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javier-pena · 3 years

Text

take

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x f!reader

Word Count: 3k

Rating: Explicit (that means 18+/no minors!!)

Summary: Javi and you are enjoying breakfast on his yacht until things take an unexpected turn.

Notes: I saw a picture of Javi and all I could think was, “I wanna feed him berries”. So that’s the reason I wrote this fic. That’s the only excuse I have. Oh and also that I want Javi to call me a bad girl but whatever, we don’t need to talk about that. Anyway, as always, I owe most of this to Dani @javierpcna, literally everything I write should come with Dani’s name listed as co-author, her support knows no bounds, she literally drops everything when I send her a fic to proofread, and this was no different. And she also lets me use her brilliant lines from time to time, for which I can never repay her.

Notes II: I have neither seen the movie nor have I read the script, so if there are any spoilers in there (I doubt it) I didn’t put them in intentionally.

Notes III: Artwork by @honestly-shite | Moodboard by @frankiemorales

***

One.

He lets you feed him one berry, but only after you tell him how good they taste, how they melt on your tongue, how they fill your mouth with a soft sweetness. He raises an eyebrow at that, and you know what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t say it. Instead, he takes the small blueberry from your outstretched fingers, leaning on the laden breakfast table to make it easier for you to reach him. The berry is so small it’s impossible for him to pull it in between his lips without the tip of your finger vanishing, too. You shudder at the sensation, shudder despite the heat, despite the hotness of his tongue brushing against your sensitive skin.

Javi hates breakfast. He hates dedicating time during his busy day, during the mornings when he feels most productive, to eating when it can be done en passant. You keep telling him it’s not healthy to eat while he’s distracted, and you’ve been trying to convince him to have breakfast with you for a few weeks now.

Why, babe? You said distraction is bad for me when I eat.

He still doesn’t eat during the mornings, only drinks his heavy, smoky, black coffee, but he keeps you company now whenever he can. He reads to you from the morning paper, he tells you about his plans for the day, or he listens to you talking about a dream you had last night or about things you would like to do with him one day. And today … today he even made time to take you out on his yacht, to anchor it in a secluded bay where there’s no noise except the lapping of the waves against the bright white hull of the ship and the cries of the seagulls circling above, hoping to snatch a crumb of the croissant on your plate. Today, he’s made time to be with you.

Two.

You try it again, another berry, another taste of sweetness, another burst of flavor and color and sugary juices. This time it becomes clear he’s chasing something else, craving something else, as he sucks on your finger, just for a brief moment, just under the pretense of getting the sticky juice off your skin, but he also isn’t shy about it, he also doesn’t try to hide what he’s doing. Your skin prickles when he releases the digit, and you pull your hand back across the table too quickly, too hastily. He notices and leans back on his expensive outdoor couch with a satisfied sigh.

You dry your finger against the hot skin of your leg, already burning up with the heat of the approaching day, even though you keep to the shadows. Only your feet rest on an empty chair in direct sunlight, while you keep the rest of your body safe under a wide canopy. Javi is doing the complete opposite. He’s lounging in direct sunlight, and you’ll never understand how he can stand it. Your skin always starts to tickle and itch from the heat, while he looks like he was made to live in a Mediterranean country and spend his days in the sun.

The bright, orange shirt he’s wearing is unbuttoned to expose half his chest. His bronze skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, and you cannot tear your eyes away from it, imagining what it would feel like to run your fingers over it, how hot it would feel under your hands, how he would sigh and relax into your touch. His chest is your favorite place in the entire world. You feel safe when you rest your hand on it, when he softly runs his fingers along your arm, tells you how beautiful you look, how he will always take care of you, no matter what, how you’ll never need to worry about anything ever again because you’re his and he’s yours. And you feel oh so secure when you’re trapped under it, when you feel its weight pressing down on you, when your sharp nails leave angry, red scratches on his soft skin as he whispers into your ear – encouraging, soothing, filthy.

Three.

You want to see it move, see the muscles flex and strain as he leans forward again to accept a third berry from you. And this time he’s not shy about it anymore. This time, he does suck your finger in between his lips, the berry forgotten, and you see his eyes widen behind his dark sunglasses. You suck in a sharp breath at the sight. He releases your finger with a wet pop and suddenly this isn’t enough. Suddenly you need more, more of him, but you lower your gaze to your plate instead to hide your shining eyes. There is a time and place for these things and the deck of his yacht in broad daylight isn’t it.

But you cannot deny what your body wants, even though your mind tells the aching between your legs to shut up. You push yourself out of your chair fast and within a few steps you’re leaning against the railing, hoping to catch a breeze to soothe your flushed face. But there is none, only unbearable heat.

When you turn around again, you feel a different kind of heat; Javi’s gaze is on you as he takes you in. You know he loves to do this, especially when you’re wearing something he bought you, like you’re doing this morning – an expensive black bikini that leaves little to the imagination, one you found on your bed one morning with a small note that made you shudder, so you decided to save it for a special occasion. And you were right to do so because he’s unable to tear his eyes away from you.

You walk back to the table as slowly as possible, determined to finish breakfast, but something pulls you toward him, like an invisible rope slung around your waist, like his gaze is enough to make you lose all sense of control. And before you know it, you’re straddling his thigh, while he pulls you into a kiss, one that lasts forever yet not long enough, one that sets you on fire more than the sun on your back yet makes you want to expose more skin so more of you will get burned.

The second his teeth release your lip his hands fly up to rest against your hips, his grip firm but easy to get out of if you wanted to. “Is there something you wanted, baby?” he asks you, innocence written all over his face, as if he truly is completely unaware of the effect he has on you, of the things he makes you want to do when his eyes follow you around like you’re the eighth wonder of the world.

You bite your lip, bite the spot that still feels raw from where he sucked on it moments earlier, and then you start rolling your hips, start chasing the friction to relieve some of the hot, searing pressure that’s been building between your legs since he sucked your finger into his mouth. You see his eyes lower dangerously when he realizes what it is you want from him, and everything shifts, shifts as if the yacht is hit by a strong wave. You’re all too familiar with this change and you know exactly what it means, and what it entails.

One of your hands lands on the collar of his shirt out of its own free will, your fingers clawing at the material in a desperate attempt to steady yourself. The palm of your other hand presses against his warm, sun-kissed chest, your nails eager to leave marks on his skin. But instead of pressing into your touch, he leans back and watches you with mild interest.

This is all the permission you need. You grind your hips with a sense of purpose now, and when you feel the muscles of his leg tense between yours, a small whimper escapes your lips.

He smirks at you, and you know his eyes are sparkling, even though you can’t really see them. “Come on,” he urges you, pressing up into you, “make yourself feel good.”

With a desperate moan, your head falls onto his shoulder, your forehead scraping against his shirt, and you bite your lip because it’s the only thing stopping you from biting the exposed skin of his neck. You know he’d like that, he likes it when you are rough with him, but it also unleashes something in him you want to keep locked away today. You know it’s selfish and greedy, but all you want to do this morning is take, and not think about him.

He makes that resolve very difficult to keep.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asks you, a hand at the back of your neck, trying to get you to lift your head.

You don’t answer him, you can’t, but you indulge him and lift your head again. You pick up the pace, determined to show him how much you like it, how good it makes you feel, but he only smirks at you again, like he doesn’t need an answer anyway, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And suddenly, suddenly that selfish streak is gone, and you want him closer to you, all over you, inside of you. You don’t care that you have to give up the last bit of control you cling to, and give yourself over completely to him, you don’t care that it’s broad daylight and that another boat could sail into your tiny bay any second now, you don’t care about being discovered or about this being, strictly speaking, illegal. You just care about him fucking you like he does when he has you to himself, sprawled out under him, trapping you with his broad chest and toned arms, forcing you to take whatever he gives you.

But before you can tell him any of that, the hand at the back of your neck is gone and he lifts up his sunglasses and tosses them aside, so you can look right into his eyes, so you can see that you’re not the only one who’s affected by all of this. His gaze roams all over you, from your eyes shining with hazy lust to your legs squeezing around his thigh and your hips rolling with an urgency, pushing you steadily closer to finding the release you’re chasing. But this isn’t enough, you both know that; it’s enough to keep the fire going, but not enough to push you over the edge.

His free hand brushes against the exposed skin of your belly, his fingers run along the seam of your bikini top, and you push yourself forward, willing him to cup your breasts, pinch your nipples, anything, anything to relieve the ache and burning, the feverish craving you feel for his touch, his lips, his words that leave no doubt about who is in control. But he doesn’t give you any of that. Instead, his hand moves to your back to steady you, to hold you in place, and all he does is toy with the strap of your top holding everything in place at the back of your neck.

You don’t know what makes you look down to where your bodies are connected, but you do, and he follows your gaze. You both watch as a dark patch forms on the light fabric of his slacks, as it spreads more and more with each thrust of your hips.

“You’re making a mess,” Javi breathes quietly, so quietly you almost don’t catch it over the sound of the water against the yacht’s hull. His gaze is transfixed, his attention is on the evidence of your arousal as he watches with great interest. You feel heat spread from your chest along your arms and up your neck to your face, but you don’t stop.

“Look at you, princess,” he goes on, his left hand gripping your side tighter to slow you down until you drag yourself along his leg painfully slowly. “Look at how you’re getting daddy’s trousers all wet, they’re probably ruined now.” He pauses at your sharp intake of breath. There’s a dark glint in his eyes when he speaks next. “You’re a bad girl.”

You’re pretty sure the sound you make isn’t human. He lets go of your side and rests his hand on your thigh, letting you set the pace again.

“Please,” you whine, and you don’t quite know why you say it, what you want him to do, you just know he needs to do something, or you’ll go crazy. “Please, Javi,” you repeat. “Please, just … touch me,” you finish, and it’s stupid, he is touching you, just not in the way you mean, but you cannot come up with anything else to say.

“You’re always so greedy,” he observes, not making any move to fulfil your request. “I’m already giving you what you want and still you want more. Don’t you want to be daddy’s good girl?”

You don’t know the answer to that question. You wouldn’t know your own name if he asked you right now. Not because of the things he’s saying but because he raises his leg ever so slightly to push up against your clit and every coherent thought you might have had is drowned out by incoherent sounds leaving your mouth. You press down against him, grinding down with so much force he’s bound to lower his leg. Only … he doesn’t.

“Sorry, I didn’t get that,” he says, a picture of calmness and poise. “Can you repeat that for me?”

You absolutely cannot because you can’t remember what you said in the first place, but you give it another try. “Javi, please, give me something,” you swallow, “anything. Touch me, please.”

“No,” he says, but his voice sounds strained now, like uttering that two-letter word takes a lot of effort. “I want to hear you beg.”

“Please,” you say again, knowing it won’t be enough. “Please, I can’t …”

“Why not?” he wants to know.

“It’s not enough, I ...,” you swallow again, your throat completely dry, “why are you doing this to me?”

“Oh, baby, you’re not even trying to get yourself off,” Javi chuckles. “I know you can do better than that.”

“I am trying,” you tell him, but it’s nothing more than a desperate whine.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asks you.

And he’s right, it is, it was ten minutes ago when you thought all you had to do was look pretty and he’d fuck you, but now that he’s seen right through you, now that he has decided he doesn’t want to give you anything more than he has to, it isn’t anymore. You want so much more than this, and you know there’s just one way to get it.

With a small movement you change your position slightly until you roll your hips against where he’s straining against the fabric of his slacks, and a low hiss is your reward, followed by a sharp slap to your ass that makes your hips stutter, and you lose your steady rhythm. Both his hands are on your hips again and he pushes you down hard against the firm muscles of his thigh.

“Oh no, you don’t,” he tells you. “I’m gonna give you what you came here for, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Javi,” you groan.

His hands move your hips, his arms straining with the effort of keeping you in place, and you let him, even though all you can think about is his hard cock only inches away from you. You think about him pushing into you, about the filthy, wet sounds it would make, about how he’s the only one who can reach so deep inside of you he makes you see stars with every thrust.

“All right,” Javi says. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “You can have it.”

You’re sure you misheard. You’re sure he didn’t just say that. After all he’s put you through, he won’t give in that easily. But you clench around nothing nevertheless, clench around thin air at the thought of him inside of you.

“Later,” he adds, and your heart almost stops. “I’m gonna fill your pretty mouth, but only if you’re good for me.”

You want to, you’re trying to, but you cannot do this anymore. If he’s not going to touch you, if he won’t fuck you, you have to do it yourself.

One of your hands leaves his strong shoulders and you frantically push the fabric of your swimsuit aside, pressing a finger against your aching clit. You moan in relief, but it only lasts a moment, because his left hand closes tightly around your wrist without any warning, and he twists your arm until he has it in a firm grip pressed against your back. The ring he wears on his little finger digs painfully into your soft skin.

“You were doing so well,” he says with a disappointed sigh.

“It’s not –,” you start, but you’re not allowed to finish the sentence.

“No, it is enough,” he tells you firmly, his eyes boring into yours.

But he does reach up, he does pull the string of your top until it comes loose and your tits spill out. He lets go of your arm but before you can decide what to do with your newfound freedom, his fingers close around your throat at the same time as his mouth closes around one of your nipples.

That’s all it takes.

You arch your back with a scream and come right there on his thigh in broad daylight, while he holds you in place with hands and mouth. It goes on forever, or at least it feels like that, and he’s unrelenting, first sucking one nipple into his mouth, then biting down hard on the other. When it becomes clear he’s not planning on stopping, you grab a fistful of his soft curls and pull him away from your chest with a sharp tug.

“Had enough?” he asks, his lips shiny and slightly swollen.

You nod slowly because you don’t trust your voice right now.

“Well, I haven’t,” he growls. “And I will tell you when you’ve had enough.”

taglist: @badbatches, @darksber, @doin-stuff, @filthybookworm, @for-my-satisfaction, @frannyzooey, @javigutierrez, @karkii, @pann-malii, @raspberrymama, @silksaddle, @skeletonstwins, @skyshipper, @sunnydunnydays

#the unbearable weight of massive talent #javi gutierrez x reader #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez #pedro pascal #fanfic #pedro pascal character fanfiction #i hope it makes sense #i'm high up in the mountains so if it doesn't it's the lack of oxygen

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adsdragonlover · 4 years

Text

You Matter To Me

Coda to 15x19

Wc: 2k, Tags: fluff, pie, happy ending, first kiss

Also on ao3

It’s been three weeks since they won, but Dean still isn’t happy.

He’s been driving around the country, searching for something he knows he won’t find. The thing he wants that he knows he can’t have. He lost his chance.

Eventually, he ends up at a diner.

Lulu’s Pies, it says in softly glowing neon cursive above the building.

The bell above the door chimes as Dean pushes it open and steps inside. It’s pleasantly warm compared to the cold night outside, but Dean still feels cold. At least on the inside.

He heads to the bar and sits down on one of the stools.

With a cursory and habitual glance around the diner, he realizes he’s the only one here. At least the only customer.

That makes sense, he supposes. It’s barely 3 AM and the diner is plopped in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. The only other signs of life in the area are the long winding road outside and the shitty old gas station a few miles back.

To be honest, Dean doesn’t quite know why he came here. Maybe he needed a break from the drive.

He wanted to get some pie - the place was literally named for its pies - but that was mainly out of habit rather than actual desire. It’s been hard to want any of the things he used to enjoy, not since…

He cuts off that train of thought with a scowl to himself.

The waitress, a sweet looking woman with long, wavy, dark blonde hair and deep blue eyes approaches Dean from the other side of the bar. “What can I get for you, sugar?” she asks with a warm voice, rich with a soft southern accent. It reminds him, inexplicably, of his mother.

“I-“ Dean stops. “I don’t know,” he admits quietly.

The waitress, Jenna, according to her name tag, smiles sympathetically. “That’s alright,” she says sweetly. “It can be hard to know what you want, especially when you lose someone dear to you.”

Dean frowns. “How did you-” He begins.

Jenna smiles sadly at Dean. “There are some things a mother just knows, and heartbreak is one of them.” Her eyes are understanding, and painfully blue - too close to Castiel’s eyes for comfort. Dean looks away. “You look like you could use a slice of pie,” she says, handing him a paper dessert menu, specifically made for this week. “They’re all made from scratch, and made from the heart. Take all the time you need, honey. I’ll be back with a cup of coffee for you, it’s on the house.”

Jenna’s words soothe something raw and stinging inside Dean, and he offers her a small smile as she heads back into the kitchen.

He looks over the menu with a tired sigh. Not too long ago, Dean would’ve killed to eat here. All the pies sound awesome, and something about the waitress makes it very clear she puts effort into her pies.

Still, his heart isn’t really in it.

When Jenna comes back with a mug of coffee and a smile, Dean nods thankfully, but shakes his head when she asks if he’s ready to order. “I just- I need more time,” he says.

He isn’t just talking about the food. Not anymore.

Jenna nods. “Just give me a call when you’re ready, hun,” and then she’s gone.

Dean isn’t really sure how long he sits there, staring blankly at the dessert menu, coffee warming up one of his hands, his soul feeling achingly empty.

He's snapped out of his stupor by the sound of the bell above the door chiming to indicate someone else entering.

Dean’s eyes are glued to the menu still, reading the blurb under Heartbreak Pie. It's a black bottomed cherry pie, and the picture stops him.

He hears footsteps walk over, but he ignores them. They come closer until the stranger sits down on the stool to the right of Dean.

Dean feels irritation flash through him briefly, the diner is completely empty, and Dean’s positive he’s radiating “leave me alone” vibes, but for some reason the stranger decides to sit next to him anyway.

The irritation is gone as fast as it appeared however, Dean just doesn’t have the energy. Not anymore.

A couple days after they’d won, after Jack had left and Sam had reunited with a newly brought back Eileen, Dean had broken down in the bunker.

He’d lost it a little, had cried and cried and cried for days. Begging and pleading and praying. But Cas hadn’t come back.

Not long after, the sadness had turned to anger. Anger at Cas, for making the deal in the first place. For loving Dean so much it killed him. For telling him and then leaving before Dean could say it back. Anger at Jack, for dying and causing the deal, for becoming God and not bringing Cas back, for leaving Dean just like Cas had, just like Sam.

But mostly, Dean had been angry with himself. For not saying it back when Cas told him, for just standing there, for being the reason Cas died, for being too stubborn and too scared to say anything sooner, back when he’d had the chance. He was angry at himself for not being everything that Cas apparently thought he was.

Those few days were fueled entirely by anger in Dean’s opinion. He knew, deep down, that the anger was caused by love, but he didn’t want to think about that. Because if Cas was right, if he was right about Dean then there really wasn’t any good reason why Dean had never said anything.

Those few days were fueled entirely by anger. He knew, deep down, that the anger was caused by love, but he didn’t want to think about that. Because if Cas was right, if he was right about Dean then there really wasn’t any good reason why Dean had never said anything.

Nowadays though, Dean just felt numb. He drives around in Baby with the hopes of bringing something back into his life, but nothing helps.

He almost missed it, he was so lost in thought, and he barely caught the tail end of Jenna asking the stranger what she could “-get for you, dear?”

“I’ll have a slice of cherry pie,” came the low and gravelly voice, and Dean’s heart stopped, “and a slice of apple pie for my friend here,” Castiel finished.

Dean could barely hear Jenna’s acknowledgement and departure over the sudden ringing in his ears and the unavoidable bloom of hope in his chest.

He wants to look over, he does. He wants to see for himself if it really is Cas. Or if he's finally going crazy. But he can't move. He's frozen in his spot.

And then Cas’ hand comes to rest on Dean’s shoulder, right where his handprint had been, both as a scar that was no longer there, and as a bloody stain on a jacket Dean kept in the trunk of the impala for safekeeping. That movement, that touch, it was undeniably Castiel, and it forced Dean into action.

He turns his head, and looks his best friend in the eyes for the first time in what feels like forever.

And it's Castiel. Undoubtedly. He has the same messy hair, the same stubble, the same beautiful blue eyes, same dirty trench coat, the same stubbornly crooked blue tie.

“Cas?” Dean croaks, voice wobbling, painfully close to cracking.

Castiel smiles softly and the sight of it brings endless relief to Dean. And when Cas responds with, “Yes. Hello, Dean.” The relief doubles until it floods over Dean so completely his hands begin to shake.

“Cas,” he starts, voice trembling almost as much as his hands. “I- you- how-?”

“Oh look, our pie,” Cas says, cutting Dean off as their slices of pie are placed down in front of them.

“Cas, listen-” Dean begins quietly.

“Dean,” Cas interrupts. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk, I promise. Just eat your pie.”

And maybe, some other time, Dean would’ve been worried, would’ve been suspicious over Cas’ clear redirection. But he isn't. Because Castiel’s eyes are earnest and honest.

And Dean suddenly understands. Cas doesn't want to talk about it yet. He doesn't know how Dean is going to respond. He wants to have this first, just a quiet, peaceful moment.

So Dean nods, and begins to eat his pie.

It is really good pie, especially a regular apple pie, and it's probably the best apple pie he’d had in years. Mentally, Dean decides to give Jenna a large tip.

He’s halfway through eating his pie when he can’t do it anymore. Not with the way he could feel Cas watching him contentedly, fondly.

“Cas, listen, I-”

“It’s alright, Dean,” Cas says, cutting him off again, but Dean can’t be mad at it. He just needs to keep going.

“No,” he says sternly, looking stubbornly down at his half-eaten slice of pie. “No, it’s not Cas. It’s not alright, and I need to say this.”

He looks back up at Cas and waits for his response. When Cas nods in understanding, Dean takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes to steady himself briefly before opening them back up and looking Cas in the eyes. “Cas, I love you,” Dean says quietly. “You gotta know I love you too.”

Cas’ eyes widen slightly before his expression softens to something so fond it would probably make Dean uncomfortable had it been coming from anyone else. “I know,” he says with a smile that’s almost a grin.

“You kno-?” Then Dean gets it. “Oh you little shit,” he laughs. “You did not know, you don’t get to Han Solo me, you asshat,” Dean says with a wide grin.

Cas chuckles and the sound warms Dean up from the inside out. “My apologies, Dean. It seemed fitting and I figured you’d appreciate it.” Cas ducks his head slightly, avoiding eye contact, though he’s still smiling.

“Hey,” Dean says, and he reaches out and grabs Cas’ hand. “There’s no need to apologize, man.” Dean’s grinning too, and, distantly, he figures he should probably make an effort to stop calling Cas “man” and “buddy”, considering the fact that he’s in love with the stupid angel.

Cas’ smile widens and he looks back up, meeting Dean’s gaze as he turns his hand over and laces their fingers together almost hesitantly.

The flood of warmth the action brings Dean, as well as the hesitation in Cas’ eyes, brings Dean to squeeze their hands automatically, reassuringly.

All the hesitance in Cas’ expression melts away, and he practically beams at Dean. “You should finish your pie, Dean,” he suggests softly.

“So should you,” Dean points out.

Cas chuckles again and shakes his head. “It only tastes like molecules to me. I’ll get a to-go box for it and you can finish it for me later,” he says, and the ‘later’ in that sentence fills Dean with joy.

They aren’t over. There’s going to be a “later” for the two of them.

He grins at Cas and squeezes his hand before turning back to his delicious pie.

It’s after he finishes it that he gets an idea, and he grins. “Hey Cas, you wanna taste it? It’s pretty good.”

Castiel frowns and does his confused little head tilt that Dean has always secretly found unbearably cute. He realizes, suddenly, that he doesn’t have to keep that a secret anymore, and the thought makes him smile.

“Dean, I don’t understand,” Cas says slowly, “there isn’t any pie le-” and then the look on Dean’s face must sink in, because he cuts off with a slowly growing and a little shy smile. “...yes,” he says finally. “I would like a taste.”

“Good,” Dean says, and then he reaches over with both hands, wrapping one around Cas’ arm and cupping the back of his neck with the other as he pulls his angel into a kiss.

Castiel melts into it, and Dean feels a little like he’s glowing from the inside out, he’s so happy.

When they pull away, Dean is still grinning. “Well?” he says. “Did you like the taste?”

Cas is wearing a matching grin. “Hmmm,” he says with mock thoughtfulness. “I’m not sure, I think we should do it again, so I can have another taste.”

God, Dean is in love.

