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dearest-kibble · 3 years

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WELLL GANG IT TOOK FOR FUCKIN EVER BUT HEY HERE IT IS ABOUT 7,000 WORDS OF KAGEYAMA. THANK YOU ALL FOR STICKING WITH ME IT REALLY MEANS A LOT THAT Y’ALL WERE STILL HERE EVEN THOUGH I WAS TAKING FOREVER LIKE HOLY FUCK MAN I APPRECIATE YOU ALL SO SO SO MUCH FOR THIS AND HOPE IT’S ALRIGHT!!

tw: noncon dacryphilia breathplay(choking) kidnapping general shady-ness very blink and you’ll miss religious symbolism. Abuse

“Don’t mess this up Kageyama.” You wake up in an old building, seven men stand above you, head to toe in suits. And you distinctly remember reading something someday, about how the yakuza always cover their body. And about how the yakuza have a hand in human trafficking.

“Damn Kageyama, we don’t do any of that Oikawa-Gumi shit here!” The Man who's speaking is shirtless and his hair is buzzed short. He’s got a red dragon winding up his stomach and a red koi on his sternum.

“So many women were brought to Oikawa I just thought-” The man - Kageyama you assume - has black hair and blue eyes. You think he’s staring at you.

“You thought? I find that hard to believe.” A guy with glasses (do yakuza wear glasses?) sniffs and turns his nose at Kageyama. “I thought you only thought about being Oyabun.”

“Shittykawa is a liar and you all know it!”

“Still more honorable than a guy who deserted his family and has a samurai tattoo!” A considerably smaller redhead speaks up with a defiant voice.

“They betrayed me!!” His attention (if it was on you, is not anymore.) shifts as Kageyama raises his voice, flails his hands a little and starts to pace.

“Kageyama, be quiet!” A man behind you talks. The man with blue eyes immediately stops talking, the man with glasses and blonde hair laughs.

“All of you shut up!” A louder voice bounces off the walls, all five men stop talking and look to the man behind you. He’s got brown hair, short, militant and an angry-looking scowl on his face. The man next to him has silver hair, but you don’t think it’s from age. A chorus of “sorry Oyabun” echoes through the room, large, dark and empty.

“Kageyama, you will not mess this up.” Intense coal eyes stare into blue.

“No Oyabun, I will not.”

“Good because she’s under your care.” You almost expect the man with brown hair to offer you a smile, it’s the silver haired one who does.

“What?!” You turn around quickly as the voice sounds much closer than you remember it being. “I’m-” The man takes a few seconds looking at his fingers. (His left pinky is a stub) Before continuing. “Oikawa never had me do anything like that. Girls just talked to me.”

“Girls talked to you!?” A newer person, short, standing next to the shirtless one - has an energetic voice. “Why’d you ever leave?”

“Because Oikawa treats his family like shit!” And like that, the talking erupts into furious voices trying to get a word in edgewise until once more, the two behind you speak up.

“Everyone shut up!”

Once again they all fall silent.

“Kageyama, get her where she needs to go. You know what to do right?”

“Yes Oyabun.”

“Good.” His gaze is away from you, glaring at someone else as silence splits the room.

“C’mon.” He makes a show of not looking at you when he gruffly gestures for you to move to his side. Try as you might to seem calm, your joints are cold and stiff as you march to his left.

“Don’t cause a fuss okay?” He sends a sharp glare your way.

“She’s terrified Kageyama, you don’t need to scare her more.” The man with silver hair looks at you more apologetically than you’d thought a yakuza could. But as his hands rest on his hips you can see the gun holstered on his side. You look away quickly after smiling quickly.

“Yeah! Be nicer to her!” Kageyama shrugs off what the redhead says and walks towards the singular door and opens it to walk through. It leads to an empty, grey hallway - chilled and complete with flickering light. About fifteen paces ahead, there's a flight of stairs with the much-needed railing that rusts and peels in the flickering, damp hallway. There's the faint sound of city pop coming from the top of the stairs, through a bleak door with peeling paint. There are no other places of entry or exit, simply the one large, looming, decrepit door at the top of steep steps. Still begrudgingly silent, Kageyama starts up the stairs, feet falling hard on each step like drops of a guillotine. You follow numbly after him. What other choice is there really? Go back to the room with so many others? Die in a hallway while muffled music plays from a door? Your legs ache by the time you stand near the door. It’s not a high climb. Kageyama opens the door and you expect to hear nails on a chalkboard but are greeted by the soft melody of plastic love and the smell of cigarettes. The beeps of slot machines punctuate loud cheers and disappointments around a roulette table, the thwap of cards hitting the table and laughter at a bar does little to distract from the fact that Kageyama who had barely looked at you before — (Was it on purpose?) — was staring directly at you. Pressing a hand to your face, you feel a drop of wetness on your cheek. A tear. You wipe it quickly and Kageyama turns away slowly. Eyes lingering a second after he turns his head.

“You’re slow, move quicker!” You nod in his direction though he’s already moving ahead again. The casino is loud and boisterous and though you’re sure it’s actually an illegal gambling den, many well known wealthies sit around a roulette table with a man in a suit, typical of a yakuza.

“You want a drink?” You expect it to come from a sleazy, older man wearing an old baggy suit, not the man who’s been leading you through this mess of tables and smoke and glitz. It’s fine, there are so many people around you.

“Why are you offering me a drink?” He’s turned to face you, still not smiling but eyebrows slightly furrowed in confusion.

“O-Oikawa said to offer women drinks. I-” Oikawa? He might not be so bad. Still, a yakuza who didn’t run with the good kind any more so-

“No thanks.” The confusion displayed earlier on his face, deepens into a frown that forms on his lips and lines that appear in between his brows.

“What, why?” He’s actually confused somehow.

“I don’t know you, you’re a yakuza - you might drug my drink - the list could go on?”

“I'm not going to drug you" He sounds angry and mutters "Just trying to be nice, fuck." And you've stopped for only one moment but the sleazy men you thought would hound you start to crowd, either unknowing or uncaring that you are in the custody of organized crime.

"Pretty lady want a drink? Got a margarita with your name on it." It's unsurprisingly a man with cigarettes' smoke on his breath and intoxication in his step. You note he's already holding the drink in question.

"No thank you-" You begin to answer, in a politely exasperated tone that you think is quite amicable for someone whose arm is practically around your waist.

"Listen - she's with me, alright?" Kageyama doesn't stop there, despite that in your opinion, he should. "She's mine." The words send a pang of anxiety straight through your spine and into your brain before they reach your feet and as they itch to step away into a crowd, another man speaks up someone much less intoxicated, still - with a drink in hand.

"She in trouble with the Daichi-Gumi then?" They're much more informed. And Kageyama nods to the asker.

"Guess he's still got his Oikawa roots then, huh?" And that doesn't make any sense at all because he's nothing like the man you talked to and who gave you a handsome wink and made small conversation.

"Don't compare me to that bastard." And instead of the usual anger, you think it's a note of exhaustion in his voice. And the conversation ends right there, "mine" being a forgotten word in the mix of much more confusing sentences. It's relatively peaceful after that, the scowl on your captors face scaring many others away. You continue down the luxurious gambling hall and into much quieter corridors with soft sounds passing through doors as you walk down a carpeted hallway, well lit and warmer. Once again, Kageyama opens a door and walks through. For a long, fleeting, whirlwind of a moment, you are alone before remembering that if you walk out without Kageyama, you run the risk of having a yakuza family hunting for you. Hell, they'd hunt your family, you've heard about what they do to screamers. Twisted fingers, bloody stomachs and scarred backs - missing eyes if the they’re lucky. You step through the open door and into the room. It's low-lit, casting a pleasant glow on the furniture.

Kageyama is already sitting down on an expensive - looking sofa no —loveseat. He picks up a remote from the side armrest and turns on a TV installed into the wall. Loud moans and the sound of flesh on flesh boom from the speakers before he switches to the sounds of shoes squeaking as they run across a floor. He pulls a nail clipper from his pocket to trim already short fingernails. There's a large bed with lights hanging above it on one side of the room, a wardrobe - open - full of thin clothing you wouldn't be caught dead in outside of your house. There's a small table, a bottle of wine and two glasses on mahogany wood, next to a singular unlit candle. Though the sound is gone you can’t help but linger on the moans that came from the TV and how Kageyama has led you into a room with such a large bed and a shower that has no door and is only walled with glass. You forcibly relax your jaw just before you speak.

"I'm here to-" You gulp down air, trying not to look at the silk sheeted bed. "Pay a debt."

"Yeah dumbass, what else would you be here for?" If he doesn't bring up any other possibility, neither will you.

"How?" The way that he instantly looks at you, blue eyes ever intense when he speaks makes your stomach flip unpleasantly. You know exactly how. He’s led you to this room, what else could he be expecting?

"Daichi put me in charge of you, you'll do what I say." Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

"I'm not going to do what you tell me. I'll work off my debt in this casino, but I'm not doing everything you tell me to do!” Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. He blinks at you, brow once again furrowed in confusion. He puts his nail clippers down on the arm of his seat, and stands, taking off his jacket in the process. You knew it - you fucking knew it.

You shuffle backwards as quickly as possible, spine hitting the round doorknob.

You can’t go any further.

Kageyama creeps forwards, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal raging water delicately inked into the toned muscle of his right forearm, chrysanthemum petals drifting downstream from a skull at his shoulder. Down his left, where his elbow meets his forearm stands a samurai, maple leaves falling gently from the mouth of a black koi that flounders to appear just over the edge of his shoulder. On the front of his chest there is only a solitary demon - red and standing amongst black clouds which dig deep - over his nipples as the Oni stands on the cool blue with its fiery feet. He walks over to you, shirt off and tugging at his belt. With a decorated arm, he sets the white shirt on your head, careful not to touch you. What flees from your lips is a very audible sigh expressing your relief that he doesn’t seem to want to violate you.

“I’m going to take a shower. Put that away for me.” You don’t even attempt to retort as you quickly move it off your head and turn away from wherever Kageyama sounded like he was. You conveniently face towards the wardrobe and walking towards it, you notice all the clothing you had neglected to think about. Short schoolgirl uniforms, a pair of fluffy handcuffs, all sorts of exposing clothing that you think for the second time, you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in. You push sets of clothing aside to find an empty hanger, not finding one, you kneel down to check the bottom of the cabinet. You find a box full of something, flat squares that are easily torn, and one empty hanger with a leather suit that probably went on it beforehand. You instinctually turn at the sound of water hitting the tiled shower. He’s standing still, body naked through the glass and quickly you avert your eyes from him. The loud crash of falling water on the tile makes you turn, despite your knowledge of where it comes from. You can see Kageyama’s naked back through the clear glass, koi and cherry blossoms disappearing in rapidly forming fog that covers the rest of his body. Watching the glass fog with the softening sound of water on tile in the dim light of the room, a dry sob of relief releases from your throat. He isn’t going to do anything. It’s just one large scare tactic. With the realization that Kageyama is just going to unorthodox lengths to make sure you don’t run, your knees buckle and you crumple to the floor, back stable against the side of the wardrobe - and you let the tears fall.

Each bone, muscle and thought eases with the knowledge that this yakuza is just taking a shower. He’s still the good kind of yakuza - Oikawa taught him well. He just happens to be a little strange. While he showers, your face is bathed with your own free tears. Your hands cup your cheeks and you smile softly into your palms, feeling so much steadier as your breathing returns to its normal steady in and out. Picking yourself up from the carpeted floor and feeling you back crack you bring yourself in front of the TV watching as people toss a volleyball into the air. It’s awfully methodical as they toss it to each side over and over, you almost forget about the pitter-patter of water behind you. You don’t even notice as it stops and the man comes out to watch you watching the game. You barely hear the zipper on his pants - just dismissing it as some sound from the game. It’s not until he’s directly behind the couch and he asks you a question that you remember where you are.

“Where’d you put my shirt?” You turn and tilt your head to look at his dripping hair, wet pants and wetter jacket.

