want to scare you off.” Castiel felt his lover’s big warm hands cup his cheeks and guided his head so that he met Sam’s eyes. His beautiful multicolored eyes of hazel, green, seemingly all colors, gazed deep into his, full of compassion and tenderness.

“Cas,” Sam murmured, one thumb stroked back and forth on his cheek. “No matter what, I will always accept you. I love you for who you are. I need you to know that, okay?”

It felt like a weight was lifted off Castiel’s shoulders. He dipped his head in a nod, “Yes. Yes, of course. I love you too, Sam. For who you are.” Castiel remembered being apprehensive when he had first heard about the boy with demon blood. That all changed when he had met Sam and his heart of pure gold.

His partner smiled. “Besides, you can smite people with the touch of your palm. You think I’d turn away now?” He raised an eyebrow.

A chuckle escaped Castiel’s lips. For a few minutes it was just silence and light caresses of reassurance. Eventually, the angel spoke, “Thank you for this. I will strive to inform you about these subjects better.”

Sam nodded, “You can always talk to me.” He placed a peck of his lips on the top of his fluffy head. “Do you want to nest now? I want to experience it with you, but if you want some space I can leave—”

“No,” the angel quickly shook his head. “Stay.” Grasping Sam’s hands, he lowered himself into his nest and brought Sam with him, the two rolled until they faced each other with their limbs intertwining. Castiel’s head tucked into Sam’s chest so he could inhale his potent, sweet omega scent. He hummed as he felt his grace start to spark.

A gasp came from Sam, “Cas, is that your grace? I can feel its vibrations.”

“Yes, that would be my grace replenishing,” his soft low voice came out.

“It feels nice.” His lover nuzzled into him.

They snuggled quietly until about twenty minutes later. The taller was squirming around, then Castiel felt a hardness poking him.

“Sorry,” Sam whimpered, “Your grace... your scent and warmth of you and your nest here…” he trailed off.

The angel smiled, “Let’s take care of it.” He shifted his body lower and pulled down the boxers in front of him. A gorgeous curved cock sprung out, already leaking. It was big for an omega. Omegas tended to have smaller cocks, but then again omegas also tended to be smaller in body size and Sam was far from that. He coaxed the beaded pre-come to spill out of his cock by rubbing at its sensitive head. With a firm grip, he stroked up and down the shaft, soft groans slipping out of Sam, his hands grabbing at Castiel’s hair.

“Please, Cas…” he begged. “I want your mouth. Need it.” The angel hadn’t needed the encouragement since he himself was drooling at the omega’s erection, but he accepted it nonetheless. He brought his lips down on the aching hardness to gently suckle the head and tongue at his slit. His teasing came to an end quickly as he enveloped his lover’s cock with his slick, hot mouth. The taste of his pre-come made him hum around the length, which erupted a loud moan from his lover.

He sucked and bobbed his head while swirling his tongue around. Damp hair stuck to his forehead and his own slick starting to seep through his pants. The feeling of his lover’s cock filling his mouth so nicely, the hot air and the buzz of his grace was making his mind hazy with pleasure. He snuck a hand behind to delve into the wetness between Sam’s cheeks, the slick flowed out in copious amounts. With attentive fingers, he rubbed at the rim.

“Caaassss. Oh, god. Please, please, please.” Two fingers plunged deep into his sloppy hole, obscene squelching filled the room along with Sam’s high-pitched keen. The angel continued to stuff his mouth with the erection and amplify his grace, and soon with a quirk of his fingers hitting the omega’s prostate, his lover cried and shuddered into his mouth. Castiel helped him get through his orgasm with gentle sucking administrations and swallowed the sweet come down eagerly.

“Fuck,” the ragged voice of Sam barely managed, “That felt amazing.” Cas shot him a weak smile in agreement. He lay back to catch a breath, but sweaty hands gripped him and manhandled him until his ass was bare and in the air. Hands spread his cheeks apart and his hole twitched at being exposed. Slick ran steadily down his thighs. “Your turn,” Sam husked.

A thick, warm tongue massaged his perineum, then moved to alternating between sucking and licking his rim. Castiel mewled. “Sam, pleaaase.” He felt his hole flutter with need and he pushed back onto the tongue, but Sam pulled back and tsk-ed.

“C’mon Cas, be good for me. I’ll give you what you need in a sec.” After licking for another minute, his hole was breached by the tongue and wiggled in, caressing his walls. Castiel keened and started chanting Sam’s name like a prayer. His skilled lover slurped and slurped, face flushed from being pressed so hotly against Castiel’s ass and his angel’s slick smeared all over his face.

When Sam got up for air, he pushed one of his long, thick fingers into the needy hole. The writhing omega gasped at the deep intrusion and a low whine was punched out of him, his hands clawed the blankets underneath him. After a couple of thrusts, he swiftly added two more fingers and started a fast and hard pace. The omega cried out from the pleasure and felt his grace bubble up inside, tingling through his body. Sam sought out his prostate to strike and rub at. His sensitive walls clamped down on the fingers in a vice-like grip and soon, Castiel saw white as he came untouched, a moan quivered out of him. He flopped down and Sam tumbled with him. They were back to being face to face, but this time panting passed between them and the touches of their skin were sticky.

“Extraordinary,” Cas rasped out.

Lips quirked slyly on Sam’s face. “Does this mean we’re going to nest more often?”

“Yes, it does.” Cas earnestly replied, the blunt response making his lover laugh.

They cuddled, holding each other tight. Eventually, Sam drifted off into sleep, leaving Castiel to stroke his fingers in soft, lush brown hair as he regarded his lover’s serene expression. This time, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

#sastiel #sastiel fic #my fic #asks #prompt fill #a/b/o dynamics #omegaverse #Omega!Cas #Omega!Sam #smut

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weirdponytail · 4 years

Text

Modern Inheritance: Sycamore Blossom (Pt 2 of Torin’s Story)

Part 1 // PART 2 // Part 3 // TBC

The elf woman in the hall regarded his offered hand with a cool stare. She did not move from her seat, arms settled lightly across her chest.

Then the woman moved her gaze to his face and gestured slightly, pale fingers flicking a soft acknowledgement of his attempt at parley. “My name is Islanzadí Drötting. You my address me as Your Majesty or Ma’am.”

The man’s heart felt as though it would burst.

“Yes Ma’am.”

By unlocking the cell, she– no, it’s Queen Islanzadí– the Queen had executed several strategic moves at once.

Torin repressed a shudder as he settled down cross legged a meter back from the open door.

Once again he was a field mouse, the protective stone above his burrow removed so that he now faced the elegant hawk at the end of an inescapable ravine.

The man breathed deeply. “How...how much do you want to know?”

Islanzadí’s golden eyes narrowed. “Everything.”

Torin bobbed his head and looked down at his hands. Flexed his fingers before folding them in at the second joints. “I...I didn’t know her name. She never talked.” A small smile made its way through the nervousness as he toyed with his torn knuckles, half scarred and half healed. “Well...she swore a couple times. At the General and…” His throat went dry again. He dug his thumbnail into one knuckle unconsciously to lessen the itch a new surge of anxiety swarmed into his hands. “At...at the other guards.”

“Other?” The sharp sting of the word made Torin flinch. She knew now.

The fresh gouge on his knuckle waited to fill with blood, white and empty with pressure as Torin clenched his free hand over the bent joints and hated himself for the words he spoke.

“I was one of them.”

And then, as if halted by an immovable wall, they stopped. The clouds retreated somewhat to await their commander’s call.

Torin risked raising his eyes. Islanzadí was regarding him, eyes frigid and lips tight with restrained contempt as she drew herself up.

“My question still stands, Aldsson.” Her voice was reminiscent of the distant promise of thunder. “Explain yourself. Tell me everything that you know.”

Torin’s shoulders slumped lightly in relief. He would live, for now. He had a chance to tell his story.

“Yes Ma’am.” He wet his lips and again rain his fingers over his torn knuckles before he began. “I first saw her when I was being trained for High Risk Ward patrol…”

“What did she do?”

Torin flinched when Himel’s initial response proved to be a rough slap to the head. “What do you mean, ‘what did she do,’ you idiot?”

“I’m just wondering, you know?” The young man again peeked through the barred window of the cell, watching the bloodied, unconscious occupant where she lay slumped on the floor. “The General is always so...brutal. She had to have done something crazy to have him as her interrogator.”

Torin moved back from the cell door, hands twitchy with anxiety. “So she’s like...She’s another Shade, then?”

“Are you serious?” At that Torin was back at the bars, straining to pick out any identifying features that would confirm Himel’s assertion.

“Come on. It’s almost lunch break and I want to get a head start on the mess hall. Pick up the pace.”

Torin risked one last glance at the elf’s cell before following Himel down the hall for the last lap of their patrol.

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have-some-gotdamn-faith · 5 years

Note

Oh friend... do I have a request for you. Fem!reader x Pining!Micah. He finds her having a complete breakdown (crying, like the kinda crying you'd only do in the shower cause no one's going to interrupt you and the water is so loud... [guess who's still in her depressive state =D]) but anyway angst, fluff, nsft, sft whatever you'd like. Please and thank you. If you don't wanna, as always it's totally okay and I understand.

I’m sorry to hear you’re still in the dumps, but I’m more than happy to try and help! Order up :D

Additionally, I’m making this my celebratory post for 242 of y’all! I thought it only fitting, considering you were one my first friends in this cowboy hell fandom

Word Count: 1,893 (but it seems WAY longer)

An Unwitting Shoulder (fem!Reader)

Clemen’s Point was a good place to be reflective; water lapped at the shore lazily and, on days where one could manage to get away from camp, there was almost a lulling quality to it.

A cigarette landed on the water with a soft ‘plonk’, and Micah watched it bob for a while with a frown. He hated the silence; it made one think, about things what needn’t be thought about. Thoughts, that led to something even more dangerous:

Hope.

Glancing up, the early morning sky had begun to sink from a dusty blue to hazy and grey—the clouds rolling in were heavy with the promise of a downpour, and soon. The soles of his boots crunched against the harder sediment in the wet earth and, unbidden, you came into his thoughts again.

It was fortunate you were away on duties; he was thankful for the wide brim of his hat, ducking his head down to shield himself from the first trickles of raindrops and any wandering eyes that might fall on an uncharacteristically wistful half-smile. Casting a surreptitious glance into your tent, he saw the small gathering of flower’s he’d left—no name, nothing to identify the origin—resting on your pillow, and Micah’s chest tightened happily.

You’d kept them.

The rain began to come down proper, now, blanketing the camp in a gentle, whispering lullaby. Come to think on it, the errands you’d been sent on shouldn’t have taken quite so long as they were. Before he had a chance to continue that line of thought, hooves thundered through the mud as your companions—Arthur and Charles—returned. Your absence was glaring, and defensive concern spurred him towards the hitching posts.

“You’re back late,” he spat, offering his hand to take as though he were actually being helpful in the burden of spoils. On that regard, he was unanswered—instead, Micah was met with a scoff from both men.

“You keepin’ track like some hen?” Arthur quipped. “We’re back, s’what matters.”

The blond man retracted his offered ‘assistance’, the corners of his lips turning down.

“You’re comin’ back a little light, ain’t’cha?” Micah tossed back, looking over them both with smug disapproval. “I seem to remember three of you leavin’.”

At this both Arthur and Charles looked between each other, sharing a look he couldn’t quite decipher.

“Wasn’t our decision,” Charles hummed, shrugging.

“What’chu mean by that?”

Charles shouldered a hefty haversack, ignoring him in favour of wiping hard at the soaking stains melting down his shirt and making off towards the camp’s communal funds. Arthur followed and, huffing at being so quickly dismissed, Micah brought up the rear.

“I don’t like repeatin’ myself, dar—”

“Then don’t—do us all a favour and shut your mouth.” Charles hadn’t stopped moving, but he shot back a look that threatened any further snide commentary to be met with physical rebuttal.

Arthur barked a laugh, catching the brief moment of baffled surprise on Micah’s face before it snapped to his customary scowl.

“What’chu so adamant for, anyhow?” It was Arthur’s turn to be inquisitive. “You think we’d just leave her without a reason, or makin’ sure she’s okay?”

“I think Dutch’ll wanna know why yer leavin’ our womenfolk all around the countryside—” Micah gestured vaguely, swinging his arm wide behind him. “—when there’s work to be done!”

“I ain’t leave nobody,” he reiterated. “And if you’re so worried, be useful for once an’ do it’cherself.”

It was all Arthur offered, throwing a hand towards him that bordered on shooing, as he turned back to catch up with Charles. Micah’s fingers twitched, itching so badly to go to his pistol. Why he was so fired up over you was hardly a question, but he had to remind himself that he weren’t yet your beau—no one knew how much of a weak spot you’d become to him, and no one would for as long as he had say.

To keep suspicions low he had to let the issue drop, and instead circled wide towards their charismatic leader’s tent. Knowing Dutch’s pet, he’d report dutifully and prompt—sure enough you’d been left in the Saint’s Hotel, and Arthur was already slated to ride back out to check on you first thing tomorrow morning.

How fortunate, then, that someone was already making his way to saddle up Baylock.

Before heading out, Micah grabbed a fresh shirt—his union suit was mildly damp, but not unbearable—and ignored any passing inquiries to his destination. Valentine was a quick ride, made infinitely more tolerable by the rainstorm’s passing, and within a few hours the train station bobbed into view. The high noon sun had warmed the dew to an almost strangling degree and, before hitching his horse to the post, Micah tugged a couple buttons free before stepping inside the wooden building.