They meet again in the middle for another kiss.

Dean’s face almost hurts from smiling so much after such a long time of not smiling at all. And he knows, as they hold each other close in the pie diner, that they have the rest of their lives to spend together.

And Dean is happy.

Tag list! Ask to be added or removed!

@dreamnovak @tearsofgrace @bluebell-24 @rambleoncas

#coda #spn fanfic #destiel fanfic #destiel ficlet #destiel coda #spn 15.19 #spn 15x19 #spn spoilers #supernatural fanfic #deancas #deancas fic #destiel fic #destiel #my writing #catch me being a musical theater nerd #and adding Jenna from waitress to the story

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soliavenne · 3 years

Text

Just Sand Sibling Things + Shinki: How do they deal with cooking?

Hi! I have been thinking of having Just Sand Sibling Things (+ Shinki now and then) as a series of works. :) I guess this is the first entry haha.

Hope you like it! <3

Excellent cook, obviously the most versatile out of the four. Appetizer, main entrée, snacks and dessert, you name it. Not very adventurous when it comes to recipes, but she’s well-rounded enough with the basics to tweak an ingredient or a two from the book if she knows she’ll be able to improve the taste.

Knows that she’s great at what she does, and she’s damn proud of it.

Very confident, but can actually be secretly conscious of what she serves, especially when it’s her first time cooking the specific food. She would rather start over again than serve something that doesn’t suit her standards.

Tries her best to mind her own business while eating but is stealthily inspecting her brothers, or her husband and son’s facial expression as they eat her food.

Very organized, every ingredient is in each separate plates. Not the type to leave a pile of dirty plates on the sink and wash it all at once by the end of cooking. She will wash some of them now and then if she could leave the cooking process alone on itself.

Praise her damn food, praise her cooking skills. She might not look like it but she’s a big, big sucker for appreciation. If you have been generous for the past few days with compliments, she’ll try her best to free up her schedule and proceed to serve a damn feast over the table.

If ever she ends up serving something that doesn’t taste good, she would understand a very faint grimace or two on your face. But that’s all, don’t bother telling her about it if she doesn’t ask you about it. She knows what’s wrong already and she’s already beating up herself about it.

Mostly cooks foods that are on the healthier spectrum, but would flat out bake herself her own pizza and brownies at 12 AM.

Would try to hide her midnight snacks as much as possible, but if she gets caught, she would huff and act all annoyed but is secretly happy to share it. She just likes riling people up a bit, but she’s very sweet and generous.

What reads above cannot be applied if she’s on her period or she had a fight with Shikamaru, you better fuck off and leave her alone.

He’s not that much keen to cooking, but this man is not dumb. Knows at least the very, very basic fundamentals around the kitchen.

It’s those common mistakes that usually happens if someone’s just starting to venture out on cooking. A little too much salt, a little heavy on the pepper, the meat is tad bit raw while the crust is already burned. Those kind of technical mishaps. He would not be unbelievably awful at it.

Tries his best to listen to Temari’s advices on cooking, but he ends up overthinking it. He’s best off learning on his own and figuring out for himself what went wrong.

Skilled at cooking instant foods and junk foods. Knows damn well how to elevate them. The type of food he ends up cooking are more on the indulgent side, mostly savory type of foods. Hamburgers, meat pizza, steak, and ribs, you name it.

Has been secretly saving up to buy his own pellet grill and personalize it.

Does not know exactly how to cook healthy-family based foods like vegetable stew or chicken soup or anything of the like. He either gets to eat it if Temari is cooking, or it’s a takeout.

Very messy cook. Spoons with unidentified sauces are everywhere, there’s even a plate on the living room that he’s not sure how it even got there.

Would probably wash it once a dirty pan had punched his face and Temari is screaming on the other end of the handle.

Don’t talk to him when he’s focusing, he’s going to get flustered about the whole thing.

Just as sensitive as Temari when it comes to feedback. He would laugh alongside a negative comment, but he won’t be cooking anything that isn’t instant food for the next whole week.

If you praise him so much he will end up being so worked up about it that he cooks the same thing tomorrow night. He would try so hard to hit the same note but he was overthinking it the whole time so it doesn’t end up as good.

A genuine praise could go such a long way for Kankuro. He might not look like it but he’s genuinely appreciative of it and finds it very encouraging.

Doesn’t necessarily hate cooking, but he just doesn’t know to pave his way around it.

Believes that cooking is a fundamental skill, but is still avoiding the opportunity to work on it. He had bought some cooking books and probably printed some recipes from Yahoo and allrecipes.com, but he’s secretly relieved whenever Kankuro asks if he wants something to eat from the store.

Very shy about asking for help, but if Temari or Kankuro does volunteer to teach him something, he would not refuse it.

Nearly passed out once because he has been letting his breakfast pass when Temari left for Konoha. Kankuro scolded him a bit, but ten minutes later they were already talking about sandwiches. When Gaara mentioned that he misses waking up to Temari cooking pancakes in their shared apartment, they surprisingly ended up having a genuinely-deep conversation about it; talking along the lines of how they really feel about their sister leaving Suna.

Kankuro told him that he’ll be letting him off easy but if he wants to be a much more effective Kazekage, he has to take care of himself. The epiphany had hit Gaara so hard he bought a new apron and a pan on his way home from work.

The first set of foods that he focused on was under the bracket of breakfast meals. A bowl of plain oatmeal and a little bit of sugar was okay, but it did get redundant and he swore to himself he’d throw the bowl out of the window if he had to make another one of it again for the 3rd week of that month.

Began to buy pancake box-mixes where all he had to worry about was adding eggs, water and oil. Once he had gotten the hang of it, he decided to follow a pancake recipe from scratch. He thinks it tastes better, but it wasn’t something he could do every day.

Thinks he had found his soulmate when he started making granola. He could prepare it in advance and stock it up. He finds it very convenient.

An understandable kind of messy, maybe a little smudge of batter on his cheek when he’s cooking pancakes. Dirty plates would be on a pile but he would arrange them by size and category before washing them all together after he ends up eating.

Takes cooking seriously that he even bought a hairnet. Kankuro caught him once wearing it and the ten-minute laugh he had out of watching his baby brother cook with a hairnet on just made Gaara opt to tie his hair instead.

Sometimes boils eggs at night in advance so that he could simply peel one in the morning for breakfast.

All in all, he mostly cooks usual, literally off the recipe book breakfast meals. Most of them are healthy.

It would take a lot of time before you get him to serve you the food he made. He doesn’t like disappointing people and as stoic as he may be he would also be just as sensitive about it.

Began to develop the drive to cook better when he adopted Shinki. He remembers vividly how happy he was whenever Yashamaru brings him a bento, so he decides to take the effort to study bento making now and then whenever he’s not that busy.

When he saw a small, cute apron from the store, he found himself buying it to give to Shinki. He still hasn’t built up the courage to ask Shinki to have a cooking bonding with him though because he’s not that confident about his skills just yet.

A very responsible kid. Has the self-awareness that basics of cooking should be developed in order to survive independently no matter where you go. He even knows how to start fire from scratch.

The first thing he had ask Gaara regarding preparing food is how Gaara makes his coffee. Ever since he was able to replicate it, he sometimes even gets up earlier than his father so that he could prepare the warm beverage beforehand. He doesn’t drink coffee everyday, but with a craving now and then sometimes, he likes adding a splash of milk to it. He and Gaara both share the same preference when it comes to the level of sweetness.

Not very adventurous when it comes to recipes. As long as it’s filling and easy to make, that will be his chosen route.

Has asked Gaara once about his special pancake mix, and he had been making it mostly everyday. The fluffy texture of it soon got a little tiring, so he started wondering what else he could eat for breakfast. Despite being very mature for his age, he’s still a kid who has the hint of wonder for foods that are still comfortable yet a little exciting now and then.

When Yodo took him and Araya once to a waffle stand on their way home from a mission, he started buying one almost everyday. He’s more of a savory-waffle kind of kid.

Gaara takes notice of this, and when Shinki woke up to a wafflemaker and printed waffle recipes on the kitchen counter one morning, he couldn’t help a very, very rare and genuine smile on his face.

He might not that be that much inclined to cooking, but on days where he’s not busy, he tries to read about it. His main drive about cooking is so that his father comes home to a much more healthier meal instead of having takeouts almost every night. He loves and respect his father that much, and he’s also health and fitness-conscious since he really does take his job as a shinobi very seriously.

The same as Temari in terms of cooking. Neatly organized, no dirty plates lying around the counter. Every ingredient is measured and calculated.

His face might not be anywhere near grinning but he’s actually happy whenever he dons the apron that Gaara bought him.

Doesn’t really care if you don’t like the food unless you’re his dad.

#temari #kankuro #gaara #shinki #gaara of the desert

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yukipri · 4 years

Text

Marco’s Bauble Part 4 - a One Piece Mermaid AU Text Story

Next part of Marco’s Bauble! Was posted in advance on Patreon ^ ^

In which the Whitebeards gossip

Contains mention of Marco x Luffy.

Continues off of, and should be read after:

👒🐟Marco’s Bauble Part 1

👒🐟Marco’s Bauble Part 2

👒🐟Marco’s Bauble Part 3

Namur values his crew's privacy. And given that he doubts he was even supposed to see Marco's secret, he absolutely can't disclose it to anyone.

Which is why he's snuck into Izo's room at ass o'clock in the morning, when everyone but the morning shift is asleep, but Izo's awake because he takes a few hours doing his hair and makeup.

"This had better be good, I don't usually enjoy an audience before I'm presentable," Izo says.

Namur doesn't really get what's unpresentable about Izo now. Sure he looks different, with his ridiculously long hair still loose and spilling to his waist, pulled back from his face with a seemingly simple band that Namur saw Izo drop a small fortune for. Izo's plucking up various bottles of liquid lined up on his vanity, methodically shaking a few measured drops into his palm before patting them into his face. Namur doesn't see any difference before and after the drops are applied.

"It's...it's not my secret to tell, but no one else seems to know, and I need to talk to someone, it's too big for just me," Namur says, reluctantly. "But you can't tell anyone, Izo, I mean it."

Izo just hums in response, and Namur sweats. He seems to be doing a lot of that these days. Maybe he needs to take a few days to just swim, being above sea level for too long can be stressful for fishmen.

Because this is already seeming like an increasingly bad idea. Izo isn't known for being particularly good at keeping secrets; if anything, he's a known gossip. That being said, he's also one of the best listeners aboard the Moby (it's how he gets his info), and more importantly, is the third best person to go to for good, thoughtful advice.

The best person to go to for advice is, of course, Pops, but Namur wilts at the mere thought because it really, really isn't his place to talk to Pops about this without Marco's consent. And unfortunately, the close second for Best Person to Go to For Advice is none other than Marco himself, everyone's Big Brother and caring Mother Hen Supreme.

And, well. It's not like Namur can go to Marco to talk about Marco.

"Well, I'm waiting," Izo says, and apparently he'd gone through his entire lineup of six little bottles of mysterious liquids, and is now blotting some paste onto his skin with a weird brush-like contraption. Namur squints, but can barely see any difference between the areas with the paste and without.

"Please don't tell anyone, unless they already know," Namur stresses again, praying.

"Yes, yes." Izo continues blotting.

"Marco proposed to someone."

Izo continues blotting.

Namur sweats.

Izo's hand gradually slows, and Namur realizes he's finished covering his entire face. Namur sees zero difference.

"Just so we're clear," Izo says, as he finally turns to face Namur. "When you say 'Marco,' we're talking about the fire chicken one, and when you say 'propose,' we're talking about the marriage, weddings, and babies type?"

"Babies?!"

No, no, that actually hadn't crossed Namur's mind, but it's there now, and he knows logically that devil fruits don't work like that, but his mind is suddenly filled with the image of an entire school? flock? of tiny colorful winged merbabies, and he's oh, oh NO they're so cu--

"Namur! Focus, please!"

Namur blinks. He doesn't know when it happened, but one of Izo's eyebrows is more defined than the other now.

"Yeah, that Marco," he confirms. "And I, I don't know about...the last thing, but yeah, if successful, usually the kind that results in marriage type."

Izo's oddly calm, and is facing his mirror again. He frowns momentarily, but then smooths his expression and begins applying his other eyebrow. Namur realizes that Izo's able to keep his face so smooth because he wants to draw on his face evenly, and that's actually quite impressive. Though, he has no idea why Izo needs more eyebrows, when he already has perfectly normal ones growing on his face.

"Who's the boy who stole the stupid pineapple's heart, it must be someone we know," Izo says, voice light.

Namur wasn't exactly planning on disclosing this much, he'd just wanted someone else to help him think of how best to support their brother's potentially upcoming union, but Izo's definitely not taking no for an answer, and that's a fight he knows he can't win.

"It's Ace's little brother, the one Thatch went to go fetch," he says reluctantly. "And even though she's his 'little brother,' she's apparently a girl, and a mermaid."

There's a clatter, and Izo curses. Namur tries to peer at Izo's face in the mirror, and notices a weird black blob by his eye that Izo's now trying to delicately smudge off. It wouldn't have been there in the first place if Izo hadn't been trying to poke himself in the eye with the weird brush thing. Namur really doesn't get this makeup business.

"You're telling me," Izo growls, and Namur flinches at the irritation, though he gets the feeling it's directed mostly at the eye blob. "That Marco's straight? I could have sworn he was gay!"

Namur blinks at Izo.

Izo blinks at Namur through the mirror. The eye blob makes his face look slightly crooked.

"Oh, right," Izo mutters, picking up his brush with face distorting ink again. "I thought Marco only liked guys like that, so it surprised me that he likes a girl. Maybe he's bi. Don't worry about it, it's a dumb human thing."

"Oh," Namur says, and yeah, he's heard vaguely about humans being weirdly obsessed with only liking a specific gender or two. It's a very foreign concept that Namur doesn't really get because it doesn't exist on Fishman Island, and romance stuff rarely comes up on the Moby, shockingly enough, or at least in front of Namur. But he's glad Izo doesn't seem too upset, because that would upset Namur. Namur's never met Ace's little brother, but he imagines she'd look so very charming next to Marco, given how in love Marco looked when he was sending off his proposal. He wants to root for them.

"Although, hm, does Ace know? I doubt he'd be very happy about Marco sweeping his dearest little brother off her feet, er, fins," Izo says, seemingly more relaxed now that his face distorting paint is cooperating. His face is now even, although his eyes actually do look different now, more like the Izo Namur usually sees. It's fascinating.

"I don't know," Namur confesses, and he's suddenly feeling very glum at the thought of their little fire cracker baby brother not being happy. Even though Ace didn't formally join, he's still their littlest brother, and Namur's very fond of him, and has honestly lost track of the number of times he's dived into the sea to fetch the reckless kid. He was honestly devastated when Ace said he was leaving. It's alright now, now that Namur knows it was just to bring home Marco's future bride, but he hopes Ace will be supportive too.

"And how did you know he was proposing?"

At this point, what does it matter what else Namur shares? "Well..."

By the time Namur's done answering all of Izo's questions on Fishman Island courtship and Marco's respectful application of it, Izo's done with his face.

"Well, that was certainly a fascinating talk," Izo says with lips the color of a raw fish's innards. "Now I'll have to kick you out before I do my hair. At least I finished my face."

Namur knows he's been excused. "Thank you for your time. Also, it looks very nice, your face," he says politely as he gets up. It seems awkward not to comment on it, after having watched Izo work so hard on it for the past half hour. "Although it looked nice before too. I like the eye paint."

Izo pauses contemplatively, then nods. "That's an acceptable compliment. Thank you. Now, shoo."

"So, who's the wedding for?"

Izo jolts as Haruta settles his tray on the other side of the table.

"What wedding?"

"Don't play dumb. You're planning a wedding. I noticed some of our books were moved in the library, and you were the only one who was in there before me. You were looking up Grand Line marriage traditions, and going through shitty wedding magazines that no one's touched in a decade," Haruta rattles off as he stirs his soup, and Izo inwardly curses.

He thought he'd placed them all back where he'd found them, but alas, apparently nothing gets by Haruta's observation skills, and his talent for butting into business that has nothing to do with him.

"And given the selections, I'd say it's not for you." Haruta continues, as though he knows Izo's tastes by heart and sadly, he probably does, and not just Izo's but the whole crew's. "So someone's getting married, or they're thinking about it, and you're planning. I want to know who."

"You're a nosey little shit," Izo says, because he knows there's really no point in denying it to Haruta without tangible evidence, which he lacks. He's also too tired to deal with this shit, because he did his hair in a hurry in order to make it to the library before everyone woke up, which means it's slightly less perfect than usual. And being anything less than perfect is a truly exhausting business.

"Mm-hmm," Haruta says, and momentarily seems distracted by his plate. There's a tiny, almost imperceptible frown on his lips, and Izo only recognizes it because he'd had the same thought.

The food's by no means bad, and they have many fine cooks on the Moby. It's just, it's a little different, without Thatch's personal touch. Izo hates that their brother's temporary absence is so tangible. Damn him for going on his little vacation.

They continue their meal in silence, and Izo hopes that Haruta's forgotten, his mind having moved on to terrorizing other innocent brothers. Izo thinks he might be able to get away, when Haruta gets up right alongside Izo to return his tray.

"So who is it?" he repeats, as though they hadn't just sat in thirty minutes of silence, and Izo wants to tear out Haruta's hair in frustration, because Izo would never tear out his own hair for any reason.

"It's none of your business, don't you have work to do?"

"My work is knowing stuff. Tell me."

"This isn't something you need to know. That's what I'm telling you."

"Nice try. Lemme guess. Is it Marco?"

Haruta laughs at his own joke, and promptly walks into Izo's back. Izo tries to get over his momentary freeze, but the damage is done.

"Holy shit, it's MARCO?!"

"What happened to Marco?" Vista has the absolute worst timing in entering the cafeteria, because he's standing directly in front of them. He already has his sword sheaths removed from his belt, no doubt so he can polish them in a corner after he's done eating, as is his usual ritual.

Haruta's eyes are blown wide, and Izo wants to stop him but no one can out-talk Haruta when he wants to talk, so it's like watching a cannonball hurtling towards an inevitable collision.

"Marco's getting married."

Vista never drops his swords.

Vista's swords clatter to the ground.

And now everyone inside the cafeteria, and those in the line forming outside behind Vista, all stop to stare.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!

And as always, comments/reblogs/tags always immensely appreciated!!! People sharing their thoughts with me motivates me to write so much more, and update more frequently, so thank you so much for everyone who’s so kindly done so in the past!! ;A;

(The next part’s already up on Patreon if anyone wants to read in advance <3)

❀ ❀ Send YukiPri an Ask! ❀ ❀

Read the next part: Marco’s Bauble, Part 5

~This ask has been added to the Mermaid AU Text Headcanons Compilation post~

#OnePieceMermaidAU #One Piece Mermaid AU #Marco the Phoenix #MarLu #Whitebeard Pirates #MaLu #Monkey D. Luffy #genderbend #text headcanons #fic #longpost #long post

106 notes · View notes

widowsofchaos · 4 years

Note

98,101,66 please. 👉👈

❝Kindred Spirits

98. “Can you just…hold me? Just for tonight.”

101. “(Name), please…you’re scaring me.”

66. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x black!reader

soulmate au // requested from this prompt list

A/N: angst and smut, what else is new? After this one, there would be a mix bag of light and dark fics of the 200 ways to say masterlist will be filled with dark fics, for dark fics is why I created this blog in the first place. I’m just trying to get my lighter ones out first. Requested from this prompt.

Oof anon, you one angsty bitch, aren’t you?

Do Not Repost My Works!

It’s okay, I’m here for you.

That’s how it started. Sweet whispers, warm on his clammy skin -- a balm rash. On his flesh forearm, words of adoration carving, itching, and burning -- kismet.

A moment’s breath of happiness reared its head a 180, unveiling a twisted putrid beast; foaming at the fangs shouting “You don’t deserve her.”

Legend has been told for generations that if you reject your destined soulmate, physical illness overwhelms the body. An heart-wrenching pain injects itself into the soul — as if death itself manifests within you.

Those sadden eyes when Bucky shifted away from you that night made him want to bite down on his fist, and scream till his throat went raw. You slightly flinched when he curled in himself, snagging his flesh arm away from you.

It was another restless night for Bucky, waking up screaming bloody murder from an intense nightmare -- images of Hydra murdering you sent him into a spiraling panic attack.

Shouts of your name laced in despair echoed throughout the floor, fists clenching the bed sheets. Knuckles ghosted white, nearly ripping the fabric at the stitched seams. Hot tears stream down his red cheeks like waterfalls. Like a guardian angel, you flew to his aid.

Trembling hands seek a tender soul -- a better soul. Aching bones, and aching heart grasping for your touch, despite the gnawing guilt of how undeserving he felt of your presence.

To breathe the same air as you, there’s nothing tender in his jagged edges, or in his filthy hands. Bitter clouds brew and storm above him -- not fit to feel your pure flesh.

The light in your eyes, the feathery pads of your fingers soothing him -- it reminds him of his mother. Lately, he’s been missing her even more these days; the more deeper he wallows within him, serene memories of himself being dumb and fourteen.

The sly slip of ale on the tip of his tongue, fumbling apologies, she just shushed him, and tucked him into bed. Told him he was a good boy, and that he could never do anything bad. Taught him how to be tough, and yet connected with his sensitivity -- how to be a man.

He clung onto his mother’s sweet words, wise advice -- even a century later.

“Did I do something wrong?” Those words burned in his brain, how your chin wobbles a bit. Shifting on his side, his back facing you, he mumbled, “No. Just leave.” Bucky bit back a sob, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth. His face contorting in a pitiful display.

A hiss escaped through his teeth, “Bucky, what’s wrong?” You whimpered. That tug -- all too familiar in your heart to scoop him up, and tend to his wounds. On instinct, you hugged him, your chest squeezed onto the muscular planes of his slick back.

Shivers crawled through the crevices of his spine at the feel of your skin.

Bucky wiggled in your grasp, the heat of your engraved words began throbbing as Bucky refused to accept the tie between you two.

Bucky slithered out of your hands as if it pained him to be near you. Tears brimmed at your eyes -- never once -- has he ever refused a hug from you.

The closest of the Avengers; Bucky was timid in your presence. You didn’t force yourself in his bubble, a comfortable distance. Friendly approach of kind greetings, inviting him to movie nights of just you two or suggesting reading material to him.

Helping Bucky adjust to modern culture through advanced technology. Spoiling him with your cooking -- no longer does tube-fed mush, or boiled food lingers on his palate.

It was easy to trust you, it was -- second nature to ingrain yourselves in each other’s bubbles.

Eventually -- Bucky sought out your company, and kind words. Old language of affection -- fluttering lashes, and tiny grazes of her knuckles. Soft hugs at night, his ear laid against your beating heart to tame his late-night terrors.

Now a year later, finally the acknowledgement of deeper layers of love that were sunk in each other now surfaces from the soul to the skin -- a permanent tattoo.

“Bucky, what’s wrong with your arm?” You asked, terrified that he might be in unbearable pain, your strong hands grab his forearm. Tumbling to see what’s eating at him, Bucky jolted with a pained yelp, eyes shut; tears now soaking his face, clutching his arm.

A burning rash simmers on your chest, like a hot blade. A hidden promise prickling above your heart.

A quick graze of your fingers against his skin, sore skin incised. The carving sent electric zaps, the tug in your chest pulling harder and harder; breathless.

You gasped, “Bucky, let me see.” Your words hushed, uncertain.

Hopeful, if it’s finally time. The universe has connected you two together. It’s meant to be.

“No.” Stern, and hardened. “Now leave.” Watery eyes cloud his vision, the taste of anger lingers on his tongue -- rage at himself. His chest cavity felt as if it shattered, “Don’t do this.” You pleaded, it felt as if God himself stabbed your soul.

“Don’t push me away. Not after this.” Your voice trailed into silence, and a sniffle; wiping your wet nose with the back of your hand. “Please, show me your arm.” You begged again.

Fresh tears trail down your cheeks, Bucky remained silent -- the only cadence was his heavy breathing, curling into a fetal position at near the edge of the bed. “Bucky, please don’t do this. Don’t you know what this means? Don’t deny your -- our fate.”