“It’s in the closet.”

“What?”

“It’s the only place to put a shirt.” He grumbles at your words but it’s not hostile.

“You have the bed, that’s where I normally put my stuff.” You glance at the bed again and then back to him.

“Who doesn’t use a closet?”

“Next time you’re going to put it on the bed. No point in using that shitty closet - can’t find anything in there,”

“Hopefully there won’t be a next time.” His eyes squint face lowering to yours. He blinks twice before his blues widen.

“Have you… been crying?” Your eyes must still be puffy red.

“No?” His nose is just a hairs’ width away from yours.

“You better not be lying. Lying to your Oyabun has serious consequences.” Abruptly he stands up. “And you’re mine now. You can’t lie to me.” His hair bobs as he nods and removes his dripping suit jacket. Once again the black koi surfaces across the spanse of his muscular back.

“I’m…” You shouldn’t be asking, but he must mean this in some other way, right? “Yours?”

“Daichi told me to watch you,” He says dumbly. Well, If that’s all he means, it shouldn’t be bad. You’re going to ignore how his head turns slightly to look and that the lights that glint off his eyes menacingly. “You're part of the family now. My family” A slimy feeling crawls up your back at his words, not for the first time.

“What does that mean?”

“Talking back to your Oyabun has consequences.” It hangs over your head, his words and your next ones clashing in your mind before deciding on,

“Same can be said for thinking you’re Oyabun.” It’s a much less dangerous thing to say, now that you know you’re safe and he’s just a strange person.

“I will be Oyabun, and you’re part of my family. You already have to do what I say.” He’s scared you enough, he’s not going to do anything and you’re not even sure he can with patrons of the gambling den so near. You take a breath and steady yourself though you aren’t even nervous and without thinking-

“I’m not some part of your fucking yakuza family!” Your palm makes harsh contact on his cheek. He was just trying to scare you earlier. You turn aside as he stands still as a leaf in water. Clasping your hands together you wait trying not to think about the fact that you just slapped a yakuza. He turns slowly, wide eyes a lighter blue than you had originally thought.

“Do it again.” A large hand rubs at his red cheek. “Please?” Kageyama cocks his head to the side, hand still over his red cheek. You’re rooted to the ground, standing still, you're not going to move even if he said he wants you to hit him again.

“If you won’t do it, I will.” He removes his hand from his cheek, and makes a fist before stopping. “You had an open palm.” All four fingers of his left hand splay open as he inches towards you with confident steps. “It felt so nice to be touched by someone again.” Eyes like the Starry Night glare down while his face holds the least unsettling smile you’ve seen from him. You can’t do anything against a member of the yakuza, and the important thing about the yakuza floods back into your mind: the man with silver hair had a gun, why shouldn’t he?. You stand still as a statue, you will not flinch, you will not cry. He’s right in front of you, and you stare defiantly into his eyes as he stares right back. There is nothing to say and both of you are waiting for the first blow.

It lands.

Hard, right on your cheek and the sting is so much but so little compared to the gun that could’ve put a hole in your head. Your head is pushed to the side by force before you snap it back to look into his eyes.

“It doesn’t feel the same…” He mutters the words. “Maybe if you-”

“I’m not going to do anything you want me to.”

“Fine. I’ll try again.” And the hand connects with your cheek once again. If the first stung, the second was like a stab. Cold and sharp and the feeling staying much longer than you’d hope. Kageyama looks at you, whose face is still utterly defiant and pointed towards him. Though the red welt on your cheek is far more noticeable, he seems to be looking at your eyes.

“Shit.” It’s a quiet utterance, but he sounds mildly put out. “It’s not gonna work unless you touch me.”

“No.”

“Either you touch me and I figure out why I get this weird pit around you. Or,” And he seems to have to think for a second about his phrasing. You think you hear a ‘can’t blow her brains out.’ “Or I give you to Oikawa.”

“Oikawa?” And you know this is a bad idea, you’re standing up to a Yakuza for fucks sake. “Oikawa just gets people to pay their protection tax. Hell, he’d clear my debt.”

“He’s the guy who has the top joint of my pinky, you don’t wanna be given to him, trust me.”

“Oikawa has a soft spot for women, he’d clear my debt and let me go.”

“He had me bring in any woman I found.” Oh. “A lot of them lived where he used to spend a lot of time. Called them prostitutes?” Oh no. “I think Oikawa would be happy to see you. Suga always says to try and make things better between our families.” He’s not going to get to you like this, you’ve seen Oikawa around - talked to him. The most harm he’d ever cause is when someone harassed a woman. Knowing this yakuza, he’s probably trying to scare you again.

“You’re lying. Oikawa helps women on the streets. I heard he even set up a safe house!” Oikawa would never do anything like what Kageyama said he would. He wouldn't!

“He called it a brothel.” He wouldn’t he wouldn’t. Oikawa always said to go to him if you needed help - he did.

“Oikawa wouldn’t do that! Not to me, not to anyone!” He wouldn’t he wouldn’t he wouldn’t.

“Shut up!” Deep unexplored, ocean blue eyes churn as the yell falls upon your ears..

“Oikawa wouldn’t do that! He’s kind and he’s helpful!” You’re advancing so much closer to him, letting your guard fall.

“You’ll shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you.” His hand is gathering in a fist again, skin straining against his rapidly whitening knuckles

“No I won’t! Because Oikawa would only ever take care of a woman and treat her much better! You’re making up blatant lies to ma-” The blow lands hard on your stomach, and you stumble back on shaky feet, tripping over themselves as you try to stay upright.

“He called your “Safehouse” a brothel. He kept women there, they smiled after enough time. I won’t fucking hesitate to give you to him too.” You fall over as he speaks, air being beat from your lungs as you fall flat on your back. Even while you’re gasping for breath he continues.

“The guys call it a horrible, shitty place and I don’t wanna send you to Oikawa, he’s a shitheel. But you’ve gotta fucking learn to listen - and Oikawa always made sure they did.” But Oikawa wouldn’t - he told you that you were safe with him and his people, that they were the good kind of yakuza.

“He’s not like that.” It sounds hollow to the both of you.

“Just listen to me dammit!” His large hand is tangled in your hair, threatening to beat your head into the floor. “I’m trying not to send-” The agonizing feeling of hairs being pulled from your scalp forces you to blink back tears. You yell at him again anyway.

“You just wanna see me as a prostitute!” And your voice doesn’t break but you can feel the tug of your vocal chords pulling on your eyes.

“Maybe.” It’s strange that his eyebrows furrow at your words but his grip on your hair tightens. “I wouldn’t have to threaten if you listen and touch me.”

“I shouldn’t have to if I don’t want to!” The wet tears that might’ve shed earlier are replaced with dry anger.

“It doesn’t matter what you want. Your Oyabun told you, that should be enough.” He yanks your head up by your hair, a few strands ripping right out of your scalp with a sharp pain. “Touch me.” The pain is splitting in your head, on your cheeks, in the breath that you're still trying to regain. “I said, touch me!” And he drops you. Weight held up by Kageyama comes crashing down onto the carpeted floor and you with it. He growls, sound deep in his throat as he makes another threat.

“Fuck, I’ll even give you to the Ushijimas’ to use as target practice if you aren’t obedient. How’d you like to be shot full of holes? That better than touching me?” The words come out in a harsh jumble, spilling from his mouth like a bitter wine. “Do it. Touch me before I stop being nice and kill you myself.” This time it's a kick to your back. “Then someone from your precious family will pay your debt.”

“How do you-”

“I make it a point to know my future family members.” He gives you an uncomfortable smile, mouth curling up as eyes don’t shift from their stoic glare. He steps even closer, hand rising once again to make you flinch but it doesn’t stop rising as he squeezes your neck harshly. “C’mon, get my hands off your neck! Pry me off of you!”

“N..” Air is fleeing your collapsing lungs, “O” It takes all the willpower in your body to fight against the muscles in your shoulders that want to lift your arm and the tendons that control your fingers to curl around his wrist and tug. Kageyama snarls as he frees your throat. His hands reach behind him and he must have a gun. He’s threatened to shoot. His hand moves so slowly, fingers curling around something behind his back. The black of his suit jacket reflects the all too bright light, cheers and beeps of the slots muffled by thick walls. The blunt pain throbbing in your face, on your stomach. The sharp intakes of breath sending stabs of pain to your lungs and the man with dark black hair and dark blue eyes keeps his hand behind his back, his left hand tugging on his suit jacket. He’s getting the gun, it’s in the back of his pants. You feel the familiar, cold prick of tears at the back of your eyes, that only intensifies as you he squats down and you flinch softly.

“C’mon,” His hand is still behind his back “Touch me.” You don’t want to die. You don’t want anyone to bear your debt. You suck in a deep breath, heavy weight forming in your chest as you reach out your hand towards his face. He inhales a tight breath, cheek twitching as your palm inches closer and closer. When just a finger finally grazes his cheek he flinches away from it and the weight inside you gets heavier. You didn’t do what he wanted.

You fucked it up.

You clamp your eyes shut. Slowly - what’ll he do if you move too quickly - you begin to drag your fingers from his cheek, rough with the smallest starts of stubble. He raises his hand with four fingers to keep yours on his cheek, trapping your palm against his clammy hand and rough chin. He exhales a shaky breath, his black-blue eyes closing and head nuzzling into your hand.

Softly feeding from the hand that bit.

“Thank you,” Your eyes are wide open as you stare at his features seeming so soft in comparison to his sharp, metallic anger. He murmurs softly into your palm. “It feels... nice when you touch me.” It’s such a stark contrast from the roaring, growling man threatening to force you into prostitution. The Kageyama who’s in front of you is smiling gently while his hand - though chilled and rough - is gentle against the back of your hand. It’s too much, one blink and tears start to fall. A hiccup erupts from your mouth which you shut as soon as he pokes an eye open. Whimpers based in the bottom of your sore throat start to strain against your closed mouth. His smile widens, growing into that uncomfortable smirk with lips stretched too thin.

“Fuck, you’re such a pretty crier, y’know that?” Kageyama groans the words staring at your face, still in the palm of your hand. “It makes me hard.” As if to emphasize his point, he jerks your hand downward, to the bulge in his suit pants.

“I - Kageyama I’m here to pay off a debt,”

“Yeah, you are.” He grinds his clothed hard-on into your palm. “You’re here to do whatever I tell you to. And I said-” The back of his hand brushes against your palm as it reaches to pull at the zipper of his pants. The grip around your wrist tightens as he drags your hand down. “Touch me.” and slowly your fingers curl around the length that was pulled from his pants.

“Good girl.” He snarls the words as his fingers ghost over your clothed sex, thin panties doing little to dull the strangely gentle caress of his four fingers. He pushes the fabric aside quickly and though you’re completely dry, shoves a finger into your tight cunny.

“Haven’t touched… anyone,” He groans as your hand stays deathly still on his cock. “Like this.” He thrusts his finger into you again. Beads of precum drip from his cock onto the back of your hand.

“Stop… please,” He smiles at your watery eyes. “It doesn’t feel good…” It feels like someone breaking your trust. How could you have trusted a yakuza?

“I’ll make it feel good.” He was going to leave you alone. He was going to leave you alone. A fat tear rolls down your face. Kageyama’s lips curl into another smirk as he pumps his fingers just a little faster.

“Is this what Oikawa meant when he said I’d have trouble ‘fingering’?” He says it to himself more than to you. “Cause I don’t think I’m having much trouble.” He wasn’t going to do anything. A small scream falls from your mouth as you think — you did this to yourself. You slapped him and now… Your hold on his cock tightens. You wish you could say it was in anger rather than for the sparks flying through your body. “Stop closing your eyes.” He huffs. “Makes it seem like you’re not enjoying it.”

You aren’t. You aren’t fucking enjoying it. The way he stares at you, leering at your misty eyes and dripping nose. The way he’s got his fingers stuffed inside you. The way he has your hand wrapped around his dick. It’s much easier to think this is some dream. To pretend your breath isn’t quickening or this is just some fucked up fantasy you’d never want to be real. But it is. And the gasp you let out when you feel your pussy clench - that’s real too.