Asking for a ‘miss Kilgore’, he was directed up to the last room on the right. He’d barely cleared the landing when your choked sobs made it to his ears, and Micah approached his destination gingerly to keep from giving himself away.

The noises you made were strangled, and skipped any time you fought to take in a breath. Your sorrow was wet, deep-bellied and, unthinking, he pressed the flat of his hand against the door. Micah was absolutely, entirely certain he’d never heard anything so harshly guttural from you—he lost track of how long he spent, listening.

A rapid succession of sniffles and coughing brought him back to reality and why he was there at all, and suddenly his throat was gripped by an invisible hand.

Comfort wasn’t his strong suit, unless it erred on the physical side, and he was very much aware that he had no actual plan, here. He pursed and unpursed his lips, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before placing his hat on his chest and running uncertain fingers through to smooth his hair.

Knuckles rapped against the door, and the hiccuped attempts at muffling the crying inside only twisted his throat harder.

“A-Arthur?”

“No, but it ain’t any less a friendlier a face.”

The doorknob clicked, and you cracked the door open ever so. Bloodshot eyes met his blue ones, and he couldn’t help but reach up towards you. You watched him, studied him with an occasional hitched breath, and under your gaze he faltered—instead, the pads of his fingers fell on the door gingerly, and a hard exhale left his nostrils.

“I, ah, just wanted to check on you,” he murmured slowly, forcing the words out. “You…didn’t come back with the boys, and, ah…”

His mouth was dry, and Micah snapped his lips shut in the hope he could restore some moisture so he wouldn’t look like a damn fool—

Your hand came up to cover his, thumb running gently back and forth across his knuckles, and he found himself mesmerized. Saying nothing, you gestured to invite him in before stepping further back; he followed your lead, walking inside before closing the door behind him with nary a sound.

You had nothing but a chemise and your skirt on—modesty was the furthest thing from your mind, right now, and Micah wasn’t one to object. He hung his hat on the rack nearby before approaching closer; to test the waters, both hands rested on your bare upper arms.

His touch was rough and calloused, but warm, and you heard him take in a breath when you leaned backwards into his embrace. Leaning down, he very nearly pressed his lips against your shoulder, but his proximity ignited a fresh wave of tears—it was alarming, and Micah stiffened as you buried your face in your hands.

When you turned to push yourself into his chest, it took him a few moments before realizing he ought to wrap himself around you. Any time he tightened his arms, you only cried harder, and it was difficult to decide what it was you truly wanted.

“Come on, sugar pie,” he murmured. It was surprisingly tender, to his disgust, but the gravelly rumble of his low voice pushed you further in, so perhaps it wasn’t so bad. “What’s got you all riled up?”

You shook your head, and your shoulders shook harder.

“Did them boys do somethin’ to you?” It was unlikely, he knew, but having a physical target gave Micah enough resolve to lock his arms securely around you. “You can tell me.”

You shook your head again, confirming what he knew to be logically true. A shame, really—he would have loved any excuse to stroll back into camp with the distinct pursuit of decking Arthur or Charles into the dirt. He might still, if he inflated the fact you were bawling your heart out in his arms. The idea drew a wicked grin across his face.

You choked out something indiscernible, and he pressed his lips into your hair. Micah was deeply grateful you were too wrapped up in your sorrow to see him marinating in such cheshire glee.

“Don’t matter now, I’m here. I gotcha.”

Newly inspired with an ulterior motive, and the chance to be the one to soothe the hot tears spilling down your cheeks, he hummed sweet things to you as one of his hands pushed a heavy, soothing trail up and down your back. Truly, what a unique position he found himself in.

It distracted him from the thought he continuously kept shoving backwards—again, those thoughts. He didn’t dare let it take a foothold that being here, alone, with you threatened to encourage something else.

Happiness.

Contentedness.

The thought alone snapped cold in his gullet, and Micah pushed his attention even harder on you. Cradling you close to his own body and setting his feet apart, he began to sway softly at the hip to ease your nerves. It seemed to be working—your sobs had softened back to hiccups and gurgles, and he whispered sweet encouragement. Fingers combed slowly, awkwardly, through your locks, and he breathed you in when you dug your hands into the breast of his shirt.

“My girl, you gonna be alright,” he whispered. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

He kept digging himself deeper and deeper into this rabbit hole of tenderness, but the reactions Micah got out of you made the lurching vulnerability in his throat easier to bear.

“How’s about I get you some more flowers. Would you like that?”

Bleary-eyed you looked up to him, and he did his absolute damnedest to school his expression into what he hoped could be interpreted as a soft smile. He bore himself against every instinct beat into him, claiming ownership of the flowers waiting for you at camp—he locked his legs into place, hoping to stop the trembling that had taken hold in the joints.

Micah pressed a light kiss to your forehead when you said nothing, unwilling to linger on your skin for his sake more than your own. When you nodded, though, he kissed you again.

“Wash your face, doll—let’s get you some fresh air.”

For now, he could show you that he was a stable foundation, that he was reliable. He needed to buy some time to calm the fluttering in his belly, anyhow, as you pressed a kiss to his cheek before he left you to tidy up.

#madnessismylover #micah bell #micah bell x reader #an unwitting shoulder #micah drabble #red dead imagine #red dead redemption 2 #red dead fandom #red dead writing #WOW THIS GOT.......REALLY LONG #AND REALLY FLUFFY

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magnoliasinbloom · 5 years

Text

The Midwife - II

AO3 :: Previously

“I’d have to fracture the bones again,” I said softly. “’Twill have to stay like this. Likely your hand will always hurt when the weather turns cold.”

I marveled at the stretch of the phalanges, his skin covering them. The calluses reminiscent of the hard farm work he had been used to and that drove me wild when I felt them against my body. Jamie was beautifully made, the long, lean lines of his body drawn against me.

“You’re a brave, braw lass,” he said, kissing my temple. “But despite yer formidable skills, I’d rather not have my hand broken again, I thank ye.” He shifted, cradling me from behind. He snuffled into my hair and I laughed briefly, lifting the mass of curls away from my neck.

Neither of us slept, savoring these hours we had together. We spoke softly in the small hours of dawn. He would have to go back to his chambers soon. Rupert and Angus watched him too carefully, and we could not arouse suspicion. Reluctantly, I gave him the ring back; Mistress Beauchamp was not married. Jamie wouldn’t have it. He told me to keep it, safely hidden away.

“Sassenach… I ken well why you chose to change yer name.” Jamie traced patterns on the skin of my belly. “I meant what I said, before. Ye have my protection, in whatever way ye may need it.”

“I know, Jamie. We will just have to bide our time, and get away to Lallybroch as soon as we can.”

“With the Gathering, Dougal has sentries posted all around Leoch. Afterwards, perhaps we can make our way out when all the clans leave.”

The sky outside the window was tinged with grey, signaling the oncoming dawn. With a groan, Jamie rose from the small cot. In between dressing himself, he placed kisses on my body, anywhere he could reach. Finally, he put on his boots and with a parting embrace, left to sneak back into his rooms. I dressed myself, and found a hiding place for my ring. I slipped it inside a green glass-stoppered bottle, corked and stowed behind similar bottles full of tonics and remedies.

Until it was safe to declare ourselves to the world, I would hide it and my feelings for Jamie. Until then.

* * *

With help from the kitchen girls—Iona and Morag—the Beaton’s dispensary was ready in no time. Already, that day, I had tended to the blacksmith with a nasty burn along the forearm, and a milkmaid with cramps. I set about claiming part of the kitchen garden to plant herbs, with Mrs. Fitz’s blessing.

“Some of these grow wild, ye ken, dearie,” she said, fingering the mint. “But others require a helping hand.” She lowered her voice. “The wise-woman in the forest, Maisri, has some rare herbs, should ye have need. I heard she helps the married lassies conceive, and does love-potions and such. A helping hand.”

I smiled. “I do not think I have a need for any of that just yet, Mrs. Fitz. But thank you.” I wiped my hands on my already grubby apron. “Is there anything I can do for you, ma’am?”

“Actually, dearie, if ye wouldna mind… I send food every day to the lads who work the stables. Can ye take the basket to them?” I jumped at the chance. I knew Jamie took care of the horses and had not seen him since he’d left at dawn. Wielding the heavy basket on my hip, I crested the hill beyond which the stables were kept. I could glimpse the glare of Jamie’s hair from a distance. He wore a shirt and kilt, pitching hay onto a cart. He spoke to someone I couldn’t see, his back to me, but I heard the soft murmur of his voice. A higher-pitched female voice responded. As I approached, I caught sight of a young girl, blonde hair waving in the wind. It was the girl who had welcomed me yesterday, a simpering smile on her face, clearly flirtatious. Oh, this would not do.

“Mistress Beauchamp!” She greeted me once more, and Jamie whirled, apprehension on his face. I nodded briefly at them and raised the basket.

“Mrs. Fitzgibbons sent lunch for the stable hands. Where shall I set it?”

“Och, here is fine, lass. Let me help ye.” Jamie took the basket off my hands, shaking his head minutely. I did not understand the meaning of this, but I turned to the girl.

“I am sorry, but I do not think your grandmother introduced us yesterday,” I said. “You know my name, of course.”

“Aye, mistress, the laird is fair pleased to have a healer on the castle grounds once more. I am Laoghaire MacKenzie.” She bobbed her head in half a curtsy. “Do ye ken Mr. Fraser?”

Jamie had been bustling about, spreading the heavy hamper’s contents on a clean plaid blanket and calling down the stable boys. His eyes were wary when he heard Laoghaire’s words. “James Fraser. A pleasure, Mistress Beauchamp.”

“Jamie is my betrothed,” said Laoghaire.

My heart stopped. Jamie’s own countenance flushed dark red, and it seemed his whole head was on fire. My hands shook, and I hid them in the folds of my skirt. “Indeed. Congratulations.”

“Laoghaire… ye ken it’s no’ official yet. Dougal has not—”

“But my da has accepted, and so have I!” Laoghaire smiled smugly, crossing her arms stubbornly across her chest. I felt like slapping the grin off her face.

“Laoghaire, I’m afraid your grandmother wants you in the kitchens.” I gave her a smile of my own, and she nodded, scampering off; as she swept past Jamie, she caressed his shoulder in a proprietary way that was not lost on me. He shrugged off her touch, his pleading eyes on me. Two scrawny boys fell upon the food with alacrity, and Jamie gestured for me to follow him to the stables.

Once inside the fragrant coolness of the stables, Jamie took my arm gently and led me inside an unoccupied stall. “Alec is off in the pasture fields, we shouldna be disturbed for awhile yet.”

I yanked my arm out of his grasp, and he backed away, hands held up in the air. “So, when exactly did you plan on telling me about your betrothed, James Fraser? After you bedded me, your wife, or not until you stood before the priest and married Laoghaire?” I could not keep the venom from my voice.

“Sassenach, ye ken I—”

“Do not call me that!” I burst out, kicking hay out of my path and folding myself into a corner of the stall. I heard snorting and stamping from the adjacent stalls, the horses uneasy in the presence of a stranger such as myself.

“Claire. Ye must know, I would never play ye false. Yes, Dougal wishes me to marry Laoghaire. I told him when I first arrived that I was already marrit, to you! When I received the letter with news of your death, he pushed harder still for me to be wed. I have refused time and time again, Claire, ye have to believe me!” Jamie approached me slowly, like a skittish mare.

“I went through hell and back to get to you, Jamie. Perhaps I should not have bothered.” My voice was small and hopeless. I thought I could go back to l’hôpital, I thought Mother Hildegarde would receive me with open arms. And I could begin to forget. “I’ll leave tomorrow.”

“Sass—Claire, heed me. I thought I lost ye once, I dinna think I can do it again. Do ye not trust that I will do right by ye?” Jamie said desperately.

“I trust what I see—that all odds are against us, your own family wishes to see you wed to another, and that there is no place for me here.”

“Do ye have errands to run in the village?”

“What?” I was caught off guard by his non-sequitur.

“There is a man called Ned Gowan. He’s a solicitor, and an old friend of my father’s. I bid ye go to Cranesmuir tomorrow at noon to his offices. He will draw up a marriage contract. We will be wed in the eyes of the law as weel, and naught Dougal can do about it.”

I was rendered speechless. Jamie stood before me, arms crossed, regarding me warily. There was nothing I could say against his plan; it gave us what we wanted, a degree of protection that could prove indissoluble. I covered my face with my hands, and rubbed my eyes.

“How will you get away from your keepers?” I asked finally.

“Dinna fash about that, Sass—Claire.” He stepped closer, and put his hands on my arms carefully. I will make them drunk tonight on my uncle’s good whiskey and they will sleep it off come morning.”

“Of course I fash, Jamie, as you so charmingly word it.”

“Trust, Claire. I love ye. I will let nothing harm ye.” Jamie pulled me into his arms, his hands smoothing over the unruly curls and kissing my hair. “Now, dinna mind Laoghaire and her ideas. Like I told Dougal, a wedding’s no wedding if I dinna say aye.”

“I am willing to try anything. I will meet you in Cranesmuir tomorrow.” I gave him a brief kiss, as delighted shrieks came from outside. I assumed the lads had discovered the sugar buns Mrs. Fitz had so thoughtfully included in the basket. I walked out of the stable, pulling my hands away from Jamie’s, who did not want to let go, with a playful grin on his face.

“Alright, Mr. Fraser,” I called out loudly. “Come fetch coneflower salve later for the sore on the mare’s leg.”

“I will, mistress, I thank ye.” He attempted what can only be described as a wink, but he could not close the one eye; he blinked both and looked like a bright red owl.