A beat of silence, Bucky refusing to meet your eyes. Your weak fists pounded on Bucky’s back. A few seconds past, even at the brink of offense, and rejection bubbling, you just couldn't bear to physically hurt him. You love that steel-eyed bastard too much.

“Is this what you want?! To end this?!” You shrill, hiding your face against his bicep, softly weeping on his arm, but with every contact -- the words itched even more. Eventually, you stopped, slumping on his body, full bodily sobbing; Bucky kept his metal hand on his arm.

Dying, and yearning to cradle you as droplets flood his eyes, nose scrunching. Losing you will surely kill him.

His words, void of any emotion, “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Gingerly, his teeth sinking into his lip, gripping onto the metal tray in both his hands. On the tray, was a bowl of tomato soup, crackers, and a bottle of water. It’s been three days since Bucky sent you away, rejecting you -- despite the universe’s revelation.

Standing at your door, sighing as he peers at Bucky’s door -- shut closed away. Steve dropped off a platter of food, but he doubts Bucky even acknowledged it. Three days, fearing that it would tip into a week of radio silence, and festering ill in your own respective rooms.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., can you please open Y/n’s door?”

“Of course, Captain Rogers.”

The lock clicked, a faint groan can be heard. A humorless laugh exhaled through his nose, maneuvering the tray on his hand, the other twisting the handle. Steve entered the room, the stuffy atmosphere almost made him cough.

The blinds and windows were shut -- pitch black darkness shrouding, causing Steve to nearly squint. The lightning emitting from the hallway, revealing the thrashed living space.

Furniture throttled across the room, the sofa up-turned, the glass table nearly shattered; no doubt, your fist colliding against the coffee table, visible blood splatter are still drying on the cracks. Steve shakes his head, sighing.

Strolling quietly towards your bedroom, Steve’s chest tightens at the sight of you crumbling into a ball, surrounded by wrinkled sheets.

“Please, Steve … I’m tired.” You mumbled, too exhausted, too sick to open your eyes -- too lethargic to send a glare in Steve’s direction.

“This needs to end.” Steve murmured under his breath, hesitant to ask the question that it is just edging at the tip of his tongue, but how else is he going to address the rabid elephant in the room?

“Have you talked to Bucky?” Steve whispered, his words dying into silence. Brows pinched sorrowfully, hurt that not only is he witnessing the deterioration of a close friendship -- the only person Bucky fully heatedly trusts besides Steve -- along with the distress in not only you, but Bucky as well.

“No -- he doesn’t want me. So why should I?” You weakly snarled, but it was a pitiful attempt to mask your heart-ache, and yearning for him.

Barely glancing at Steve, as you sat solemnly on the edge of your bed; staring out at the window. Limbs aching deeply, muscles tensing as you clung onto the blanket. Slowly, your body is going to give out.

“This can’t keep going on. You’re getting sick and so is he.” Steve walked to the dresser, placing the tray down.

“And who’s fault is that?” You choked back a sob,

“I’ve been sick my whole life. Sick and fucking tired. All my years, everyone rejected me. My parents, being bullied as a kid -- and now the very soul that the universe connected me with doesn’t even fucking want me! My existence is a fucking joke.” Your arms failing, sloppily crawling under your bed sheets to hide away once again, and pray to finally die.

“You’re not a joke. We all were born for a reason, and destined for the right one.” Steve sat beside your sniffling form, balled into an infant position. His palm cups your shoulder, rubbing it through the stitched cloth.

Pity swells in his cavity. “Oh Stevie --”, you sighed. What a romantic he was, still the old soul of the hopeful bird-boned boy under the shield of a praised golden god; ever so the gentleman clinging onto fantasies of true love.

“--Bless your heart. With your sweet soul, I hope you find the one meant for you.” You croaked, a bit hesitant at first, mixture of regret -- Steve stills hold onto the mourning of Peggy.

Muffled in the back of his mind, insistent that she was the one; but never got the chance to find out if his skin would be graced with her serene words.

Steve silently clung onto your hand through the blanket, squeezing a bit tightly. Grounding himself so he won’t slip into the painful nostalgic haze once again.

“You both need to address this. I’m worried about yours and Bucky’s health. I’m scared.” Steve whimpered, shell-shocked to hear him crumble -- you peer over the blanket.

Steve’s face is pinched, pruning into a pitiful kicked puppy, his chin leaning against his chest -- eyes shut, failing to prevent tears from falling.

Caving in you crawl out of the sheets, hugging onto his muscular back -- a picture worthy of a laugh, how much you resemble a koala bear clinging onto a teddy bear.

“Please -- just talk. Please.” Steve’s stuttering over water-logged words, sniffling as his eyes leveled with yours; never once have you thought ever in your life-time that you would see the mighty Captain America shrivel into a shaking boy.

Petrified that Steve can lose two great friends -- due to years deep of insecurities, and lack of communication.

“Okay --” Defeated, you sink your chin on his shoulder, “--I’ll talk to him.”

Your knuckles grazed his cheek, “Don’t cry, Stevie.” Wiping his fallen tears gently, Steve twisted his body to engulf you in his arms.

Steve’s rubs your back soothingly, “Now, please eat.” You huffed a chuckle, you mumbled a low sweet okay.

- Guts churning, as if the devil himself was playing jump-rope with your intestines. Nausea bile rising at the back of your esophagus.

Why will I say to him? What if he turns me away again?

The possibility of once more rejection will kill you. Trapping your lip between the cages of your teeth, the hesitant fist hovering over the door finally rains down.

Unanswered knocks engulfed in silence rings in your ears. It’s well past midnight, the entire compound is fast asleep, but you know Bucky -- like the back of your hand. Insomnia is a tricky bastard that haunts Bucky, you sighed.

Thankfully, Steve permitted you access in FRIDAY’s system to unlock his door despite Bucky’s request to remain locked in.

Timid steps waltz inside, the air thick, and stuffy -- like your room, barren, and shut out from the outside world. Hovering fingers mindlessly fiddle in the air, trying to grasp any solid surface; cautious from bumping, and falling.

Gliding open-palms against the wall pavements, walking in the correct direction in darkness due to muscle memory; your chest heaving slightly from unbridled anxiety.

Shaky fingers clutch the knob, twisting it carefully -- although, you have a hunch, Bucky is aware of your presence.

“I thought I told you to stay away.” A hoarse, harsh disembodied voice looms from the beyond the door, simmering rage now rises in fiery flames at the pit of your stomach. You push the hinges of the door wide open, your eyes swirl from soft brown to carmine fury.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, chestnut tresses cling against his cheeks -- tear soaked strands sticky against his stubble cheeks.

Hunched over, eyes stuck on the carpeting -- as if the blue rug was so damn fucking interesting. He doesn’t have the nerve to look you in the eyes -- how could he?

“Look at me.” You demanded, tone hardened; despite your congestive throat. “I said fucking look at me.” You stomped your foot on the floor, emphasizing your hurt.

Watery blues peek through brown strands, wincing at your nose flaring, fists coiled, “Stay away?!” You shouted.

Bucky grimaced, shutting his eyes, his face pruning -- resembling a pitiful baby. “Stay away? Like I don’t mean anything to you! Like I’m trash?!” Your voice cracked, tears pooling in your eyes.

“I’m not like everybody else -- it’s you and me. I -- I don’t understand -- these past days, I’ve been having these dreams -- whenever I do get some sleep!” Your eyes zero on him, daggers into his soul; your arms flailing.

Your heart is beating wildly against your chest, tight fists weakly beating onto your cavity. Twirling like an unhinged rag-doll, Bucky crying slightly, his body shaking a bit, from small tremors of sobs.

“Y/n, please … you’re scaring me.” Bucky scared you’re going to hurt yourself, itching to cease your hands hitting yourself. Fingers clinging onto the sewed fabric, “Dreams of you --” breathless, eyes hazy. Bucky gasped a bit, dreams of him?

You quietened down, glaring at him, “I’ve never got to show you.”

You quickly unbutton your blouse, frustrated fingers fumbling over the stitched buttons, “Y/n, what are you doing?” A pained whimper laced with curiosity, Bucky’s hands reached out to halt you. “No!” You shouted -- a watery bite -- he flinched.

Gripping the flap of your shirt, you tugged it down -- a soft gasp left Bucky, harshly swallowing back a sob. Imprinted above your heart is his own words, “I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.” Cerulean lettering gleaming against scarred sepia.

You scoffed, then a sniffle, “Funny, when it’s you who ended up hurting me, instead.” Irkingly you released your snag, hugging your torso with your arms, a weak attempt to distance yourself -- succumb into your shell.

‘I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.’ Those words weigh so heavily, creamy bronze snicked on brown skin back three months past.

It was a mission gone hay-wire, five Hydra agents bombarding you -- Bucky heard your screams in his comms; screams that would haunt him forever.

As a speeding bullet, Bucky ran like a mad-man for you -- slaughtering agents, snarling as his knife punctured clean through the necks; gliding his blades slicing down the spines. No mercy. If you ever get hurt, it would be the end of him.

Drenched in blood, ichor coating his strands -- sticking against his maw, and neck. Sitting on the floor, crazed eyes, black cat-suit shines with splotches of red, curls now limp with plasma, plump brown cheeks now covered in a blood mask.

Big doe eyes beam underneath coated heavy droplets -- Bucky sweet strawberry kiss upon your hairline, his lips printing against the red sheen-- his blood-splattered angel.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.” Forehead pinned against forehead, Bucky’s palm gripping the nape of your neck. Passive eyes with a small smile masking a burning hot-white sensation right above your heart plate.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky mumbled under his breath, tiny droplets of tears falling down his bearded cheeks. “You deserve the world.” His chin fell to his chest, little sobs huffing.

“You need someone who isn’t broken.” Bucky cried, sniveling — staring at his trembling hands in his lap.

“Not someone who’s going to wake up screaming in the middle of the night from fucking night terrors!” His hands harshly gripping his sweatpants.

“Who’s clingy, and needy cause doll –” Bucky lifted his wet gaze to you, “I miss you when you leave to the next room. I need you all the time.” He croaked. You cautiously stepped to him, cupping his puffy face.

Bucky instinctively leaned into your touch, tranquility washing over him. A calm sigh slipped from him, “Bucky, I need you. I’ve always needed you.”

Bucky’s eyes opened, “I’ve needed you before I was born.” You bent forward, the tip of your nose flick against his, he solemnly chuckled.

His timid smile fell just a tad bit, “For so many years, I thought the universe was playing a cruel joke on me. For decades I saw you in my dreams – I thought maybe it was a hallucination.” Bucky’s released the bundled fabric, his hands finding its home on your body. Bucky pulled you to his lap, grasping onto your thighs like a life-line.

“I thought you were a figment of my imagination—it gave me peace knowing that you didn’t leave me even when I was getting my brains fried.” You choked back a sob, kissing his forehead. A lingering kiss; you lips were so soft— soft soft soft— like a feather grazing him.

“You see, I was always there with you.” You mumbled against his hairline, nimble kisses in your wake.

Littering kisses on his tear-soaked face: on his fluttering eye-lids, between his brows, the creases on the edge of his eyes, and his chin.

Bucky reciprocated, emotional sloppy kisses. Limbs entangled like a pretzel. On your temples, a trail of pecks on the slope of your nose, your eye-lids, and your chin too. A little nibble like a sappy puppy.

“For decades, I’ve dreamt of you. Didn’t know if you were real or not — soulmates are destined, right? Everything happens for a reason.” You tearfully nodded at his words.

“If I have to go through years of brain-washing to be with you again, I would do it in a heartbeat.” You cried, furiously smashing your lips on his, cupping his cheeks in your hands.

“I love you in a place, where there is no space or time.” At that moment, you felt like your heart would stop at Bucky’s words, glassy eyes meet each other.

Foreheads connect, Bucky’s hands slowly graze your smooth skin, glossy oceanic hues never waver from yours, his calloused fingers slither underneath your shirt, rubbing circles at the nape of your back.

Keening leisure desperate touches, your fingers intertwining, and soft tugs of his tresses. Lips hairs-away from each other, a bit hesitant at first, hitched breaths fanning; a quick flick of your upper lip against his.

“Can you just ...hold me? Just for tonight.” Bucky asked, his voice on the cusp of shy, still paranoia hovers in his mind that you may be gone tomorrow.

“I want to hold you every night.” You mewl, a feather-light kiss. Open palms travel the muscular planes of blood, bone, and metal -- nails lightly scrape his skin. Bucky’s lips smashes against yours.

Decades ago -- what feels like a distant lifetime ago -- dim mere of his own past, Bucky would’ve cupped your face in the warm curve of his hands; once soft, now calloused with bitter memories.

He would press his lips to yours, tenderly. Like a poem, simple but yet passionate.

Taste of smeared lipstick, sticky like honey, and faint mint -- now, it’s fumbling. Sloppy, desperate. But it’s all the same; he’s no longer the fresh baby-face of his past. Eyes sparkle with wonder, he’s older -- wise beyond his years.

Years of hurtful baggage weighs on his heart, but -- you. You remind him how to feel alive again, he feels like the care-free pubescent misfit he once was running around Brooklyn, saving Stevie from another fight, and chasing skirts, being a heartbreaker.

But the only skirt he wants to chase is yours only; and keep your heart in his safe grasp.

His heart unfettered, you came to him bare -- as if you peeled your skin inch by inch, no secrets barricading your love.

Soaking in your essence, unfiltered groans against molding mouths -- coveting pink lips slip from your swollen lips to your jaw to your weak-spot; you squeal as Bucky suckles on your pulse-point.

Marking what is his -- the gift that the universe personally bestowed for him, and him only. From an outside party, you’re younger than him, but not in flesh and not in soul.

A vision that followed him everywhere in his mind, even in the darkest years, you were the light.

Kindred spirits before birth.

Bucky grunts, his palm tenderly clutches the nape of your neck -- steadying your shakiness, eyes blissfully closed as he devoured you.

“I love you. God -- I love you.” Mumbling against your flushed skin, his warm tongue licks against his love-bites, parted lips fanning tantalizing pants.

Your eyelids fluttered, pupils rolling in the back of your skull, “I love you too.” A declaration, the truth. Spidery brown fingers rubbing against his scalp, he gasps, it’s a cooling sensation soothing his senses.

“Make love to me.” You coo, you relish the way Bucky squirms underneath you.

Desperate, inpatient -- Bucky grabs your waist, lifts you off his lap momentarily. Seated with Bucky nestled between your legs, thick tone thighs ripple a bit underneath your soft plush.

Choppy pants exuding from both of you, Bucky tugs the hem of your shirt upward -- braless, breasts heave free, ready to be explored with his mouth.

His teeth caging your nipple, nibbling, and pulling -- you hiss, ensnaring Bucky’s head in your arms. Cradling his dome against your chest, as he suckled upon your breasts.

Muffled groans, and moans -- grinding your clothed pussy against his bulging crotch. Leisure thrusts, dry-humping -- your lavender panties turning into a wet silky grape.

“I need to feel you.” You mumble lowly, a whining lover. Bucky’s hands glide down the slope of your spine, sweetly rubbing the nape of your back to then cupping your soft globes.

Squeezing, molding into his palms, you lean into his neck, and lick a long stride. He mewls, his fingers sneak beneath the hem of your panties, calloused against smooth flesh.

Sneaky fingers travel between your cheeks, as if it’s muscle memory, toying with your gaping asshole to your clenching cunt. A raw groan vibrates in your throat, “Bucky --” He shushes you, lips trailing your jaw. “You’re so fucking wet.” Back and forth glides in your velvet folds, to your supple cheeks.

“Nhhh -- uh--” Stunned stuttering, your entire body vibrating in shivers as the cooling metal infiltrates your blazing heat. “Hmm … needs a little bit more.” Bucky removed his fingers ever so slowly, a quick spat on his fingers; diving right back in.

His thumb plunging and curving inside your glistening ass, and his two fingers pistoning in your moist pussy.

“I need you dripping … so I can slide nice and deep.” Like a feline, you mewl and your back arches in his grasp, manhandling you by the clutch of your holes.

Untying his sweatpants strings, in a frenzy as your ass jiggles in his unrelenting metal appendage. With his flesh hand, with ease and precision, Bucky snaps your underwear off.

Your thighs shake as if an earthquake was erupting within your body. Harsh tugs at his pants -- God, you can tap-dance if you could -- he goes commando. Slapping against his abs, his cock swollen -- gleeful fingers wrap around his cock like a vice. Tight, and ruthless.

“Fuck doll --” Bucky’s voice is cracked, he growls lowly, “Don’t stop. Never fucking stop.” Swiveling fist from the base to the tip, twirling around his tip -- Bucky’s swallows thickly, “You fucking minx.”

It’s all too much yet liberating. Cheekily you twirl the tip of his cock against your throbbing clit, you shudder against his lips, “You’re mine.” You spoke in a hush, maneuvering his dick upward, skidding against your humming labia.

Bucky releases your holes, “Enough! I need you.” Bruising grip on your waist, lifting you upward, hovering over his dick, and swift fall of grace -- you scream, so thick, so full.

“Shit, you’re so big. So damn big.” Eyes shut close, “Wait Bucky --” A frail hand lays flat on his abdomen, “Wait nothing!” A guttural noise leaves his throat, like a beast. And fucks you like one.

Your head leaning backwards, curls bouncing and yourself jolting up and down in his hold as he snaps his hips against. A menace.

Time ceases to exist, gravity crushing, bones aching yet it’s a pleasure burn -- no longer pains of despair, but delicious pain as Bucky thrusts in you.

He’s selfish -- and with every right, his heart thumping against his cavity, he thinks it would stop. Can you hear it? How it beats like a hummingbird for you?

Fast, and snarling, “No -- no -- no.” Latching on your jaw with his thick fingers, “Look at us.” Aiding your head downward, you groaned at the sight of his cock hurtling like a mad man. How perfectly you clench him -- a perfect fit.

“So perfect, like a warm wet hug.” A hoist of his hips off the bed, a curve of his dick, you shriek, “Ah -- there it is. The sweet spot.” Your fingernails create craters in his bicep, and scrape against metal.

Squelching skin on skin pounds in your ears, abrupt jerk down on him, balls deep -- it was brutal. Swirling his hips, along with you following his teasing motions, muffled sticky cadence of your juices coating him.

Slow fall, asterning with your hands on his knees. Skull hanging, raspy small fucks, and yes Bucky leave your lips.

With the support of his hand on your back, short but hard thrusts, and his flesh hand slapping your tits. Bent forward, Bucky sucks on your breast, his hair tickling your bare breasts -- the one with his imprintment. Gawking at it as he sucks, it brings tears to his eyes.

“I’m --- uggnh -- I’m gonna cum.” A broken whisper, Bucky pulls back to him, nearly his bare back colliding to the bed, “Do it, doll. Soak me. Cum with me.” Possessively, you wanna coat his flushed pink skin with your cum, have your scent on him -- like an omega for her Alpha.

It’s divine will. A burst of an eruption of the milky way in his eyes. Unwavering brown meets cosmic blue. Space dust clouding your visions, satellites whirling -- Bucky and yourself nourishing your needs’; crawling in each other's fibers, and sinews, make-shifting into a womb.

As one.

The horizon of the galaxy is painted in glittering pinks, neon green, and blues. Stars shine like uncut diamonds, the hand of God commemorates the two soulmates.

Time and space disoriented, shouts of the other’s name bounce against the walls, but speaking each other’s names is like a prayer, salvation. Hot waves of fluid paint your wet walls, spurts of your essence sprays his flexing abs, and groin. Droplets falling from his happy trail.

It's blinding -- cumming so hard has Bucky and yourself levitating at the toes, then begin collapsing and twisting in each other’s limbs, clinging onto each other, shattered breaths, chests heaving. Loss for words.

Bucky came hard, yet gentle and sweet deep inside of you, his words dying in a slurring breathy whisper. It’s so much -- suffocating, but both of you don’t mind drowning. To lose only a sense of the world; just feel each other. In body, and soul.

The smell of him -- hot musk, flushed warm skin, sweaty skin on skin. Love-bites litter his neck like on yours. Bucky’s ego flares, you smell of him. Branded by every sense of the word.

Lust still lingering in the air, on yours and his flesh. Sepia melanin coated in a sheen, candied with saliva and sweat. He smells like a natural aroma of lavender. How Bucky internally gushes at how your baby hairs cling on your forehead, your kind hands sway the chestnut ringlets that curtain your favorite burning blues.

Shy lips dance a bashful tango. Barely touching, but sensual. Tempering with aching pining, ever-lasting yearning that can be only satiated with touch. Always, always, always, always starving, and everlasting.

“I want more.” A crooked grin forms at Bucky’s face, so insatiable he mutters under his breath. His smirk falters a bit, “All of me?” Depth to a simple question with a complicated meaning. A double-edged sword wielding in the distance, but you know both ends are worth it.

So you’ll take it straight to the heart -- the journey will be sweet -- dear God, yes sweet sweet agony. “All of you. For all eternity. Even in the after-life.”

A kiss soft, and slow. Not sure to rush in, can feel his heart. Bucky grips your curls to look you in the eye, a quick glare, his eyes glistening, Are you sure?

You smirk, grabbing the nape of his neck, smashing your lips, forehead to forehead. Nose to nose, face closer, searching for any shadow of doubt but he only saw a twinkle of pouring affection.

A short chuckle, Bucky leans in for a kiss but you tease him with only a second of it, pulling your face away. A huff of a laugh at his darkening eyes. Grumbling, by the power of his metal fingers, forces you on his lips.

The echo of the smooch is wet, and enticing. Flinging you on the bed , trapping you under his weight -- a giggle, and a low timbre of a raspy snicker.

“I want those legs high on my shoulders, doll.”

Smack.

“Hmph --” Biting down on your lip, reveling in his dominance. “-- And you call me insatiable.” You jabbed, a shit-eating grin.

Crack.

And another brisk one, heat blooming on your cheeks.

A high-pitched moan is Bucky’s only answer.

- Pungent fragrance of coitus thickens the air. It’s delicious. Hours of non-stop love making. The sunset is sneaking from the distance, a soft tangerine hue illuminating the room.

Bucky’s fingers rubbing circles on your shoulders, lulling you to a blissful freshly fucked state.

Hazy eye-lids, you want him -- he’s still in disbelief, how can someone like you -- a goddess incarnate -- love someone like him. Is the universe really forgiving him for his sins?

Your small frame engulfed in his massive frame, legs entangled, his arms hugging you tightly. His fingers finding refuge in your hair, his water-logged eyes trail to your chest.

It’s okay, I’m here for you.

A beautiful reminder of your dying commitment. The pads of his fingers trace his marking above your breast, ‘I won’t let anyone hurt you, doll.’

Savoring your small sleepy pout that edges into a smile. A smile curls at the corner of his mouth, leaning forward to peck the letters -- and he’ll always be there for you too.

Forever and always.

#buckybarnesplumwhore wrote this #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes #marvel #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x reader smut

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jenomark · 4 years

Text

Part 2

➔Pairing: Idol!Haechan x Reader (Female) ➔Other Members/ Characters: -.- ➔Genre: Smut ➔Warnings: Public sex + Vaginal penetration + Masturbation (F+ M) + Fingering ➔Word count: 4,170

➔Summary: He’s an idol, a friend, and you took his virginity. Beginning your friends-with-benefits relationship with Haechan wasn’t the best idea, but you just can’t help yourself when it comes to him.

↞ Part 1

They all feel how you feel when you watch him on stage, like he belongs to you. His smile just for you. Not for the camera, or the thousands viewing clips on social media, but just for you. His song performed for you, the words containing messages only you can decipher. His hips moving across the stage, the thing in his pants pointing in your direction, everything moving towards you, the girl in the crowd, the girl watching backstage, the girl sitting on her bed. No matter where you are in the world, the lights burn across your retinas, the heat in the seat of your pants making it hard for you to stay still. You move just a little bit and feel the throb below, a Venus flytrap waiting for its prey. You pretend he makes eye contact with only you, acknowledging the very existence you try to hide from everyone else. He sees you, he really does.