“Sounds like you do. Feels like you do. Tightening around my fingers like that?” He chuckles darkly to himself before barking, “Dumb whore! Move your hand!” Immediately you release your grip on his cock.

“Not like that.” He glares at you and uses his free hand to grab your wrist once more. Harshly, he tugs it to his mouth and spits onto your palm. “Stroke my cock.” Once more, he shoves your hand down, saliva dripping from your palm to the couch and his bare legs. He hisses at the feeling of your hand, moans as you pump your fist. “Keep doing that.” You nod, mouth parting to gasp only for tears to fall in.

“Holy shit.” His fingers curl inside you, his cock twitches harshly in your hand. His arms woven with ink, flex as his right hand curls into a fist slowly unclenching - rising. All too late, do you notice his fingers lacing themselves around your neck pushing you down, down into the cushions. You can still breathe, he’s not meaning to choke you yet. Your head is still, and that is enough, his face inching ever closer, blue eyes blown wide - mouth parting just so slightly. His face growing closer with each second that makes your brain tick with dread.

“So fuckin pretty….” He sighs quietly. “Bet your tears even taste good.” His mouth presses to yours. He wastes no time shoving his tongue inside. It’s sloppy - like you’d’ve expected, salty saliva spilling from the corners of your lips as he drags his long, rough fingers slowly from your cunt. You whine through spit and sob as the feeling of fullness is taken from you. (though you’ve felt empty this whole time) Your hips roll on their own, grazing against his knuckle. Your cunt weeps at one final touch before you're stuck humping nothing.

“You're wet enough right?” Breathless, he pulls away from your mouth, lips pink, swollen and parted, his cheeks flushed a dark shade of cherry. He looks from your eyes to his fingers to the hand around your neck. “You better be after all that crying. My pathetic little crybaby, so wet for my cock.”

You wish you could spit in his face, wish you could scream. But all that can escape your lips are soft moans, little whines at the loss of his fingers. “Please” dances on the tip of your tongue, pirouetting its way through your teeth and tapping at your lips.

“God…” His cock pokes at your entrance. “You’re so warm…” It’s hard to ignore as he presses in, pushing against your walls so firmly, warmth making your hips roll to meet his cock as it buries deeper inside you. Your hand had been moved a long time ago - or just recently, it’s hard to tell, hard to remember. Or have you already forgotten? Still coated in spit and precum, it rests on his chest, over one of his many tattoos, you slide it upwards to his shoulder. Watching as the spit leaves a trail over his body. Pretending like it’s just water. Your eyes gloss over the forced extravagance of your prison. The ceiling is in between - the sky. Some say heaven. And your sullied hand raises to pull for the sky. When was the last time you’d seen the moon. Surely only hours ago. A rough thrust and something loud echoes in the room. You can barely hear it over the dry crust on your hand. Reaching for the above as your beaten body is defiled. For a second you can feel it, the clouds of the sky.

The sky disappears too as you’re dragged back down to earth by long fingers that squeeze more harshly at your neck. Suddenly only the constricting of his fingers on your windpipe and your pussy on his fat cock are present in your mind. Pleasure and fear hazing together in your mind to create nothing more than blank sight in your eyes and sparks running from your legs to your brain. Your hands continue to tighten around his wrist, pulling harshly as he continues to squeeze and squeeze at your throat.

“You gonna cum?” He continues, picking up his pace and pushing you further into the sofa. You try to shake your head, despite the tightening in your stomach,

“No Kagey-” He looks up from where he’d been pounding into your sloppy cunt, cock shoved right against your cervix, throbbing hashly while he raises his other hand to give a harsh slap to your cheek.

“What do you call me?”

“O-o” You can barely breath and the cock inside of you is so hot. The stinging against your cheek feels so good in the fog of shallow breath and fullness that you can’t help but moan at - when he adjusts his angle and turns you around, pushing your face into the cushions and ass in the air.

“Oyabun,” You can’t help the way your voice breaks as you sob and Kageyama once again starts to move.

“Fuck I feel powerful when you cry.” If only every word didn’t make you wail even louder.

“That’s a good girl, keep crying.” You shove your face further into the cushions, tears soaking into the fabric.

“Please,” You don’t sound like yourself. You already sound broken and halfway gone. “Just cum.” Anything — fucking anything to just end this.

Kageyama just groans behind you as the nauseating pleasure continues. Balls slapping against your clit, friction building slowly as you moan through every thrust unable to keep from feeling every tiny twitch of his cock, every vein sliding against the walls of your cunt.

“Fuck fuck fuck! I want you—” He lets out a loud shaky breath as years of frustration paint your walls.

Breathing heavily with his hands planted firmly on your hips bruisingly tight, he holds you against him. Even fuller than before — with your womb filled with his cum. His hold on your hips releases so gently before he puts a hand on your ass, rubbing it softly, stopping occasionally to squeeze lightly at the flesh. You whimper softly, “Please, no more.” He ignores you, or perhaps he didn’t hear, coming off of his first orgasm. His hands find your hips once more, far gentler than before as he speaks with labored breath.

“Everyone better’ve heard you moaning.” Slowly he begins to pull out, inch after painful inch slowly exiting your sore cunt. He slaps you again, right on your ass. You’re too sore, too used to the point of breakage to cry at the pain (or is it pleasure?) “I’m your Oyabun, they better know that.” The zip of his pants coincides with the cheering for a point in the game that’s still playing. He sits next to your fucked out body on the sofa, and rubs one hand over the still sensitive part of your ass before quickly running his hand over your spine, shoulder blades and neck, settling in your hair. His fingers stay there, nails grazing gently against your scalp. His fingers linger for a minute before he pulls your body up and into his side, propping your head against his shoulder. You stare blankly ahead, eyes glazed with tears and cum dripping from your abused pussy onto the sofa. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you as close as he can, both of you breathing heavily. Kageyama seems to recover his breath quicker than you, as his slows and steadies — head falling against your crown with tiny, quiet snores coming from his chest. Half clothed, sore and exhausted you breath in the smell of the room, barely registering the feeling of cum dripping from your cunt. Hardly noticeable with the sound of snores and the feel of a body pressed against yours. Fat, raindropped tears roll down your cheeks. And instead of your wish to pull away, to leave this room — you cannot. What would happen to your family, to you? Would the man who beat you really let you pull away from him even in his sleep?

No.

So you settle into his side, raise a hand to rest over his tattoos and wait. Eyes wide open.

---

He wakes up about thirty minutes later - pats your head - dresses and runs out of the door without a word. You're too catatonic, still on the couch, still watching men play volleyball on the television. You watch him leave, tension held in your shoulders melting — unlike the candle on the table. Realistically, it's probably thirty minutes that he’s out of the room but it feels like only a few seconds. Time flies when you're having fun. He returns with a bottle of water and a bowl of something that smells wonderfully of spices and cooked pork. He sets both water and bowl on the glass coffee table. He’s gotten one spoon and he sits next to you on the sofa, pulling your legs onto his lap, jerkily giving a message to your thighs that only serves to renew tension in your body. He continues for a few seconds, delicate hands hardened with callouses knead into the flesh before abruptly stopping and leaning forward. He picks up the bowl and lifts the spoon, a small drop of liquid spills.

“I don’t know your favorite yet so I got you mine.” He waits, watching your lips tremble. Your jaw falls and even if you were to speak, you're not allowed to. He shoves the spoon in and waits for your mouth to close. He sits there for a minute. He’s staring at you again and instead of wiping a tear from your cheek, closes your mouth with a delicate touch. You begin to chew slowly, staring straight ahead of you. The sound of volleyball fills your ears and Kageyama doesn’t speak for ten whole minutes, only feeding you curry and closing your mouth when you cannot. It’s peaceful. Even as you're naked and Kageyama is shirtless again. He takes his time making you finish your meal. Only watching set after set of volleyball on the screen.

“You like volleyball?” The hand that has settled back onto your thigh rests softly - so different to the way he was beating you before - moves to where your neck meets your shoulder. “My grandfather was a coach.” One more bite and you’re done. “I think he was gonna teach me before he died.” The match on the screen ends, shifting to commentary and Kageyama opens the bottle of water. “Let me know what you like to eat, okay? I’ll make sure to get it next time.” He brings the bottle to your lips without any sudden movements and steady hands, and with his other he takes your chin and holds you in the most gentle grip you’ve ever felt. He rubs the bottom of your jaw line, easing your mouth open once more and presses his lips softly to your temple before tilting the water back.

“You’re such a pretty crier,” He pulls the bottle away and kisses the corner of your mouth, the slight stubble on his cheek grazing against your cheek. “When I’m Oyabun, I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of, okay?” He sets the plastic water bottle down and pushes your legs from his lap. He rises from the cushions only to sink between your thighs. “Just do what you’re told and I won’t have to do - this -” He presses two fingers onto the forming bruise at your stomach. “again.” He parts your sore legs.

“So will you be my good little crybaby?”

#tw noncon #yakuza!au #yakuza!haikyuu #kageyama tobio x reader #kageyama tobio #yandere kageyama #yandere kageyama tobio #yandere haikyuu #yandere haikyuu x reader #yakuza AU #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu kageyama #yandere kageyama tobio x reader

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c-rose2081 · 3 years

Text

Mess Not With a Resting Dragon

Love Like Dragons AU

Bevie | Huma | Gildry | Mal & Audrey BROTP

—

Audrey the Aurorian Dragon wasn’t a fan of being cold. Unlike Mal — Evie’s five-year-old Isle Dragon — who loved lurking around corners, under furniture, and inside cupboards; Audrey was quite opposite. She spent her lazy afternoons basking in warm sunlight on clear branches or at window sills. She lounged by the oven door when Evie was baking, played in rolls of fabric left behind while Evie was designing, and slept at night on a well heated perch next to her and Ben’s shared bed. The creature was very much her husbands little Princess, and Audrey was sure Evie knew this as well.

Currently, Ben was out of town. Evie had been watching both dragons closely, as Mal had only just recovered from a Dragon Cold. It had taken only a few days of Ben’s week long getaway for Evie to notice something weird going on with Audrey. Though she would be there in the morning on her perch, as always, she seemed lethargic and snappish. She ate regularly though, and played a bit. So Evie thought perhaps she was simply missing Ben, as he very rarely went away without her.

In the mornings, Evie would let the Dragons out, and leave the door to the porch open while she worked on her designs in the Den. Mal came and went often — nothing weird there — but her pink counterpart often stayed outside all day long. This was unusual, because the weather was getting colder as Summer began its annual shift into Fall. Evie was well aware that Audrey was a priss about her body temperature, and it was odd of her to stay out so long without even coming inside to eat. Halfway through the week, despite a late Summer drizzle rolling in from Atlantica’s direction, Audrey refused to come back inside. Period.

Evie tried to wrestle her out of the garden, but was shocked to retrieve a sharp nip on the hand. It wasn’t a malicious bite; Mal’s play wrestling was often far worse. But it was a bite none the less, and Evie had never been bitten by Audrey before. As she had when Mal caught a cold, Evie began her usual routine of worrying. What if something was wrong? What if Audrey caught something from Mal? What if she died while Ben was away and came home to find his Princess gone?

At once Evie was filled with dread. She wanted to call her husband, to tell him what was going on and how she didn’t have Uma’s number to call her for help. But he trusted her to watch the ‘kids’ (as he referred sometimes), while he was away. And Evie didn’t want to disappoint him. After all, it was only a week. She should’ve been able to handle a week at home by herself.

Instead of calling Ben, Evie dawned her bad weather gear and began watching. The rain didn’t let up for days, and Audrey still refused to come inside. She had taken up residence in one of the rose bushes in the garden; one so dense and prickly that there wasn’t any way for Evie to get her out, or even see inside. Mal, who Evie hadn’t noticed at first, was able to slip into the bush just fine. The pair would make a bit of noise, as though they were conversing, and Mal would leave and fly off.