For the first time in months, I laughed with all my heart.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #outlander au #jamie and claire #the midwife 2.4 #making moodboards is hard but fun

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captainkippen · 5 years

Note

tyrus #40 for kissing prompts please?? tysm

SEND ME FIC PROMPTS

40. A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.

The realisation that he’s in love with Cyrus hits TJ like a truck going ninety down the highway. It comes out of nowhere… well, not totally, it’s been building for a while even if he hasn’t noticed it, and it knocks him on his hypothetical butt as a result. They’re seventeen and Cyrus has been behaving suspiciously all week; he’s not very good at lying and he’s even more terrible at hiding the secretive smiles he exchanges with their friends. No matter how hard he grills them, none of the others will tell TJ what he’s up to. This is annoying for a number of reasons but mostly because the whole group is usually pretty bad at keeping secrets, however for some reason they’ve unanimously decided to keep a lid on it tighter than a CIA case file. TJ is a naturally curious person and by the time the weekend rolls around he’s become irritable and grouchy, which only seems to amuse Cyrus further.

On Saturday night he appears at the front door of the Kippen household dressed in nice jeans and a sweater. Even as he pulls him out of the house he refuses to tell TJ where they’re going, just makes him get into the car and ignores the stream of questions getting fired at him. TJ folds his arms and tries to sulk about it, but this is easier said than done in the face of an excited Cyrus. His leg jumps anxiously and he taps his fingers against the steering wheel as he drives, chattering about a litany of irrelevant topics that TJ can’t help but share his opinion on. He’s so good at distracting him that by the time they park he’s almost forgotten that he’s meant to be annoyed.

They get out of the car and the sound of their slamming doors echoes through the darkness. They’re parked at the edge of the forest just outside of town. TJ frowns. This is odd. By the edge of the trees, there’s a rickety picnic table covered in glass lanterns that glow like a beacon in the night.

“This way,” Cyrus smiles, picking up one of the lanterns. TJ follows with tentative footsteps. There are a million questions racing around his mind right now but he doubts Cyrus will answer any of them if the past week is anything to go on. They head towards the treeline and he realises suddenly that there’s a path cutting through the trees ahead of them and it’s lit up by hanging lanterns and strings of fairy lights slung across tree branches. The overall effect it gives is that of an enchanted forest right out of an old story - he half expects a collection of curious woodland creatures to appear and settle around Cyrus as if he were a Disney princess.

“Where are we going?” He asks, unable to hold it in any longer.

“Just be patient,” Cyrus replies, flapping a careful hand at him to wave off the question and then holding it out for TJ to take when he sighs. They interlock their fingers and wander down the winding slope of the path. “We’re almost there.”

They keep going for another few minutes and then Cyrus slows to a complete stop and turns to look at TJ with a grin. “Okay, close your eyes.”

“Why?”

“Because! It’s a surprise!”

“Is this how I die?”

“Just shut up and do as your told.”

He sighs again, louder this time, but does as ordered. Cyrus starts walking again, tugging at his hand and guiding him with care over the uneven ground. They must hit a break in the trees because the open air on his cheeks feels stronger now and he can hear… lapping water? Where the hell are they?

“Okay, you can open them.”

Stunned is a weak word to use in order to describe how TJ feels when he takes in the sight before them. They’re at the edge of a small lake, surrounded by trees, and before them stretches out a crooked little jetty. Tied next to it bobs a little sailboat. Like the trees, it is lit up with fairy lights and lanterns. It looks like something out of a painting. Or a dream. TJ can feel himself smiling without meaning to.

“What is all this?”

“This,” Cyrus stretches his arms out to gesture to all of it with pride, “is our date for tonight.”

“You did all this for a date?” TJ is floored. They’ve been together for three years now. He and Cyrus go on a lot of dates, in fact, he’s pretty sure they’ve gone on every type imaginable at this point, but this is… something else. This is special. They’ve never put this much effort into their dates before; they’ve always just been content to be together. Nothing else was needed.

Cyrus just gives him a one-shouldered shrug and starts pushing him towards the jetty. “The others helped me, but yes.”

“Oh, so that’s why all of you were being so annoying all week!” He teases.

“You got so grumpy I thought you were going to kill us before we even got here.”

TJ resists for a moment and Cyrus stops pushing. He turns so they’re looking at one another properly. Cyrus is chewing on his lip and despite the confident amusement of his words, his eyes look nervous. TJ melts.

“You didn’t have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to do something nice for you. You’re always doing stuff for me so… yeah.”

There’s a moment of heavy quiet and dopey smiles before Cyrus rolls his eyes and begins shoving him towards the boat again.

Never in his life would TJ have ever thought he’d be lucky enough to spend a Saturday night snuggled in a pile of cushions and blankets on the floor of a sailboat watching Netflix with the most amazing boy he’d ever met. It was made even more incredible by the way the stars twinkled brightly above them and the breeze flittered across the water’s surface like invisible sprites kicking at it. It was so secluded and peaceful. Their own little bubble of romance.

That’s when it hits him.

He is utterly and completely bone-deep in love with Cyrus Goodman.

It feels like it should have been the most obvious thing in the world but it really does take him by surprise. Obviously, he had known he cared for Cyrus more than he cared for just about anyone. It was clear to everyone, including himself, that they were going to be together a very long time. In fact, he couldn’t picture a future without Cyrus at this point. However, for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to him to put the word ‘love’ to that feeling until listening to Cyrus giggle at a stupid joke on The Office and thinking ‘wow, I love that laugh’.

‘Wow, I love him.’

They tell each other everything, even the most terrifying things, and they have a promise not to hold anything back. TJ thinks this is probably the kind of thing he should let his boyfriend know about, especially since it does indeed concern him. He clears his throat.

“Cy?”

Cyrus turns to him with a smile. His big brown eyes are soft and happy - as cheesy as it sounds, there’s a moment where TJ thinks he can see his future in them.

“I have to tell you something.”

The seriousness of his tone makes Cyrus’ brow crease in concern. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, it’s just…” he takes a deep breath. “I love you. I just wanted to tell you that.”

Cyrus stares at him for a moment, unblinking. TJ didn’t consider how scary this would be.

“You don’t have to say it back,” he says quickly. “I mean, if you’re not-”

He’s cut off by Cyrus’ lips on his. It’s a chaste kiss, the gentle goodnight kind exchanged in front of front doors at the end of dates, but as TJ goes to pull away Cyrus tangles a hand in the front of his shirt and reels him back in. In a flash, it goes from small and sweet to deep and intoxicating. They’ve kissed a lot in the time they’ve been together and in TJ’s opinion they’re pretty damn good at it, but this is on another level entirely. He cups Cyrus’ face and pushes back, deepening it further. It’s electric. It tastes something like euphoria, but maybe that’s just the chocolate they were eating earlier.

When they finally break apart, leaning their foreheads together and breathing heavily, Cyrus beams up at him. “I love you too,” he says. “So much. I love you so much, TJ.”

He might not have expected it, but falling in love with Cyrus Goodman is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. And definitely knows it.

#tyrus #andi mack #my writing #Anonymous

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thelasthomelyurl · 5 years

Link

A hurt/comfort story spanning the last few hundred years before the end of the world. M Rating is mostly for mature themes (and just a little bit of the last chapter).

Read it on AO3. (Or under the cut below)

Heartfelt thanks to @curlycrowley/@letsgomindthestore for being an unbeatable beta!

Chapter 1: 1837 AD

It was a dark and smoggy night. Although humans hadn’t actually coined the word “smog” yet, they were already experts at producing it: the nascent Industrial Revolution was setting records for spewing pollutants into the air at an ever-increasing pace. Factories belched out a perpetual smoke that clung to the buildings and the air right around head-height. Theologically, Crowley was all for the despoiling of Earth’s bounty. Personally, though, he missed the smell of clean air. It used to be plentiful but had been slowly on the decline since the thirteenth century, although he supposed the increase in smoke and particulates was offset somewhat by the humans’ significant strides in the areas of hiding and surreptitiously dealing with their nightsoil. Gain a little, lose a little, he thought.

Neither pollution nor the exceedingly late hour kept Londoners pent up in their homes—leastways, not in the parts of town which Crowley frequented. He’d just come from depositing an archdeacon at the door of an establishment whose business day was only just beginning. Not his favourite part of the job, but he consoled himself with the knowledge that it was, at least, the kind of place whose chief attractions had made their own choice to be there and did quite well for themselves. It helped, a little.

Crowley was jolted out of his walking reverie by an abrupt sound from an alley off to his left—the thick slap of flesh-on-flesh cutting off a shout. He turned mid-stride and headed towards the noise, slit-pupiled eyes searching the darkness. Continuing sounds of a scuffle led him to them: two wretched forms crouched almost protectively over a child (Crowley was bad at human ages but guessed they couldn’t be more than eight or nine) who was doubled over and moaning weakly.

“Evening,” he said, hands shoved in the pockets of his breeches.

“Get yourself away,” snarled one of the adults, “if you know what’s best for you.”

“That your kid?” Crowley asked as if they were exchanging opinions about the weather.

“He is now,” said the other. This was accompanied by renewed whimpering and struggling from the child.

“‘S’that so?” asked Crowley. “And—beg pardon—when was the last time you had communion? Confession? Anything like that?”

“You can bugger yourself with your questions, priest,” came the reply.

Crowley smiled a tight-lipped smile into the darkness. “Not quite what I meant,” he said, and if there had been light to see it by, the two would-be kidnappers might have been tremendously alarmed by the sight of his forked tongue flickering out and tasting the tarnish on their souls.

“Excsssellent,” he breathed. He pulled his hands from his pockets.

Just a few moments and two soul-ripping shrieks later, the two adults were slumped lifelessly on the ground and a grinning Crowley hauled the child to his feet.

“Thank G-God for you, Mister,” the boy said. He sounded a little less grateful and a little more terrified, but who could blame him?

“No, don’t,” said Crowley. “D’you know where your home is?”

The boy nodded mutely and pointed.

“Good lad. Get yourself home, then. Don’t dawdle—and hail Satan.”

The boy hesitated for one bewildered moment, then took off like a startled deer in the direction he’d pointed. Crowley watched until he turned a corner, knowing that following the child would not precisely make matters better.

“Well, well,” hissed a voice in the darkness, and Crowley’s blood froze. His mind whirred into overdrive, trying to put odds on exactly how much trouble he was about to get himself into.

“Hastur,” he said with all the casual disaffectedness he could muster. “Fancy seeing you here.”

The inky shadows of the alleyway coalesced into two even inkier, shadowier forms. Two lords of Hell, Hastur and Dagon, stood there with hungry, excited looks about them.

“Odd night’s work for a demon, Crowley,” said Hastur.

“Oh, nothing special,” Crowley said. “Dropped the archdeacon off at the brothel and put a bob in his pocket. Little uninspired, I’ll grant you, but it’ll get the job d—“

“Save it, snake,” interrupted Dagon.

“I meant just now. Explain yourself,” Hastur added.

“Two souls secured for our master forevermore,” Crowley said blithely.

“Not bad enough,” said Hastur.

“What do you mean?” Crowley asked. “I saved them from any deathbed conversions or inspiring redemption arcs. Done and dusted.”

“And the whelp?”

“Planted the seeds of disbelief,” Crowley said glibly. “Plinked away at the foundation of his faith. Ten years from now, he’ll—hnngk!”

Hnngk was not at all what Crowley had meant to say. Dagon had startled the noise out of him with the simple expedient of a fist to the stomach. Before Crowley could recover, this was followed by several more infernally strong blows, including one to the side of his knees that resulted in him collapsing to the filthy ground in a graceless heap.

“Nice try,” said Hastur, “but you’ll excuse us if we’re unimpressed.” He punctuated this with a brutal stomp to Crowley’s ribs which robbed him of the last of his breath. As a demon, Crowley did not need to breathe, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless to be denied air, especially in such a manner.

Dagon kicked the soft flesh of his side. “I never liked you,” they spat, and they lifted their leg again.

With his final half-lucid thought, Crowley sent a desperate plea into the aether—not a prayer, but a supplication to the only being he believed in. It was a fool’s hope, but Crowley had always admitted himself to be a fool—at least in this one regard.

Dagon’s boot came down directly on Crowley’s face, and his vision blacked out.

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

Crowley couldn’t have said how much later it was that he regained awareness, but when he did, it was all at once with excruciating pain and clarity. He screamed, howled in agony as his nerve endings tore themselves asunder, as his skin ripped away from his flesh, as every muscle and sinew stretched beyond its limit. He wasn’t sure if he was shouting in any language or perhaps in all of them, but his whole being was focused on one thought—make it end. He begged for death, for utter exile, for the blankness of unbeing, whatever it took to escape the torment cracking apart the foundations of his very essence.

As suddenly as the torture had begun, it stopped, and an emptiness that was somehow worse crashed through the channels of agony that had been carved into his body and self. His vision cleared of the bloody, electric-fire haze of pain, and he caught the briefest glimpse of a dimly lit room before he succumbed to oblivion.

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

It was to his own tremendous surprise that Crowley woke again later. In the deep recesses of unconsciousness, some part of him had accepted that this was The End and had been grateful that never existing again would at least mean no more pain. There had been some regret, but if Crowley was good at anything, it was consigning himself to the inevitable, so it had not hurt very much. As he became more alert, his suppositions were proven more and more incorrect. At the very least, the pain was not at an end, which he supposed was a decent indicator that his existence was also not finished.

His very being felt bruised and wrung-out. Thudding aches radiated from his nose, his head, his lip, his chest, his legs, his hands—he gave up trying to inventory the individual hurts.

Still, he was no longer in boiling torment, which was, well, something.