The song ends and the mirage vanishes. Six people go in different directions, smiles wiped from their faces as easily as make-up. They forget the crowd, forget what it means to be themselves when others are watching. He veers towards you just a moment before remembering where he is and who he is, and then he passes you like you’re invisible. You wonder what he was going to do if he reached you. Kissing in public is too dangerous, even talking together arouses suspicion. You wait a second and follow him, each step playing around with your heart. As you round a corner, you walk into him, your body bouncing off of his.

“I didn’t see you,” he said. He did. “I’m sorry.” He’s not.

His fingers are on your arm, his eyes gawking at your cleavage, his tongue licking the middle of his chin. Staff pass by and he lets you go. He steps back and leans against a wall, his body pressing against its blank canvas like a work of art. People cut between you two, but neither of you notice, or care. He smiles, raises an eyebrow, and purses his lips with the pride of a million men.

“Come with me.” he mouths.

As if you have a choice, you follow him through the people, past the place you had come from. A few staff turn to see the idol boy, his greetings charming, his stage outfit sticking out like a sore thumb. No one notices the girl trailing behind him, her eyes following him with determination, her legs clamped so tightly together, even as she walks. Haechan goes down a ramp until he’s underneath the stage. You hesitate a moment before following behind him. There is something about breaking the rules that has always scared you. Since you met Haechan, you had been doing a lot of that. Though you are terrified of being recognized, no one is paying attention to you. He hides behind large black cases on wheels, their metal clasps shiny when the strobe lights from above the stage hit them. Stacked on top of each other, no one can see what’s going on behind them. To reach him, you step over wires and broken lights that have been replaced. The moment the space swallows you up, Haechan takes your shoulders and pushes you up against the cases. He unbuttons your jeans and slides his palm in until his fingers are cupping you. The rough way he rubs his hand against you makes your knees threaten to buckle.

“This is dangerous.” you shout.

The sound from the music above drowns out your words. You’re afraid he can’t hear you, but then he leans in close to your ear and tells you that the danger is the best part. His tongue is on your neck for a second before his head is between your breasts. He’s greedy. His hands haven’t stopped rubbing you, your clit so sensitive and swollen that you can’t feel anything but a soft burn. When he pulls himself out from between your breasts, you can see that his make-up has worn off, and his lips are puffy from sucking and kissing your skin. The strobe lights from above the stage are peaking through the cracks, lighting up his face in brilliant hues of purple and blue.

“Hi,” Haechan says. “It’s been awhile since I last saw you.”

He removes his hand. He doesn’t pause to tell you to taste yourself, like he normally would. Haechan’s weakness is knowing how wet he makes you, and your weakness is giving in to him every single time. He hooks his fingers on either side of your jeans and pulls them down your thighs. They’re so tight that they won’t budge past your knees without a fight. Feeling frustrated, Haechan spins you around and bends you over one of the cases. Trying to get out of his buckled stage outfit also proves difficult, but the boy is determined. His cock is in you before you look behind to see if he’s free. The feeling of him never fails to flip your whole world upside down.

You say his name, and you say it loudly. The music vibrates your whole body, the heavy bass perfectly timed with his every thrust. The thrill of getting caught makes you want to scream every syllable of his name, each letter like a bread crumb leading to your hiding place. You think of how the music has to stop some time, how the lights have to turn on to reveal what is bent over in the darkness, and you wonder what it will be like when it happens.

Haechan: Are you thinking of me?

You: You wish.

Haechan: I’m hurt. Ah, it’s night time back home. Are you getting ready for bed? What are you doing?

You: Not you.

Haechan: You’ve been hanging around my friends too much. Seriously, none of you are funny.

You: Does the thought of me hanging out with your friends make you jealous?

Haechan: Yes. We both know I don’t share. I miss you. I’ve been away for too long. It feels like I’m going crazy.

You: Donghyuck, It’s been four days.

Haechan: That’s too long.😣 Do you miss me?

You: No.

Haechan: I’M HURT.

You: I have a hard time believing that. What are you doing? How was the performance?

Haechan: I think it went well. We almost dropped Mark during Cherry Bomb. Right now, I’m getting ready to eat. Taeil, Yuta and Johnny want local food. I’m really excited.

You: I hope you’re enjoying yourself. ☺️

Haechan: I am. I’ve been horny.

You: Is that all I’m good for?

The sound of the video call made you jump out of your skin. Like always, your volume was turned all the way up. You looked at your phone and saw Haechan’s picture staring back at you. At the beginning of your relationship, he had snapped a photo of himself and set it as the wallpaper for when he calls. “Don’t show this to anyone,” he had said. “They’ll never stop making fun of me.” In the picture he was acting cute, his finger poking his cheek. The way he looked was so far removed from how you saw him most days : sexy, naked, his face screwed up in orgasm. The word Devil was still a part of his name only you had added a little red heart next to it. You stared at his face a little longer before accepting the video call.

“What took you so long?” he asked. “I don’t have much time.”

You could see he was sitting in a hotel bathroom, most likely on the toilet with the lid down. When he saw you looking, he held the phone up to give you a short tour of the bathroom. He showed you the tub where he said he’d like to fuck you in, the toilet he was sitting on, and the sink. You weren’t as interested in his surroundings as much as you were in seeing his face.

“It’s nice.” you said.

“It’s nice until Mark comes in here,” he said. “Speaking of, he went out to grab something from Jaehyun’s room, so I don’t have a lot of time before he comes back. Let me see them.”

“Them?” you asked. You were playing dumb. You knew exactly what he wanted to see.

“Ahhh,” he groaned. “Why do you do this to me?”

In the darkness of your bedroom, you didn’t think he would be able to see you well. You lifted up your shirt, anyway, and showed him your breasts. Haechan was dramatic when you revealed them, his mouth hanging open, the sound from his throat sounding like a croak. You pulled your shirt down quickly, the disappointment showing clearly on his face.

“You can see more of them when you get back.” you told him.

“Six days,” he said. “I can wait six more days.”

It was the first time you were separated for more than three days. It had been almost two months since you started fooling around, but he came to your apartment nearly every day to spend time with you. Haechan being a staple in your life made it harder for you when he was absent.

During your short period of being together, you had grown too comfortable with him. You had exerted your time, patience and body far beyond what you thought it was capable of. There were days when your emotions completely took over, your happiness cradled in the palm of his hands. You were disappointed when you couldn’t see him, his fist closing tightly around any motivation you had for anything. In the physical aspect, there were days when your muscle aches were so bad after you finished fucking that you had to use muscle relaxing patches to get through your next work day. Fucking three times a night-sometimes four- was just as time consuming as it seemed. You were losing sleep, losing interest in doing anything but thinking of new ways to make him come.

You liked to wonder how it was from Haechan’s point of view. You didn’t know how he survived juggling his schedules, priorities, and you, all at the same time. He should have collapsed from exhaustion, or at least aroused suspicion from his members and the staff.

Even through all of the risks on both sides, neither of you wanted to stop when the reward felt so good. Stopping was never an option, not for you, or him. You were as addicted to him as he was to you, and you could not get enough of your drug. After you made him come, you wanted to get back on top of him, riding him until your pussy was raw, until your thighs hurt from being spread apart for so long. You didn’t know when each of you started wanting to break the other, but the obsession was seeping into every part of your life.

“Let me see your cock.” you said.

“What?” he asked. “My cock?”

The shyness in his voice made you smile. You tried to hide it off-camera, but he could see the way your cheeks were rising. Haechan smiled, too, his laughter directed towards the floor. In the camera, all you could see was his Balenciaga hat and the little tufts of hair curling around his ear. In between fucking, you would lay with him while he fell in and out of sleep, your fingers curling that very section of hair. In moments like that, you thought about how easy he was to love, and how hard it was to stop. He stood, turned around and placed his phone against what you thought might be the top of the sink.

“Are you sure you want to see it?” he asked. “You might not be able to control yourself.”

Haechan lifted up his shirt and tucked the end of the fabric underneath his chin. The belt he wore around his waist barely kept his pants up. He was losing weight lately, his body being worked in every direction. He unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his top button, brought his zipper all the way down until his briefs were revealed. When you saw his cock, it was soft. He rolled it around the tips of his fingers until it started growing to its full length. Your mouth watered at the sight of him. You sat up in bed, brought your knees to your chest and rested your phone against your thighs.

“How long do you think you have?” you asked.

“A few minutes.” he said.

You didn’t have to tell him to touch himself. Haechan was already jerking himself off, looking down at his cock in his hands before looking into the phone camera. He turned to the side so you could have another angle of his body. Though it was probably wiser to keep quiet, Haechan did as he wanted. The moans filled the hotel bathroom, along with the sound of his palm around his cock.

“Tell me you want me,” he said. “Tell me you want your mouth around me.”

You took your phone into your left hand. With your right hand, you dipped it into your pajama pants and started playing with your clit. Your eyes were on his cock, his fingers rhythmically moving to his deep sighs. There was something so torturous about seeing him and not being able to have him. You had to stop yourself from bringing the phone up to your face and trying to lick him through the screen.

“I want you,” you said. “I want my mouth around you.”

You closed your eyes and imagined his cock sliding past your lips. You loved holding onto his hips and controlling how fast he fucked your face. You imagined what it would feel like to grab a handful of his ass as he did that. You tried to taste his imaginary cum, and how it would spill out all at once, like you had bitten into a delicious fruit and the juice was gushing into your mouth.

“Tell me…,” he began to say, his words breathless. “Tell me I’m the only one.”

“You’re the only one.”

You were moaning with him, your voices rising in unison. Having sex via video call wasn’t what you had planned for the night, but you knew it was a vital part of your life.

“Tell me-”

“-Tell you what? Anything. I will tell you anything.” you said.

“Tell me goodbye, Mom, I’ll talk to you later.” he said.

Your eyes snapped open as the video call ended. His selfie flashed for a second before disappearing. You were nearing climax, but the confusion made you stop touching yourself. You took your hands away from your pussy and read the text coming through.

Haechan: Fuck. Sorry. Mark. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.

You dropped your phone beside you and sunk back into your sheets, your pussy full of nothing but regret.

“Are you crazy?” you asked. “You shouldn’t be here.

“I wanted to see you.”

He stood in front of your apartment at midnight, his hat low over his eyes, a face mask over his mouth. The way he looked reminded you so much of the night you realized you wanted him in very compromising positions. You had grabbed the first jacket from your entryway, which just so happened to be one of his that he left. You hugged it tightly around your body, the smell of him wafting into your nostrils.

“Just see me?” you asked.

He laughed. “Yes. Now that I’ve seen you, I can go.”

“You and I both know that you can never just go.”

“Perhaps I am crazy,” he said. “But I am also tired. Jet lag. I should be resting.”

“Don’t let me stop you then.”

You stood with a lot of distance between you. The way you were feeling as you looked at him felt foreign to you. Normally, you would barely talk before you stumbled into your apartment, tearing off each others clothes, pushing things onto the floor to fuck on the hallway table. With your whole relationship about the benefits rather than the friendship, it was easier to direct. You didn’t know how to handle moments when you were both forced to act like two non-feral people.

You felt like you wanted to tell him everything you’d went through since he’d been gone. You wanted to grab a bite to eat where no one knew his name, sitting cross-legged on the floor, and watching him eat his fill. Wanting those things made you unsure about how you truly felt.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked. “This is a one-time offer.”

“Okay.” you answered.

You shut and locked the door to your apartment. When you turned back to him, his arm was extended. You looked down at his hand. Those hands had been all over your body. Sometimes you watched those hands touching other people and wondered what they would think if they knew they had been inside of you.

Losing his nerve, Haechan pulled it back before you could take it. Without saying anything, you moved beside him and took his hand back. If he wanted to hold hands, you would give him what he wanted. You both walked half a block before you spoke.

“How was travelling?” you asked.

“Fun, “ he said. “I feel lucky. I’m so grateful for the opportunities. I like it. How was your time while I was gone?”

You didn’t know how to answer truthfully so you just agreed that your time was equally as fun. Work days blended together when you had nothing to look forward to. You didn’t like to admit that you weren’t sure what day it was, or that so much of your life revolved around him. Luckily, he didn’t press you any further. It’s not that Haechan didn’t care what you were feeling inside, just that his outlook on life stayed blissfully positive, and you didn’t want to be the one to take that away from him.

“The clubs are still open,” Haechan pointed out. “I could use a drink right now.”

You knew that holding hands in public was the worst thing you could do that wasn’t behind closed doors. You never knew who could be watching, their phones clicking away like the ringing of a cash register. The people stumbling out of the clubs could be people you worked for, or worked with. All it took was for one person to recognize Haechan and the fun would be over. You thought about letting go of his hand, but you didn’t want to. He sensed your fear and directed you away from the crowds exiting the club.

“It will be okay,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, nothing will happen.”

You walked a few blocks before turning back to your apartment. The walking was aimless. After the club, you only came across a few people grabbing late night snacks at a convenience store. In the world the night had created, you both began to act more boldly. Haechan’s laugh was loud, his happiness contagious for people who passed you by. He brought you to him for back hugs, his arms squeezed tightly around you, his chin digging into your shoulder. Halfway back to your place, he got a message on his phone that stopped both of you in your tracks. You watched his face falter, his eyebrows furrowed together.

“Is everything okay?” he asked.

“It will be okay,” he said, repeating his line from earlier. “Don’t worry about me. Let’s just be here together.”

You walked the rest of the way in a weird silence. You kept looking over at him to figure out was wrong. Worst case scenario: everyone found out about what you two were doing. Best case scenario? You didn’t know, but you were hoping to find out one day.

“This is where I leave you, my princess.” he said.

You stood in front of your door. Hearing him call you his Princess made you want to giggle. In the beginning of your relationship, it was Haechan who reacted in such a way. Taking his virginity made him a little dependent on you. He often giggled when you suggested new positions, or told him how pretty you thought he was. Now that you were far into knowing each other in the most intimate ways, it was you who couldn’t stop becoming so giddy every time he opened his mouth. He could see his affect very well. You wore it hugged closely around your body, just like his jacket.

“Be careful walking home.” you said.

Haechan took a step forward. His figure was sexy, his eyes mentally undressing you. You thought that he might stay a little longer and fuck you on your apartment steps. Instead, he kissed you, his lips petal soft. As he pulled away, you could barely open your eyes to look at him. He backed away from you, his trademark smirk faltering just a little.

He stopped to look at you after making every move. For anyone else, you would have faked your enjoyment, but for Haechan, everything was honest. If he touched you, your body quaked in response. You couldn’t stop your eyelids from fluttering, your body from moving up the bed to get away from his persistence. If he made you feel good, you let him know with your shortness of breath, your knuckles clenched around the sheets.

“You make the funniest faces when you orgasm.” he observed.

You resisted the urge to take the pillow from underneath your head and whack him with it. Haechan sat between your legs, your knees hooked over his thighs. Often, you sat like this when you both felt too lazy for much else. He would play with your pussy for what felt like hours, his fingers pushing into you to see how many you could take. He would trace your labia with his fingertips, draw love hearts on your clit. He loved the way you looked when you were wide open for him, loved you shaved and unshaven.

“It’s a compliment,” he said when he sensed your hostility. “I love everything about you, especially how ugly you look when you’re on top .”

You clamped your legs shut, trapping his arm. He laughed gleefully, pushing your legs back open before climbing up your body. He laid across you, his full body weight crushing yours.

“You’re heavy.” you said.

Haechan flopped his body around, like a fish, until you felt his weight even more. You wheezed dramatically. The way you both joked around always made your day better. Laughing with him eased a lot of stress from your daily life. You used your hands to squeeze his cheeks. When he made a fishy face, you kissed his lips.

“I could stay like this all day.” you said.

“Not me,” he said. “I don’t want you lying on your back the whole time.”

You rolled your eyes, and he jokingly got offended. You pulled his neck down so that you could kiss him again. You made out like that, your naked bodies on top of each other, for awhile. The concept of time didn’t matter when you were together. There were times when you were thankful that all you did was have sex with each other. There was no fighting, no expectations, and nothing that could be torn apart if it wasn’t together to begin with. When your phone lit up, both of you pulled away.

“Who is it?” he asked.

“How am I supposed to know?”

Haechan took one look at your phone lit up on your night stand and pushed it off. It clattered onto the floor, your protective case splitting in two. You started to get up to check on it, but he pushed you back down. He got onto his knees and pushed your legs up so that your ass was lifted off the bed. His distraction tactics were good, you had to give him that.

“I’ll buy you a new phone.” he said.

Haechan took your hands and interlocked his fingers with yours. When he entered you, your mind forgot the phone altogether. The way he moved wasn’t his normal fast pace. Haechan liked to fuck you hard, each orgasm strong and earth shattering. Passionate was not a word you often used to describe what you and him did in the bedroom. As he moved inside of you, he lowered his body down over yours until he was hugging you. He kissed you as deeply as he was thrusting.

10:02 a.m.

Haechan: You’re not answering your phone

10:03 a.m.

Haechan: Call me back

10:46 a.m.

Haechan: I’m sorry I left so many voicemails I don’t know what to do

11:00 a.m.

Haechan: Pick up your phone

11:16 a.m.

Haechan: Johnny knows. He’s on his way to your apartment. Don’t tell him anything.

#haechan #nct #lee donghyuck #lee donghyuck smut #haechan smut #lee haechan #nct haechan smut #nct smut #nct fanfiction #haechan fanfiction #haechan smut fanfiction #nct smut fanfiction #I mean it's more than just smut tbh #there is a plot #it just has a lot of sex #anyway please forgive typos and stuff :D

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og-danny-dorito · 4 years

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Favorite Foods Of Some Slashers! [P2]

Well, here we are again. When will i stop adding to this stupid concept? And an extra one is added because i consider stu and billy a single unit and should be treated as such. Enjoy! (oh, and gore warning for the third gif)

Stu Macher :

- sadly not many people pay attention to my prized rat-boy, but i still love him so I'm putting him on the list. When it comes to food, stu will essentially eat anything. He’s not picky and has a fast metabolism and so he keeps skinny no matter what he puts into his body, therefore the only logical answer that i’ve deduced is that he LOVES fast food

- specifically he likes McNuggets from mcdonalds. Not only do they serve as both a snack and a meal rolled into one, but they also have the right amount of nostalgia to not be depressing (and yes, he gconsiders the happy meal- toy included -as a snack and the 20pc with some extra stuff a meal dont @ me)

- they’re his favorite thing to eat for lunch and dinner and whenever him and billy would go off-campus for lunch he would usually get some McNuggies, a large Sprite, and some of Billy’s fries (because they taste better if they’re not his). Preferably with some ranch and barbecue sauce on the side, at the same time

Billy Loomis :

- as a companion of the rat-boy’s he’s bound to have similar tastes in food with his bestie because they hang out all the time. So even though it’s loosely related, I’m pretty much convinced that billy is a sucker for anything you can put out on a grill

- the reason for this? Well, anything that tastes vaguely like fire is great, especially if it’s something with a lot of substance like a burger or some sausage. Currently his favorite is his dad’s burgers, but his dad rarely even does that anymore cause yknow, shitty things happened so now he's a bitch and doesnt really leave his house or try to hold cook-outs like he used to when his mom was around

- to replicate this at least a little bit he usually goes to McDonalds or Wendy’s for a burger with some fries that, almost always without fail, get eaten 70% by Stu at the end of the day

Harry Warden :

- this one is a bit tricky for a number of reasons. You have to consider who he was before he got trapped in the mines, what he lived off of after that, and a few other factors which are boring as hell and probably aren't even worth the time. BUT despite this, i can safely say that it’s probably something like cooked rodents or whatever

- it makes sense since that’s the only thing that would be running around in the mines so that’s the only thing that he has to eat, but if a person were to actually try to feed him food from local diners or whatever i’d say something like seafood since it’s what he grew up with and apparently it’s regional to the area he’s in

- when he was legally alive and walking above ground, however, his favorite food was lemon garlic scallop pasta that they served at the diner near the mines. He used to go there for lunch and eat there and usually took some home with him if they were still open when he got off. He’d probably cry if he ate it again, mainly because of the nostalgia and the fact that he hasn’t had real food in a Hot Minute aside from stolen lunches and the like

Billy Lenz :

- ah, the TRUE rat man. He holds the title for the Rattiest Rat man in existance (besides brahms, of course, since he literally lives in the walls), so his tastes aren’t all that refined. I’d assume his eating habits are mainly to satiate hunger when he absolutely needs to because, yknow, there are usually other people living in the house he’s in most of the time, so he kinda just steals a bunch of shit when no one is awake and eats it over the course of the week

- this is pretty much anything he can get his hands on, really. It’s pretty convinient since the house is usually so full of people that just assume someone else ate their food on accident or whatever. This includes pasta (yes, he eats it raw), kool-aid powder as seasoning sometimes, whole ass peanut butter jars, cans of soup and preserved fruit, and sometimes gallons of milk if he’s careful enough

- it’s kind of ironic too but he likes christmas cookies and sweet treats a lot. He’s the kinda bitch to drop down after they leave christmas cookies out for “santa” and then leave like he didn’t do shit. Usually whoever eats them before he can get to them is dead before they know what happened. That or they have bugs put in their bed or something and are tormented for a few days as punishment

Oh! And for anyone curious-

[ P1 ] : https://og-danny-dorito.tumblr.com/post/621028848541286400/favorite-foods-of-some-horror-characters-p1

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innocentbi-stander · 4 years

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The Theory of Pleasure

I’ve had an asexual!Jaskier fic idea bouncing around for a while, so I finally made myself sit down and write it, let me know what you think!

As always, I’m willing to take requests for fics or headcanons!

Jaskier had always known he was broken.

Had known it since he was small, when nothing he did was ever good enough. Had known it when he stumbled through yet another sword fighting lesson, his feet stumbling in vain to find their proper place in the footwork. Whenever he looked up to the balcony of the manor, he’d see the look of disappointment etched on his father’s face. It was an expression that he was intimately familiar with even at the age of 12.

That disappointed expression haunted Jaskier throughout his childhood.When he grew willowy and slight, his features were delicate instead of the rugged broad shouldered build of his father. When he chose music over sword fighting, a passion unbecoming of a nobleman’s son.

Jaskier knew he was broken because he saw it in his father’s eyes every time he looked at him.

He knew he was broken on the outside. But as Jaskier grew older he realized he was just as broken inside as well. As he grew older the other noble children began to cast looks at each other he didn’t quite understand. Jaskier couldn’t help but feel like there was something wrong with him. Whatever was going on between his peers mystified him, and he couldn’t comprehend the sudden fascination, but if there was one thing he had learned under the roof of his father it was how to play a part. And Jaskier was always an excellent actor.

So he crafted a mask. A mask of wit and charm. Objectively, Jaskier knew he was considered attractive by his peers. So he used that to his advantage. He masqueraded his way into dozens of beds, not caring if they were men or women, or if they had a partner waiting for them to come home. All he cared about was a warm bed to sleep in at night.

Jaskier made himself a reputation. A reputation of jumping out of windows in early morning light, angry husbands a his heels, a reputation of scandal and movement, and being known. His escapades often only lasted for one night, but one night was all he needed. To Jaskier, sex meant exchanging loving touches and connection, but he knew his many lovers bedded him for another reason entirely. It was just another way to be broken.

It still wasn’t enough. He still wasn’t enough. And Jaskier didn’t understand why. He had done everything his father ever wanted him to be. He had stopped his indulgence in frivolous things like music, had learned to charm the members of the court, had learned to choke down the awful taste of his father’s ire and do better. Jaskier pinned down every piece of himself that mattered and tried to fill the mold of perfection his parents had created for him. It was only then he realized, it would never be enough. It didn’t matter what he did or changed, in the eyes of his parents he was irreparably broken and always would be.

So Jaskier ran away.

He stuffed only what was needed in his pack, grabbed his lute and left. He ran away from his unhappy life. Away from a future of arranged loveless marriages, desperate affairs, away from the toxicity of court gossip, and away from his parents. And as he walked down the lone road, his pants crusted in dirt and his ill suited for traveling shoes already aching, he never felt more free.

When Jaskier ran, he ran towards Oxenfurt, one of the most prestigious schools on the continent. It was the first place he ever felt he could truly call home. In the city everyone was eccentric and full of contradictions. He was far from his rigid life in court where everyone tiptoed around each other. Oxenfurt was bright and loud and nothing like he had ever seen before.