After a day of watching said bush, freezing her butt off but determined not to let anything past her, Evie still wasn’t sure what was going on. Mal, her dear spiky fiend, would visit the bush at least five times a day. Sometimes she would have things that she found around the house. The first time it was a dishcloth, the second time a spool of thread, the third an old sock belonging to Ben that had been behind the washing machine. And so on and so forth. Evie hadn’t ever seen Mal so keen on playing fetch; not like she was ever keen on playing to being with.

Audrey herself wouldn’t come out of the bush, not once. And only when Mal brought a dead mouse from the shed did Evie understand why the Princess hadn’t come back in. She wasn’t starving; as Evie had first thought. Mal was feeding her wild catch. Thoughtful; but weird as the two so often bullied each other. As darkness fell and the storm grew heavy, Evie was forced into retreat. Of course she was worried about the dragon in the bush, but she didn’t need to get sick either.

Evie didn’t get much sleep that night. She tossed and turned as thunder rolled overhead, and rain assaulted the windows. She was only just beginning to doze off when Mal began to scream. It wasn’t a sound Evie had ever heard come from her best friend. It was a horrible, desperate wail, as though she were in such great pain that she might just die on the spot. Leaping out of bed, Evie stubbed her toe in the dark but ignored it. She shoved on her Ugg boots, tucked into her jacket and bolted down the stairs phone flashlight in hand.

She found Mal at the door to the patio, flapping and scratching at the glass in panic. She banged her body against the panes, forcefully rattling the hinges, desperate to get outside. Evie fell over herself getting the door open, and Mal bolted out at breakneck speed. And as Evie followed her into the storm, she knew something was horribly wrong.

The sounds coming from the garden were like war. Growling and hissing, whimpers, cries and thuds. Skidding to the shed, Evie was already soaking wet as she turned on the floodlights, illuminating the entire backyard. Two rather large bodies circled Audrey’s rose bush, the leaves and branches trampled and broken down. One dog and Audrey were engaged in a fierce battle, the dragon’s back forced down into the muddy grass by a large brown paw as she used teeth and claw to swipe at the stray dogs nose.

The other dog was now engaged with Mal, the purple dragon pissed and tearing into its fur and flesh with her toothy maw. Startled by what she saw, Evie entered the shed and grabbed a shovel from the wall. She was just in time to keep the German Shepard from biting Audrey’s neck, swinging her makeshift weapon hard and striking the animal with its flat face. There was a horrible BANG of metal on skull as the dog was knocked to one side, whimpering in pain and running away into the hedges where it had come. The other, realizing its alpha was retreating, followed suit.

Breathing hard, Evie’s heart was leaping in her chest as she dropped the shovel with a clatter. Audrey had managed to get back to her feet, but walked with a hard limp and many cries of pain. She looked horrible, covered in bites and scratch marks. One of her wings appeared to be torn slightly, and part of her topmost ear was missing. She went straight to the bush, crawling through the debris. Evie’s composure shattered when she heard the most heartbreaking wail.

Hurrying to where Audrey now stood crying, three eggs sat in a nest made of various items from around the house. There used to be four eggs; four little baby dragons which Audrey had no doubt been incubating for the past several days. But one of them had been pulled out of the nest by the dogs. One baby dragon had been lost.

Crumbling to her knees, Evie trembled in the night and the rain as Mal pulled Audrey close with a wing and held her tight with both arms. The new mother continued to wail with grief and pain, the sound echoing like a ghostly song on the wind. That’s where Ben found them all when he returned home later that night, weeping in a ruined garden with Evie unable to speak past blue tinted lips. Ben immediately carried his wife upstairs to warm up and dry off, and then called Uma.

He returned to the back garden not long after, wielding under his arm a large plastic tote lined with several old, fluffy blankets. Gently, he moved Audrey from the broken down nest into the box, followed by her remaining clutch of eggs and what he could salvage of the nest. Mal had already gone upstairs to be with Evie, keeping the woman warm with her own body heat as she slept fitfully and tearfully.

When the bluenette came down the next morning, her eyes bruised and body sore from the night prior, Uma and a man she didn’t recognize stood with Ben in the living room. Gil was also present, one massive wing draped protectively over a basket which held the remaining eggs. Mal went to meet him, crawling to sit on the table above the basket, as to have a better view.

Uma currently had Audrey on the table, stretched out across a red stained towel. The man she was with wore elbow length leather gloves, holding the poor thing down as his partner made expert movements with a needle and thread. Audrey cried all the while, the sound breaking Evie’s still fragile heart.

“Hey, you don’t need to be in here for this,” Ben whispered upon seeing her, tugging his wife along to the kitchen. She began to weep again, but Ben silenced it quickly.

“Shh, it’s ok. It’ll be alright, E,”

“B-but it’s not,” Evie managed, “I knew something was wrong. I knew it. I-I should’ve done more.”

“Love, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Ben pleaded, “you should never mess with a nesting dragon. You did the right thing leaving her be,”

“B-but she’s hurt now because of me. I should’ve stayed, I should’ve called...”

“Why didn’t you call?” Ben asked, squeezing her arm gently, “E, I could’ve been back. I could’ve been here to help,”

“This trip was so important to you, Ben,” Evie insisted, stomping her foot slightly in tired frustration, “I’m a full grown woman. I’ve lived on my own since High School. Yet the minute you go away...” waving towards the living room where Uma was working, Evie sighed heavily, “I wanted to show you I could handle it. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Oh, Evie...no, no,” pulling the woman to his chest, Evie let him run a hand through her hair, closing her eyes at the feelings of comfort it brought, “you could never disappoint me. I love you so much. I’m just glad you’re all safe.”

Nodding weakly against her husbands broad, warm chest, the two glanced up as Uma entered the kitchen from the other room. She was sweating a bit, resting both hands on her hips as she exhaled.

“So what’s the word?” Ben asked wearily, cringing at the possibility of bad news. Uma, thankfully, didn’t seem ready to give it.

“She’ll be fine,” the woman nodded, “must’ve put up one hell of a fight though. You said it was a Shepard that did this?”

Evie nodded in confirmation as Uma scoffed and ran a hand over her braids, “right, well. Keep her off that leg for a while, I’ll prescribe some meds to keep her sedated until she heals up. Keep an eye on that wing too, we don’t need it getting infected,”

“And the other eggs?” Ben asked, “they’re all ok?”

“For the most part, yeah,” Uma answered, “one of them has developed a crack, but it didn’t hurt the integrity of the egg. May just end up being a dragon runt,”

“Dragon runt?” Evie questioned, “what does that mean?”

“Runt of the litter,” Uma explained, folding her arms as to find a better position, “it might come out funny looking, or small. In the wild, dragon runts are left behind by their mothers to fend for themselves or get eaten. But since Audrey lost one, she may just accept it anyway.”

“She’ll grieve, then? I know Aurorian Dragons are supposedly quite emotionally sensitive.”

“For a few weeks I think,” Uma confirmed, “it’ll probably be best for Gil to stay here as emotional support. He is a father after all, and Coastal Dragon males are left to watch the eggs in the wild,”

“How do you know so much about dragons?” Evie wondered curiously, “is there like, a manual for this stuff?”

“I worked at a sanctuary for a bit, before I met Harry,” Uma admitted, nodding to the living room. Speaking of Harry; the man in question entered the kitchen. He placed both hands on Uma’s shoulders, and Evie immediately noticed the two missing fingers on his right hand.

“Well, lil blighters are all resting up, now,” he spoke though an accent, though it was one Evie couldn’t really place in her hazy, sleep deprived brain, “we best be goin’ soon, luv. I got a shift t’nite at the yard,”

“Right,” Uma agreed, “you guys call me when you start seeing movement in those eggs, I want to be here when they hatch.” Uma insisted, taking the hand Ben outstretched for a shake, as he wasn’t ready to let Evie from his arms just yet.

“Thank you, Uma. I can’t thank you enough. If you ever need anything...”

“Call you. Yeah, I know,” Uma laughed, waving for Harry to follow her out. When the front door clicked shut, Evie let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

“See,” Ben said gently, “it’ll be ok.”

Swallowing the rock in her throat, Evie let Ben guide her back out into the living room. Audrey and the eggs had been moved back into the plastic tote, folded up in blankets to keep her warm. Gil — left behind by Uma and Harry till the eggs hatched — sat sentinel by the box, one wing stretched over its top. Mal still lay draped over the side of the table, chin rested on a folded arm, watching the both of them, “come on, Evie. Let them rest; you need your sleep,”

“Mal,” Evie said, causing the purple haired dragon to lift her head slightly, “you watch over them. Ok?”

And Mal, cranky as she was, snorted a plume of smoke and returned to her former position of watchman as Ben and Evie went upstairs for a midday nap of their own.

#disney descendants #descendants fanfiction #descendants #dragons #fanfiction #alternate universe #audrey rose #mal bertha #ben florian #evie grimhilde #uma daughter of ursula #harry hook #gil son of gaston #love like dragons au

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moonbeambucky · 5 years

Text

Addicted (Part 1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 5731 Warnings: smut, angst, minor fluff

Summary: Hearts break under the weight of buried feelings, longing for the chance at repair no matter the consequence.

A/N: This is my submission for @youngmoneymilla Eliza’s 5K Challenge. My prompt was “Quit You” by Lost Kings. Thank you as always to my Sam 💕 @buckyofthemyscira for beta reading! gif not mine

ADDICTED MASTERLIST

The rain hasn’t let up for days. Grey clouds invaded the sky, not letting a glimpse of sunshine through as they drowned the city in misery.

Puddles of murky water fill the divots of crooked streets and cracked sidewalks, splashing with every step taken. Annoyed grunts and scoffs fill the ears of those not walking fast enough, coming from those around them that quicken their strides to get ahead of them.

Y/N moves at a snail’s pace, agonizingly slow as she struggles to put one foot in front of the other and advance her journey. Her boots are heavy, cement encased leather or at least that’s what it feels like.

But it shouldn’t feel like this. The burden on Y/N’s heart that weighs down every part of her soul. Droplets of rain have mixed in with the tears that burned their way to her eyes, leaving fiery hot streaks down her face. Unless someone looks close at the bouquet of veins blossoming in her eyes they won’t be able to tell the difference.

Rough fingers swipe away at her cheeks. She doesn’t want to cry, not tonight, not in front of him.

Orange flashes, a hand from the street sign at the edge of the sidewalk.

Don’t walk.

A car anxious to make the light zooms by, the tire slams through a pothole. Dirty water splashes at her shins, soaking her legs.

Everything is telling Y/N to turn around and go home.

Don’t walk.

She doesn’t listen.

Her feet carry her to his door.

Bucky’s apartment is his sanctuary, the one place in the world he can take a break from his life as an Avenger and be himself.

At the Tower he was surrounded by cameras and AI, and teammates encroaching on his space, everyone constantly up his ass asking how he’s doing. He put on a show, for Steve to show him that he’s improving, for Sam so he could shut up and stop bothering him, for everyone so he could just be left alone.

There was emptiness inside of him, a gaping hole that burned in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know how to fill it or how to heal but he knew it couldn’t be done like that.

Bucky was suffocating under the weight of his lies so he began searching for an apartment, assuring Steve that his therapist recommended it would be helpful in finding his identity.

Ironically, his therapist was right. For the first time in a very long time Bucky was excited at the prospect of doing something for himself. He scoured the internet for apartment listings, scanning through photo after photo of different layouts and design styles, and finding his taste through the process.

A smile spread across his face as he found the perfect apartment, emailing back with his interest only to find a confusing response in return. It was a scam Sam had informed him, and most of the listings he found ended in the same result.

Tony suggested a realtor take him around, someone who could show him actual listings and be discreet, something Bucky hadn’t considered when he first began his search. If he thought the Avengers were bothering him imagine what would happen if civilians knew where he lived.