With a thought, he miracled his corporation to wellness—and gasped in renewed agony as not only did it not take, but a force slammed into him, shoving him harder against whatever it was he was laying on and sending spikes of pain through all his injuries. At the same time, the damp smell of rotting earth and mildew hit him. The sensations overwhelmed him and tore away his feeble grip on consciousness.

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

His third awakening was to the strong scent of herbs and the feeling of gentle pressure against most of his body and the distinct sense of a familiar Presence. It was this last impression which roused him fully to wakefulness and caused him to sit upright—or, rather, to attempt to do so before his corporation told him very firmly that such an activity was quite definitely off-limits at present. After just the barest of movements, he fell back with a groan. He hurt too much to even be grateful that he was, apparently, safe, heavily bandaged, and being cushioned by something soft and plush.

“Crowley?” asked a voice from somewhere off to one side, and Crowley could have wept with relief. “Oh my, no, don’t even try—“ it continued, and then from the very corner of his one open eye, Crowley caught a glimpse of Aziraphale running into the room. “You must keep still, Crowley,” said the angel as he drew near the bed.

Crowley moved his head in the barest of nods, having come to much the same conclusion himself.

“You found me,” he said weakly, his voice grating with injury and wet with blood.

“And a good thing I did,” Aziraphale responded. “Lying there in the night, beside those two poor humans, like a—well, never mind.”

“What did they do,” Crowley asked at length. “I feel…”

“I know, pet,” Aziraphale said soothingly. “They’d beaten you within an inch of discorporation, how ever did they manage—”

“Not that,” Crowley said. “Not humans. Demons.” He frowned.

Aziraphale gave a soft gasp. “Oh, but how—and there were two humans…”

“Those were mine,” Crowley grunted. “Never mind that now, though—you found me in the alley? In London?”

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, looking alarmed. “Where else would…?”

“I was—it was torture, like the first fall into the pit, like…” he struggled for an adequate analogy to explain the sensation he’d had upon first regaining consciousness. He had half-convinced himself that he’d been brought back to Hell and then been returned somehow.

“Ah, well,” said Aziraphale, and Crowley got the impression that if he could really look at the angel properly, he would catch him blushing. “You gave me quite a fright,” Aziraphale said, as if that explained anything at all.

“...And?” Crowley prompted.

“And I… well, I used a—you must understand, you were in such an awful state. I don’t know that I had any other choice.”

Crowley let out a hissing breath and waited.

“I used a miracle,” Aziraphale said, his voice brimming with contrition.

Ah.

“A divine… fucking… blessing?” Crowley asked, his limited vision swimming. The last time he’d been personally touched by Grace was when it had been ripped away from him. That did rather explain the sensation of being torn apart, body and essence. “You idiot.”

“I didn’t know what to do!” fretted Aziraphale. “I couldn’t feel any of you there, when I found you. It was like a… a human was lying there.”

“Hastur.” Crowley said the name like a curse. “He did—something. When I woke up before, I tried my own miracle and it, it backfired, or something. I can’t heal myself from it.”

“I panicked,” Aziraphale continued. “Tried to grant you a healing, but of course… well, it… sort of worked.”

Crowley thought of the sulfurous agony of his first waking and felt flames bite at his being at the mere memory. “Sort of worked?” he asked. If he’d had any energy, he would have filled the question with all the venom his snake-like self could muster.

“Well, yes. Some of the more vital bits pieced themselves back together.”

That stopped Crowley’s train of thoughts in its tracks.

“This is post-healing?” he croaked.

“Yes,” was all Aziraphale said, very quietly. That one word held so much anguish in it that Crowley found himself swamped by the ludicrous desire to reassure the angel, despite the fact that it was he himself who had taken the injuries.

“I didn’t realize…” Crowley replayed the memory of the abuse his corporation had been subjected to and felt his body’s heart give a lurch. A human would have been lucky to wake up after being left on the street in the condition he remembered being in. And who was to say that he remembered all of it, that Dagon and Hastur hadn’t gone on beating him after he had lost consciousness? Without his own powers available to him, what could have happened if Aziraphale hadn’t found him and risked a miracle? He swore.

“I am sorry to have done it,” the angel said, “only I wasn’t about to risk you discorporating—or worse.”

Worse.

Crowley made no response, his mind still wrapping itself around these revelations. Had the two demon lords meant for him to discorporate, or just to suffer? He suspected the latter, as discorporation was inconvenient at worst and not much of a punishment. Worse, then. Being trapped inside a mortal vessel in agony seemed very much in keeping with what Crowley knew of Hastur’s modus operandi. This was likely what passed for a first warning in Hell. Crowley made a note to endeavour not to merit a second warning.

“How are you feeling now?” prompted Aziraphale after several moments of silence.

“Um,” said Crowley. Frightened, he thought. Hunted. And somehow—miraculously—lucky. “Not… great.”

Aziraphale let out a huff of breath and Crowley knew he was rolling his eyes.

“You’ll have plenty of time to practice being more thoroughly descriptive,” the angel said. “It’ll be weeks before you can leave, and that’s only if you’re cooperative.”

“Eh?”

“I’m given to understand that healing the mundane way is a tiresome, lengthy process.”

Crowley swore again.

“It’ll be far more painful for me than for you, with that sunny disposition of yours,” Aziraphale said. He continued talking about his plans and preparations, including a lengthy detour about some books he’d recently picked up which just so happened to have some instructions regarding the care of injured human bodies. This time, when darkness crept through Crowley’s vision, it held no terror. The indistinct melody of the angel’s voice carried Crowley off to sleep.

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Crowley woke again in Aziraphale’s living area; he was greeted by the crackle of firewood, the smell of herbal tea, and the sight of Aziraphale sitting near his bedside, a woolen blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a thick cloth-bound book open in his hands. He seemed to be quite engrossed.

He could sit so still—it was an entrancing contrast to his normal flurry of little movements and gestures. Crowley imagined that if he could only find a big enough book, Aziraphale could pass an unmoving decade reading as easily as Crowley could in sleep.

“Angel,” he said after he grew tired of waiting for Aziraphale to look up from his book, “you can’t be serious about this.”

“Hmm? Serious about what?” Aziraphale asked, marking his place and closing the book.

“This,” Crowley repeated. He tried to gesture to the room, but found that he could barely lift his arms. He winced, then glared when Aziraphale let out an ill-concealed chuckle.

“You were saying?” Aziraphale asked pointedly.

“This is a bad idea,” Crowley said. “Me, being here.”

It was a bad idea because of the whole Heaven-and-Hell nonsense, of course, but more importantly, it was a mistake because it wasn’t what they did. They brushed past each other and Crowley pined and kept his walls up and Aziraphale plinked away at them and if either of them went off-script for even a moment, Crowley feared that the whole thing would end in a pile of rubble that left him exposed and alone in a way he hadn’t been in nearly six thousand years.

No matter how much he might wish it were otherwise, it was a bad idea because Crowley was an unforgivable demon who God Herself had decided was unworthy of love, and if they spent more than a long conversation in each other’s company, Aziraphale would surely remember that. The spiky bits of his personality would finally hurt the angel and that would be it; Aziraphale would recall that he was the Serpent of Eden and cast him out from the last place that mattered—his company.

Not that he could say any of that. That was the whole point.

“And what ought I have done, then, dumped you out on the street and hoped you rolled to a safe haven downhill?”

“Well—” he floundered.

“You should have thought of that before you called for me,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley sputtered. “Called you?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale regarded him with amusement. “Don’t play innocent, fiend, you do it poorly. Yes, called me. There I was, nose-deep in Lives of the Necromancers, when what should I hear but your voice?”

“What—what did it say?”

The angel pondered for a moment. “You know, I couldn’t tell you the exact words, now that I think about it. It was most definitely you, and I recall knowing that you needed help, but I can’t quite remember…” he trailed off.

“And then? How did you find me?” Laboriously, Crowley turned his head until he was looking directly at the angel.

“I’ve chalked it up to intuition,” Aziraphale said as he spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I followed the feeling of you—” something fluttered in Crowley’s stomach at hearing that phrase “—although I can’t say how since when I got to you, as I said, it was like all the…” he paused, and Crowley could swear he had heard a tremor in the angel’s voice “like you… weren’t there.”

“Have you had that before? A sense of me?”

Aziraphale pondered for a moment before answering. “We are rather good at finding each other, are we not?” he said at length. “I notice when you’re near—” there was that odd flutter again “—but no, I can’t say I’ve ever thought I could just walk out and find you like that. Whatever did you do?”

“Not sure,” Crowley said. His mind flickered back to that last moment of consciousness in the alley, to the idea he’d had, and followed, of sending out a call for help. It had been a half-crazed impulse, driven more by pain and fear than anything. And yet—it had worked, somehow. Aziraphale had heard him, and more than that, he’d found him.

Crowley suddenly found that he couldn’t look at the angel, and he shifted again to hide his face better.

“It’s still daft, keeping me here,” he said after a while.

“Yes, well, the moment you can walk through the front door under your own steam, you’re welcome to leave.”

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A week passed before Crowley was able to sit upright, and even then he was not precisely comfortable. Aziraphale was a constant nuisance, reminding him to breathe in deeply (“I know it hurts, you broke three ribs, you dolt”), force-feeding him soups (“Stop complaining, this body needs all the help it can get”), and fussing with his bandages (“You do not want to get an infection, believe me”). When he wasn’t flitting about playing nursemaid, the angel was parked firmly in his wing-backed chair right beside Crowley’s bed. He had a habit of responding out loud to whatever he was reading—a laugh here, a sigh there, and the occasional under-his-breath refutation of a point every now and again. After one such interlude, Crowley griped at him that it wasn’t very polite to have just half a conversation in front of him. Aziraphale had looked at him coolly and then started reading his book aloud, adding his own commentary as he went, which had of course not been the point, the point had been to get the angel to shut up, but Crowley found himself listening with interest all the same.

And if he found himself agreeing with all of Aziraphale’s points, and missing the sound of his voice whenever the angel was away acquiring supplies or going about his own business (infrequent as such occasions were), well, what of it? It was bloody boring otherwise, and he couldn’t even sleep as he normally would have to pass the time—that is, he could sleep as a human might, but it turned out that humans did not frequently sleep for weeks, nor even days, at a time.

Occasionally, he was jolted awake from what sleep he did get with horrible nightmares that seemed to blend the impossibly far past with all his most awful fears in the present and left him thrashing as he woke, making a frightful mess of his bandages and anything set too near him. Each time this happened, Aziraphale was close by. The angel would shush him gently, would put a warm, soft hand to his forehead, would softly whisper that it was okay, you’re safe, I’m here. Each time, those words pulled Crowley in from spiraling terror. Aziraphale would wait until he quieted down then set everything to rights, tuck the blankets snugly around Crowley, and move his chair ever so slightly closer to the bed. “Back to sleep with you,” he’d say, “it’s the best thing you can do to heal.”

And heal he did. It was an infuriatingly slow process, but bit by bit the flesh and bone of his corporation knitted itself back together. By the time three weeks had passed, the splints on the fingers of his left hand came off and Aziraphale set him to practicing motions to rebuild strength. Crowley grumbled at this but eventually did what he was told, not bothering to wonder at the fact that the angel’s delighted encouragement felt like a reward rather than the pandering sop it was. After four weeks, most of his remaining bandages were able to come off. After six, Aziraphale removed the plaster from his ankle, and his face was healed enough that he could touch it—or, say, lie on his side—without too much pain.

Throughout the process, Aziraphale danced attendance on him: the angel chivvied him into sitting upright even when he was tired, flexing his various limbs and joints repeatedly, and generally paying more attention to his corporation than the demon had done in the last several centuries combined. Crowley put on a good show of disgruntlement, but found it predictably impossible to be well and truly annoyed by the angel’s ministrations.

There was one brief setback during the fifth week, when Crowley had thought once again to experiment with his miracles. Over the weeks, he had used them for small things—the first of which had been a change of clothes when Aziraphale suggested, a few days in, that he himself would need to attend to getting new clothing onto Crowley as the demon couldn’t very well wallow in the same outfit for weeks on end. Crowley had been mortified at the idea of such a service needing to be performed on his behalf and had conjured on a new set of pyjamas without even consciously deciding to do so. It had been more of a relief than he cared to admit to find himself still capable of such feats; Aziraphale’s fretting over how he had not “felt” like himself had left Crowley worried that he’d somehow been truly robbed of his powers, a concern he had quite carefully locked up, bound with chains, and buried in the deepest recesses of his mind before it could drive him over the brink.

After five weeks of carefully avoiding miracles on his own person, though, he’d thought it was time to try something. He had been able to change his hair (it was now unfashionably long, falling to the middle of his back) and while Aziraphale wasn’t looking, he’d jabbed himself with a knife and was able to heal the damage from that. Feeling reassured, he’d tried to miracle away the remaining damage from his encounter in the alleyway—only to once again find himself buffeted back by an invisible force.

When Aziraphale came in to find him crumpled on the bed, the angel had heaved a long-suffering sigh, asked if Crowley was aware that his instincts for self-preservation were vastly overmatched by his curiosity, and done a quick inventory to make sure that nothing was too badly re-injured by the experiment.

“How else was I supposed to find out whether it would work or not?” Crowley asked sourly.

“You might have at least enlisted my help,” Aziraphale said. “What if the knife bit hadn’t worked at all? A fine thing it would be, to have worked so hard to get you well again only to come in and find you exsanguinated on the floor.”

He had a point, of course, but Crowley only grumbled in response.