Though Jaskier studied all seven of the liberal arts, music was the one that claimed his heart. At Oxenfurt his dedication to music was not seen as shameful, but a blessing. Jaskier practised his lute until his hands bled raw. His fingers danced across the strings with a mindless ease, and strum with the passion his father had always wished he had for sword fighting.

It was at Oxenfurt where he learned what love truly was. There was no place for love in court. People would marry who they were told to, whether it was for power, placement, or peace, love was never considered a factor. They would never marry for the passion that they shared with one another. The nobles in his father’s court sneered at the thought of love, declaring it something for foolish children. A good noble was emotionless and stoic, and that was one of the reasons Jaskier had always failed to fit in. At Oxenfurt, he was shown poetry and immediately became obsessed with it. He lost himself in paragraphs written by people overwhelmed with devotion and feeling. The idea of loving someone so fiercely above all else and being loved in return seemed like the most fortunate thing in the entire world.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier graduated Oxenfurt as a bard, and although the traditional path was to join a court, Jaskier knew he had had quite enough of nobles for a lifetime, instead declaring the life of a traveling bard. The decision to rough it on the road instead of settling in a cushy court was seen as extremely unusual to those who knew him.

Jaskier had always been guilty of enjoying the finer things in life. Fine wine, fine clothes, fine food, and fine company. Even at Oxenfurt, he still craved the intimacy of a fleeting romance, no matter how short. For Jaskier, sex was never about the physical act, but instead it was about the romance of it all. The ooey-gooey parts, the closeness. He was a man who loved love, and often found himself in bed with lovers, despite never feeling the physical attraction towards them he knew he was supposed to. Sure, he loved to flirt, he lived for the back and forth, making someone smile and be happy. Sometimes he can even enjoy the physical activity of sex, the intimate moment, but the attraction he holds for people is never sexual. Jaskier holds onto these moments because he knows they are the only way he is able to get any instant of romance.

Throughout his travels he had quickly learned more often than not that most people are only interested in sharing their bodies and their hearts, temporarily. Some days Jaskier found himself wishing that sex wasn’t necessary in order to have a nice dinner with someon, to simply talk and exchange a soft kiss at the end of the night. He’d learned that in most parts of the continent there was a fine line between a bard and a prostitute, and since reputation was everything to a musician he did what he thought was needed and told himself he was happy.

Why wouldn’t he be happy? He was traveling, seeing the world and meeting new people, by this point it seemed that almost half the continent had shared a bed with him. By any other person’s standards he was extremely fortunate, and there were many people who would envy him. Jaskier told himself he was just being ridiculously ungrateful, and he should enjoy what he had. He has his music, and his music was everything that had ever mattered to him, but there was still a small part of him that felt empty.

Then he met Geralt of Rivia in a backwater tavern in Posada. When he first spotted him sitting in the corner brooding his first thought was fuck he’s attractive, then he thought, I wouldn’t mind spending the night with him. Before he knew it he was walking up to Geralt’s table and recognizing him as a witcher, and not just any witcher, the ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ and he’s spouting some dumb line about bread in his pants.

What starts as an intent to hook his latest bedfellow turns into a quest for inspiration from a man who must have a thousand stories. The next thing he knows he’s been beaten up and captured by a rogue band of elves in the middle of nowhere and watching wide eyed as Geralt exchanges the rest of his coin in order to ensure their release, and that the elves would stop harassing the townsfolk. He could tell the witcher wasn’t fond of him then, with his endless chattering (Jaskier likes to talk), constant lute strumming, and thousand questions as he follows after Geralt and his horse. The witcher would groan and roll his eyes at him but he did not make him leave and so Jaskier stayed.

Days, weeks, months go by and Jaskier remains by Geralt’s side and what began as a hunt for his latest muse quickly turns into a genuine fascination with the witcher. The rumors about witchers were whispered across the continent, stories of horrible monsters with fangs and claws meant to scare children. Jaskier realized after traveling with Geralt that all of these tales were lies. He was a good man who helped people and always tried to do the right thing. One of the nights in their travels they are sitting by the campfire well after dinner. The stars are shining bright that night and the moon hangs low. The glow of the flames ignited Geralt’s golden eyes and exposed the slight curve of his lips as he laughs, laughs, at something stupid the bard has said and Jaskier thinks, This. This is someone I could really love. And technically he already does, and he knows he would follow Geralt to the ends of the earth if he so allowed.

Months turn into years as he travels by Geralt’s side and Jaskier has never met a single person he’s ever been more invested in knowing. He wants to know Geralt like no one else, wants to shower him in all the love and affection he could, because Jaskier knew Geralt thinks he doesn’t deserve it. They travel together, get to know each other, eat together, tumble in and out of danger together, and they never have to fall into bed to do it.

It’s the happiest Jaskier has ever been while spending time with another person. He found himself falling more and more in love with Geralt every day, despite being certain that the witcher didn’t share the same feelings. While they traveled Jaskier still threw himself at people in desperate hopes of a connection, begging for bits and pieces from those instances of romance. But now he has Geralt.

Geralt, who hates it when others touch him, spares Jaskier a touch of the shoulder, and brush of their hands while they travel on the road. Geralt, who always makes sure to have a meal waiting after Jaskier finishes performing at a tavern. Who buys him new strings for his lute and boots when his old pair fall apart. Jaskier laps all of these things up, the pieces of Geralt that the witcher spares only for him. He collected the moments spent whispering back and forth before sunrise, the small smiles, and the flowers Geralt lets him braid into his hair. He holds them close to his heart and in the darkness he thinks Geralt feels the same.

It all leads up to the dragon hunt, up on a mountain at sunset, sitting closer than close on a boulder next to the witcher, watching the color bleed from the sky. Jaskier locks his eyes on the horizon and tries one last time to reach Geralt, desperate for the romantic connection he’d been craving since long before his years at Oxenfurt. Jaskier felt miles away, despite the fact that him and Geralt were right beside each other. He wants to shout,

Come with me, let’s get away from everything, I love you more than anything, but instead, just like the day they met in Posada, his mouth moves of its own accord and he says,

“I’m just trying to figure out what pleases me” And isn’t that the thing that he’s been chasing his whole life. Why he left his home, why he decided to live a life on the road after leaving Oxenfurt. Jaskier is lost in thought and so he is completely taken off guard when he hears Geralt reply.

“W-what?” He sputters out, rocked by the fond smile on Geralt’s lips.

“I said,” Geralt responds, eyes rolling like this is every other day in their travels and not a moment vastly different than any other in the years they’ve known each other, “and what is it that pleases you?”

Jaskier is thrown back to every other haunted moment of his life. Every other second of his childhood where he was told what he should be, how he should be satisfied and how to please others. He remembers every painful moment, every second he felt broken and like he didn’t belong. Every time he was ashamed of himself and what he lacked. Jaskier remembers his time on the road, of someone pushing him into a mattress and muttering, you should be lucky, I don’t do this with everyone. He thought of all the people who told him what he should be enjoying, what was allowed and what wasn’t. Of every time he forced himself into a small little box with neat edges and longed to be free.

And then he thinks of Geralt. Of long white hair and golden eyes. Of a man who has been told his whole life he is a monster, but tries everyday to do the right thing. He thinks of long nights on the road, of evenings by the campfire where smiles fail to stay hidden. He thinks of a hand on his shoulder, softer than anyone has ever touched him before. Geralt knows all his secrets, how he feels about sex and attraction and never asks Jaskier for anything, ever, only taking what Jaskier is willing to give. Oh, if that isn’t the kind of love Jaskier has been chasing his whole life, and he’s been too stupid to realize it’s been right in front of him this whole time. Jaskier has never wanted anything as badly as he does this.

Suddenly Jaskier remembers himself, and the moment he’s in, the mountain and the sunset, and Geralt beside him waiting patiently for an answer. He turns to his side to face the witcher in the fading light, slightly startled by how close their faces are. He stares deep into those golden eyes, pools he would gladly drown in if given the opportunity. Jaskier exhaled suddenly, his breath leaving him as he realized he has never felt more at home than he does now sitting here with his witcher. He reaches for the hand beside him, rough and calloused from hours of sword fighting and scarred for his troubles, winding their fingers together.

“You,” he breathes into the space between them, “nothing pleases me more than you”.

And as Geralt’s lips connect with his in the most painstakingly gentle kiss in his life, he feels whole.

#the witcher #Witcher AU #the witcher jaskier #the witcher geralt #the witcher yennefer #Jaskier #witcher geralt #witcher jaskier #Geralt #geralt of rivia #geraskier #asexual jaskier #thought i'd give that a try #enjoy

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joysbell · 4 years

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The One with the Snowstorm: Part II

Go back: PART I

# # #

I remember when I lost my mind. I had thrown it into the Sidra and there it remained.

The rage that had filled me at the dismissal Nesta had bestowed. The refusal of my gift. I had followed her home, nostrils flaring like a bull about to charge. I could not breathe, I could not think, my only instinct was to be near her. It did not matter that she fled from me. The feeling—a steel chain—plagued me with every link as I hovered above her ramshackle apartment. It pulled me, practically wrested me to the ground.

From a rooftop I watched as she undid four locks, her slender fingers working, touching cold metal. I could hear her every breathe, feel the contact she made, the push of her door—and then she was inside. Gone.

Raw power had burst from the siphons on my hands, beams of red shooting into the air, straight up like tunnels to heaven. My whole body shook, I convulsed in the sky. It took everything I had to stay standing on the roof.

That was the moment I knew. Nesta was my mate.

When the uncontrollable event subsided, I wondered how much time had passed. What was probably only a minute had felt like hours.

I could not leave until I saw faelight. Not until I knew she was cloistered and safe in that horrible dwelling.

+ + +

Cassian was a good cook. After all, he had a lot of practice. Living on his own, camping with Illyrian armies, drunken nights, and hangovers in the morning…

Mostly he made stew. Whatever you had on hand could go in, and it always tasted good. It always filled you up.

Food was fuel. An army, a warrior, was nothing without food. Food won wars.

But Nesta would not eat. And that was a war Cassian was currently losing.

If he had to guess, maybe she reluctantly ate a few pieces of bread and butter a day to keep her going. That was the only food missing when he visited. Whatever else he brought went to the waste bin. Nesta had tried to hide that uneaten food under other things, as if he would not notice.

From the cabinet Cassian grabbed potatoes and vegetables. Hearty ingredients he loosely chopped up with an Illyrian blade that had been strapped against his thigh. While he worked, he stole glances at Nesta who still read, curled up on that disgusting couch.

She was not really reading, he knew. Nesta used all her senses to monitor him as a hawk would to a mouse it saw in a valley down below. Cassian was prey.

Once upon a time, before the war, Nesta had been afraid of the warrior. He had scented that fear on her as he had pushed her against a mantle, his tongue caressing her neck. Now she was his equal, possessing power he could not begin to imagine.

When Cassian’s stew was set to boil, he leaned back against the counter. Over the last few months, he had gotten used to her silent treatment, but he missed her voice. The cool sharpness with which she spoke, and that sarcasm that made him feel feral.

Cassian still thought about her in ways that made him lose himself, even though she was a slip of a woman now. Sometimes he felt ashamed because he knew she was depressed, but that did not always kill his lust. When he daydreamed about her body, Cassian remembered what she had once been, and hoped she would be again. He had sought release too many times to count, as he pictured her, writhing under him, her body on display while she moaned his name.

But more than anything, he missed the woman he barely had the chance to get to compassionately know. Now there was time, like he had promised. And part of him felt like he was completely failing her. The other part of him knew Nesta did not need or want a hero.

What could he do? Besides make her soup. Whether out this storm. And wait.

“The stew will be ready soon,” Cassian said, pushing off the counter to make his way toward the fire. “I know you can hardly wait.”

Nesta only looked up at him to roll her eyes. He chuckled, sitting beside the hearth. Pushing the coals with the poker, he asked, “Do you like rabbit? It has always bothered me—eating something so cute—but there is so many of them around camp… Nothing stops them from fucking. Not the cold, or the snow, or the fear of larger predators.”

Nesta slowly rose from her book to glare at Cassian.

There she is.

He grinned at his ability to irk her. To make her fingers twitch in annoyance. Keep talking, teasing her, testing her, make her feel something…

“High fae are always comparing themselves to animals. Lions, wolves, bats… But if you ask me”— she didn’t—“I would definitely say fae are most like rabbits.” Watching, he waited for her to respond.

Nesta snapped her book shut. And? She raised an eyebrow.

“Would you like bread with dinner?” He asked, grinning.

In an instant she had thrown her book directly at his face, but he had put his hands out to grab it. Nesta would have to be quicker than that. He whistled, slowly, before setting the book back down beside him. Now she was not going to get it back. “Careful, now, sweetheart,” he said deeply. Inside, Cassian could hardly contain the excitement at sensing that fire, her flames slowly rising to lick him.

Nesta simply pushed herself off the couch and went to stand above him, hand outstretched. The nerve to demand her book back.

Tsk tsk.

“As far as I’m concerned, this was a gift,” he said. “How polite. My thanks.” Cassian sketched a bow with the upper part of his body, then patted a spot next to where he sat. “But we can read it together, if you would like.”

Her look said she would rather walk out into the snow and stay there.

“That’s fine. I need to set the table, anyway.” He tucked the book away in his bag, completely aware he had taken away her crutch, hoping she would lean on him instead.

While Cassian set the table Nesta used the restroom, taking her time. When she returned, he already had dinner on the table, complete with bread. The gentlemanly thing to do would have been to wait for her to sit and push in her chair, but he did not want to risk his balls tonight.

Leaning forward, Cassian ripped a piece of bread for himself as Nesta took a seat. The bread was fresh, made today in camp, the aroma of it being pulled apart was practically orgasmic. He swore he would never get tired of this simple staple.

Nesta touched nothing, initially, but Cassian did not push. Not yet, at least… There was something he had wanted to discuss anyway. Across the table, Nesta crossed her arms and looked like she was about to brace herself for some lewd joke. But then a piece of golden-brown hair fell out of the crown atop her head, and she quickly pinned it back into place. For a moment he found himself staring.

After a mouthful, Cassian took a deep breath. “Nesta,” he said, quieter than usual, “I wanted to talk to you about coming here, to Illyria…” She was not talking, so she would not be interrupting. “I’m sorry,” he said, to start, “I’m really sorry.” The spark of shock in her eyes hit him. “Feyre was wrong, Rhys was wrong,” he said, even more softly, as if speaking this was treason against his High Lord and High Lady. “They should not have asked you to leave Velaris—not that I do not want you here, I am happy to have you here—but it should have been your choice. I did not tell you at the outset, but I had no part in it. The decision. Forcing you… People make mistakes, they made a mistake,” and perhaps he was making excuses for his friends, when he should have been supporting the woman before him. “And I did too.”

Silver lined Nesta’s eyes. Her body still, frozen.

“I did agree to watch you, though,” he admitted, “I thought you would prefer me to Mor or Az.” This was harder than he thought, a lot harder than he thought… Say something Nesta, say something…

Cassian had been waiting to say this since the day Rhys and Feyre had told him of their plans. Plans they had purposefully left him out of, until they had needed him, needed him to go pick her up and deposit her at the river estate. But Cassian had always been loyal to his court, he prided himself on his fidelity. Choosing between his closest friends and Nesta was a nightmare but realizing he had made the wrong choice was nothing short of a hellish reality.

The woman across the table did nothing, said nothing. She was a statue that only stared at him. Was the pain so blatant on his face? Her tears welled, but Nesta refused to release them.

Say something, Nes, he pleaded. There was a chance she could hear him, after all.

“I do,” she said, her voice cracking as if she had not had water in a week.

“What?” Cassian practically jumped out of his seat and braced his hands on either side of him. Nesta spoke. For the first time in months.

“I do. Prefer you—to Morrigan and Azriel,” she added, in case he was confused.

“Oh.” Cassian sat for a few seconds, and then let out a bellow. Nesta could have said she hated his face; it did not matter. Her voice, her voice…

Shockingly, Cassian was speechless, but he had no trouble smiling. The only thing that bothered him was the lingering wetness brimming Nesta’s eyes.

Cassian picked up his fork to take a bite as the snow fell heavily outside, hoping maybe Nesta would do the same.

+ + +

Tags: @ thebluemartini @ hizqueen4life

Hi! The Nessian Book got a title today AND I AM ECSTATIC!

#acotar #acowar #acomaf #acofas #acourtofsilverflames #nessian #nessian fanfic #nessian fanfiction #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian

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mellointheory · 3 years

Text

Sand on the Soul chapter 2 is up. I can't sleep. Egg!Punz and Tommy dynamic possesses my soul now.

“Does anyone have any spruce?” Tommy stuck his head out of one of the tower’s half finished windows, raising his voice to be heard down below. Tubbo shook his head, not even looking up from where he was leaned back against a rock, strumming his ukulele without even trying to form a tune.

“Um, I can check.” Ranboo’s hands shimmered palely as he flicked through his inventory. “I think I gave all mine to Foolish, sorry.”

“Fuck, do I have to go find some?” Tommy slumped over the window frame, chin hitting the wood with a soft thump. He winced, lifting his head and rubbing his chin with one hand. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it was jarring. He needed to be more careful.

“I can go back to Snowchester and get some.” Ranboo unfolded his long legs and stood up. He pulled his trident out of his inventory.

“Thanks, Ranboo,” Tommy said reluctantly.

Ranboo walked to the edge of the water, netherite armor shimmering into place to cover him from head to foot. He knelt in the waves, then flicked up and into the air on his trident. Tommy watched him go, envy twisting in his stomach. His own trident—stolen from Dream himself—still lay untouched at the bottom of his enderchest. He couldn’t stand to use it now. Every time he was in the air without the solid ground under his feet, his stomach seized up with the fear of missing a landing and hitting the ground.

“You know, Tommy.” Tubbo said, snapping Tommy’s attention back to him. “Your tower actually doesn’t look so bad.”

Tommy grinned. “It does! I’m actually really proud of it.” He patted the spruce wall. “My tower’s definitely a woman, cuz it’s tall and strong. I should name her.”

“Name her Michael.”

Tommy frowned down at the horned boy. “I’m not gonna fucking name her Michael, Tubbo. That’s a stupid name.”

“Hey!” Tubbo said indignantly. “Michael is a fantastic name.”

Tommy started to answer, but was momentarily distracted by a shimmer of purple on the cliff overlooking the tower. Punz was sitting up there, legs swinging back and forth idly, staring at the prison. Tommy opened his mouth to mention it, then managed to pull his attention back to the matter at hand.

“I like the name Sylvia.” He ran a hand down one of the stone brick pillars in the wall. “Or Sally—oh, fuck, that was Wilbur’s girlfriend’s name. God, I hope I don’t turn out like him. Imagine fucking a—no, wait, don’t imagine that.”

Tubbo laughed. “Yeah, I don’t think I want to.”

“Do you have any good name suggestions? I’d ask Ranboo, but he’s not here.” Tommy paused. “And he’s dumb.”

“Tommy.”

“What? I know you’re, like, married to him and everything, but he’s still—“

“Tommy!” Tubbo’s voice lowered, just barely reaching Tommy where he stood. “You might want to come down. Look over there.” The scarred brunette nodded at the overlooking cliff.

“Wot?” Tommy looked up, shielding his eyes. “It’s just Punz, man.”

Tubbo grimaced. “Yeah, but he’s gone all red and eggy. He’s dangerous now.”

“Don’t worry, I can speak to him. I can communicate with the beasts, Tubbster. I’m like Tarzan.” Tommy waved up at the mercenary. “They waved back down at him. “God, he needs a haircut.”

Tubbo laughed. “You’re not much better, you know.”

“Yeah, but I have an excuse. I was dead.” Tommy told him.

“Actually, that’s a good question. Did your hair grow while you were dead?” Tubbo tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm.

“I dunno.” Tommy put his hand up to run his fingers through the strands of too-long blonde hair flopping down the side of his face. He hesitated, resting a palm on top of his head for a moment, remembering the ghost of someone else’s warmth. His own hand was smaller than Punz’s, not as warm, and less calloused. It wasn’t the same.

“Yeah, I’ve got no idea.” He blurted out, pulling his hand down.

“It seems longer, but that could just be cuz you haven’t cut it in a while.” Tubbo tilted his head back, glancing back up at the cliff. The ukelele in his hand flickered away, replaced by a netherite axe from his inventory. “Are you sure about him?”

Tommy’s eyes locked on the weapon. “He’s saved your life, Tubbo. I don’t think he’s a wrongun.”

He wanted to ask Tubbo to put the axe away, but he was just protecting him, after all. Tubbo wasn’t going to hurt him. Tommy turned around instead, unwilling to force himself to stare at it any longer, and leaned up against the wall. “Where’s fucking Ranboo gone?”

“He could be talking to Foolish. I—Tommy!”

Tommy ducked instinctively, flinching back against the wall. His stomach twisted, anxiety balling up in his throat. What was it—was it Sam, was it a mob? Was it Dream?

“Tommy?” Punz asked, crouched on the wall above him.

“Punz, what are you doing?” Tommy turned back around to see Tubbo with a loaded bow in hand.

“I brought Tommy some food.” Punz shrugged, straightening upright and stepping off the wall to land silently behind Tommy.

“Tubbo, could you put the bow away?” Tommy asked, sidling a little bit behind Punz. The mercenary was in full netherite and Tommy was wearing diamond armor. Between the two of them Punz could handle an arrow to the face far better. Tommy had had his share of arrows to his face, both in the sleeping and waking world. They were far from pleasant.

Tubbo nodded silently, letting the bow vanish back into his inventory.

“Look, Tommy.” Punz pulled somethign out of his inventory and placed it on the window cill. It was a cake, squarish, with white frosting and red sprinkles. Punz gave it a proud look. “Cake.”

“Do you—can I have some?” Tommy glanced at their face. Punz nodded, so he reached over and broke off a piece, shoving it into his mouth. God, it tasted good. Most of what Tommy had eaten in the past few days was just bread and raw carrots.

“Hey, I want some!” Tubbo got up and dashed into the lower level of the tower.

“Punz,” Tommy said through a mouthful of cake. “Why is your hair so long? You’re really letting yourself go, man.”

Punz laughed, fingering a strand of the shaggy hair reaching to his shoulder. “I just haven’t cut it in a while. I’ve been busy with the egg.”

“I don’t like the egg.” Tubbo’s head poked up from the lower level as he climbed up the ladder. “It’s mean."

“It doesn’t bother me.” Tommy grabbed another chunk of cake. “I’m immune. Like a…canary.”

“I don’t think canaries are immune to much of anything, really.” Tubbo came over and broke off a piece of cake for himself. Punz stepped back as he approached, moving to the opposite side of the tower and jumping up to sit on the half-built wall.

“That’s only in mineshaft. Out of mineshafts, anything’s possible.” Tommy mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs. “That’s why I don’t go mining, it’s dangerous for me.”

“You should go mining sometime soon, you’re so poor.” Tubbo laughed.

Tommy let out an incredulous huff, turning to his friend and protesting. By the next time his eyes crossed the space where the mercenary had been, they were gone.

—————————————————

Punz waited quietly, watching as the enderman returned and gave Tommy the spruce he needed to complete the tower walls. He watched them argue over who got the most cake and whether normal or black glass would look better and how many dolphins were probably pissing in the ocean at that exact moment. He watched them escort Tommy safely inside the gates of his property after it grew dark, watched the kid farm and replant his wheat. It wasn't until Tommy finally disappeared inside his house that Punz rose to their feet and took the trident back to their property. Tommy wouldn't leave his house until morning, and they had other obligations as well.

The bloodlines opened up underneath him, leaving a clear area for him to land on top of the tower. They curled away from under his boots, deep red writhing against the tower’s pale stone. Out here all the vines had thorns, curving, some of them almost half as long as his thumb. Beautiful, dangerous. He loved the colors.

As they slid down the ladder the vines crawling down the walls seemed to hum. They’d spent enough time with the bloodvines that he could hear what they wanted to say.

The boy isn’t necessary.

“Tommy?” Punz stepped away from the ladder, jumping down the hole in the middle of the floor and landing in a pool of water that served to break his fall. He was in his bedroom now, where the vines grew the most prolifically. They twined between the chest son the walls, arching through the open windows. He used to have little pots of flowers there to entice his bees to wander in on the search for nectar. The flowers had withered now, replaced by the blooms of the vines.