It had been just over a year that he met a realtor who found him the perfect place where he could relax. The top floor apartment in a Pre-War building with wooden floors that Bucky feels strangely akin to; something old but beautiful after a bit of resurfacing.

That was his life, beaten down by Hydra, stepped on and used over and over again until he was stripped of the layer they put on him. The asset, the soldier, a stain that needed to be sanded away to reveal the raw soul that was James Buchanan Barnes. Now like the floors below his feet he is complete again, mostly.

The apartment had been updated but it wasn’t too modern. Bucky has had his fair share of sleek furniture from Tony’s decoration, and though his mind was blown away with Wakandan technology, he was a lot happier in his hut by the river, letting nature soothe his mind.

His kitchen was small but not too cramped, with more cabinets than he would ever use. The bathroom had enough space for an old clawfoot tub that reminded him of the one he grew up with. His face scrunched at the memory of stubbing his toes against the cast iron foot, an unfortunate incident that happened more than a few times.

The bedroom was his favorite room in the apartment. A simple steel bed frame was placed against the rustic brick lined wall, with dark curtains and metal caged vintage lighting accenting the room. His bed was a mess of grey and navy blue, plush pillows and a soft comforter strewn across without care.

His mattress was comfortable, really comfortable and Bucky’s been blessed to have many nights of good sleep on it but never has it felt better than when his back is pressed against the softness of his sheets as he stared up at the beautiful woman riding him like there’s no tomorrow.

His apartment provided many things, peaceful reprieve from life in the spotlight, a space to stretch out and his biggest secret.

Y/N’s finger shakes as it pushes the buzzer with force before the door unlocks and lets her inside towards the staircase. The first steps are slow and shaky, unsure and full of insecurity and she grips the railing for support. This isn’t what she wanted. This can’t go on.

Common sense is abandoned on the flight up. The closer Y/N gets to his door the more excited she is to see him and by the time she’s reached the top of the steps she had long forgotten any feelings of reservations in the first place.

Bucky’s door is open slightly and she sees him standing there, arms stretching towards the top of the frame. His shirt rides up, revealing a peek of skin, solid muscle with a path of dark hair that leads down like a rainbow to a pot of gold. Piercing blue eyes stare right through her and that sinful smirk makes her knees buckle.

Y/N wishes she could run to him, throw her arms around his neck and show him her brightest smile, the one that matched the openness of her heart, letting her feelings pour out without restraint. But things aren’t like that with Y/N and Bucky.

From the moment they met they saw the sparks in each other’s eyes, felt the buzz of electricity when their hands touched for the first time. The tingling went straight to Y/N’s core and she had to pull herself together and remember why she was there. Bucky needed an apartment and it was her mission to help him find one.

As he walked around each apartment checking out the place, Y/N was checking out the way thick thighs filled his jeans, or the stretch of his shirt against sculpted muscle. Her teeth scraped against her bottom lip as she watched metal fingers brush along the countertop all while thinking how incredible they would feel rubbing against her.

She was unable to tear her gaze away from him. His chestnut brown hair was pulled back into a bun at the base of his neck with a few messy tendrils tucked behind his ear. She envisioned her fingers running through his locks, loosening the strands with her grip as his face was nestled between her thighs.

As Bucky pictured himself living in the space Y/N pictured him sliding in and out of her heat, fucking her until she couldn’t think straight. Her tongue licked her lips as she stared at the large bulge in his pants. It was a safe bet she wouldn’t be walking straight either.

Lost in her own fantasies she was unaware that Bucky had been staring too. Every time they went out together he noticed more things about Y/N. Her beauty was obvious and Bucky was nearly tongue tied when she had first asked him what he was looking for in an apartment. Had he let his mouth actually speak the words he thought he would have answered, “You.”

Bucky would always take note of how incredible Y/N looked. No matter what she was dressed in it suited her figure perfectly. She looked so proper in her professional attire it only fueled his desire further to want to rip it off and take her on the nearest table.

It was getting harder to deny the way they felt about each other. When there were no listings that met Bucky’s expectations Y/N took him out anyway, to see an apartment he would never go for but none of that mattered. The need to see Bucky was too great and he did not object.

In an overpriced apartment staged to fit the needs of an entitled trust fund elite Bucky crashed his lips to hers. The figures painted on the fine art that hung on the decoratively paneled walls watched scornfully as Bucky lifted Y/N up, hitching up the fabric of her dress so it was easier for her to wrap her legs around his solid frame. His lips attacked her body, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck, sucking and nipping at her skin. Pulling whimpers from her mouth as he soothed the marks he left with his tongue.

Y/N’s hands cupped his cheeks, feeling the roughness of stubble scratch against her palms as she brought his lips to hers once more for a hungry, passionate kiss. Her lips parted for his tongue, meeting her own in a dance that sent an ache between her legs.

Smooth metal fingers tugged at the zipper of her dress and Bucky set Y/N gently to her feet so he could continue to remove her clothes. With the zipper loosened she pulled her arms out of the sleeves, letting the fabric pool to the floor.

Bucky rubbed himself, adjusting the stiffening of his pants as he worshipped her with his eyes, like fine art you were supposed to look at and never touch, but Bucky has never been one to follow rules.

A strand of pearls hung above her breasts, the pale iridescence standing out beside the black lace that adorned them. Stepping out from the dress at her heels she turned around, fingerprints blemishing the polished surface of the baby grand piano she leaned against to tease him and show off the matching panties.

Y/N was taken by surprise by the firm slap against her ass, letting out a whimper that drove him wild. Arching her back she prepared herself for another slap, begging for his hand to smack against her cheeks again. A warm hand landed on her flesh another time, moaning as she chewed on her lip, rubbing her thighs together for some relief.

The heady scent of her arousal flooded his senses, the throb of his dick, the voice inside his head all screaming for him to get a taste of her. He couldn’t take it any longer.

On his knees Bucky pulled her panties down quickly. His fingers were rough as they grabbed her legs, spreading them apart so he could feast upon her. Cries of pleasure fell from Y/N’s lips as his tongue worked wonders, licking and sucking at her glistening folds.

A cool metal digit rubbed against her clit sending shockwaves throughout her body as she gripped the piano for purchase. Her legs trembled as his ministrations continued, the attack of his skilled mouth on her lips, taking her further and further towards the edge.

Bucky hummed against her as she soared with pleasure above him, grinning as her leg still trembled as she came tumbling down. He had tasted the forbidden fruit, his chin glistening with her nectar and it only made him crave more.

His lips crashed to hers again, a messy kiss of teeth and tongue with the taste of her branded on him like a mark. Her hands made quick work of his belt, cupping him through his jeans before pulling them down.

Y/N’s eyes grew twice as wide at the size of him, hungrily swiping her tongue across her lips for a taste of her own. But Bucky couldn’t wait any longer, he needed to be inside her, to quell the ache he’s been carrying since they first met.

He lifted Y/N to the nearest table, her body shivering against the cold surface as he pulled his shirt off as fast as he could. The clang of something fell to the floor but neither of them cared. Bucky rubbed himself against her pussy, coating himself in her slick before sliding in. She moaned as he slowly stretched her inch by inch until he was fully sheathed inside.

Adjusting to him was momentary, just enough time for him to unclasp her bra and toss it off before he began to pump his hips, watching her breasts bounce with every thrust. His fingers pinched the hardened peak and he reveled in the way bliss washed over her face.

“Ohh... fffuck, Bucky,” she cried breathlessly.

His lips were on hers again, swallowing every moan she offered him. His breath was heavy against her skin as he lifted one leg over his shoulder, reaching deeper inside and that had her seeing white hot flashes of light behind her eyes.

Bucky grunted along to the snap of his hips, the rhythm drawing out moans and cries, a beautiful melody of ecstasy until he and Y/N reached their peak together. She came first, tumbling down from the heights of rapture and Bucky pulled out, painting his own pearl necklace across her breasts.

Strands of hair stuck to his sweaty forehead and he pushed them back, catching his breath as he watched her do the same. It made his cock throb again, the sight of her marked by his seed and trembling with aftershocks.

He leaned down to claim her lips, delicately this time, soft and sweet; and as she began to pull away he went back for more, needing one more kiss before he went to clean her up. His lips still tingled with the feeling of Y/N’s against him and Bucky felt a shift within himself.

Like a drug he became hooked, instantly addicted to Y/N; to her smile and the lightness of her laughter, to her body and the way he felt inside her. His problems disappeared, his fears were no more. The pit in his stomach was sated and filling the void was her.

Stepping inside Bucky’s apartment felt like home. The familiar smell of leather and sandalwood invades Y/N’s senses. The locks click behind her as she sets her bag off to the side, sensing Bucky’s warmth behind her.

“You’re wet.”

His words came out like gravel and he cleared his throat. Still, she wondered if he meant that as a statement about the weather or if he could tell she was already soaked for him; the mere sight of Bucky causing her body to flood with desire.

Bucky doesn’t do much speaking when he’s alone, and though his phone is near him for emergencies he never picks up unless he has to. Steve knows not to bother him with anything unless it’s important, knowing how much Bucky’s deliberate seclusion means to him. If only Steve knew the full truth.

He leaned in to press his lips to hers, not caring about the damp jacket against him. Running his tongue along the seam of her lips they part open, craving his entry but he pulls away teasingly, leaving her wanting more. He smirked and she shook her head smiling at him.

“Long day at work?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Y/N nodded, softening her gaze.

Bucky leads her to the bathroom where he leaned over the tub to turn on the faucet. The cabinet under the sink squeaked slightly as he opened it to pull out a familiar blue package, half empty from what Y/N could see which made her lips pull into a smile; it was a gift she had given him.

A few months back Bucky had returned from a mission, badly bruised and sore all over. Even sex had him wincing through heavy moans and Y/N suggested he take a warm bath to soothe his muscles. He refused, thinking that was not something he was supposed to do. Antiquated ideas aside, she purchased foaming bath salts marketed for men, the blue color somehow making it more acceptable.

Bucky trusted her and gave everything a try, and now he looks forward to a quiet soak in the tub; the light musky scent of the salts filling the air as he treated himself to some relaxation.

Two large scoops went into the water and white foam began to fill the surface. Bucky turned his attention to Y/N, helping her out of her jacket and hanging it behind the door. Holding onto him for balance she got out of her boots one foot at a time, feeling the cool tile beneath her feet.

It was soft and slow as Bucky unzipped her dress as she ran her hands up his broad chest and over the curves of his shoulders, feeling the shift beneath the material as solid muscle became smooth vibranium plates. Bucky didn’t like people touching his arm, especially not at the junction where the metal had been fused into his flesh but when Y/N touched him things were different. Delicate fingertips traced lightly over the raised scar tissue, soft kisses soothed the eternal crimson stain of his skin. The horrors of his past washed away at her touch.

Her hands found the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward to pull over his head. The remainder of clothing was thrown to the side; his socks, her bra, his pants, her underwear and in between he had tested the temperature of the water, wiping his flesh fingers on his boxers that came off next.

With the faucet turned off and all of their clothes now removed Bucky held Y/N’s hand as she stepped over the high edge of the tub, waiting for him to join her. Bucky sat down first, pressing his large frame against the back of the now warm tub, waiting with open arms for Y/N to sit in front of him.

Frothy water sloshed around as she sat between his legs, feeling the press of his already half hard length against her back. Bucky couldn’t help it, and Y/N really never minded. The tub was cramped together and Y/N’s legs had to bend so she could fit, the tops of her knees were above the water but she didn’t care, as long as they were together.

Wet hands pushed her hair aside as Bucky kneaded the stiff muscles of her shoulders, knowing how desperate she was for a massage. Bucky knew her well, as intimately as he knew himself. That sort of thing happens when you spend as much time with someone as they have. He swallows a harsh lump, ignoring the gentle flutters of his heart that remind him about the feelings he claims he doesn't have. This is just sex.

Y/N melted into his touch, releasing all of the tension she had been holding onto all day. Bucky made her forget about everything, annoying co-workers, demanding clients, everything faded away when they were together and there was only him.