Now that he knew his power was not entirely lost to him, Crowley was able to examine the question of what, precisely, Hastur and Dagon might have done. He discussed it with the angel; there wasn’t a wealth of documented research on the ability of celestial or infernal beings to impose injury or disability on one another, but they came at last to the conclusion that once Crowley’s wounds from the encounter were healed, he’d be back to normal and no longer hampered. As to what Crowley might do in the future to avoid or negate such interference, Aziraphale had no good ideas. The question wriggled around uncomfortably in Crowley’s mind, no matter how much he might try to put it aside.

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A strange thing happened as Crowley healed: Aziraphale didn’t stop doting on him. Even as his human body needed less and less help taking care of the injuries, Aziraphale continued feeding him, for example. Crowley had begun flatly refusing the thin soups which had filled the early days, but in response the angel had merely begun fetching more and more enticing delicacies to present to him. It would be rude, the demon explained to himself, to turn up his nose at those, too. And despite the fact that Crowley now needed considerably less (if, indeed, any) supervision, Aziraphale still spent a great deal of his time sat in his chair near the demon, reading or doing his accounts or talking.

One Sunday evening, when the angel was away from the shop, Crowley had hauled his poor frame downstairs, curious as to the state of the shop in its proprietor’s preoccupation. He’d all but crawled to the front door, where he’d seen a sign: Closed Until Further Notice, it said. Family Emergency. His heart had thumped oddly at reading the note, and he’d slumped against the door for a while before pulling himself back upstairs.

The difficult part of it was not, Crowley admitted, putting up with the angel’s behavior. No, the true tribulation came in trying to appear impatient with the attention. The indulgent warmth that flooded him whenever the angel was being particularly adorable made keeping up his aura of casual disinterest agonizingly difficult. Crowley was famously so bad at accommodating company that he’d not only gotten himself kicked out of Heaven and into Hell, but then he’d gotten himself stationed on this little rock to get away from his fellow demons. In the past, he’d told himself that he simply didn’t see Aziraphale often enough—once or twice in one century, a handful of times in another decade—to chafe at his company (and vice versa). Yet these weeks were proving how foolish and futile that long-running self-deception has been.

Grow weary of Aziraphale? He now had incontrovertible proof that such a thing was as unlikely as losing his awe of the stars. Like growing bored of the very idea of music. It would be losing a part of himself more fundamental than the grace which had been stripped from him when he fell. It was more than impossible; it was no longer even imaginable.

It was a biting irony that now, finally faced by the circumstances he’d always assumed were out of his reach and would drive him nutters anyway, Crowley found himself bending his every energy toward not enjoying himself overmuch, lest the whole thing collapse like a poorly made flan.

(Aziraphale had recently brought him a flan of surpassing craftsmanship. Crowley himself had taken only a few bites, as the sight of Aziraphale enjoying the rest was far sweeter and more satisfying.)

So he grew more waspish. As far as he could see, there was no alternative. He flexed his healing fingers when told to and refused to allow Aziraphale to help, lest he find himself trying to entwine those fingers with the angel’s. He paced around the room to rebuild his strength and snapped when Aziraphale stepped in to steady him for fear he’d never let go of the angel afterwards. Yet his discipline was not perfect, and too often he found himself leaning into the angel’s touch when Aziraphale pushed his hair back from his brow or patted him on the shoulder.

Around the middle of the ninth week, several truths occurred to Crowley at once: that he was certainly recovered sufficiently, now, to leave the premises under his own steam; that if he did not do so soon, he risked alienating the angel either by being too forthright or too churlish; and that admitting himself healed and leaving would forever end this level of involvement in the angel’s life. He had spent the majority of each day with Aziraphale for more than two months—how many years would it be before he could see him again, after he left? They’d spoken for hours every day—how many times in the next decade would he hear the angel’s voice?

He disliked the thought of leaving, but saw little choice as he abhorred the thought of being asked to leave. In their past acquaintance, Aziraphale had occasionally indicated that whatever social frivolity they were enjoying should end soon as the angel had business to attend to, and Crowley had largely succeeded in not taking such hints personally. He was very sure he could not summon the same equanimity if the angel politely suggested that he had overstayed his welcome in this case.

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The decision was taken out of his hands several days later. It was early in the afternoon and a pleasant summer drizzle drummed lazily against the window. Aziraphale was, as ever, in his chair, although now his stockinged feet were propped up on the bed. Crowley was sprawled on top of the bed trying desperately to project an air of malaise and weakness despite feeling quite recovered. They had been in the middle of some conversation at one point, but had somehow let it slide into a drowsy sort of quietness that Crowley had never known could be enjoyable.

He was well on his way to a lovely nap when the dreadfully bright sound of an ethereal bell sounded from downstairs, and a voice rang out.

“Aziraphale?”

The angel’s face went bone-white as he snapped his book shut and locked eyes with Crowley.

“It’s Gabriel,” he hissed in a panicked whisper. “Stay here.”

Crowley nodded mutely. Aziraphale set down the book and briefly covered one of Crowley’s hands with his own.

“Just a moment!” he called loudly enough to be heard downstairs. With a final look, he stood up and scurried from the room.

The sounds of conversation drifted up the staircase: sharp, abrupt noises from Gabriel and fluttering responses from Aziraphale that Crowley couldn’t quite make out. Even without words, though, he heard the thread of anxiety in his angel’s voice, and for the first time in months, he remembered—really remembered, not just as an abstract annoyance—why it was they normally stayed so far away from each other.

That was it, then. What if Gabriel was here about Crowley’s presence? If they’d been seen, if someone had found out—even the merest suspicion—what would that mean for the angel? Even if the archangel’s visit had been incidental, what if he could smell a demon the same way that Crowley could even now begin to detect a whiff of the overripe scent of someone who spent too much time Above?

Another thought caught him—what if Aziraphale didn’t come back with the archangel, but was reminded of the danger of their situation all the same? It’d be over just as surely. Aziraphale would come back upstairs and sigh at him. “Nearly had us there,” he’d say, “Probably best you be off,” and Crowley would have to look at him, would have to thank him, would have to pretend that, yeah, it really was time for me to be getting on, wasn’t it? He’d have to come up with some impossibly insipid parting shot like “At least now I’ll get some peace and quiet” or perhaps a joke about being behind on his temptation quota and—no, it was all just too horrible to face. He couldn’t do any of that.

Those were his two options, then, if he stayed: condemn Aziraphale, or be condemned and cast out himself.

With barely more than a thought, Crowley vanished from the room and reappeared in the townhouse that was not his home .

#aziraphale #crowley #aziraphale x crowley #aziraphale/crowley #good omens #good omens fic #ineffable husbands #ineffable husbands fic #mine fic #my point is MY POINT IS i love them

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welllpthisishappening · 5 years

Text

A Change in Plans

For the anon, who asked for: “ So since it’s valentine’s day (or about to be Valentine’s Day where I am) I was wondering if you had any thoughts or ideas about how Emma and Killian spend the holiday? (Also I love absolutely everything you’ve written)”

You’re very nice anon and I do, in fact, have thoughts. Here we have battle-couple Captain Swan, flirting, and using characters from The Rescuers because it’s a very underrated Disney movie I loved when I was a kid. Also, I gave Madam Medusa magical powers because I do what I want.

“No, no, no, no, c’mon, Scarlet that’s not—“

Killian glances up to find Emma curled into the corner of the bunk, a scowl on her face that makes it rather clear she does not appreciate what she’s being told. Or bode well for his plans for the rest of the night. He shakes out the match in his hand before the flame can reach his fingers.

That feels a bit like a sign.

“No,” Emma whines again, shoulders slumping and one leg falling forward. It lands on a small pile of blankets with a soft thump and that wasn’t really how Killian thought the blankets would fall off the bed.

He assumed it would have been more romantic.

Fewer clothes.

Candles he won’t eventually have to blow out as well.

“We are off the clock,” Emma hisses. Her eyes have turned to slits, fingers tapping impatiently on the side of the leg that’s still bent and she’s shifted slightly, chin resting on her knee in a move Killian has come to learn is a very good sign she’s trying temper her temper.

As it were.

Scarlet must say something else, because Emma rolls her whole head in response and—“Well, let Regina deal with it then! I don’t even know what that is.”

“What’s going on?” Killian asks, doing his best to keep his voice low. Emma makes another face, and he knows, strictly speaking he should not be quite that attracted to that face, but, in general, he’s fairly attracted to his wife and he did buy candles.

For Valentine’s Day.

On his ship.

The first Valentine’s Day since Hope was born. And while Killian adores his daughter with the force of several different united realms, he’s also been looking forward to the half a plan and the candles and the eventual lack of clothing.

The all-realm, it seems, however, cares even less about his plans than Storybooke ever did.

He bends down to pick up the kicked blankets, folding the first with an efficiency that would impress several Naval officials, and at first Killian isn’t sure what Emma is groaning at. It takes him, exactly, one more folded blanket to realize it’s him. “No, no, c’mon, don’t do that,” she mumbles, hair brushing her cheek when she shakes her head. “We can just—oh my God, Scarlet I am not talking to you!”

Killian chuckles, an entirely misplaced sound when Emma appears close to bursting, dropping his head to press a kiss to her temple. “Give me the phone, love.”

“What? No!”

“The phone, Swan.”

She clicks her tongue – a few mumbled curses that certainly would not impress those Naval officials, but may impress him and Killian hears Scarlet sigh when no one acknowledges his updates. “Emma, this is not a direct attack on your night,” he calls. “And it’s not fair to shoot the messenger, I’m just relaying what I was—“

“—Not, Emma anymore,” Killian cuts in sharply, and they all know far too many creative curses. “What could you possibly need us for, Scarlet?”

“Ok, I don’t need you personally,” Scarlet argues. “I am simply conveying what Her Majesty told me.”

“If she knew you were calling her that, she’d punch you square in the jaw.”

“Throw a fireball at him,” Emma mumbles, tugging lightly on the side of Killian’s shirt until his knees bend and she rests her forehead on his back as soon as he’s perched on the edge of the cot.

Scarlet clicks his tongue. “I heard that. I’m going to tell her that. As soon as we deal with this lunatic that just showed up.”

“Just showed up?” Killian asks. “Where did she come from?”

“I’m not privy to that kind of information. Only the monarchy, apparently.”

“Gods, alright, well what does she want?”

“Treasure.”

Killian blinks. He can feel Emma tense behind him, an arm wrapping around his middle on something that might be instinct. “Aye, got you there, don’t I? You have some great, bloody diamond stashed somewhere in this town, Captain?”

“Of course not!”

“No?”

“No,” Killian echoes, and that time it’s Emma laughing softly. He twists, eyeing her with a mix of disbelief and something that might be flirting because he understands what Valentine’s Day is now and he bought chocolate. He may actually stab whoever is demanding treasure in the middle of Main Street.

He assumes it’s the middle of Main Street. That’s always how these things work.

And he can’t remember the last time he actually stabbed someone.

“Honestly, babe?” Emma asks. “No knowledge of some massive diamond that a villain would want?”

“And be threatening to kill for,” Will adds softly. “Seems a little piratical don’t you think?”

Killian groans. “Trust me, if there was any sized diamond in the middle of Storybooke, I’d have found it already. I’m a much better pirate than that.”

“Can I tell Her Majesty that?”

“You bloody well better.”

There’s a crash on the other end of the line, shouts and something that sounds suspiciously like an arrow whirring through the air and Killian is certain he hears a very distinct chomp.

“So, uh…when do you think you can get here?” Will asks. “Approximately?”

Emma grumbles oh my God under her breath, grabbing the phone and hanging up unceremoniously, tossing it into the pile of still-unfolded blankets. She waves her hand, Killian’s sword appearing already strapped to his belt and he probably shouldn’t be attracted to that either, but he figures he has an excuse – what with the day and the interruptions and he is admittedly interested in a diamond.

Professionally.

As it were.

“You really want to know why you weren’t aware of this diamond, don’t you?” Emma asks knowingly, reaching forward to tighten his sword belt and he doesn’t think that’s the only reason she moves.

“Are you a soothsayer know, love? Omniscient, perhaps?”

“Awful big words for a guy who missed out on some serious treasure.”

“We don’t even know what it does. Maybe it’s evil.”

She hums, the hint of a smile dancing on the corner of her lips and there are very likely rules regarding flirting pre-battle. Killian ignores them. He ducks his head instead, barely hearing Emma’s hold on before his lips land on hers and the flash of magic around them makes his breath catch in his throat.

They land with a thump, not quite sticking the landing, but definitely getting better. “Damn,” Emma mutters away, one leg bent awkwardly underneath her with her fingers curled through Killian’s belt loops. “Not our best, huh?”

Killian smiles. “Just need a bit more practice.”

“Nice of you to join us,” Regina drawls, and there’s already a rather large crowd of them there, all sporting various looks of annoyance at interrupted plans. And weapons. He’d been right about the arrows, although he’s not sure if the shot came from Snow White or Robyn Mills, both of their bows still drawn taut.

There’s a fireball in Regina’s hand as well, standing a step in front of Scarlet and David, their swords drawn, and both Emma and Killian click their tongues in reproach when they notice Henry there, brandishing what looks like an actual broadsword.

“Where did you get that?” Emma asks, only to be met with an expression Killian hasn’t seen in several years. It’s decidedly teenage.

“Mom, c’mon. I’m—I know how to fight.”

“No one’s questioning that, my boy,” Killian promises. The expression gets more pointed. “Isn’t that heavy?”

“More imposing,” David mumbles, and someone who might actually be Ella laughs a few feet away. “So, uh…any idea what that is?”