He is a nuisance. He shouldn’t be alive.

“That’s not very nice.” Punz let the armor covering them shimmer into their inventory. “Tommy’s not so bad.”

Tommy is an interference. The translucent red leaves quivered.

Punz ran their fingers through their hair. Tommy was right, it was getting long. They hadn’t been paying much attention to it—really, they hadn’t been awake much for the past few weeks. The vines and the scent they gave off was too relaxing. It made it easy to just close his eyes and fall asleep.

“He liked the cake.” Punz remembered in satisfaction. He hadn’t baked it himself—Hannah had so many to spare, and Punz didn’t ahve the ingredients he needed. He wasn’t stacked on food either—potatoes and stolen cake were their main options. Potatoes were for some reason off the table for Tommy, but everyone liked cake.

The vines’ voices settled down to a displeased hum in the back of his ears.

“Tommy’s kinda my responsibility at the moment.” Punz shrugged, lifting his chain from around his neck and hanging it on the wall. They stopped, brushing their fingers across the petals of one of the flowers drooping beside the windowsill. “He’s my job now.”

The plans will move forward.

“It’s okay, I’ll make sure he’s not a problem.” Punz reassured them.

Sixty-seven gold blocks. Punz had one overarching principle in life: his employees got what they paid for. Sam had paid for someone to protect Tommy, to take care of him.

Sam would get what he’d bought. The egg would understand.

#punz #tommyinnit #sand on the soul #mello writes

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jubilantwriter · 4 years

Text

Heart Shaped like Sea Glass

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Next)

Part 3 - Comfort Feeding

Summary: Jasper forgets what it’s like to hunger, but a certain siren refuses to leave him alone until his very basic need is satisfied.

i hope this came out as funny as i had it imagined in my brainspace

// // // // //

It was all a dream. That's what he finds himself thinking when he wakes up, once again, to the sun shining in through his window. It was all a dream - how else would he explain away the disappointment that seeps into his chest at the thought of David? That vision he had, where he heard and felt and held David in his arms, it was all but a dream.

Because David is dead.

No matter how much he wishes it isn't so.

He rolls onto his side and stares at the wall. The shack remains quiet as the world continues to bustle around him. Sounds of the ocean are distant, despite it being right outside. He should get up, get something to eat, but he finds himself unable to move. It's not like he's hungry, and even if he was, he'd have no food to eat. Granted, all it would take is a quick trip into the nearby town, but the thought of having to fake pleasantries and wave off concerns from people he doesn't know is... a bit too much for him at the moment.

And anyways, he can go on without food for a little bit longer. If he's desperate, he can seek out the local fisherman. The old man would always hand him a fish or two, but once he insists on cooking it for Jasper, whatever energy the brunette has left is sapped, and he simply shakes his head and leaves the old man behind.

The fish then gets left in a pot that boils over, and whatever flavor the fish had is lost to the fire. Not like he could taste anything anyways. Everything tastes dull, flat, like parchment, and the thought of tasting anything sweet again leaves a roiling in his stomach that never seems to go away.

He's about to curl back up to sleep his day away when a loud slam gets his attention.

"Hello!" A voice from his dream has him sitting up in confusion. There, standing in the doorway with a smirk is... a siren? His head throbs as blonde hair and blue eyes triggers something in his memories. That... that wasn't a dream? Then, did he really-?

Ah.

No.

Of course not.

He clenches his shirt as he looks at the siren with a tired gaze.

"Oh."

"I said I'd be back. Good to see that my meal is still alive!" The siren cocks his head to the side, smile still in place as he studies Jasper. "Although, still not thriving I see."

"What are you talking about."

"I meant what I said, you know." The siren stalks close to Jasper, talons clicking against the wooden floor as he folds his arms behind him. "I am going to make you a meal to simply die for."

Jasper rubs his eyes as the dreamlike memories become more and more... vivid. He was tricked, lured by the siren's song last night. That would explain his hazy memories, his throbbing head, and the siren standing before him. He should be dead - why isn't he dead?

And then. A promise. A deal.

Right, of course. Of course he would agree to that. It's not like he had much to live for anyways.

"I believe you."

The siren's smirk falters a bit. Jasper's probably the most boring prey the blonde has ever encountered. He would apologize except, he really doesn't care.

"Hm. Well, I can see that you're still resting in your... nest. Have you not eaten yet?"

"No." And he doesn't really plan to. The siren frowns, looking around the near empty shack with distaste.

"I see. I've heard that you humans tend to keep food stocked up somewhere. Where is your food storage?"

"Don't have one."

The siren's frown deepens, talons clicking against the floorboards loudly. "...No food storage? So you have no food then."

"Yeah."

"Well, go out and get some!"

Jasper curls back under his thin blanket. "Not hungry." An irritated growl answers him as the clicking talons move away from him and towards the door. He closes his eyes with a sigh. Good. Now he can be left alone.

The sounds of the ocean are a little clearer now as waves crash against the sandy beach. A distant splash mingles with the call of the gulls, but he ignores it in favor of going back to sleep. Maybe if he's lucky, the siren will feel hungry instead-

The only warning he gets is the heavy flap of wings before something wet slaps against his face. He jolts upright with a yelp, and a fish falls into his lap.

"Gods!" A dead eyed fish stares up at him as a soft rumble comes from the siren.

"Food." The siren looks much too proud about a single fish. "Eat it now." Jasper looks down at the fish as its glassy stare stares back at him. At least it's dead.

...Still.

"I can't eat this." The satisfied smile on the siren's face drops as he glares at Jasper.

"And why's that?"

"I... I just can't." He gingerly picks up the dead fish. Five deep gouge marks are embedded in the fish's sides. Jasper takes a peek down the siren's feet. What looks like blood decorates the talons of one foot. Oh. Neat.

"Oh you've- give that to me." The siren snatches the fish back from Jasper with a look of disgust. "I thought you humans eat fish all the time! Don't tell me you don't know how to eat this."

Uh. "What?"

The siren rolls his eyes. "Look at me."

He really doesn't want to.

But he isn't given much of a choice as the siren tilts his head back and opens his maw. The fish is dropped head first into his gaping mouth, much to Jasper's horror. He shrieks as the siren looks to be choking on the fish- can't sirens chew?? They chew right?? The siren has teeth- look, he has teeth! Why is he-

"Why are you swallowing that whole?!" Jasper jumps out of his bed and smacks the siren's back roughly. The siren makes a startled gagging noise as the fish comes flying out of his mouth, only to be caught haphazardly by the siren's taloned hands. Feathers fluff up in a rage as the siren shakes the fish in Jasper's face.

"Why did you do that for?!"

"You were gonna choke-!"

"No you idiot, I was showing you how to eat fish because apparently, you don't know how-"

"I know how to eat fish!"

"Then eat it!" The fish gets shoved against Jasper's mouth as he recoils.

"Ugh! Gross!"

"Wha-" The siren pulls back, insulted as he looks between the fish and Jasper. "Excuse me, but this is mackerel, and it is a delicious fucking fish, so apologize!"

"No- I- what??" Jasper looks at the silver fish flopping sadly around in the siren's talons. He blinks at the dead thing before muttering softly, "I... I'm sorry?"

"Good." The fish is thrust back into his face. "Now eat."

"I can't!" He pushes the siren's hand away from him. "It's raw!"

"It's... what?" The siren looks back at the fish, scrutinizing it closer before looking back at Jasper, completely baffled. "No, I told you, it's mackerel."

"No, I mean-" Jasper runs his hand through his thick hair. Of course the siren has no concept of raw or cooked food. He just eats whatever he wants as is. But Jasper can't do that! He'll get sick and maybe die, and if he is to die, he refuses to go out by the means of a dead, slimy fish disagreeing with his stomach. "I can't... eat the fish like this. The flesh, as it is, will hurt my stomach and make me sick!" The siren once again looks between the poor fish and Jasper before a look of exasperated understanding crosses his features.

"I understand now." Jasper slumps his shoulders in relief as the siren nods. "Humans have the stomach of a chick. No wonder you creatures never live long."

"...What?"

"You need chick food." The siren slaps the fish down on Jasper's table and quickly turns around. "Wait here."

"No, wait-" But the siren is already dashing out of his shack before Jasper can stop him. He looks towards the dead fish with a sense of unease. Chick... food? Jasper trudges out of his shack and looks around the beach.

No siren.

He looks up into the sky and shades his eyes. Squinting, he sees a flying figure circling above him before flying off towards... the town? Quickly, Jasper dashes after the siren, following his shadow as the siren heads towards the more wooded areas of the town. The siren lands not too far from where Jasper skids to a stop, slumping over and panting as he watches the siren eye the grassy ground. Before the brunette can process another thought, the siren begins to stomp on the ground, moving this way and that as he focuses on the task at hand.

...Whatever the task may be.

The siren continues to stomp as Jasper watches with a tired mind. The blonde stops for a moment, peers at the ground, before bending down to pluck something out. He continues in this manner as Jasper idly watches, not really understanding this strange ritual the siren is doing, but also refusing to have the energy to try and decipher it. After a few moments pass, the siren huffs in satisfaction and turns around. His hands are carefully cupped around something as he stumbles back in surprise, his wings spreading slightly as he catches sight of Jasper. He huffs again, but with a more irritated edge to it as he stomps over to Jasper.

“I told you to wait.”

Jasper shrugs as the siren comes to a halt in front of him. “Got worried.”

"You’re impossible, but at least this will save me the trouble of having to travel back with live grub.” He nods towards Jasper impatiently. “Open your mouth."

Oh. Oh no. The words “live grub” makes Jasper take a step back.

"No."

"Human," he growls, "stop being difficult and let me feed you."

"What..." He looks over the siren's shoulder to where he had been standing previously. Whatever it was that he plucked from the ground, it can't possibly be for human consumption. "What did you-"

The siren's eyes brighten as he quickly shoves something wet and squirming and alive into Jasper's open mouth. He spits it out immediately and starts scraping his tongue.

"AUGH!" He looks at what he had spit out onto the siren's fuming face and shrieks again. Worms! He was trying to feed Jasper living worms! "AAGH!"

"What is your problem?!" The siren shrieks at him as he carefully collects the worm off his face and adds it to his pile. "I found you chick food!"

"Humans don't eat WORMS!" Jasper spits some dirt onto the ground and groans loudly. "Humans aren't like sirens at all!"

"Oh for fucks sake-" The siren nearly trembles with fury as he keeps the worms carefully cupped in his hands. "This wouldn't be a fucking problem if you'd just eat something!"

"Okay! Okay! Gods, if I ate something, would you leave me alone?!"

"Yes!"

"Fine! Fuck!" Jasper stomps off towards the beach. The ruffling of feathers alerts him to the siren's following as he leads them back to his shack. The door is still open as they trudge through, Jasper sitting on his bed as the siren dumps the squirming worms onto his table. Jasper looks between the worms and the dead fish and contemplates his choices. The siren crosses his arms at Jasper's delayed eating.

"Well?"

Jasper stares at the fish covered in the siren's slobber. "...Can you get me a new fish?"

"You're so damn picky."

"You can eat that one! You already started to!"

"Fine! Whatever!" The siren tosses his hands up in the air as he stomps out. "I do all this work, and for what?!"

"You can have the worms too!" Jasper yells to the retreating figure as the siren squawks back in irritation. With the siren gone, Jasper gets to work stoking his fireplace. The hanging pot is removed as he considers his choices.

Boiled fish is quick and easy. He can just descale, gut, and chop up whatever fish the siren gets him and eat that. But...

He looks back at the slimy fish that the worms are starting to crawl all over. Turning back to the fireplace, he thinks that maybe the texture of boiled fish might not feel so great in his mouth. What other choices does he have? As he looks around the fireplace, he finds a stack of sharpened sticks that the fisherman had given to him.

For roasting fish, if he recalls correctly. He picks up a stick and turns it between his fingers idly.

It wouldn't be too much work, he thinks. Sure, he still needs to descale and gut the fish, but after that, he can just jab the stick in and roast it. Easier than chopping, and it won't have the potential to feel slimy.

...Yeah. This could work.

"I'm back." The siren stomps into the shack, thrusting a new but similar fish into Jasper's face. "And you had better eat this one."

"I will." He takes the fish carefully and heads to his table, grabbing a knife as he does so.

"Really?" The siren creeps towards him in surprise as Jasper sits down. "No more protests?"

"As long as I get to eat it normally like a human, then yes." The brunette begins to remove the scales with his knife, scraping it methodically as the siren begins plucking the worms off and slurping them into his mouth. As the last worm is eaten, Jasper begins to gut the fish, removing its insides as the siren sighs.

"You're wasting food."

"Then you can eat it." A taloned hand swipes the guts up as the siren shoves the intestines into his mouth. Jasper watches curiously as the creature actually chews. So they do use their fangs and teeth for something. Quietly, he jabs the stick through the head of the fish and into its stomach. He heads over to his crackling fire with the siren trailing behind him.

"What are you doing?" Jasper sticks the stick in front of the fire as he turns back to the siren. The fish from before is clutched tight in the siren's hand as he brings it up to his mouth and chomps off the head. Confusion rings loudly in Jasper's head as he tries to reason why the siren switched from swallowing the fish whole to just eating chunks of it, before shaking his head and refusing to think any further.

"I'm cooking it."

"Cooking?"

"Yeah." He settles down on the floor and watches the fish roast. "I'm making it edible for my chick stomach to handle."

The siren snorts as he sits down next to Jasper, loud schmacking noises included. "You humans have such weak stomachs."

"Can't help it."

The two of them watch as the fish slowly roasts. A nice, pleasant smell wafts through the air as Jasper's stomach growls.

...Oh.

He's.

He's hungry.

The siren sniffs and makes an interested hum. "That smells good."

"Yeah, cooking does that." Carefully, he reaches forward and plucks the roasted fish from the fire. The siren leans in close to the cooked fish, raw one already devoured, and sniffs it again.

"It's hot."

"Yeah." Jasper carefully breaks off a piece and offers it to the siren. "You wanna try it?"

"Food is food." Despite his blasé tone, the siren eagerly takes the offering from Jasper. "Mmm..." He watches as the siren's eyes brighten happily as he savors the taste. "It's good."

"Better than raw fish?"

"I wouldn't say better," the siren sniffs, "but it is good."

"Right." Jasper rolls his eyes and begins to eat. Every once in a while, he offers the siren a piece, to which the siren happily accepts. They eat together in a peaceful quiet until the bones are licked clean and Jasper finds himself feeling surprisingly full. He blinks as he stares at the fish's skeleton.

"Well, that's one meal done." The siren gets up and stretches, looking over Jasper with a smirk. "Once I'm done with you, perhaps I should try this cooking thing to make your flesh taste even more superb."

Jasper shrugs as he lays down on the floor. The siren clicks his tongue with annoyance as he nudges Jasper's head off the ground. "Sure," he says with a shrug. "Whatever you say."

"I'll be back later to make sure you have another fish to eat." Jasper closes his eyes as he listens to the tap of talons against wood. "You'd have better moved from this spot when I get back."

"No promises." A distant huff is the only response he gets before he hears the heavy flap of wings. All that's left is the sound of the fire crackling before him, and soft crashing of the waves behind him.

And for the first time in what feels like forever.

He feels... kind of warm.

#camp camp #cc jasper #cc daniel #siren au #drabble #i POSTED TO THE WRONG BLOG #hopefully no one saw that #anYWAY!!#goofs!! there are goofs in this one #i thought they're kinda funny #i hope they are #hope you guys laugh too!!!#enjoy!#im really getting into this au man #man its just #really jiving with me

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the-ultimate-penguin · 4 years

Text

Katabasis || Chapter 4 || The Return || E

Massive trigger warnings exist for this fic and this chapter specifically, and are discussed under the cut where you can find the chapter content.

From the beginning (Explicit)

Claude Frollo/Esmeralda

A/N: I don’t like posting fic onto tumblr, but as I have said before, I’m having computer troubles that has prevented me from posting this directly to my Ao3 account. I will hopefully have access to that account soon, but for now, I must work with what I have.

Please note that there are the following TW: non-con, use of the G-slur and racism consistent with canon.

I hope I haven’t scared you off!

----

Chapter 4

The Return

The first night, she barely slept. Too exhausted to stay awake, but too vigilant to let even the softest rustle not be searched for in the darkness. More than once, jolted awake, Esmeralda had wearily lain, watching as Djali settled yet again for more unburdened rest. “How lucky you are,” she had murmured, before sleep crept upon her. As the new day dawned, Esmeralda had found herself with Djali at her feet, blissfully alone.

After the second night, her head no longer felt heavy, nor did her bones complain as she paced up and down the gallery. She didn’t find her eyelids drooping as she watched the square below.

Readying herself after her third unperturbed night, Esmeralda thankfully noted how the bruises on her wrists had begun to fade. Her pain had diminished enough that she had to think about it to notice the subtle twinges and aches.

Waking from the fourth night’s slumber, Esmeralda had looked around the tiny cell, illuminated by the growing morning rays. The customary basket of food and a jug of fresh water had been placed just on the other side of her threshold.

Quasimodo had seemed to be taking even greater pains than ever before to avoid her notice. For this, she was glad. To see the twisted form or ugly face of the thing that had put her here, to be reminded of his lies and how he had been willing to let her be attacked by the priest - it was something Esmeralda wasn’t sure she could take. And whether the hunchback intuited how despised his appearance would be now, or whether he was too cowardly to face her, Esmeralda was thankful for his absence along with his continued efforts to ensure that she and Djali were at least fed something.

As she broke her fast with a few bites from the portion of bread the bellringer had given, Esmeralda smiled. “How is the hay?” she asked Djali. The goat didn’t look up from the fresh pile of hay she had buried her face in. “That good, then.”

However difficult life in the cathedral was for Esmeralda, she knew that it was even harder for Djali. There was nothing to graze or forage. Hay and scraps of Esmeralda’s meals were barely enough. Whenever she brushed or stroked the goat, Esmeralda could feel the cost of their sanctuary. Djali had grown thin, and her coat was now dull. Esmeralda was glad she couldn’t easily see the toll the weeks of imprisonment and seclusion had taken on herself. Filling Djali’s water bowl, she deliberately avoided glancing at her own reflection.

Just as she had begun to rise, two arms encircled her. Esmeralda screamed as she was lifted upwards. She didn’t hear the shatter of the earthenware against the stones, but she felt the splash of water over her bare feet.

A hand covered her mouth, and the grasping arms tightened around her, pressing her back against him. “Please,” whispered the priest. His breath was hot against her neck.

Esmeralda shook, seeking the slight give that would break the vise. But, the more she struggled in his arms, fighting against his hold, the faster his breathing became. Through her dress, she could feel against the small of her back the heat of his sinister purpose. With every move she made, she felt it growing stronger. He gave out a moan, muting it with her bare shoulder.

Against every instinct, Esmeralda froze. Thrashing about in the priest’s cruel embrace served only him. Her heart pounded, drowning out the increasingly urgent sounds escaping from him. Undaunted by her sudden stillness, he began to grind himself against her.

She saw no other means of escape. She grasped the flesh of his palm between her teeth and clenched her jaw tightly. She didn’t release his skin until she tasted metal.

He yelped and pulled away.

Esmeralda spun and spat in the priest’s alarmed face. She could see flecks of blood in the glinting spittle.

The priest muttered something in a language Esmeralda did not know, glancing from his bloody palm to her.

She sucked up her remaining saliva, ready to spit again, but furiously the priest covered her mouth with his lips. He wrapped himself around her once more, one hand roving down her chest.

“Take all you will,” he panted as he broke from the kiss. “My blood, my body.” His hand cupped her breast. “After my soul, what does anything else matter?” He took his hand away, and Esmeralda saw with horror the red smears over her left breast. “I give you everything.”

“Give me peace,” she parried. “Stay away from me.”

“You don’t understand how much these past few days have pained me. Not merely bodily. How hard it was to stay away, but I-”

“Leave me be or I will crack your head again.” She knew exactly where she had left the rock, she knew it would only take a few steps around the priest before she would have it in her grasp. In the daylight, she could see the yellow and green around the crusted wound. She would strike there with all her force. She would hit it again and again until she was sure that he would never touch her again. It was the only way she would ever be free of him again.

The priest sighed. “Do it, and I promise that you will beg for the quickness of the noose.”

It wasn’t a threat. Sincerity stared piercingly back at her as she searched his face for a sign of doubt. The fierceness of his certainty sent a shiver down Esmeralda’s spine. The terrifying devices in the prison seemed to pass before her, each more horrible than the next. The damp cold of the underground cell chilled her despite the summer heat. Desperately focusing on the block of sunlight that stretched across the cell, Esmeralda swallowed back the rising sick.

If she did kill him or wound him fatally, they would know who to blame. Even if she were somehow to muster the strength to throw his body down from the tower, it would only be a matter of time before everyone came for her. Escape would be nearly impossible. Quasimodo certainly couldn’t be counted on to help. He had chosen the priest over her before, and Esmeralda was no longer able to hope that he would protect her ever again.

“So hit me,” the priest continued. “Spit at me, strike me. Do what you will. I care not. It’s nothing compared to all that I have suffered these long months.” Trembling he kissed her temple, a mirror to the blow she had given him. “And everything pales to what I know awaits me.” He gave a long sigh. “But the cruelty of man is vast, and should they find my body, you will very quickly see the depths of manufactured Hell.” He kissed her once again before pulling away to add, “Have mercy. Let us have a shred of kindness together.” He began to push, steering her towards the bed, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

Even if she couldn’t end him and forever stop his pursuit, Esmeralda was not ready to submit. Even if all that she had cherished and all her dreams had been stolen from her, she would not surrender. She had been raised to be stronger than that. With all the courage left in her body, she said, “Never.”

A jarring yank sent Esmeralda tumbling to the floor. She reached out a hand to stop her fall and landed hard upon the mattress. The priest was already on his knees above her, pinning her down by the time she found air enough to say, “I hate you.”

Between bruising kisses, the priest managed, “I love you.” Still pelting her face and neck with his lips, he began to draw her skirt up to her waist.

As his hand wandered down to explore her exposed skin, shame burned red and hot across her face. His fingertips might as well have been claws, ripping her flesh as they ran across her abdomen and over her thighs. His breath now heaved his chest, and his eyes flickered up and down, as if trying to consume every part of her he had stripped bare.

Clumsily, Esmeralda reached down to try to cover herself, but he batted her hands away. “Please don’t,” she whispered. Despite his weight on her legs, she tried to buck and kick. Her fists struck his chest and face as he leaned over to kiss her once more. She could feel his shuddering moan in her mouth. She screwed her eyes shut, her last defense.

She nearly jumped as the fabric of his cassock was lifted away, brought up to his hips. His naked thighs parted her legs, and he let the skirt drape back down to cover them together.

He was prodding her. An awkward jab at the top of her inner leg. A misaimed thrust that landed him against her belly. It was hot and swollen. He seared as he rammed inside her, and her breath escaped in agonized cry. Like the cleaving thwack of an axe against wood, his splitting suddenness roughly cut into her.

Despite the pain, Esmeralda tried not to let her breathing quicken in panic, least he think that the hitch in her breath and frantic gasps were caused by his next thrust forward. He was going too deep. She was sure he would rip out on the other side, still plunging on into stone, oblivious as he quivered on top of her.

As he slid out, Esmeralda heard him moan deeply. Her body was screaming. Perhaps she was as well. His next attack robbed her of any sense but pain. He was shaking against her, groaning and muttering. Only one word she was able to discern -

“Esmeralda.”

He seemed to twitch and jerk as he pulled back before jaggedly returning, uttering a raw cry. His muscles tensed as he held himself fast against her. Finally, his breath slowed, and his body relaxed. She could feel the sweat on his face as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing on top of her.

“Are you going to cry this time?” she snapped, pushing him off.

“What?” It stung as the priest slipped out, trailing a sticky wetness in its wake. Slowly, he rolled onto his side and began to dab at the milky drops with the hem of her skirt.

Esmeralda’s nose wrinkled in disgust, and she tugged her dress out of his languid grasp. “Are you,” she said, punctuating every word, “going to cry?” She sat upright and smoothed her clothing out.