Sinful moans of relaxation left her lips and though Bucky’s dick twitched at the sound he ignored it, leaning in to press a kiss to her collarbone, smiling with satisfaction in knowing she felt better. His arms traveled through the warm water to wrap around her stomach, pulling Y/N closer to him. She leaned back against his firm chest, placing her arm across his.

Small talk filled the void of silence, things about her day, things about Bucky’s. Even though he can’t give many details he mentions the Avengers going on a mission he chose to sit out on, one he’s certain will require follow ups that he’ll surely have to be present for.

Craning her neck back Y/N shuts him up with a kiss, reaching her hand up to cup his cheek. He knows she hates when he’s away, risking his life for the sake of the rest of the world. It’s dangerous, he knows it, but there are also parts of her job that make him nervous too, Like when she runs an open house without a co-agent; anyone can walk in leaving her alone with them, strangers who are potential threats, at least that’s how Bucky sees them.

The furrow of his brow relaxes as her tongue slips into his mouth and Bucky’s hands travel up her chest, cupping her breasts and rolling her hardened nipples in between his fingers. Y/N’s body squirms against him as he sucks on her neck, letting his metal hand roam lower.

Metal digits dip between the heat of her folds and she gasps as his thumb brushes against her clit. It becomes too much very quickly. His tongue laving at her neck while his hands play her like an instrument. Y/N’s moans flow like music echoing off the walls. Expert fingers have her singing his name at her peak. Her lips find his again as she comes crashing down, body still shaking, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath.

It isn’t long before she’s turned around to face him, two hands gripping his length and twisting in corkscrew motions up and down. She’s desperate for his lips; the kiss is messy and hungry, wanting to devour him like he’s the first meal she’s had all day.

Y/N nips at the stubble on his neck, flicking her tongue teasingly over his nipples, kissing a path down until her lips meet where her hands have been working him but now it was time for more.

Bucky stands up to make it easier for her, watching as his cock disappears in her mouth. His hips rut in rhythm with her pace until she takes him to the furthest reaches of her throat. He licks his lips, letting a sweet moan escape as he’s swallowed by the warmth of her mouth.

In that moment Y/N looks up at Bucky and he struggles not to come at the sight of her; large eyes filling with tears as she chokes on his dick with the hunger for more present in her sultry gaze, her lips wrapped around him, stuffing his cock as far back as she can take.

She pulls back releasing him, gasping for breath while her hands still jerk him off, massaging his velvet head with gentle fingers that disrupts the string of arousal connected to her mouth. When Y/N’s ready she takes him again, gripping his thighs as Bucky fucks her face, his body stuttering as he comes down her throat.

Two hands of different temperatures help her to her feet. Bucky presses her body against his as he kissed Y/N again, sensing the tang of himself still on her tongue. He stepped out of the tub first, grabbing a towel that he wrapped around his waist and then handed one for her to do the same.

She left the bathroom feeling dirtier than before, with her hair out of place and her makeup smudged a bit under her eyes but Y/N didn’t care. In Bucky’s bedroom they towel dried each other which only served as a precursor to sex. Thanks to the serum Bucky’s was ready to go again, a side effect which has often led to marathon nights of wrecking her body with pleasure.

Muscular arms brace him above her as messy dark hair curtains his face. Y/N’s hands come up to tuck the strands behind his ears, running her thumbs over the flush of his cheeks.

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky said as he leaned down to connect his lips to hers. His eyes close as he pushes inside her again ever so slowly, gently rolling his hips to languidly fuck her, letting her body take its time to build up to the next orgasm.

It’s a sweet reprieve from their previous rounds. First he had slammed into her from behind, snaking his arm around to rub her clit in a demanding bid for her pleasure. Then Y/N was on top, bracing against his chest as she sunk down on him. She set the pace rocking above him, his hands roaming everywhere they could; her bouncing tits, grazing her hips, intertwining their fingers as she trembled above him.

He spills into her, fills her up with everything he has. Hips stuttering as she milks every last drop of him as she clenches around him. Heavy breaths fall from his lips and their mouths are connected again, tasting the salty sweat on kiss swollen lips.

Y/N is thoroughly spent as she lies in bed to catch her breath. They’re wrapped in each other’s arms soon after, with Bucky being a gentleman and taking the part of the bed with the inevitable wet spot. He hardly gives any attention to it, instead focusing on how quickly she’s fallen asleep against him.

His lips linger on her skin as he kisses Y/N goodnight, he dares not speak the words he feels in his heart but they echo in his mind; I love you. It keeps him up for a little while longer as his mind and heart silently wrestle until he finally succumbs to sleep.

Sunlight forces its way through the dark curtains with little avail. Bucky prefers it that way on most days, blocking out the world to keep his room dark and cave-like, except when Y/N’s there. He wished the sun was shining in, illuminating her beauty through its warm kiss.

She’s still asleep, hair mussed wildly against the pillow. He watches the rise and fall of her chest, syncing himself to match her calming tempo. She awakes shortly, blinking her heavy eyes a half dozen times before they finally stay open, sucking in a deep breath and sighing out with a smile.

Through the dim haze she finds Bucky facing her, his eyes were soft, his lips pulled gently at the corners. Of all the times she’s seen Bucky smile mornings like this were her favorite. It was a rare moment when she felt like she was connecting with Bucky, the real Bucky, the one not bogged down by an overactive mind, haunted by his past.

“Good morning,” she whispered softly, with a bit of rasp in her voice.

His fingers reach over towards her eyes that shut on instinct and Bucky gently picked away at flakes of crust from the corner of her eye. Y/N’s heart flutters at the gesture, something so caring that bonds her deeper than the sex had.

A lump sits at the back of her throat as she thinks about how often she’s with Bucky even though she’s not with him. How whatever he defines their relationship as is anything but an actual relationship, but it feels like so much more. She knows she has to mean more to him than just a hole to get his dick wet. Her heart breaks at the thought.

Maybe she doesn't mean much to him, despite how he acts when they’re together. Maybe he’s ashamed of her. Is that why she’s a secret? Why they’ve been sneaking around for nearly a year? She’s Bucky’s dirty secret, the one who comes running at his beck and call.

It’s pathetic, she thinks. She’s pathetic, but she couldn’t help but hope that maybe this time he’ll get over whatever is holding him back. That she’ll step out from the shadows together, like the couple they practically are just not in name.

Y/N’s phone buzzes with an alert and she reaches over to see to it. It’s time to start the day even though she wanted to stay in bed with Bucky until he was no longer ashamed of her.

“Time to go?” he asked, as her attention was focused to the illuminated screen.

“Yeah, you know how busy Saturday’s are.”

Bucky stares at the bare skin of her back as she sits on the edge of the bed. Another stretch of her arms as she thinks about where she left her bag. By the front door she remembered, dropping it down before Bucky whisked her away.

These are the awkward moments, when Y/N has to leave the bubble of lust and face the real world again. Wearing the mask of a stranger to the man she knows inside and out. Well, not completely. Bucky gives most of himself to her but there is a part he shuts her out of; the last piece of his heart, the one that would say the words she wants to believe he feels, the one that would proudly show her off to the world.

A tear falls down her cheek but she doesn’t wipe it. Bucky is behind her, still lying on his bed, the one they had christened together the day he moved in to the apartment she found him.

Quick on her feet Y/N leaves the bedroom, wiping the stray tear away as she retrieves her bag and goes to the bathroom. It doesn’t take long to make herself look presentable.

Hair products help revive her hair, her travel toothbrush makes its appearance again and she can’t help but think how much easier it would be to leave it in his bathroom. Makeup wipes help erase yesterday’s mess, and a few products help her put on a fresh face, complete with a perfect smile; a bright and cheery mask that hides the ache behind it.

Clean clothes make her feel better instantly. A different dress, new accessories, the same boots because it was easier that way. She gathered yesterday’s clothes from the floor, taking her dress from the floor and rolling it to place in her overnight bag.

The smell of coffee floats through the air as Y/N leaves the bathroom. Bucky is in his kitchen, dressed in a soft cotton shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Two mugs are set aside as he waits for the cups to brew, turning around ever so casually to look at her.

His eyes glance briefly while his mind screams at him to tell her how beautiful she looks. He doesn’t listen. That’s not something he can say now, not when he isn’t hiding behind the veil of sex. He can’t open up without that layer of protection because if Y/N sees him without it she’ll see how he really feels and Bucky can’t let that happen.

Instead he pours the now ready cup of coffee and hands it over. Clearing his throat he steadied his voice, asking a question with perfected nonchalance. “Were you coming over again tonight?”

Y/N freezes as the cup reaches her lips.

She wished he didn’t ask her. He never asks her. It’s always a text– “Want to come over?” He texts that a few nights a week, only when the sun has gone down, never earlier. They both know what it means. She slips out of the shadows to meet him and fuck, to leave her common sense at home and live a lie.

Tonight was different. Tonight Y/N had plans, plans she wished she didn’t have now that he asked her to come over.

“I can’t,” she finally answered him.

As the coffee reaches the back of her throat she decided to tell him why, in the hopes it would push whatever it is between them in to some sort of direction. Maybe he’ll step up and finally call her his.

With a nervous gulp she speaks again, “Someone asked me out.”

Bucky is silent as he takes in what she’s said. Someone asked her out. Her exact wording. Not, that she has a date but that someone asked her on one. Beneath a calm surface his body is quaking as he silently screams at himself.

The thought of losing Y/N claws at his soul but Bucky knows he can’t give her what she wants. It’s what he wants too, deep down, but it’s not possible and it never will be.

“Have a good time,” he said, light and carefree, not a hint of sarcasm or malice within the syllables.

He sips his coffee casually as if she hasn’t just shattered his world. Y/N’s own mug had nearly slipped from her grasp, just as Bucky was slipping away in front of her.

“Cool. Thanks,” she replied, not knowing what else to say; barely able to choke those words out without crying.

She doesn’t finish the coffee. She needs to get out of there. The mug is left on the counter as Y/N grabs her things. She doesn’t kiss Bucky goodbye, it’s not like that was part of their routine any way. Their routine was her coming over, rushing to him like a dog to its owner. Pathetically responded to his call for sex when she wanted love, but she settled.

Y/N left like she normally did, a quick wave, an awkward goodbye; saving her breakdown for a better time.

As soon as she was gone Bucky abandoned his coffee for alcohol, a liquid breakfast that will never be strong enough to give him the courage to say how he feels or take away his pain. He drove her into the arms of someone else, pushing her out of his life and he hates himself for it. Another reason for self-loathing on the seemingly never ending list.

Her perfume lingers in his room and Bucky feels like he’s been transported to a field of wildflowers surrounded by summer fruit, wrapped in warm vanilla. It’s perfectly Y/N, light and sweet yet alluring and passionate.

He drinks until he passes out, in his bed surrounded by the torturous scent of the woman he loves because he doesn’t have the strength to tell her he’s not worthy of her.

Y/N walked away from Bucky’s apartment contemplating the date. It was nice to feel wanted, even if that attention wasn’t coming from the person she really wanted it to come from. Opening her phone she sent a message to the person who asked her, agreeing to go on a date with Steve Rogers.

PART 2

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

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#Eliza’s 5k Challenge #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes smut

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retro-scorpio · 4 years

Text

Sexual Tension

I don’t know what else to call this little one shot, so you’re unfortunately stuck with this.

I wrote this short story a little while ago, and it’s basically a college AU featuring Julian Devorak from The Arcana with special appearances from Julian’s sister Portia, Nadia Satrinava, Count Lucio, and Asra Alnazar. I may end up adding to this later, but as of right now this is the finished product.

So, if you’re into fanfiction about characters from The Arcana, then enjoy this story.

Julian has the rather stereotypical reputation of being a loner, so much so that it’s impossible to track him down outside of classes. Even then, he’s an elusive presence in the room, always choosing to sit in the back and keep to himself, his notes, and his cup of black coffee. Rumors spread about him as a result of his mysterious nature, but he doesn’t seem to know about them or care. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. I don’t know how true any of it is, because ever since I stepped foot in this university, I’m seeing him just about everywhere I go.