He nods towards the woman Killian hadn’t noticed before, standing in a circle of arrows. Her eyes look a little manic, as if they’re both pointing in separate directions, flaming-red hair that’s more snake-like than anything else and a brightly colored dress with pink heels. One of the heels is broken.

She’s shouting. Killian can’t understand a single word she’s saying.

“Well,” Emma muses, leaning back against him. “At least she’s dressing for the occasion, right?”

Killian chuckles, dropping his head again and he’s fairly certain it’s David who groans. “What’s she going on about, then? Your Majesty?”

“Oh my God, you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Regina growls.

“I think you’re kind of funny,” Emma mutters, and Killian grins. “And you should probably get your sword out, don’t you think? On your guard, Captain.”

There are several more rather pointed curses.

Killian twists his eyebrows, drawing his sword out of his scabbard with a flourish and maybe this is almost better than the date. If there’s kissing. Eventually. After they deal with the villain.

He can feel Emma’s magic thrumming, an adrenaline rush that feels like warmth and power and—

“She’s been going on about the diamond since she showed up here,” Regina explains. “Says it’s got power and it’s hers and it’s been stolen from her.”

“And you immediately thought of me?” Killian balks, Emma doing a fairly pitiful job of turning her laugh into something that doesn’t sound like a laugh. “Swan!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she stammers, waving her hands through the air and there is magic cracking between her fingers.

Regina huffs. “I thought you might have known if what she’s saying is true. She claims it can’t be touched by her.”

“What? Why?”

“Poison,” the woman shouts, bobbing up and down and her eyes widen when she notices the latest arrow pointed directly at her chest. “To anyone who isn’t pure of heart. Can’t get it. Not on my own!”

“I think that may rule some of us out as well,” Scarlet muses. Emma’s still laughing.

“Does she have a name?” Emma asks. “She must be from one of the realms, right? If she showed up here now?”

Snow White nods, not taking her eyes away from the woman. “She claims she’s Madame Medusa.”

“Well, that’s menacing isn’t it?”

“Medusa,” Killian repeats. “Was she in the Underworld, then?”

The woman – Medusa, he refuses to acknowledge the rest of it – shakes her head defiantly. “Do I look dead to you? No. I was stuck. There was water and I got yanked into some—portal. But I can feel it. She’s here.”

“Who?”

“The girl.”

“Even more menacing, right?” David asks, taking a step closer to them. “Where were you? We tried knocking on your door.”

“And you didn’t think that was a sign?” Killian quips. “She said pure of heart, didn’t she? She said that’s what it had to be to get the treasure. She’s looking for the girl. She’s got the diamond.”

Snow White gasps, Regina snapping her jaw in frustration and it all seems to happen rather suddenly. One moment they’re standing there and the next there’s a flash of light and a sound that rivals any cannon fire Killian has ever heard and Medusa is suddenly flanked by—

“Oh, bloody hell,” Killian sighs, flipping his wrist and pointing his sword at a pair of crocodiles. “Haven’t we done enough with those already?”

He can feel Emma chuckle, back pressed against his and magic hanging in the air around them. “These are actually crocodiles though, babe. Not just a metaphor.”

“You’ve already announced you’re attracted to my humor, Swan. You can’t backtrack on that now.”

“I never said that,” she argues, a flash of her hand and burst of light and Medusa stumbles backwards. “I said you were funny. Never once mentioned anything about being attracted to you.”

Killian opens his mouth – several responses sitting on the tip of his tongue that all, mostly, boil down to flirting with his wife, but there’s another burst of color and flash of pink and it smells like sulfur.

His legs buckle under him, a grunt of pain when his knees slam into the road. The blood is warm when it runs down his skin, staining his pants and it takes him a moment to catch his breath, feeling as if he’s been stunned slightly. Emma’s fingers flutter in his face.

“You snore when you’re on your back.”

Killian’s jaw drops. “That’s an absolute and massive falsehood. And I think you like me on my back, love.”

He flashes a smirk when her eyes widen a fraction of inch – mostly because her parents are slinging arrows and stabbing a crocodile within hearing distance, but if he’s going to play pirate, then he’s going to play pirate and Emma’s fingers are warm when they curl around his.

From the magic

He knows it.

He can feel it.

“That is just—“

“—True, love, don’t bother arguing that.”

“My parents are here!”

“They’re battling evil,” Killian reasons, jumping back up and brushing a kiss against Emma’s cheek. “Completely distracted.”

She clicks her tongue, but pushes up on her toes anyway, moving the hair away from his brow. “Remind me to do something about your leg later. It won’t take—“

Killian doesn’t let her finish, or rather, the villain doesn’t let them finish, moving towards them with her hands held out and something vaguely sinister hanging around her and he pulls Emma against his chest immediately, twisting so his sword finds its way into the back of a crocodile with a wholly satisfying hiss.

“I look forward to being examined, love,” Killian quips at the same time Emma spins on the spot.

He feels the surge of power immediately, as if it’s moving through his body as well and he’s certain it has something to do with True Love and probably several returns from the dead, but they’ve never actually done much research on the subject and it doesn’t really matter.

It just is.

Like their life and their inevitable victory over whatever villain appears on Main Street demanding diamonds and girls and Killian startles when he hears Emma start speaking again.

“I am a big fan of your legs,” she says, light and magic twisting around her. Medusa tenses, eyes still wide and the coal under her eyes is horrendously smudged.

Killian’s lips twitch. “That so? Anything else?”

“You are fishing for compliments.”

“I’m not. I’m curious. About your thoughts, love. Isn’t that romantic enough for the day?”

Medusa stomps her foot, impatient and, maybe, understandably frustrated because they won’t acknowledge her. Killian takes a step forward, sword in front of Emma and her magic ringing in his ears. “Don’t you agree, ma’am?” he asks, Emma’s scoff almost making up for the destroyed plans.

“Gentleman,” she mumbles. “Although I wouldn’t mind some answers out of this one. How’d you get back here? If you were—wherever you were.”

“I don’t know where I was,” Medusa snaps. “Are you not understanding that? I was and I wasn’t. I was stuck, but then, suddenly—“

“—Oh, damn, I get it,” Henry breathes. “The all-realm. All that magic yanking on all that other magic. We must have pulled her here. Do you think the girl has been here the whole time?”

“Beats me,” Emma mumbles. “Did she get pulled through your portal too?”

Medusa makes a low noise in the back of her throat, David calling for some help over here when another crocodile makes a move for both his ankles. “Be right back,” Henry says, rushing towards the front of Granny’s lawn and they’re all going to get yelled at for that.

“That’s still not an answer, ma’am,” Killian says lightly, using his sword to point. “Regarding your thoughts on the romance of the situation or where the girl came from.”

“I don’t know,” Medusa seethes. “But we were in the cave and she had the Devil’s Eye and I tried to touch it. It should be mine!”

“You’re not exactly pure though, are you?”

“Obviously.”

“Where was this cave?” Emma presses. “In Maine?”

Medusa blinks. “What? No! Devil’s Bayou.”

“Bayou? Like…Louisiana? New Orleans?”

“Oh shit,” Regina mutters. “Facilier. He was—he was in Hyperion Heights. That’s…do you think it ever won’t all connect, somehow?”

“I honestly have no idea what’s going on,” Emma admits, another flick of her wrist and Medusa freezes immediately, every muscle in her body going taut. “Did we come up with rules for dealing with magical bad guys yet?”

“We’ve mostly been trying to make sure that Camelot agrees to pay its taxes.”

“Taxes,” Killian echoes, Emma pressing her lips together and that doesn’t hide her laugh either. “That’s an awful start to a monarchy.”

“You have a better suggestion, pirate?”

“There’s a great, big ruddy magical diamond somewhere in your home realm, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, that’s a very good point,” Emma muses, curling against his side and he’s a greedy bastard because he relishes it. It happens, sometimes, after a fight or a threat and she sort of just…clings to him, as if she’s making sure he’s there and not dead or being dragged to a variety of Underworlds and Killian wouldn’t say it’s his favorite thing in the world, but it certainly makes the top five.

Possibly top three.

“Humor and intelligence, what more could you want, love?”

“I’m definitely most attracted to your intelligence. Way more than your legs.”

“Ah, that’s alright, I’m attracted to your legs enough for both of us.”

“This is disgusting,” Regina says, and she can’t cross her arms the way Killian knows she wants to when there’s still fire sitting in both of her palms. “Did we get rid of both crocodiles?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry nods. He’s a little out of breath, but there’s a bit of color in his cheeks and red on the tip of his sword.

“Clean your blade,” Killian mumbles.

“Ah, damn, I knew I was forgetting something.”

“Heat of the moment.”

“Or just you and Mom flirting.”

Killian shrugs. “No sign of this girl? We never did get a name before we froze her.”

“Aw, c’mon. I wasn’t really considering what I was doing,” Emma reasons. “And that was pretty solid magic.”

“A fact I’m not disagreeing with.”

Henry gags. Will chuckles, slumped on the sidewalk with his sword on the ground, David seems unable to stop shaking his head. “She’s got to be around here somewhere,” he says. “Maybe we can—“

He cuts himself off quickly, eyes flitting up and Killian follows his gaze, tightening his hold on Emma instinctually. “What is that?” she asks.

“Albatross.”

“Well, that’s unfortunate isn’t it?” Will asks, huffing softly as he uses his sword to push himself up.

“Why?”

“They’re bad luck, aren’t they? That’s basic pirate lore.”

Killian considers that for a moment, eyes following the bird as it soars across the sky. It doesn’t flap its wings once. “Not always,” he objects. “It’s only bad when you kill it. Otherwise it’s usually considered good luck. You just have to follow it.”

“Well, we’re not going to kill it, right?” Henry asks. “So, you know…crisis averted.”

“And it might lead us to the girl, don’t you think?” Emma adds, tilting her head up like she’s asking Killian personally.

He kisses her.

Snow White definitely awwww’s.

“The smartest Savior I know.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she murmurs. “C’mon, let’s go see what we can find.”

They don’t bother asking anyone else to come – Killian fairly certain no one would even if they had, for fear of having to deal with flirting dictated by the date on the calendar. And not that. This is not entirely unusual. Instead, they criss-cross the streets, Killian’s sword still held out and a bit of light flickering from the tips of Emma’s fingers.

It doesn’t take long to find her, the sniffles more or less giving her away in the alley behind Archie’s office. The albatross helps too. And Killian can’t help the little jolt his heart gives as soon as Emma crouches down in front of the girl, quick fingers brushing away tears and even more legitimate promises guaranteeing everything will be fine.

He sheathes his sword, curling his fingers around her shoulder and letting his thumb brush across the back of her neck.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” he asks, and the girl gives a shaky nod. She’s clutching a teddy bear.

“Do you—nothing’s going to happen to you here,” Emma says. “But do you have the diamond she was talking about?”

Another nod. She holds the teddy bear up.

“I don’t—“

“—I do,” Killian cuts in, moving around Emma and his leg throbs when he bends his knees. He ignores it, pulling the bear away from the girl lightly and—“Do you mind?” She shakes her head, his hook yanking out strings and stitching and the diamond lands in Emma’s outstretched hands.

“Holy shit,” she mumbles, and that about sums it up. It’s enormous, reflecting the light from Emma’s fingers and the street lamps and Killian isn’t surprised it’s magical. “Alright,” Emma continues. “Well, I’m not poisoned, so…what’s your name then?”

“Penny,” she responds. “My name is Penny.”

“We’re going to find you somewhere to stay, ok?”

Another nod, but this one is a little more confident and Penny takes Killian’s hand as soon as he offers it. Emma’s fingers wrap around his hook.

And he’s even less surprised when Snow White and David offer to let Penny stay with them, promising they’ve got more than enough space and Emma’s shoulders drop a bit, because they’ve got all those rooms as well, but they’ve also got an baby with an irregular sleeping schedule and the phone call with Granny lasts less than fifteen full seconds when Emma calls to check on Hope.

“Everything square, love?” Killian asks, back on the Jolly with the diamond locked away with Emma’s magic.

“She said if I called again, she’d get her crossbow out.”

“She’s just angry she missed the fight.”

Emma hums, dropping back into the corner of the cot she’d been sitting in hours before. She crooks her finger at Killian and there’s not much choice except to move. “You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“A rather pointed opinion, don’t you—“

He doesn’t quite gasp, which is probably his only saving grace, but he knows his eyes widen and Emma’s teeth find her lower lip when she grins, a sudden and rather distinct lack of clothing between either one of them. “That was impressive,” Killian mutters.

“Incredibly attractive?”

“Something like that. You know you never answered my question love.”

“I will be honest, I can’t remember it,” she says, slinging a leg over him as soon as he gets onto the cot and for half a moment it’s a mess of limbs and feelings and trying to get back to the plan, but then Emma’s fingers are ghosting over his skin and the gash on his leg and Killian definitely gasps that time.

Emma grins, crouched at the end of the cot. “Better, right?”

“Thank you, love.”

“Mmhm.” She slides back up, leaving kisses in her wake and at some point it becomes difficult to figure out who’s making what noise or canting their hips up, but it’s definitely both of them at the same time and that puts them on slightly more even footing. “Something about body parts, right? And favorite ones?”

“I believe that was it, yes,” Killian agrees. He nips at her collarbone, appreciating the sound it causes and the goosebumps it leaves behind. “Something other than my leg.”

“You’re very confident that I’ve got multiple favorites. I don’t think that’s how that word is supposed to work.”

“Your right ring finger.”

“What?”

“The one you broke when you were a lass,” Killian explains, the burst of magic proof that the plan is, finally, working. “It’s still a tad crooked now. And the way your hair curls at the end when it’s warm. That little bit of lead stuck in your foot from tripping with a pencil. How you can make your hips sway when you’re trying to get something out of me.”