Sleepily the priest blinked. “That was a one time thing.” He took the blanket in hand and started to dry himself.

Esmeralda could only stare. After everything he had inflicted on her and how he had deprived her of her modesty, she felt no inclination to afford him any privacy. Soft and much reduced, it was hard to accept that it was the same instrument that had provided so much torture. But, she knew little of such matters. Compelled to know what Phoebus had under his hose, she had spied one or twice on her husband during their weeks together. Other than Pierre, she had seen no other man’s nakedness before. This, however, wasn’t entirely trivial, but it was still an ugly worm.

More interesting to her, however, were the dark curls nestled there. No shock of white or trace of grey - so unlike what remained on his head. An old man, she had thought, would be just as grey on bottom as he was on top, just as it was for the aging women she had seen bathing. He couldn’t be, she realized, nearly as old as a quick glance suggested.

It was then that she realized with alarm that the worm had grown. Not quite a serpent, but enough to menace. She swallowed and glanced over to the priest’s face, meeting his gaze. He had been watching her as she stared at him. “You’re despicable,” she muttered, averting her eyes. “Deplorable.” She got to her feet and scanned the cell. Djali was nowhere to be seen. Wherever the goat had wandered off to, Esmeralda was sure it was safer than here.

Still smirking, Claude leaned against the wall. She had found him fascinating. How else could such intense regard be explained? His eyes followed her as she crossed the cell. As she bent down before the shattered jug, he sucked in his breath, already imagining taking her once more.

One by one, she picked up the pieces of clay, only a sliver of her profile visible to him. A broken jug. “How could I forget!” he exclaimed as the specifics of Pierre’s marriage in the Court of Miracles returned to him. The poet had been married to Esmeralda through means of a broken crock. His face flushed as the significance seized him.

Startled, the girl turned to gape at him.

“How many pieces?” Claude asked breathlessly. She had dropped the jug when he had embraced her, and then he had had her. Hardly sanctified, it wasn’t proper, but if canon law could accept a clandestine marriage as valid, then - Claude could feel the weight of at least one sin leave. However many other sins this gypsy marriage created to join his innumerable crimes, for the first time that he had taken the key to the red door, Claude felt his conscience was clear.

“What?”

Exasperatedly, “How many pieces?” Claude repeated. “The jug.” He gestured to the floor. “How many?”

Bemused, the girl shook her head, but still she cast a glance around, mouth wordlessly moving as she counted. “At least twenty,” she said flatly and returned to gathering the remains.

“We’ll be married at least twenty years then,” concluded Claude.

“That’s-” stammered the girl. “How?”

Unperturbed by the feigned confusion, Claude waved his hand dismissively. He could understand why she would take every advantage she could, counting on his ignorance of the customs of her people. “No need to lie,” he said. “I know that’s how you Gypsies get married. A broken jug that states how long you will be married. We have broken a jug, so we are husband and wife for at least twenty years.”

A strange expression crossed her scowling face before she let out a laugh. Bright. Pure. She was laughing at him! Indignant, Claude began to rise.

Finally, she managed, “You’re mistaken, Father.” She shook her head, the smile fading from her as she turned to him.

“And why is that?” he snarled, her momentary mirth still ringing in his ears.

“To be married requires agreement - between families, between husband and wife. Without it there is nothing.” Fire flashed behind her dark eyes. “I am not your wife. I will never be yours.”

“Then why the jug!” spluttered Claude.

Esmeralda shrugged. “There are many people who come to the Court of Miracles. More than just mine. I don’t know why a marriage is announced with breaking something here, but it’s nothing more than a…”

“Symbol,” Claude provided with a sigh. He should have known that his former student couldn’t be trusted to accurately recount or explain all that he had seen. Ever since he had met the aspiring poet, Pierre had been more partial to invention than recitation. Claude pressed his fingers between his brows.

It had been pointless to hope for something that could ameliorate his perdition. As long as he was still a priest, it was a violation of all that he had vowed. Moreover, she was a heathen. Their union could never be holy.

Drained of the frenzied relief, Claude sighed.

There was no redemption for this transgression. And now he was even more damned than he had been before. He had stained his soul once again with such vile licentiousness, and despite the punishment he would suffer, he still had every intention of repeating his sin. Contrition was impossible while she still lived. Perhaps even now that he had experienced the exquisiteness of carnal knowledge, his whole existence was doomed to be consumed by this need. What had driven him to mastery of so many passions, Claude could now see, was what Fate had designed to condemn him.

Clattering clay pieces dropped upon his lap, pulling him out of his reverie. He looked up at her scornful expression.

“Count them if you wish, Father,” Esmeralda said.

The title following such sacrilegious thoughts brought clenching unease to the priest. “Claude.” He took her hands in his, holding fast even though she made no attempt to slip away. How foolish he felt realizing that never once in any of their prior encounters had he offered his name. There had always been so many other matters to attend to that it had simply been determined unnecessary, unimportant. “My name is Dom Claude Frollo.”

Dark eyes bore into his.

“Claude,” he repeated, wishing to hear her finally add words to her siren’s call. A thrill passed through him as he imagined just how sweet it would sound to have her cry out his name as he was inside her.

He would do it. He would make her say it. His body begged to have her again. It would not wait.

It took very little effort to bring her to her knees, on the bed once more. Claude brushed away the fragments of the jug. Though already aching with desire, he gave himself a long stroke. Unlike the paltry pulls he had resorted to during the past few days while his head pounded and stomach spun after slight exertion, there was the promise of wrapping himself around Esmeralda and entering her warmth.

As he kissed her, he felt words spoken against his lips. “What?” he gasped.

“What does it mean?” Her tone cut with annoyance.

Claude gulped for air, wishing she would just make sense for once.

“Your name.”

He squinted at her. “Of all the things… what…” Claudius cum claudio. He could feel his face flush as he imagined actually saying the word ‘lame’ to the girl. “Never you mind.” She no doubt had a devious purpose. Hadn’t the goat learned to spell that captain’s name?

“I will only ever love the man who is named for-”

“Will you never cease this madness!” Claude let go of her. “Why do you torture us with talk of that captain?”

“He is-”

“A drunk who seduces and whores and has no doubt already found someone else to ruin,” Claude interjected. “He will never be worth your devotion, and the more you insist on saying his name, the more you debase yourself.” He got to his feet. “You do not see him for what he is. You see only fancy trappings-” as he spoke, he began to pace, “- a shiny sword you would kiss, someone who thinks he’s Adonis. And he doesn’t even see you unless you’re willing to offer him what I have fought so hard for.”

Though he wanted to stop and hold her so she would no longer wince and flinch from his words, he couldn’t contain himself. He could think of no other way to make her understand than to scold and lecture.

“If he feels anything for you,” Claude continued, “it’s hate and fear. You tried to kill him, and it drove him away-”

“You tried to kill him!” snapped Esmeralda.

“He doesn’t know that! He thinks you stabbed him, and what has he done? He’s stayed away, far away. He didn’t go to your trial. He was ready to watch as you died accused of killing him. He’s a coward, and he does not want you. But me,” he put his hands over his heart, feeling it thunder underneath his ribs, “I have come back. You tried to kill me, and still would, yet here I am!”

“I would,” she hissed, “but we’ve established why I can’t.”

“Surely you can see that I love you. I love you in a way he never could, and I would-”

“If you love me so much, prove it by throwing yourself off the tower.”

Wraith boiling over, Claude scrambled to find a proper response, but before he could fashion one together, he felt something ramming into his side. Though it did not bring him to his knees, the blunt force left him gasping. “What the-” he muttered as he looked down to see the furious goat, head lowered, poised to strike again. “Devilish beast!” He took a step forward, but already the girl was wrapping her arms around the goat, murmuring praise and kissing her.

Esmeralda held the goat to her chest, a demonic shield with yellow eyes that seemed to gnash its teeth, daring Claude to approach once more. Did he see Hellfire flickering there? There was undoubtedly something infernal that had summoned the creature to the cell and prompted it to attack.

Shuddering, he backed away until he was at the door. “Perhaps I’ll throw that thing from the tower instead.” Claude could feel the scorching hate follow him all the way down to the cloister.

He slammed his chamber door and hurried to the window, already trying to soothe the dissatisfied agony between his legs. Supporting himself with his forearm against the wall, Claude frantically moved his fist, cursing that he had to fall back to this. Pathetic. Lame. His arm was tiring from pumping and still she hid out of sight, as if she knew how much suffering she was inflicting still.

Biting his arm, he silenced his moans as the hot flood of relief spilled over his hand. He rested his head against the stone wall. “Esmeralda,” he whispered. He let his cassock fall back over his legs and sought his washcloth. He had only managed to wipe the remnants of his seed off of his hand when a knock intruded on his silence.

“Monsieur Archdeacon?” It was the nervous voice of the beadle.

If he stayed silent, perhaps he would be left alone again.

“You should know, but… word reached the Bishop that you are well again-”

Claude clenched his teeth.

“- and he’s on his way here.”