I first got a glimpse of Julian when I bumped into his shoulder as I was trying to find one of my classes. We both apologized, and he directed me to where I needed to go. Later on that same day, I discovered that we were both in the same English class about texts from the Victorian era, and so I opted to sit next to him. He’s always in the campus library the same time I am, hunched over books and scribbling things down in his notebook, and there was even one time where I caught him prancing around outside in the early morning light as if he was part of an imaginary sword fight.

So, I shouldn’t be that surprised to see him at auditions for our school’s fall production of Sweeny Todd, but at the same time it has me wondering just how many more times our paths are going to cross. Perhaps he likes the story as much as I do and wanted to see how our school would adopt it.

“Hello!” a skinny, petite, pale, brunette lady exclaims excitedly at me, startling me and making me flinch slightly. “I haven’t seen your face before. I’m Lizzy.” She extends her hand out to me, and I shake it. Before I can even tell her my name, though, she asks bluntly,

“You don’t know what role you want, do you?”

“Pardon?” Lizzy sheepishly smiles.

“Sorry; I should have warned you in advance that I’m really good at reading people. Being involved in theatre does that to you over time.”

“It’s okay,” I respond. “Especially because you’re right; I’m not even sure if I’ll get a part at all. I just really enjoy the story and thought I’d give this a shot.”

“Have you ever acted before?”

“A couple times, yeah. When I was younger. I’ve always liked the idea of acting, but I’ve not had much time to devote to it.

“Well, here’s your chance to tip your toes back in the water! I think I have the perfect role for you.”

“You do?” I ask. Lizzy enthusiastically nods her head.

“You see that giant group of people over there?” She points out a crowd huddled on the other side of the auditorium, appearing to be watching Julian’s every move and swooning over him.

“They’re all wanting to play the role of Sweeny Todd’s assistant.”

“Let me guess: Julian’s playing Sweeny Todd.”

“Unofficially, yes,” Lizzy answers in a hushed tone. “He certainly has all of the traits of the character. The assistant is the most sought after role because in this iteration, they’re Sweeny Todd’s love interest and eventual partner in crime.”

“I thought Mrs. Lovett fulfilled that role.”

“In the classic, yes. This version is a sequel of sorts that answers the question, ‘what if Sweeny Todd didn’t die and instead managed to escape?’ So, he ends up traveling to and settling down in New York, where he picks up an assistant who helps him around his shop. He leads a normal life for five years until his daughter Johanna finds him and confronts him about what he did in London. The assistant happens to overhear their conversation and talks to Sweeny about it later that evening, and he or she—depends on who ends up getting the role—convinces Sweeny to pick up where he left off because there are a lot of corruption and starvation in New York.” Interesting. So, some artistic license has been taken with the story, which could either go really well or quite terribly.

“So, why do you think I would make a good assistant?”

“Because you’re the only person Julian’s noticed walk in here.” Before I can ask for Lizzy to clarify, a booming voice cuts through the chatter, and I’m forced to rush to the large group of people vying to play the assistant.

“Ladies and gentleman,” the voice rings out. It belongs to a tall, blonde man on the stage. “My name is Lucio, and I’m co-directing this play with the help of my dear friend Lizzy. Now, I’ve been told that there’s a long list of people wanting the role of Sweeny Todd’s assistant, so we’ll get that out of the way first. Will everyone fitting that description please step to the front of the auditorium and line up horizontally so that I can take a good look at each of you?” It becomes clear quickly that Lucio is pulling out the weeds before anyone even says a line, for he goes down the line and says no to the people he deems unfit for the role. A lot of it seems based on physical looks as he utter phrases like ‘too short’, ‘too fat’, and even ‘too ugly’ to a couple of individuals. By the time he gets to me, I’m finding it hard to swallow, but I try my best to not let Lucio know that I’m nervous. Instead, I look straight at him as he glances over every inch of me.

“Spunky,” he murmurs. I’m not wearing anything grand, so I wonder what brought on that comment. “I like it.” He moves on to the next person, and I hesitantly remain where I’m standing. Even though he gave me a compliment, Lucio didn’t explicitly tell me to stay like he did with the others still in line.

“Alright,” he states once he’s assessed everyone, clasping his hands in front of his chest. “So, for those no longer standing up here, you can either talk to Lizzy and audition for a different role or you can leave for the evening. The choice is yours. As for the rest of you, you’ll be ad-libbing your way through a pivotal scene in the play shortly. Julian, if you would hop on stage please.” Looking back at the seats, I see Julian sprawled out, as if he was right at home. He leisurely untangles himself and makes his way on stage.

“Bring out one of the folding chairs from backstage,” Lucio nearly barks at Julian. As Julian fulfills the request, Lucio tells us that we’ll be acting out the scene in which Sweeny Todd admits his crimes to his assistant.

“Julian will deliver the first line, thus setting the scene, but the direction it goes is entirely up to you. When I have seen enough, or if things are stalling, I will call scene. Remember, only one of you will get the role, so make a good impression. Julian!”

“Ready when you are!” Julian calls back. His voice is surprisingly smooth. The few times we’ve talked, he’s sounded a bit groggy, as though he needed more sleep. Combined with his tall stature, bright eyes, and muscular physique, it makes him quite the dream boat. I can see why so many people want to play his love interest.

“Excellent! You there. Pinky.” Lucio points at a girl with hot pink hair. “You’re up first.” Thank goodness. I did not want to go first. Lucio directs us to sit down in the second and third rows as he plants himself closer to the middle of the auditorium.

I must say, Julian is very good at improving. Not only does he know his character, but he’s also giving his partner opportunities to showcase their talents. Whether they take him up on his offer is another story. Some of them want to steal the scene, and others are using it as a means to flirt with Julian. Meanwhile, Lucio’s patience is slowly growing shorter as no one seems to be exactly who he’s looking for. He’s given everyone nicknames, some of them unflattering as time wears on. Fortunately for me, he calls me Spunky.

When I sit down on the chair on stage, I close my eyes and take a deep breath, envisioning the scene I’m about to play in my head. If this is a pivotal part in the play, then it needs to be full of suspense and drama. Just like that, a plan’s in place.

“Ready?” Julian whispers as I open my eyes back up. I nod my head, and he utters the opening lines.

“Elise, what you heard my daughter say is true. I am—well, was—the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. I murdered countless people. Judges, doctors, lawyers, even my own wife. I ran away from London because I didn’t want to get caught, but the truth is all of those people either deserved to die or were wishing for death to be bestowed upon them. I was simply doing the world a favor.”

“I don’t believe you,” I reply. There’s a fleeting moment where Julian’s caught off guard, but he quickly recovers.

“Oh, really? And why’s that, dear?”

“How am I supposed to believe that the same man who constantly stubs his toe on furniture and smiles at everyone that he meets is capable of ruthless, calculated, cold-hearted murder? For God’s sake, you can’t even walk into a room without making some sort of mess! You’re always relying on me to keep the shop tidy, and I feel like someone who was into killing people would be able to neaten things up themselves.” Julian sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls out a pencil.

“So, you don’t believe I have it in me to be a murderer.”

“No, I don’t.” The next thing I know, Julian’s leaning over me, his face inches away from mine and his pencil hovering over my nose.

“Let me tell you something, darling; this tool has helped me make my way up the social chain. No matter how rich a man is, there comes a day where he needs a shave, and I’m the best there is.” He moves the pencil down and presses it against my throat while maintaining eye contact.

“There’s a certain amount of pressure that you need to apply in order to get a smooth, clean shave. If you don’t put enough pressure, you end up missing a few spots. Put too much, and well, you end up cutting him. Draw the knife across the neck fast enough, and you have a dead man suffering from major blood loss.” He presses the pencil harder against my throat to emphasize his point, making it slightly difficult for me to breathe.

“Shall I show you what I mean, Elise, or have I made myself clear?”

“I believe you,” I gasp. He immediately releases pressure and takes a couple steps back, smirking at me.

“Good. Now, if that’s all you wanted to discuss, then I suggest you head up to bed for the evening. We have a long day tomorrow.” He starts walking away from me, but Lucio hasn’t yelled for the scene to end, so I assume that I have to keep going.

“Why America?” Julian stops in his tracks and turns to face me.

“Pardon?”

“Why did you flee to America of all places? You could have easily traveled to France or Italy, but instead you chose New York.” Julian sighs.

“Like I said, I didn’t want to get caught. I wanted to start a new life, and word travels quicker from England to other countries in Europe than it does from England to America. The two countries are separated by an ocean, after all.”

“Have you ever thought about doing it again?”

“Doing what again?”

“Using your profession as a means of…extermination.”

“Elise, I was in a really dark place when I executed that plan in London. I’m not the same person I was five years ago, and if I were to do it again, I’d be signing my own death sentence.” I get up from the chair and slowly walk up to Julian, worried that my next actions are going to make Lucio end the scene.

“My father was killed by a drunk police officer who mistook him for another man, and my mom was raped and beaten by the judge overlooking the case.” I gently place my fingers around his chin and stand on the tips of my toes, bringing my face closer to his.

“The rich and powerful are just as evil and corrupt in New York as they are in London, Mr. Todd. They get to do whatever they want with impunity, even if it costs the lives of innocent, hardworking people. Someone has to make them pay for their crimes, or their offspring will continue being monsters among the human race. Is that something you’re willing to live with?” Julian looks like he’s beginning to run a fever at this point with his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes. I plant my feet back on the ground and walk around him, heading towards an imaginary door.

“Good night, Mr. Todd.”

“Scene.” Even though Lucio’s voice is the softest it’s been during this entire process, the auditorium is silent enough for it to carry.

“Well, Spunky, I knew there was a reason I liked you. Congratulations, you have the role. Asra, you’ll be Spunky’s understudy, because you’re the only one that has as much chemistry with Julian. Everyone else who was auditioning for the assistant, you can either stick around and try for another role or leave; it doesn’t matter that much to me.”

I end up staying through until the end of auditions, mainly because I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to leave or not. Turns out, once all the roles were filled to Lucio’s satisfaction, he gave everyone a copy of the rehearsal times, so it’s a good thing that I stuck around after all. Plus, I got to watch Julian perform on stage. I must say, the way he carries himself when he’s acting is quite entertaining, to say the least.

Speaking of Julian, he practically runs up to me as I’m leaving the auditorium.

“Well, hi, Julian,” I greet him, surprised that he sought me out. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” he replies quickly, his words rushing together into a jumbled mess. “I was just wondering if you would maybe like to walk with me? Since we’ll be working closely together, I would like to get to know you a little, but it’s totally fine if you just want to be alone.”

“I wouldn’t mind a little bit of company.” Julian smiles enthusiatically, and it makes my heart race.

“Great!” The two of us walk outside and start meandering around.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten your name,” Julian tells me. “Isn’t that weird? We keep seeing each other around campus, and we even share a class together, but I don’t know what to call you.” Is Julian normally this nervous? He’s certainly a fast talker, and he’s rambling a bit.

“My name’s Carina.” He stops in his tracks and gawks at me.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah…” What about my name is making Julian awestruck? He doesn’t hate the name, does he?

“Carina was the name of a pet rabbit I had when I was younger. I’ve always liked how sophisticated and beautiful it sounded, and I thought that if I was to have a little girl, she would be called Carina.” He takes a momentary pause and shakes his head before adding,

“Then again, naming a child after a childhood pet isn’t exactly normal.” He continues walking, and I kind of have to jog to catch up to him.

“So, Julian, how long have you been acting? You looked like a professional on stage.” The compliment makes him flush.

“I’ve been acting since I was about five,” he answers softly, avoiding my gaze. “It started with children’s theater and stuff like that, but when I was ten, I attended my first summer drama camp, and my love for acting has grown ever since. Lucio ran the camp, you know. Has for many years.” I had no idea Lucio and Julian had that much history together.