Emma’s breathing hitches, teeth still tugging on her lip when Killian ghosts his thumb over it. She kisses the pad of his finger. “None of these are body parts, Captain.”

“Ah, but isn’t this more fun?”

There’s a hint of pink on her cheeks, a quick nod and that’s all the warning he gets before she’s kissing him, pushing on his shoulders to get him to lay down. He doesn’t mention the back thing again. He figures it’s counterproductive.

“I’m fairly into your face,” Emma says, a few minutes later once oxygen proves decidedly necessary.

Killian’s eyebrows jump. “That so?”

“Yeah, just like…stupid into it.”

He laughs – free and easy and so goddamn happy, he doesn’t need to worry about the date or the mislaid plans or what they’re going to do with the latest villain. He rolls his hips instead, well aware of what that will do to the color in Emma’s cheeks and he never actually relit the candles.

They fall asleep eventually, tangled up in blankets and each other. It’s not the most romantic night they’ve ever spent on the Jolly – far too many instances of not sleeping and the cot really isn’t all that big – but it’s good in the way that life is good and vaguely magical and there aren’t any missed calls when they wake up.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #laura writes canon #i also told my husband i was into his face today #so happy valentine's day everyone

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little-dragon-stories · 5 years

Text

Not so complicated after all Part 18: First night together

W.C. 3689

Pairing Yoongi and y/n

A fluffy smut scenario.

W.N: Ok, I took a lot of time to write it. Please forgive my mistakes because I know there will be plenty.

Hopefully you will love that part.

“Thanks for the meal, it was really good. I could eat this dish everyday till the day I die, I wouldn’t get tired of it” Yoogi said, with Chuhan on his lap.

“Oh, believe me, you would”.

Under the caress, his fingers disappeared in the fur of the tiny black and white cat.

“You said you bought Cutie for yourself but it seems that it’s my little boy that adopted you, not Cutie pie”. You told him.

“I am irresistible” he said, slowly bobbing his head. «Where is she by the way?».

«She is hiding somewhere, the little baby is still nervous in her new house».

You smiled at him.

“Where did they sleep?” he asked. He was looking at Chuhan with a soft smile on his face.

“Both of them, on my pillow. Believe it or not, when I took the other one because I had no more place on my own pillow, they both changed as well and made kind of a nest with my hair. I didn’t sleep a lot last night».

He look at you with a force disgusted face.

“A nest, really? Why? They think they are birds? They think you are their mamma bird?”

“To be honest, those cats seems to have an identity problems… they follow me everywhere like dogs would do, except since you are here, they made a nest with my hair like a bird would do and they also think they are some kind of fish because Cutie went in my bathtub last night! They are so lovely thought, I love them with all my heart already”.

Those little ball of fur were indeed very pretty, even if Yoongi says otherwise. The loving gaze he has when he looks at Chuhan while caressing him proved that he loves him just as much as you do. You can hear the kitten purring under Yoongi’s hand.

You realized that Yoongi has been at your place for almost 3 hours now, the time flies so fast. You’ve talked about work, family and friends while drinking wine and cocktails. He asked for opinion on a song he’s composing. You gave him your ideas regarding his makeup for his next shooting. You talked about what life will be like when you will be touring with them in exactly one month. Being with him on your first official date was exactly how you thought it would be: comfortable and easy going.

Since a few weeks, you have tried to fight those feelings you have for him because he is your employer but the more time you spent together, the more you wanted to know him and be with him. He is attracting you and slowly but surely, you fell in love with him. If you are completely honest, the first time you met him, you were hooked after the first conversation you had with him.

During the meal, you laughed, exchanged a few shy smiles, hold hands and talked a lot about what you want to do in your life. The more you listened to him talking, the more you felt butterflies in your stomach. The same butterflies you had when you were a little girl, dreaming of castles and knights. You feel like you are a character in the story you have dreamed of your whole life. Yoongi is also acting exactly like prince charming in those stories: he’s kind, he’s a good listener, he’s funny and tender. You just hope that he can’t feel your heartbeat or noticed all those childish emotions you are feeling. After all, those stories are just stories made for children… Why do you feel like an important princess in his company? Why are you so whipped for him? Is this love? Is he feeling the same?

You stand up to unset the table but Yoongi is faster on his feet. He stood up so fast that you froze half the way up. He drops the cat on your laps.

“No, stay there”

He put both his hands on your shoulders and applied a light pressure to make you sit back.

“You cooked for me, the least I can do is clean the dishes while you enjoy your glass of wine”.

This light touch, this harmless gesture is enough to make you lose track of everything that he is now saying. The only thing you can do is nod yes, hoping it was a yes or no question. “Think about something else, think about something else”. You thought to yourself. His hands on your shoulders are the only thing you can think about. He removed his hands from you and walks towards the sink.

He started to run the water, looking at you above is shoulder. Is he asking you something? What is he talking about? Now that he is facing the sink, the only thing you can think about is how pretty and thick his little behind looks like in those black jeans. Noticing that you are looking at his butts, he smiled to himself and turned to face the sink again.

You can’t help yourself any longer, you need to hug him, to hold him in your arms. You stand up and walk towards him. You wrap your arms around his waist and hug him from behind. Your gestures are soft but also full of lust. Yoongi is wondering if you are hugging him innocently, he can feel your energy, your desire but he his not so sure of how to interpret your touch. You snuggle your nose between his shoulder blades. Yoongi is small but he is still taller than you and you love that sensation of feeling petite and delicate against him.

“I told you I was irresistible” he said, covering your hands with his.

You brush your nose against him again and let your hands trace their way up on his stomach. He is not moving at all, which made you think you did something wrong.

“Yoongi…” you started to talk but did not finished your sentence. He turns around to face you and brush his lips on yours for a soft, aerial kiss. He is delicate, patient and he loves to feel you like this. He knows you are needy, he can feel you now. He doesn’t want to rush anything with you thought but at the same time, every time you are alone together, he feels that tension, he feels the need of each other. He doesn’t know exactly how to react, he never hungered for someone’s touch like that before. None of his previous girlfriend had that effect on his desire with only a fingertip on his cheek, a look, a single word or a smile. He desired his ex girlfriends but now, he feel like he’s going to burst from the inside if he doesn’t touch you. If he doesn’t lays his body against yours. If he doesn’t know right here, right now what your skin smells like, the taste of it. He wants to feel the grain of your skin against his hands, he wants to be able to remember the exact spot of every beauty mark when he closes his eyes later. At this point, it’s animal and he doesn't know how to deal with it. He wanted to take his time with you, he really wanted to. But, if that desire is not satisfied, he is scared he won’t be able to function normally in your presence any longer.

“Yoongi… “

He kissed you again, smiling against your lips. This time, the kiss is more demanding but he stop it abruptly.

“Y/n, you should sit before we let our hormones takes control of our bodies”. That was easy, right? He just had to say it to make everything stop. Right?

“I am sorry Yoongi”, you went back on the chair and sit, confused about the situation. Your relation actually is letting you thoughtful. You remembered, not so long ago he told you that he “wouldn’t let you flirt with him” not to mention that for your part you never wanted to have any kind of a relation with a coworker. But then he offered you his apartment, he bought you 2 kittens, he asked you out for a date and here you are in the middle of the kitchen needing for the other’s touch.

It’s not like you, you never wanted to have sex without being in a relation with somebody. You have never been interested in one night stand or friend with benefits either. You have no problem taking care of your needs by yourself and you don’t need a man to be constantly by your side either. What you have been missing is affection. A strong and caring man by your side. That is the thing you are craving for. Why are those hormones betraying you like that? You don’t recognise yourself.

“Y/n… don’t be sad, it’s not that I don’t want you”

You smiled at him kindly.

“I know that Yoongi, I kissed you too. I felt you, again…”

“Then why do you look so sad”

He kneeled down in front of you and took your hands in his, rubbing his thumb on the back of your hand.

“I am not sad, I am confused about us”

He is looking at you in the eyes not missing a single word you are saying, shaking his head “yes” as he is listening to you. He is seductive even when he is not trying to be.

“I am confused about us Yoongs. First you friendzone me, then you came to my old apartment with food and cuddles, you almost force me to live in your apartment, you invited me on a date… and now we can barely take each other hands without me getting turned on. Boy, the effect you have on me”

He wants to say something but you interrupted him.

“No, let me talk please. I am never like that Yoongs. I am normally very prude and wait for months before I lay down… but Yoongi, I’m just looking at you and I am ready to… I am… I want…” you are out of words because as you were talking, he let go of your hands and place his palms on your laps, under your skirt. He gently traces circles on your skin, looking at you in the eyes as nothing is happening.

“You know what y/n?”

His hands on your bareskin are driving you crazy. They are soft, his touch is light and his hands are warm. You feel the need to close your legs, Yoongi noticed and smirk at your movement. He sees you, swallowing your saliva harshly. He knows the effect he has on you because he can read your body language and also because you have the same on him.

“Do you want me for just one night?” He asked.

“No Yoongi, I don’t want you like that, that’s why I am so scared and confused. I never felt that way before. I normally need time to get to know the person before I even accept a date...”

“Good answer princess. Now, let me take care of that problem of yours so we talk after. At this point, there is no way we would understand each other if you stay needy like that… let’s face it, we can’t do anything else right now”.

“You seems collected Mr. Min, more than me… I feel like I am the only needy here”

When he started laughing, his hands moved a bit more roughly on your skin.

He was tracing little lines from your knees to your inner thighs, doing the same movement on both sides.

“Y/n, you are forcing me to tell you my little secret”

“Oooh, what’s that?” You frowned your eyebrows, wondering what he is talking about.

“I had a boy talk this morning before work, I think they all understood that something changed between us. After we kissed, the energy between us changed, you must feel it too”

“I do…it really changed everything” you are curious about what he is about to tell you.

“Well, the boys noticed it was different between us. Jin came to me this morning and gave me the best advice a man can give to another one. I never needed to do it before but he was so right…”

“What did he say?”

He seems hesitant, he is not sure if he really want to say it to you.

“Jin said what? Spit it Min Yoongi”. You placed your hands on his to stop his movements. You want to listen carefully.

“He said I should, you know… empty it before diner. He said it’s the only way to stay hard long enough to please a woman when you are so into each other…”

You started to laugh at those words, incapable to stop yourself.

“Oh! My! God! You touched yourself before you came here? I can’t believe it!”

“It was the best advice somebody could tell me. Because of that, I can still think straight and seems collected. Not like you miss y/l/n”.

“Well, maybe I did the same and I still want you nevertheless. Who knows?”

You don’t want to tease him like “that”, you just wanted to laugh a little bit. But something in his eyes changed quickly. Because of those words you just said he can imagine you touching yourself and for him, this is the too much to handle! He started to make small circles on your thighs again adding more pressure. He looked at you in the eyes the whole time. You find him so beautiful. With your hands, you cup his face and lean forward to kiss him. This time, the kiss is lustful, slow but passionate. You were brushing the skin of his neck with your fingertips, delicately, slowly. Those soft gestures didn’t reflect the fire that was building up inside of you.

You were unable to stay still on your chair, he can feel you shifting your weight from a buttock to another. He doesn’t want to lose more time.

“Y/n… princess… do you mind if I take care of your need? I would like it very much. I can’t think if a better thing to do right now. You, sitting here in front of me… may I?”

What’s on his mind? What is he thinking about? He can’t mean it for real? No? Yes? You breathing goes a little faster, you can’t focus on anything else but his mouth as he is talking. His hands tracing different patterns on your legs.

“What are you planning?”

“Seeing you like that…”

He lift your skirt to kiss the skin above your knee.

“From that angle…”

Another kiss, higher.

“Is giving me ideas…”

Another kiss. He can’t resist the temptation anymore, he wants to know the taste of your skin. With his tongue, he tease your inner thighs. He is painfully, slowly tracing his way up.

“Yoongi, you are going to kill me…

Still kissing your thighs, he uses the tip of his finger and start to play with the elastic of your pantie, very close to your burning area. He’s not touching you directly. Your have the reflex to close your legs again.

«What’s up princess? You don’t like it?»

«I am loving it so much actually but I don’t want you to feel like you HAVE TO do it for me, because I can’t control my hormones in your presence».

He stand up

«That’s the only reason»?

«Well, yes… who could refuse it otherwise»

He leans forward to take you in his arms bridal style and brought you on the couch. You are too shocked to even talk and to be honest, you don’t want to protest at all.

He drops you on the couch and kneeled in front of you. He slide your butts on the edge of the cushion. Not losing any time he placed your left ankle on his right shoulder and gently he removed your pantie out of his way, following the movement of the piece of clothes with his mouth, licking and sucking the skin on his way down with the pantie and on his way up on the other leg once he throw it on the floor.

«You tell me if you don’t like something. You tell me if it hurts. You tell me how you feel, ok?»

As he was talking, his thumb was already teasing you, applying a light pressure, discovering you. He broke eye contact and looked at your core, already moisturised for him.

«You are perfect, so perfect... Ready?»

You like it, the fact that he is asking for your consent.

«More than ever Yoongi».

He didn’t wait more and started to use his tongue on you, gently licking your entrance with long strokes at first, being more precise, adding more pressure as he was feeling your breathing going faster. He was reading your body language before he was doing anything, always making sure he was not fast or too slow.

His left fingers in a scissors shape kept you open for him, offering him more space to lick and suck your clit. He was alternating gentle flicks and light pressure with more intense sucking. He removed his tongue to say, while still flicking his fingers on you.