Resisting the urge to shout about damning the Bishop, Claude opened the door. “Thank you for the notice, Charles,” he said, his face a mask of placid duty. “I will be sure to greet him when he arrives.” Not waiting for the beadle to respond, Claude brushed past him, already weary with the day.

~~~

A/N: Wow! Congrats on getting to the end of this beast of a chapter.

I’ve interpreted the jug breaking in the book as being something that’s a result of so many cultures being in the Court of Miracles that the Jewish tradition of breaking a glass to celebrate a marriage wound up as just a part of how things are done in the Court of Miracles. Since actual Romani marriages are pretty diverse in tradition, I can’t say for sure that no jugs were ever broken, but to my knowledge, it’s not done. Of the Romani marriage traditions I know - from jumping over a broom, to the bride changing dresses as she’s accepted into the groom’s family, to giving jewelry, or just plain old having a regular Church service - I have heard nothing that resembles what Hugo wrote.

I apologize if there are any formatting errors or other issues. (Let me know!)

Please let me know if you liked this chapter with ‘likes’ and reblogs. I always love hearing what people think, and it really makes my day!

Thank you! And Happy Halloween!!!!

#claude frollo #esmeralda #hond #fresme #nddp fanfic #non con trigger warning #racism trigger warning #trigger warnings in general

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artificialqueens · 4 years

Text

Ms. California - Chapter Three (Crygi) - Mik

AN: Here’s chapter three! I’m going to plan on updating two or three times per week, depending on how much time to write I have. Thanks for reading, I hope you all enjoy it! Any and all feedback is appreciated.

Summary: Crystal moves to Los Angeles from Missouri and meets Gigi Goode, captain of the varsity cheer squad. Queue the 1990s lesbian high school AU that absolutely nobody asked for.

Crystal pauses before she places her palm - which has become oddly clammy - on the door knob. She takes a deep breath in and exhales before she opens the door.

Gigi is standing on Crystal’s doorstep, and although Crystal was expecting the blonde to be there, she’s still taken back by her presence. She’s an absolute vision in pink, Crystal decides. She’s wearing a baby pink, satin dress that hugs her body, accentuating her small waist and petite figure. It falls just above her mid-thigh, and Crystal can’t help but notice that it makes her legs appear even longer than they usually do. Her blonde hair hangs in loose curls around her neck. Crystal’s eyes are drawn to the gold necklace that Gigi is wearing; it’s short and a charm with a cursive “G” hangs from it.

“Hi,” Crystal says with a smile.

“Hey,” Gigi greets. “You look really pretty tonight!”

Crystal can’t formulate an intelligible response. It feels like firecrackers were just lit off in her brain - Gigi was calling her pretty. So, instead, she looks around, hastily trying to think of something to say.

“Is that your car?” Crystal asks, motioning towards the street, sure that her face is several shades darker than the pink of the dress that Gigi is wearing.

“It is! Are you ready to get going?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Crystal replies, following Gigi down the steps of her porch.

Crystal doesn’t think that she’s ever seen a more Californian car that the one Gigi owns. It’s a convertible and it’s a bright shade of magenta. From what Crystal knows about Gigi, it suits her well.

Crystal opens the passenger door and settles herself in the seat. She’s never been in a convertible before; it seems very glamorous.

“Oh, do you want me to put the top back up? The wind can really mess up your hair,” Gigi asks.

“No, it’s totally cool - I’ve never rode in a convertible before. Do you have an extra scrunchie or something?”

“I should! Let me just check in my purse,” Gigi says as she begins rifling through her handbag. She pulls out a purple scrunchie, and hands it to Crystal. “Here you go!”

“Thanks,” Crystal grins and begins tying up her hair. She watches as Gigi throws her own hair up into a high ponytail.

Gigi starts the car, and Crystal soon realizes that Gigi was not kidding about the wind. They drive relatively slowly at first - Crystal lives in a cul de sac - but when Gigi turns onto the main road, Crystal can barely hear herself think. The wind pounds in her ears and she can feel her hair flying everywhere, even from the confines of the scrunchie. She’s almost grateful for the noise because although she wants to talk to Gigi, the nerves of being on a first date are getting to her. She has no idea what to say to her and she’s terrified that when she does say something, she’ll say the wrong thing. Crystal doesn’t even know if she’s into Gigi like that because Gigi’s a girl and Crystal still doesn’t know if she’s infatuated or confused or just really wants to be the blonde’s friend.

They’re on a date, so Crystal reminds herself that it isn’t the latter. She is, at the very least, somewhat infatuated with her. For whatever reason, it’s hard for Crystal to admit that.

Crystal tries to let her thoughts go and focus on the world around her; they’re flying down what appears to be the 101 freeway now. There are more cars here than she has seen in her lifetime.

Crystal can’t tell how long it’s been, but eventually, Gigi steers them towards an exit. The wind slows, and Crystal’s heartbeat speeds up. The sound of the wind can no longer protect her from having to make conversation and she still doesn’t know what to say.

“So, how are you liking Los Angeles so far?” Gigi asks. Crystal internally breathes a sigh of relief - at least Gigi initiated a discussion.

“I like it a lot,” Crystal answers. “It’s very different from what I’m used to, but it’s not bad by any means. I’ve only been here for a handful of weeks, though.”

“Where are you from?” Gigi asks.

“Missouri. Have you been?”

“No, I haven’t. Did you like it there?” Gigi questions.

Crystal pauses, needing to contemplate her answer. She’s never thought about whether or not she actually liked Missouri - it was always just a permanent fixture in her life, a constant, a given. She’d never moved before she came to Los Angeles - not even from one house to another - so her opinions of it seemed almost trivial, because she’d be stuck there no matter what.

“I don’t actually know,” Crystal admits. “It was really quaint and the people were nice, but I didn’t have anything else to compare it to. It’s hard to decide if you like something or not when it’s all you’ve ever known, you know?”

“I get that. I feel the same way about Los Angeles most of the time,” Gigi agrees.

The two sit in a comfortable silence for several minutes, until Gigi pulls into a parking lot.

“We’re here!” she announces, parking the car. “Aren’t you so excited to try sushi?”

“I am,” Crystal confirms. “And also kind of nervous - eating raw fish seems kind of dangerous, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so, but I’ve been eating it since I was a little kid, so if you need proof that you won’t die or something, here I am,” Gigi laughs as she gets out of the car.

Crystal follows her to the entrance of a run-down looking building. Thankfully, the interior doesn’t match the exterior: it’s dimly lit, but nicely decorated. The walls are a deep red color, and there are pictures of what seem to be various sushi chefs in Japan hanging on the walls. Crystal notices that candles and flowers adorn the top of each table.

“Reservation for two under Goode,” Gigi tells the host at the front of the restaurant.

“Right this way.” The girls follow him to a table in the back of the dining area; it seems almost secluded from the rest of the tables. “Your server will be with you shortly,” the host places two menus in front of them and quickly walks back to the front.

“So, what do you usually order?” Crystal asks after looking through the menu. She doesn’t know what anything is.

“I’m a big fan of the rainbow roll, the dynamite roll, and the spider roll. I can just order all three and we can share - they’re pretty filling.”

“Yeah, that sounds good to me,” Crystal agrees, closing her menu.

“Was sushi not a big thing in Missouri?” Gigi asks.

“Not so much,” Crystal shrugs. “But we had really great barbecue and burgers!”

“Interesting! What brought your family all the way to Los Angeles?”

“My dad’s job - he works in finance. I don’t really know what he does, but it sounds important, so here we are! Have you ever moved?”

“Nope, not even to a new house. My parents are pretty well-established here, and I guess I am too, so there’s been no reason to move,” Gigi replies.

“Do you ever want to move?”

“Yeah, I guess I do, someday. I have it pretty good here though, so I don’t know where I’d move to.”

“That makes sense,” Crystal nods.

The waitress makes her way over, interrupting the conversation. Gigi orders, and Crystal is thankful that she doesn’t have to try to remember the names of the rolls.

“So, you’re a senior right?” asks Gigi.

“Yeah, I am.”

“Have you thought about college or anything?”

“It’s practically all I’ve been thinking about for the past six months,” Crystal jokes. “I’m waiting to hear back from NYU, The New School, and Pratt.”

“So you want to move to New York?”

“Ideally - that’s where all of the cool art stuff seems to be happening, anyways!”

“Do you want to be an artist?” the blonde inquires.

“It sounds cliche, but I feel like I’m already an artist,” Crystal shares. “I just need to get the degree so I can say I have it, you know? It looks good for jobs and stuff, I guess.”

Gigi nods solemnly. “I wish I knew what I wanted to do. I guess I haven’t thought past high school much until now.”

Their food comes, and the pair are shaken out of their conversation.

“Okay, so, you should totally try the rainbow roll first…”

If there is one thing Crystal knows, it’s that she does not like sushi. And, if there’s another thing that Crystal knows, it’s that she does like Gigi Goode.

Crystal ate half of the three sushi rolls they ordered, with a smile on her face, so Gigi wouldn’t feel bad about suggesting it. She tells Gigi how much she loves sushi, and agrees to try sashimi - which Crystal learns is just plain raw fish - at some point.

Crystal is a picky eater, and she’s not shy about it. If she doesn’t like it, she won’t eat it.

Unless it’s to save the feelings of a pretty blonde girl, apparently.

“So, I don’t know if you have a curfew or anything, but there’s a movie showing over in West Hollywood that I’ve heard is pretty great,” Gigi tells Crystal as they walk back to the car.

“My parents didn’t tell me to be back at a certain time, so I think I’m all good,” Crystal grins. She doesn’t know much about dating, but if Gigi wants to keep the date going, it must be a pretty good first date.

The drive to West Hollywood goes by quickly - Gigi plays Ani DiFranco loudly, prompting Crystal to make a joke about how she must have inherited Jackie’s taste in music.

“It’s not even a gay thing, I swear! It’s justreally good!” Gigi exclaims.

It’s the first time Crystal has heard Gigi even indirectly refer to herself as “gay”; she doesn’t know why it feels like an important moment, but it does.

The first thing Crystal notices about West Hollywood is that it’s very “out-and-proud”. Rainbow flags line the windows of the majority of the businesses and bars, and pride flags fly alongside American flags in all of the medians. She definitely hasn’t ever seen anything like this in Missouri; it’s completely new to her.

“So, not to sound totally ignorant, but is this where all of the gay people live or something?” Crystal asks Gigi.

Gigi giggles, “No, I wouldn’t say it’s where all of the gay people live, but it’s like… I don’t know, it’s a safe haven, I guess.”

“Do you go to a lot of the bars around here?” Crystal asks.

“Well, they’re all age-restricted, so it’s kind of hard to get in. But off the record, I do have a fake ID. It’s pretty terrible, in all honesty, so I’m kind of counting down the days until I get it taken,” Gigi laughs.

Gigi intrigues Crystal; she wants - needs - to know more. She’s so worldly compared to Crystal, and even though Crystal knows Gigi is only one year younger than her, she feels like she should have more life experience than the seventeen year old.

“How did you get a fake ID? Do your parents know?” Crystal asks.

“You have a lot of questions, Crys,” Gigi jokes, and Crystal blushes at the nickname. “I got it from a friend of a friend last year. My parents have no idea, they think I’m at Jan’s house or hanging out with the other girls from the squad when I’m out here.”

“You’re adventurous. That would terrify me.”

“It’s not too scary, honestly,” Gigi parks her car alongside the curb. “It’s scarier being at school and carrying around the secret that I do.”

“I could only imagine.”

The two exit the car, and Gigi locks it behind her. They begin walking down the sidewalk.

“Are you out?”

Crystal’s mind goes blank - out as what? She doesn’t even know if there’s something to come out as in the first place. All she knows is that she likes this whole “going on dates with Gigi” thing.

Crystal shrugs, and tries to change the subject.

“How close are we to the theater? I need to use the restroom.”

“Three minutes, tops!” Gigi doesn’t seem to notice Crystal’s avoidance of the question, thankfully.

The movie theater is small and it looks old; it has a vintage charm to it. Gigi approaches the ticket booth.

“Two tickets to Go Fish please,” Gigi hands twelve dollars to the ticketer, and walks back to Crystal. “Here’s your ticket!”

“Do you want me to pay you back? How much was it?” Crystal grabs for her wallet.

“No, don’t worry about it!”

“I feel bad, please let me pay you back,” Crystal insists.

“You can pay for our next date,” Gigi casually throws the words “next date” around and it makes Crystal’s stomach tie itself up in knots.

“Yeah,” Crystal stutters out, unable to think or speak clearly.

Gigi agrees to save them seats while Crystal goes to the restroom. She makes her way into the single-stalled bathroom, and stares at herself in the mirror. “You’re gay!” she whispers to herself in an aggressive tone. “Gay, gay, gay, gay, gay, and maybe only for Gigi, but you are at least kind of gay!”

Saying it aloud makes her feel better; it’s as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

Crystal makes her way into the theater - it’s packed. She notices that the majority of the audience members are women, and visibly gay women at that. She sees women with short, buzzed hair, and others wearing acrylics and make-up. Some fall in between the categories of “masculine” and “feminine”.

She finds Gigi sitting in the center of the back row.

“Good seat selection,” she comments with a smile.

Gigi opens her mouth to respond, but the lights dim and the movie begins.

Crystal had no idea that they would be seeing a lesbian movie; she didn’t even know such a thing existed. She supposes she should have figured as much, considering they’re seeing the movie in West Hollywood and that she’s seeing it while on a date with another girl.

The first time Crystal sees two girls kiss, her heart jumps out of her chest. It’s passionate, it’s sweet, it’s romantic, it’s… kind of hot. She kind of wants to kiss Gigi like that, but she pushes the thought out of her mind immediately, almost embarrassed to have thought it in the first place. Crystal looks to her side to see Gigi’s reaction. She can’t make out much in the darkness of the theater, but Gigi appears to have a visible smile on her face.

Crystal finds her investment in the movie endearing.

The movie continues on, but that kiss is burned into the back of her mind. She catches bits and pieces of the plot, but her mind keeps drifting to places she’d rather it not.

What would it be like to kiss Gigi? What would her lips taste like? How would they feel? What would her hair smell like?

She’s only pulled out of her innermost thoughts when she feels a soft hand brush against her arm. She looks down at the armrest where Gigi has placed her hand just centimeters from her own.

The armrest is small - small enough that Crystal assumes Gigi hadn’t put her arm on it for comfort, because their arms are crammed together - and Crystal almost reaches out to grab Gigi’s hand.

Almost.

Because Gigi does it first.

Initially, it’s just two pinky fingers brushing against each other, and then Gigi is sliding her hand into Crystal’s palm with uncertainty. Crystal intertwines her fingers with Gigi’s, squeezing her hand to let her know that she does want this. Crystal wants to glance at Gigi to see if she’s smiling - because Crystal definitely is - but she can’t bring herself to.

The rest of the movie blows by. Crystal is distracted by the way Gigi’s hand feels in her own and how Gigi’s thumb rubs her finger in soft circles.

When the movie ends, Crystal half expects Gigi to stand up and let go of her hand, reserving this particular activity for the darkness that the back of the movie theater provides them.

But she doesn’t. She stands up, and Gigi and Crystal walk out of the theater hand-in-hand.

“What time is it?” Crystal asks as soon as they’re out of the door.

“Let me check my watch,” Gigi responds.

Again, Crystal expects Gigi to let go of her hand to check the watch - it’s wrapped around her left wrist, the wrist of the hand that Crystal is holding - but instead she brings up their hands jointly to look at the watch.

“It’s 9:15. Do I need to get you home?”

“Probably soon, yeah, or my mom will start to think I’ve been kidnapped,” Crystal jokes.

“Sounds good to me. We definitely wouldn’t want that!”

They walk to the car in silence. Crystal has butterflies in her stomach, in her head, in her hands, in her legs… her entire body feels fluttery and jittery. That’s the effect Gigi has on her.

“So, how’d you like the movie?”

“Oh, um, I liked it, it was good,” Crystal answers vaguely in an attempt to disguise the fact that she had been paying much more attention to Gigi’s hand - and her own thoughts - than the movie itself.

“Me too,” Gigi agrees, “I think it’s one of my new favorites!”

Gigi begins driving, and Crystal feels the warm California air envelop her. Gigi sings along to a song that Crystal doesn’t know the name of, barely audible over the sound of the wind, but still loud enough to completely and totally captivate Crystal. The lights of the city disappear behind the car as they drive, and all Crystal can do is smile.

The drive goes by more quickly than Crystal would have liked it to; she knows it’s late and she needs to get home, but nothing sounds better than holding Gigi’s hand for another two hours.

“Is this your house?”

“Yeah, it is,” Crystal sighs. “I had a really fun time tonight.”

“Me too,” Gigi whispers, turning her head to look at Crystal.

The lowlight of the street lamps illuminate the dark sky, and Crystal can’t seem to focus on anything aside from Gigi’s bright red lips. Crystal knows that she wants to kiss Gigi, and she can tell that Gigi wants that, too. But there go those damn butterflies again. She’s never been in this position and doing the wrong thing at the wrong time absolutely terrifies her. Kissing a girl terrifies her.

The only thing she can think to do is tuck a stray strand of hair that flew out of Gigi’s ponytail behind her ear - that’s what they did in all of the cheesy romance movies Crystal had watched, anyways. This elicits a quiet giggle from Gigi, and Crystal’s heart melts.

“What’s so funny?” Crystal smiles.

“Nothing, you’re just… you’re sweet and very captivating.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before.”

Gigi has placed her hand on Crystal’s forearm, and moved as close to her as she can within the confines of her car. Crystal can feel herself shaking now; the idea of kissing Gigi is no longer a mere thought, it’s a real possibility.

“Ireallywanttokissyou,” it’s out of Crystal’s mouth before she can stop herself and her nerve-driven impulses.

“What?” Gigi looks confused, clearly not having heard her.

“I really want -”

Crystal doesn’t allow herself to finish her sentence. She closes the distance between herself and Gigi and presses their lips together.

If Gigi is surprised or nervous, it doesn’t show. Her lips move against Crystal’s slowly and tenderly, and Gigi’s hands cup Crystal’s face. Her lips are soft and smooth and they taste like strawberries. Gigi lightly drags her tongue across Crystal’s bottom lip, and Crystal has to stifle a soft moan from escaping her lips. The kiss is electrifying and intense, and is made increasingly passionate when Gigi’s tongue meets Crystal’s. Crystal is on fire; she can feel the aftershocks of Gigi’s touch everywhere.

Crystal is the one to break the kiss, needing to relax herself and breathe. It feels surreal, the entire night has. Crystal finds her forehead pressed against Gigi’s, and all she can think is “wow”.

Crystal regains her composure, pulling away from the blonde, who looks at her with a smile.

“I wanted to do that all night, Crys.”

The simple sentence almost propels Crystal to capture Gigi’s lips in another kiss, but she forces herself to get out of the car.

“Good night, Gigi.”

“Call me?”

“Well, of course,” Crystal grins. “Thanks for picking me up, and thanks for the movie.”

“Thank you for coming tonight. Good night, Crys.”

Gigi drives off as soon as Crystal walks up her porch, waving goodbye.

She unlocks her door and walks inside, a smile still on her face and a head still filled with thoughts of Gigi.

#rpdr fanfiction #gigi goode #crystal methyd #crygi #high school au #lesbian au #ms california #mik #concrit welcome #submission #s12

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serahsanguine · 4 years

Text

A Gillvony Story - The Text That Changed Everything

The X-Files RPF (Gillian Anderson & David Duchovny)

Rating; Explicit

Chapter 1 of ?

Tagging; @skullsmuldon

A03; link

*******************************************

Chapter 1: The News Article

February 13th 2019.

"I read the article" the text read.

"Which one there have been a few?" She replied quickly back as she was in between filming scenes

She opened her phone and it simply said "The Guardian" she sighed and wrote back "aren't you on vacation with Téa and the kids?" it was time for another shoot.

Later that day she sat down at the lunch table inside the tent it was raining again. She pulled her phone out of her bag.

" Yes, but that doesn't mean I don't have time to read " and underneath that message read " she isn't here you know. "

"I didn't ask" she replied it didn't matter the time difference he always replied to her texts.

"Is it true?" She could feel the angst coming through in waves with those three simple words

"Is what true?" A simple question she thought.

"Come on Gill don't make me ask" she could hear him pleading.

"Yes, it is" she answered simply with the truth.

"Are you happy?"

"As I'm ever gonna be" she was happy wasn't she?

"I'll be back in the UK in a few days I want to see you."

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Please I need to see it for myself" he was pleading and she knew it but he was right if he didn't see it for himself he would keep pestering her.

"Ok, tell me where and when."

And she replied with a time and a date and sat back pushing her food to the side. She was happy with Peter, wasn’t she? She liked her arrangement with Peter, they lived separately It worked so well for them it felt special when they do come together. It stopped the feeling of being trapped and who gets the house when they separate. She even starts to miss him when gone from him for a long time. But above all else, she couldn’t help the uneasiness of seeing David again.

A few days later at Gillians' house just on the outskirts of London in a private residential area.

He was nervous driving up into her estate. She was beautiful and he never deserved her every time they tried a relationship if he was honest with himself, he was the one that would hurt her first. He was the one to do something stupid to break them up and she was always the one ended up getting her heart broke.

He came to London last year and that didn’t go as well as planned, he brought his girlfriend and that did not go over well with Gillain. She snubbed him the whole time and they had planned on going to dinner and she cancelled last minute. He never blamed her for not liking Monique but he did hope that she respected his decision.

He pulled in her drive and looked upon her house it was massive but not that big to be called a mansion. With its long bay windows and stained glass front door, rose bushes on either side of it and her white veranda with not a spec of dirt on it even in the midst of an English winter.

He knocked on her front door he saw her shadow walking towards it and opening it.

“Good morning Gillain.”

“Morning David do come in.”

He stared at her for a few minutes in her black straight leg trousers that perfectly curved her hips. She was wearing one of her own jumpers in midnight blue with her red lips across her breasts she was wearing nothing on her feet reminding her of how small she actually was against him. Her face free of makeup she looked beautiful by any man or woman's standards. Her hair was short and in soft waves framing her face.

“It suits you,” he said with a wicked smile.

“I should hope so since I helped design it.”

“That you did, West brought one of the roll necks and a boyfriend one.”

“That’s nice does she enjoy it?”

“Yes, they look nice on her. Do you mind I haven't been since the flight” he gestured towards the downstairs toilet?

“Go ahead you know where it is,” he nodded and moved toward the room and she walked towards the kitchen.

After his business was done he walked back towards Gillian and he saw her sitting at the kitchen breakfast island immersed in some article she was reading on her phone.

He stopped just under the massive archway separating the two rooms.

“I thought Peter would be here,” he said honestly she turned around and faced him.

“You read the article, didn’t you?” she said defensively.

“If you were mine I wouldn’t let you near someone like me with our history,” he shrugged it was honest and raw and he meant every word.

“But I'm not yours am I?” she stood and walked over to him mere inches from one and other.

"Hum...“ he couldn’t think of a reply.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” she said slightly angry with a hint of defensiveness. He could feel the heat coming off her body in waves hitting him full force and he couldn't help but be slightly turned on by her being so close.

“I didn't mean anything by it,” they were both breathing heavily maybe second or even minutes passed neither one spoke.

“You look good, happy?” he touched her hand and their skin ignited in a river of electric fire.

“I am…”

“Are you...?”

Their mouths met, clashed in a wave of passion with such a burning intensity that they both thought they would melt into the floor. His hands were everywhere and nowhere at the same time. In her hair on her back on her legs on her jumper. Her hands were the same on his stomach and roughly pulling his hair. She pushed him against the wall her nails scraped the nape of his neck.

“Jesus Christ Gill.”

“Shut up we don’t need to talk,” she pulled his leather jacket off his shoulders and threw it on the floor, next she found the bottom hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head and threw it in the general direction of his leather jacket and started kissing everywhere she could reach. She was small against him but she didn’t care.

His skin was hot against her lips. It wasn't long before her hands were undoing the belt on his trousers dropping them and his boxers to his ankles she slid her soft hand up, wrapping it around his cock pumping him slowly and delicately.

He hissed in response to her touch and groaned even louder when her lips wrapped around his tip, her tongue darting out to taste his pre-cum salty but sweet. Somethings never change. She swallowed him whole just the way he liked it. She swirled her tongue left to right scrapping her teeth along his length.

“Gill, please I’m not...”

Her hand caressed his balls the thin line of skin in between each sack back and forth she knew that he was close and she didn’t care she did it again over and over feeling him touch the back of her throat. She soon felt him throbbing in the back of her mouth and his cum flowing hot and freely down her throat.

As she felt him cum, her nails scraped his thighs leaving red hot angry marks in her wake. She stood up with a smile her whole face coming alight with the pleasure she had given him. It didn’t take long for him to recover sliding his blue Nike trainers off his feet and sliding his trousers and boxes off next to him.

He bent down moving his hand through her soft waves and brushing it behind her ear before whispering “I want to kiss you lips, the ones in between your hips.”

It sent shivers through her body from the tips of her toes to the hairs on her head. A pool of hot sticky desire for him building in between her legs. He pushed her against the wall.

“Did I ever tell you how good you lips look across your breasts?”

“No, but do tell me more.”

He worked slowly lifting her jumper overhead, finding her wearing a black thin strapped vest top underneath with a lace bralet wrapped around her perfectly formed breasts.

“You're so beautiful, your perfect white skin.” He trailed his finger from her shoulder down her arm gathering both her top strap and her bralette straps sliding them over his fingertips. He started on her other shoulder doing the same thing.

“They're a perfect shape in every way with rosy pink nipples that I just love to tease and bite.”

She could feel herself dripping and she was hanging on every syllable he said he, soon he had all of her top half items off her body and she stood there half-naked in front of him. He kissed her and then trailed his lips down her neck slowly working across her clavicle and down her sternum finding those nipples he so desired. He mouth locked and his tongue darted to taste them. He could taste the salt gathering on her skin, he bit down gently drawing out a low groan from her lips.

“David please I hate it when you tease.”

“That's the point Gill.”

He undid the button on her trousers and she slid them off her legs. He smiled and his eyes went dark with desire when he saw the red lace panties the lay beneath. He bent down grabbing the edge of her panties with his teeth and dragged them down her legs.

“I can smell you, and you smell divine. You are so wet for me.”

He hoisted her up, she weighed as much as a feather, she sat on his forearms as he nibbled his way up her thighs finding the apex of her legs. He licked her folds side to side, sweet like honey he thought. She was withering under his tongue.

“David please I'm begging you please,” he wrapped his hands next to her hips her naked body sweaty and clammy against his own.

His mouth found her clit and he only had to lick it once before he felt her walls and pelvis thrash against his mouth.

“DAVID” she screamed louder they both thought possible. He swished and swooshed, lapped until she could take no more and he let her down. There he stood naked in front of hard hot red and swollen watching Gillian's body twitch in front of him. She was beautiful and he loved her no matter how much time passed.

He lifted her up and took her upstairs placing her in the middle of her bed. She opened her eyes and spread her legs like an invitation to which he needed no encouragement he placed himself between her legs sliding himself into her with ease. Her tunnel hugged him, gripping him like a vice. He pumped lazily into her, his hands either side of her head, her legs wrapped around his hips her nails scraping his back encouraging him to go faster and he did.

He started pumping faster and harder, sweat forming and running down his skin dripping onto hers mixing like the fluids they were creating. She was matching each thrust with his there was a fluid motion to their bodies as they melted into each other

“DavidI'm so close,” she said breathlessly.

“Me too,” he whispered back in the same breathless manner.

He thrashed into her body her nails digging half-moons into his back.

“Ohh...Fuck … Yes… Dave…” she was cuming again for the second time in less than an hour and he soon followed behind her.

“FUCK… Jesus... Christ … My sweet little sex devil..”

The next thing the both heard was Piper's voice calling ‘Mum I'm home.”

Then end for now…. Hahahaaha

#txf fanfic #TXF #gillian anderson #Gillovny #GillianAnderson #david duchovny #davidduchovny #gillian and david

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btsunniemoonie · 5 years

Text

Bangtan in bed (Hyung Line)

BIG NSFW WARNING

Don’t read if you aren’t over 18, smut begins under the cut

How would Bangtan be in bed? (Hyung Line)

(Credit to the owner of this gif)

By: Admin Sunnie ☀️

Maknae Line

Seokjin

He isn't that much into the dom/sub thing

This guy is all about intimacy, sharing love and being with each other

But don't let that fool you – he‘s one kinky guy

He's that guy who openly admitted that he likes the feeling of choking on food – so I think he'd be into choking in general too

He even admitted that he likes to be restricted (the moment where Cop!Jungkook wanted to arrest him)

He likes to restrict with his hands the most and choke with his hands too

He likes to get restricted and choked too

So, he isn't as vanilla as everyone says

He's into very intimate eye contact too, especially when he's working those delicious hips of his against you, as it's making everything even more intimate and passionate as it already is

Even though he likes to be choked, he still is in charge

I don't see him as a baby boy, he rather allows you to do these kinds of things with him

His fave position is, HANDS DOWN, missionary

Most say it's vanilla, but damn, he just likes to see all the reactions he elicits

Every. Little. Reaction.

He likes to be choked the most when you're riding him

He loves to eat you out too, but he's not that much into oral

Of course, he won't ever say no to a blowjob and sometimes, he just gets the urge to give you head too

But he loves the real deal too much, loves to be buried in your dripping heat, making you squirm and cry on his cock

He lowkey doesn't think that he's a dom, although he is pretty dominant

He gives his everything when he's fucking you and sometimes he doesn't even notice how he's overstimulating you:

You're begging him to stop, but he still pounds and pounds and pounds

Please stop, I-I can't-

But I am not finished. I know you can, princess. Do it for me.

He always calls you princess

And as soon as you both are married, you're becoming his queen

His moans start very restrictedly and deep, not wanting to let go so soon, but the closer he gets to his release, the higher and clearer his voice gets

He loves cream-pies

Seeing you drip with his cum

Having owned you in such a raw way

He's into quickies and that's the only time the both of you use condoms (stay save kids!)

He likes lingerie on you

And costumes too

Likes uniforms and tiny dresses, he likes cute things on you

Yoongi

He's very intimate, absolutely passionate and lovely

Many see him as the dom type, which he definitely is, but for his love, he'd even get on the subby side, but not too much

Only when his s/o wants to try it out

He's very into the dom/sub thing

He likes to be close to you at all costs, eye contact isn't that important to him however

Everyone says he is the worst when it comes to punishments, but honestly, he hates to punish you for the things you want

It makes him feel like he's above you in that relationship, which he doesn't like

He is your equal

He wants you to have as much fun as he has and he doesn't want to punish you just because you're liking it

Punishments are sometimes just too much

When he deeply and utterly loves you, he can't punish you

But he doesn't show it

His face is mostly harsh and he threatens you with his eyes only

And that's when you start to beg

He LOVES it when you beg for him

When your eyes get all big and pleading, nonsense bubbling out of your mouth because, damn, does his cock feel good!

He melts when that happens and drills into you even faster

The only punishments he gives you are some spanks here and there

And the fact that you love to be spanked by him, makes it even better

If you like it a little harsher he wouldn't mind using a belt on you too – but only when you two talked about it beforehand

But oh my oh my, when he starts to get jealous, he tends to lose control

He trusts you – but he doesn't trust other guys

But when you do something to tease him and elicit something out of him – that's when you should prepare for some serious punishment

Because that's the time you didn't yearn for him in particular, you yearned for the thrill that he can give you with one look only

If it really comes to that, he wouldn't mix too much pain into the punishment

It'd either be overstimulation or cum denial

Oh yeah? Little baby can't take it anymore? How sad that she has to, after making daddy so angry

He mostly seems so cold and untouchable but he isn't – especially not with you

When you start to moan he feels like he's in heaven

He'll get so many goosebumps

He'll probably lean over you and whisper into your ear

That's the only thing you're allowed to say, so keep going

He loves all of your sounds

All in all, he's a very loving dom

Calling you his pretty baby doll

He loves to praise you

And oh hell, when you start to praise him, he puts even more effort in it but tries not to show how affected he is by it but lowkey fails miserably

He can handle any sub, from bratty to obedient

He has this aura, this authority aura which maximizes in bed too

Just because he's soft for you doesn't mean he can't put you in place with one single look

He knows how to put you in your place again

If you cum when I say so you'll get a reward from me

He rather catches you with rewards than scaring you with punishments

He doesn't want to scare or intimidate you (especially because he is ALWAYS seen as the most grumpy and intimidating one), he wants you to put effort into it and enjoy it

Because I know my baby girl can do it the best, can't she?

He loves to take you from behind and add a finger into it

He doesn't have a favorite position, because As long as I am fucking you I don't need a special position

He loves to eat you out for hours

Making you drip on the sheets and on him

Making you cum so often you're about to cry

Just to then bury himself in your welcoming and dripping heat

He likes to have sex for hours

He doesn't like quickies, he wants to put his everything into it for you and to properly treat you too

He lives for the slow burn

Making you drip on his tongue or fingers before even entering you

He loves to stretch your sex sessions out

He won't push you too much over your limits, if you aren't acquainted with that type of long-lasting sex, he will help you to get used to it

He doesn't want to drag you behind him – he tests it all with you

He likes to give oral more than he likes to receive because Nothing comes close to that tight pussy of yours.

I mean, he won't ever say no to a blowjob, but he'd rather eat you out first and then fuck you

He likes anal, more than he likes to admit

He's an ass and boob guy, he loves it all

He's a groaner and growler, moans aren't that often to hear with him

He isn't quiet, he's more on the breathy groans side

He cusses way more than he's groaning or moaning

He starts to moan when he can't bear it anymore

When you clench around him so tightly he has to stop in his motions

He lives for dirty talk

He loves to tell you what he's doing right now, groaning it into your ear or, when he wants to truly tease you, moan into your ear

He likes double penetration and he loves to use his own fingers for it

Gliding into your pussy with his cock and sliding his finger into your forbidden hole, stretching it out and making your pussy even tighter for him

Curling his fingers inside of you and feeling himself

He likes to use sex toys on you too

And he isn't ashamed to go into a sex shop

Buying vibrators and maybe some nipple clamps for you if you like them

He'd even ask you beforehand if you want anything in particular – he will buy it for you

He likes to tease very much – but often more with words than actions

He doesn't mind if you're wearing the most expensive lingerie or some panties from the convenience store – you're always sexy to him

No matter what you wear

Okay, maybe when you're wearing one of his shirts he finds you even sexier

And he really likes to make you cum in his shirts too

Yoongi likes it raw

And he almost always wants to finish inside of you

Lemme taste us and clean you

Yes you read it right

He is into cum eating, but mostly when he creampied you

But that mostly happens when he's in a subby mood

Which doesn't happen so often and it mostly happens when your relationship is already very long

He needs very much trust to let himself fall into someone else's arms

Isn't the one who's overly submissive and starts to wear lingerie or anything like that

He just likes to sometimes give you the lead, letting himself fall into your embrace

Hoseok

Our Hobi likes it kinky, dirty and risky

He likes public sex, such as:

Car sex

Road jobs

Blowjobs/Handjobs in semi-public places

He's very into the dom/sub relationship

He's the dom

At all times

No submissive trait is in this man

He's into punishments, especially when you're into them too

Not that he would punish you for too many noises

Just when you behave overall bratty and don't listen to his commands

He can get very unforgiving then

Denying you your release for days weeks, but still playing with you

Eating you out

Fingering you

But when you're close to the edge, he would stop and grin at you

Only good girls are allowed to cum

Of course only when you're into that kind of thing

He likes to see you squirm and beg for him

He's a pretty strict dom

He loves when you're on your knees for him

He loves facials

He fucking loves to make you squirt like a fountain for him

He likes it pretty messy

He loves to leave his marks on you

Hickeys, love bites, you name it, he does it

He likes to be marked too

You both would definitely have a save word

He's very into pet play

You're his kitten

Seeing you in a collar, on your knees, waiting for him like a good girl makes his blood run south in seconds

He loves to show you off

You guys would often wear matching jewelry sometimes only that

When you'd wait for him like the good girl you are, on your knees, wearing your beautiful collar, only waiting for him

He'd be over the roof

His sunny persona gone in seconds, traded for a dark and promising expression

He'd tilt his head to the side

A cocky smile on his lips

His voice raspy and very dark

Did kitty miss me?

He would play hours with you if you greet him like that

Giving you multiple orgasms with his fingers and tongue

He lives for oral, giving and receiving

He likes when you beg, but he mostly likes it when you're behaving

He's a moaner, sometimes he tends to groan when you clench extra tightly around him, but he mostly moans

He cusses under his breath pretty often

Raw or not is absolutely up to you

He is okay with it, either way, the most important thing is that he gets to be with you

He likes to praise and be praised too

When you praise him during sex he probably goes even harder on you

Taking up a notch and getting faster, drilling into you

He likes to stimulate your g-spot so he really does his best to always find it

He loves the way your breath hitches and your face gets all red as soon as he finds it

He's very vocal

He likes to have some nicknames too, master, sir, daddy, he likes it all

But he isn't one to punish you when his real name slips from your lips

He loves you way too much to punish you for such a thing

He's still very loving and passionate and will only do these kinds of punishments when you're really into it

When you're not, he won't punish you too much

Maybe a few spanks here and there

He's a switch

But more on the dom side

Let's say 65% dom and 35% sub

But he needs someone to show him that it's okay to put the lead away for once

He's so used to always lead and guide, he's used to taking control so he just knows how to do it

And giving control away somehow scares him but excites him too

And once that door to the subby world is opened, he is loving it

He's a natural dom, he just knows what he has to do to make you work for it

He's a very thorough lover

He can get rough pretty easily

Especially when you ask him to be

He likes anal and doggy very much

His first priority is to make you cum

He likes to lose his control in the velvety and soft walls of you

He loves to call you babe

He loves to receive head, even more than giving it

But damn, it would be a shame if he wouldn't use that lips of his to eat you out properly

He loves every position there is

But he loves the ones where you can have eye contact and kiss

He loves to kiss your whole body

And leave hickeys in their wake

He loves the way your body looks covered in his hickeys

He doesn't like bite marks that much, but if you like them, you can bite him

Somehow he likes to be nibbled on

May it be his shoulder, earlobe or collarbone

Or even his chest

He really likes it and goes crazy over it

When you do that to him out of nowhere

Expect him to sport a boner in a few minutes

When he's on the subbier side he wants you to ride him

He wants you to use his body to pleasure yourself

He wants you to take control and just work yourself on him

He lives for praises when he's a sub

He gets putty in your hands as soon as you call him a good boy

When he's a dom, he's a groaner and he swears a lot, but he doesn't moan that much

But damn when he's a sub

He gets whiny

He starts to beg

Rather under his breath and very quiet, but he begs

He'd be so ashamed that he begs, but damn, it would make him twitch so much

P-please, g-grip me t-tighter, h-hold me, I-I'll b e a good boy, please, please, play with me!

His face would be so flushed

His lips all wet from his own drool

His body glistening from his sweat

He'd be so fucking whiny for you to touch him and bring him to his release

He doesn't like punishments

Not as a dom and not as a sub

Especially not as a sub

He needs much trust to let himself fall, so when he would be punished for something like that, it would heavily backfire and he wouldn't do that anymore

He likes to spank you very much, but not that much as a punishment, rather as a reward

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