«Your smell is driving me crazy girl… You are not talking a lot, you seems to like it though»

«You better go back there Yoongi and you can also add some fingers inside if you feel like it»

He smirks.

«You don’t talk a lot but when you do, it means business»

As he was talking, he never stop to touch your clit. As soon as he heard those words, he slowly insert his index and middle fingers inside. When he found that spot, he did the «come here» motion once again very slowly. Then, he took his fingers out. He kept doing it slowly for a few movements and faster when he felt you needed more.

«I love those moans you’re making, girl, it’s beautiful».

«Yoongi, please, add your tongue, suck it, suck me. I am close already...»

He did what you asked and accompanied your orgasm until the last waves of pleasure leaved you satisfied.

When you finally calm down, you realised that while he was eating you out, he had grabbed your hand and kept holding it until now, never letting go of it.

*** *** ** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

«Yoongiya»

«mmmmh»

You were both about to fall asleep after a long shower together.

«Do you regret anything we have done? Do you think less of me? Do you think I am an easy girl? Do you...»

«Hey.... stop it. Look at me please»

Your head was on his chest. He was petting your hair, curling them innocently around his fingers.

You don’t want to look at him, you don’t want him to notice the tears that are about to leave the center of your eyes. You are so scared that he will now think you are an easy person.

«Y/n… what’s going on? do you regret anything?»

«No, absolutely not. It’s just that I am never controlled by body like that… Normally, I need more than physical attraction to have sex and...»

He interrupted you.

«Y/n, please tell me that I didn’t misunderstood… the only thing you wanted from me was sex? You don’t want to have a relationship with me?»

«No… this is not what I meant. Where does it come from?»

«You just said that you normally need more than sexual attraction. It means that...»

You interrupted him.

«I am sorry Yoongi, I am nervous. I want more from you. I am actually scared that you only wanted to have sex with me. To be honest, I don’t want you to date anyone else, I am so nervous right now...»

He burst out laughter…

«Don’t laugh at me Min Yoongi. Your name suits you well, you are MEAN».

He cupped your face and forced you to lift up your chin and look at him in the eyes.

«Y/n… pretty princess… I only want you. To be honest, I don’t remember being so myself around somebody else. I don’t need to talk when I don’t want to, I can just sit and be with you and that’s enough. You will do your own things and let me in my thoughts».

«As long as they are positives thoughts, as long as you are not depressive and hiding it from me».

«I don’t feel down anymore, thanks to a lot of things but mostly, thanks to you. With your smile, your fairy tales and the love I see in your eyes, I feel like I can be ME. I feel like just being me is enough. I am so freaking in love with you. I don’t want to date another woman and please don’t ever accept a date with (an idol name) like you almost did the other day. Stick by my side, please… Unless you are not happy, unless this is not what you want».

«Yoongi, I want you more than anything in the world».

You kissed him softly, and managed to sit on him, straddling. Very fast, you felt the effect your sweet caress on his neck had on him.

«Again Min Yoongi? Aren’t you too tired?»

«No, I am ready for round 3… what about you miss y/l/n?

«I think I will always be ready for you Mr. Min».

You made love to each other for the third time that night. It’s with a light heart and a soft gaze on you that he fell asleep. With you in his arms as the little spoon, for the first time ever, the idea he has for a song is not enough of a reason for him to stand up. He doesn’t want to let go of you, now that he has the feeling he found the perfect woman for him he wants to stay close and never let go of your body against his. The song can wait.

#bts #bts fluff #bts fake texts #bts suga #bts min yoongi #bts yoongi #bts yoongi scenario #bts yoongi smut #bts yoongi serie #yoongi serie #min yoongi #suga scenario #suga x you #kpop smut #bts yoongi fake texts

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hungline · 5 years

Text

his angel

pairing: jihope, minor taekook genre: fluff, mild angst, guardian angel au, rated t warnings: mild gore in a dream, near death experience words: 1940

summary: Jeongguk sat beside Hoseok, his eyes fixated on Jimin's roommate and his assigned human, Kim Taehyung. "You're lucky Yoongi-hyung was present to spring you, hyung."

Hoseok smiled. "Like you wouldn't have done the same."

"He would have," Yoongi responded.

Or, that time Hoseok saved Jimin's life even though it meant putting off his eternal happiness.

⇢ part four of jihope bingo 2016

He couldn’t open his eyes at first. Darkness was all he could see, hear, or feel.

It was strange how he could hear and feel the darkness. The remote silence of it kept up a constant and irritating ringing in his ears. The damp cold of the dark smothered him as well. He felt himself shiver until he realized that he couldn’t actually feel his body tremor with the motion nor cold. He didn’t know what was going on or how he got there, but one thing was for sure: He couldn’t remember anything about who he was or what had happened.

He curled in on himself, or at least thought he did, and subjected himself to the darkness. The bleakness of it all haunted his thoughts. He felt that he should have some idea as to what was happening, but was too confused to form out a coherent thought. The darkness overcame him then and he felt himself begin to go numb.

A scorching ray of heat fell upon him. It was soothing and drove the cold of the dark away, but soon became unbearable as he felt it begin to burn him. The fire began then and the flames licked at his skin, burning his skin in their wake. His eyes opened and he was surprised that he was being greeted by light. Light as bright as the sun.

Was he on the sun? Maybe that would explain the torturous heat that seemed to engulf his very soul in its blistering warmth. He felt a tugging sensation in his chest, where his heart should be, and felt his surroundings slip away. Through the blinding heat and light, he saw a young man’s beautiful face smile at him from the center point of the direction of the light and then Park Jimin was rudely shoved back into reality.

“Jimbles, get up,” the rude voice of his roommate woke him.

Jimin curled in on himself, tiredly shoving his head underneath his pillow. Taehyung ripped the pillow from his grasp and shook him.

“Get up! You're gonna be late,” Taehyung tried again to get the sleepy Jimin up. “I'll get the bucket if you don't get out of bed right now, Jimin.”

Jimin sat up quickly. “I'm up, punk.”

Taehyung shot him an exhausted smile and Jimin couldn't resist to shoot him one back, his eyes crinkling into smiles of their own. Jimin reached out to ruffle Taehyung’s brown hair then slowly got out from under his bed covers. He quickly showered after checking the time, realizing he only had thirty minutes to walk across campus to get to class.

Taehyung laughed as Jimin ran out of their dorm and into the corridor, but Jimin ignored the teasing sound as he rushed down the hallway and out of the dorm building. He ran out into the bright, mid-morning daylight and began jogging across the quad to the art department.

With his mind focused only on getting to class, Jimin failed to realize that a janitor’s golf cart was heading straight for him as he stepped onto the stone paved way that led to the doors of the art department. He heard the honk of the golf cart and turned his head to stare at the oncoming janitor, rooting himself to the spot in surprise. If he didn’t move in the next second, he was going to get flattened.

Jimin fully and seriously considered letting himself get hit by the cart. At least he’d be able to get some much-needed money out of it. He knew the idea was incredibly stupid, but he couldn’t quite help how slowly he was reacting to the situation. Everything was moving in slow motion, Jimin included. Everything except for the brown-haired man in white barreling right for him.

He was thrown back by the man and felt his head knock against the grass beneath him as the unbearable warmth of the stranger’s arms were circling his waist. They slammed into the ground and Jimin had the breath knocked out of him, the stranger’s head bobbing against his chest from the impact.

Time sped up then and Jimin struggled to get the man’s brown hair out of his face. Many other students had run and formed a circle around the two as the janitor stopped his cart and fought to get to the two boys on the grass. Jimin knew this was all going on but his attention was focused on the man who clung to him. He looked familiar to Jimin, yet he wasn’t quite able to place where he might’ve seen this man before.

“A-are you alright?” His voice was breathless and soft. Jimin wondered if it was a result from the rush of adrenaline or if his voice always sounded like this.

“I’m fine, I just hit my head pretty hard,” Jimin tried to sit up, but the stranger’s arms were still wrapped around his waist. He began to sweat from the man’s excessive body heat. “Are you okay? Do you have a fever or something?”

The man laughed. It reminded Jimin of sunshine after a heavy storm: bright, light, and airy. Relieving. Jimin fell in love with the sound as some unknown, heavy weight fell off his shoulders. “A fever? Why would you ask that? I just saved you from being flattened out like a pancake.”

Jimin’s face heated up, and it wasn’t solely from embarrassment. The man on his chest was giving off heat waves hot enough to put the actual sun to shame. “Because you’re hot enough that not even lava would shake hands with you.”

The brown-haired man immediately let go of Jimin’s waist and rolled off him, ending up crouching on his haunches beside Jimin instead. His long face had reddened and Jimin quickly realized how his words may have been interpreted wrong.

He sat up and was about to clarify what he meant when the janitor interrupted him.

“You weren’t hurt were you?” Jimin found it strange that the janitor only asked him.

He nodded and watched as the janitor let out a relieved inheld breath and then turned on the spot to walk back to his golf cart. Jimin blinked, surprised that the janitor had only seemed to care about him and turned back to look at the strange man who had saved him from being run over.

He was gone. Jimin rubbed at his eyes and opened them wide to see if his mind was playing tricks on him. No way would someone be able to disappear that quickly, but alas, the man really was in fact gone.

Jimin shook his head slowly as Taehyung was suddenly by his side, face stricken and grabbing at his arms to pull Jimin up. Jimin was too confused to answer the frantic Taehyung who was dragging him towards the nurse’s office, throwing reassurances over his shoulder at his hyung that class was unimportant so long as Jimin was safe.

“Tae, did you see him?” Jimin’s quiet voice cut through Taehyung’s anxious banter.

“Yes, I saw the janitor. I could see everything from our dorm room’s window, Jimbles,” Taehyung pointed back in the direction of the dorm building.

“No, Taehyung,” Jimin shook his head and slowed his pace as Taehyung lessened his grip on him. “Did you see who pushed me out of the way?’

“No, I was too busy running to get to you, Jimin. I didn’t see how you ended up on the grass,” Taehyung continued to pull Jimin along towards the nurse’s office.

Jimin let it go, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves. All the while, he wondered who the strange, brown-haired, and beautiful man that had pushed him out of the way was. It seemed he would have to wait sometime before he got his actual answer to that question.

While this went on, Jung Hoseok had been called back, lectured, tried, and found innocent all in the span of less than an Earth minute. He now sat on his perch, watching over Jiminーas he was supposed toーa lovesick smile strewn across his face. He’d done his job, protected the human assigned to him and gotten him out of harm’s way. Sure the actual collision with the golf cart wouldn’t have killed Jimin, but had he gotten hit, Jimin would’ve died from his head cracking open after flying into a tree. Hoseok was Jimin’s guardian angel, his icy, sapphire wings declared him as such, and he had sworn to his line of duty: keeping his human safe until the right time for them to die came.

"See? What did I tell you?" Min Yoongi's harsh voice rang out, his eyes glued to the back of Hoseok's head and his snow-white wings poised above him in order to make him appear taller than he really was.

It didn't really matter to Hoseok; however, though an archangel, Yoongi was extremely kind and generous. He put up a façade, demanding respect and authority due to his higher status, yet Hoseok was very aware of the person Yoongi really was.

Yoongi was supportive. He listened to Hoseok's never-ending talks about Jimin and how much he loved him and how he couldn't wait to meet the younger. Yoongi already knew everything Hoseok was going to say beforehand though, so it was bearable for him to constantly lend an attentive ear towards the guardian angel. Yoongi was all too aware of the feelings Hoseok felt for Jimin, he had after all chosen him to be Jimin's angel after all.

As a guardian angel, it was normal for the angel to fall in love with their assigned human. It was expected. Archangels were the ones who determined assignments and pairings, so in turn, they played as potential matchmakers.

The blue-winged angel only laughed in regards to the archangel's questioning. "Thank you, hyung."

Hoseok was just glad that Yoongi had decided to inform him of what was going to happen. And of course, Yoongi was never wrong. Being an archangel entitled Yoongi to many things that Hoseok, a mere guardian angel, wouldn’t be able to comprehend. Though if he had let Jimin die, he would have been able to hold his hand and kiss him all he wanted. Even be able to let the tips of his light blue wings brush against Jimin’s newfound white ones (Hoseok liked to believe that Jimin would become an archangel). But it could wait. Jimin still had a life to live and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that for his own selfish reasons. That wasn’t the way in heaven.

Jeongguk sat beside Hoseok, his eyes fixated on Jimin's roommate and his assigned human, Kim Taehyung. "You're lucky Yoongi-hyung was present to spring you, hyung."

Hoseok smiled. "Like you wouldn't have done the same."

"He would have," Yoongi responded.

Hoseok smiled, his large sparkling teeth blinding Yoongi temporarily. Somehow, Yoongi managed to smile back.

And though they had already answered for him, Jeonnguk nodded. His gaze softened while he turned back to staying solely focused on Taehyung

Yoongi's large wing brushed against Hoseok's spine when the other watched Jeongguk's human push Jimin into a nurse office. Jimin was fine, Hoseok had made sure of it. It didn't stop Hoseok from feeling his own heart warm up to Taehyung. There was no wondering about why Jeongguk had fallen so hard because Hoseok understood all-too-well.

Even though he didn't have him within in his reach, Hoseok was content with being Jimin's guardian angel for the time being. Just as long as he was Jimin's angel, anyway. Hoseok was really just glad that he had saved Park Jimin.

#jihope #networkjihope #btssunshinenet #bangtan bookclub #kwordsmiths #prettyboysnetwork #betareadernet #bts #fluff #p:hoseok/jimin #f:ha #s:jhb16 #m: fic

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