“Do you like working with Lucio?”

“He’s very passionate about his work, which makes him a very intense person to be around. If things don’t go his way, he’s prone to throwing fits and screaming at people. Despite of that, he does manage to put together spectacular shows and treats everyone to a nice party in the end, so I would say working with Lucio is similar to a roller coaster. It’s both scary and exciting at times.”

“I see.” Julian finds a bench and beckons for me to sit down with him. Once we’re seated, he asks,

“What made you decide to try out for this play? Was it in order to get closer to me?” Before I can answer, he quickly backtracks.

“I don’t mean that in an arrogant way. God knows I’m way too insecure to think that way. It’s just that ever since Lucio accidentally let it slip that I would be the male lead in this play, I’ve heard people whispering about me all over campus, revealing to their friends what they would do to me if they got to play the assistant. To be honest, all of the attention makes me sick. I mean, I enjoy being in the spotlight when it comes to acting, but when I’m not on stage, I…”

“You just want to be left alone, don’t you?” Julian clasps my hand and nods his head.

“Well, Julian, if it makes you feel any better, I auditioned because I really enjoy the story of Sweeny Todd and wanted to see if I had what it took to get a role. That’s it. No nefarious intentions involved.” He visibly relaxes.

“Thank you, Carina,” he sighs contently. “You have no idea how much that means to me.” He brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it softly, making me look away and blush. This play is going to be interesting, to say the least.

I wish there was a way to describe how today’s rehearsals went without being vulgar, but when you’re forced to repeatedly act out a scene where you’re passionately arguing with someone that you feel unresolved sexual tension towards and from, the most mild way to go about it would be to state that it was like two animals in heat. I’m honestly surprised that Julian and I managed to get through rehearsal without tearing each other’s clothes off on stage in front of everyone in the auditorium to see.

You see, this scene involves Elise, the assistant, yelling her grievances at Sweeny Todd, which revolve around money and sex, and Sweeny shouting that those problems wouldn’t exist if she didn’t essentially tell him to become a criminal again. This of course makes Elise more angry at Sweeny, and the scene ends with her storming out of his room and slamming the door behind her. Lucio calls this scene “the beginning of the end”, because after this point in the play, their relationship quickly becomes toxic to the point where they want to kill each other.

Speaking of Lucio, he’s been a key player in creating the tension between Julian and me, because he continuously forces us to approach the edge of no return, but he never allows us to go over it, not even outside rehearsal. Julian’s trying his best to be a gentleman and abide by Lucio’s rules, but I can tell that he’s getting worn out by constantly pushing down anything he may feel towards me and only allowing those emotions to come out when we’re on stage.

I suppose that’s why Asra pulls me aside as soon as Lucio dismisses us for the evening.

“Carina, there’s something you need to know about Julian,” he tells me softly but firmly.

“Go on…” Asra sighs.

“He’s a bit of a pressure cooker. He shoves any feelings he deems undesirable down until he can’t contain them anymore, and then they explode out of him with no way for him to control them until they’re completely out of his system. And it’s not just feelings like anger or sadness; he can get quite horny as well.” Before I can even reply to anything Asra has said, he quickly adds,

“I’ve seen the way you two have interacted during practice, and I don’t want to see you hurt. Sure, he’ll light up your world, but only for as long as he has to act with you. The moment the curtain drops on the final performance, he’ll throw you away like the burnt match you’ve become while spending time with him.” So many questions zoom through my brain, but right as I pick one to ask Asra, Julian walks to us and practically drags me away from him with a fake smile plastered on his face.

“Did something happen between you and Asra?” I ask Julian as we walk outside the auditorium.

“It’s a long story,” Julian mutters scornfully.

“I don’t have anywhere I have to be, so spill.” Julian stops and turns to face me, grabbing my hand as he does so.

“Carina, there are just some things that are best left in the past. Let’s just say that Asra and I aren’t the best of friends.”

“Why?”

“Why do you care so much?” Julian’s voice gets a bit nastier and louder, making me feel defensive.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I nearly shout sarcastically. “It’s not like anyone would get curious if someone told them that a friend of theirs treats people like they were pieces of trash to be disposed of at the first opportunity.” Julian’s eyes briefly widen in shock before decisively narrowing in anger.

“Maybe some people are trash. You try your best to hold on to them because they mean a lot to you, but in the end you have to cut ties before they hurt you.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Julian?”

“I’m talking about Asra!” We’re both yelling at this point. “He’s always painting himself as the victim, and he never acknowledges any of his wrongdoings!”

“What?!” Julian lets go of my hand to pinch the bridge of his nose in order to calm himself down.

“Look, if you want to know the truth, you’re not going to get it from either Asra or me, because we both were self-centered at the time.”

“Then who does know the truth?”

“Why don’t I have you meet her?”

As it turns out, the girl in question happens to be in an apartment Julian lives in. Initially, I thought she was the short, plump, red-headed individual who greeted us when we stepped inside, but then she quickly dragged Julian away, talking excitedly about finally having a subject for the painting she was working on. Before I know it, a door slams, and I’m left alone.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable?” a smooth, female Indian voice tells me, making me jump out of my skin. When I recover from my shock, I find myself face-to-face with a regal-looking woman. She’s just wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but her face looks very queenly. I follow her request and sit down in one of the chairs in the kitchen, which is the first room you’re in when you walk inside the apartment.

“You must be Carina,” the woman states, pouring hot water into two mugs and putting in tea bags. “Julian’s told me a lot about you, so I figured it was only a matter of time before he brought you over. I’m Nadia.” She walks over to the table and sits in the chair next to me, handing me a mug as she does so.

“How do you know Julian?” I nervously ask. There’s something about her that tells me that I’d do well to not piss her off.

“In simple terms, I’m a friend of his who’s mentoring his sister. She was the one that you saw first.” I take a sip of tea.

“What about in complex terms?” Nadia smirks at me.

“You’re clever. Julian could stand to be around someone like you.”

“Thank you,” I reply shyly.

“I’m Julian’s…unofficial therapist, you might say. Then again, I’m kind of everyone’s unofficial therapist, except for Portia. Julian’s sister,” she quickly adds upon seeing the confused look in my eyes. “Anyway, I deal with secrets. Secrets that can either bring people together or make them despise each other.”

“How do you do that?”

“Why, I talk to people. I listen to them, note anything interesting, and pass it along to whoever’s interested in it, for a small fee. Speaking of which, I’m sure there’s something you’d like to ask me. I have a feeling Julian didn’t bring you over here just to meet his sister and her teacher.” I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

“I don’t know if you would be able to answer this, but something happened earlier this evening that raised some questions for me.” I quickly recount what Asra and Julian had told me after practice, and Nadia nods her head as I talk.

“To be honest, I’m not surprised,” Nadia responds. “Asra’s quite petty, and Julian can be melodramatic sometimes. They’ve both come to me complaining about the other, and I’ve seen their interactions with each other over the years, so I have a lot of information about the nature of their relationship. I just need one thing from you.”

“I understand.” Nadia smiles, making her look that much more like royalty.

“Good. So, tell me: how do you feel about Julian?” I nearly choke on my tea, and I feel my face start to burn up in embarrassment and something else, something more animalistic.

“I see,” Nadia replies to my nonverbal response. “You’re both pulled so taut that you’re about to snap.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Only because you both blush at the mere mention of the other. How hard has Lucio been pushing you?”

“We’re not allowed to be intimate off stage. We can be friendly, but that’s it.” Nadia sighs.

“Classic Lucio. Gets completely blindsided by Asra and then takes it out on you.”

“What do you mean?” Nadia proceeds to launch into the story of Julian and Asra. Apparently, they started off as rivals because Asra was jealous of Julian becoming Lucio’s favorite without even trying when he had to work tirelessly for two years prior just to get Lucio’s approval. The rivalry was one-sided, though, because Julian was blissfully unaware that Asra felt any ill will towards him.

When Julian was a sophomore in high school and Asra a senior, they ended up being the lead characters of one of Lucio’s original plays. Julian had shot up over the summer and was eight inches taller than Asra, which led to Asra developing feelings for Julian. This, of course, presented some internal conflict for Asra up until Julian had expressed interest back. From there, their relationship burned bright and fast.

Things between them started going downhill quickly when Asra would manipulate Julian into doing sexual things that Julian most likely wouldn’t have done on his own and Julian would either get super clingy or super distant. Nadia had tried to get them to work things out, but as soon as the final show ended, Julian broke up with Asra and ghosted him as much as he possibly could.

“So, why exactly would Asra care about my wellbeing if he really doesn’t care for Julian?” I ask Nadia once she’s done with her tale.

“Well, once Asra and Julian broke things off, Julian developed the habit of getting romantically close to his costar only to drop them once the production was over. Since you’re pretty new to the acting world, Asra wouldn’t want your experience to be soured by anything Julian does. At least, that’s what he’s told me.”

“But?” Nadia smirks knowingly.

“You’re the first person since Asra that’s made Julian…I don’t want to say lovestruck, because that sounds overdramatic, but maybe pleasantly nervous.”

“Really?” She nods her head.

“If you stay over here long enough this evening, Julian’s bound to show you what I’m talking about.”

Julian’s managed to contain himself, all things considered. His sister Portia kept teasing him about me, Nadia awarded her with smirks, smiles, and some extra dessert, and it seemed like every other commercial on TV was based on a cheesy romantic comedy.

But then Nadia leaves for the evening and Portia goes off to bed and Julian starts channel surfing only to stumble upon a show that featured a girl moaning loudly as a guy’s using his dick like a jackhammer to drill an additional hole into her.

That’s when I can tell that some frayed strings in Julian are snapping. His face becomes flushed, his eyes dilate with a mixture of shock, horror, and arousal, and his mouth’s agape at the scene unfolding in front of him. I myself am having a difficult time keeping my composure, but I’m able to remain sane long enough to gently take the remote from Julian’s hand and shut the TV off. In a blink of an eye, my hand replaces the remote as Julian turns his body so that he’s facing me.

“C-Carina,” he stammers. “I…I’ve been trying so hard, and I—” As quickly as he grabbed my hand, I place my index finger on his lips and lean close to him. Somehow, his face becomes even redder.

“Julian, what do you want to do to me?”

“I don’t know if I should—” I cut his sentence abruptly by clamping my hand over his mouth.

“Just nod or shake your head, okay?” Julian nods his head, his gray eyes sparkling in the living room light.

“Do you want to kiss me?” Nod.

“Do you want to make out with me?” Nod.

“Do you want to run your hands all over my body?” Nod.

“Do you want to leave bites all over me?” A more hesitant nod.

“Do you want to do to me what the man on the screen did to that girl?” A very slow, almost ashamed nod, but a nod nevertheless.

“I want you to listen to me, Julian, because I’m only saying this once. When I remove my hand from your mouth, I want you to do me on this couch. You can go as rough or soft as you want, but I don’t want you to stop until you’ve orgasmed. I don’t care what Lucio’s going to say when he sees us at our next rehearsal; his decisions have pulled you so taut that you’re snapping right in front of me as we speak. Do you understand?” After a moment of serious contemplation, a quite shy nod.

“I’m going to count to three, and then I’m leaving you to do whatever you want.” Nod.

“One.” Julian swallows.

“Two.” Something inside me quivers in anticipation.

“Three.” Time gets jumbled for about five seconds, and when it straightens itself back out, Julian and I are at the other end of the couch; he’s moved on top of me and is frantically kissing every part of me that he can touch. I can’t really keep up with him, not that I’m complaining.

#thearcana #juliandevorak #portiadevorak #asraalnazar #nadiastratinava #countlucio #collegeau

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marveliciousfanace · 5 years

Note

Aziraphale and Crowley arriving at Crowley's place the night after the Apocalypse and sharing kissing for the first time? (Insinuating and/or showing anything or nothing that could happend after the kiss is up to you).

Thank you for the prompt! I’m definitely going to write more revolving around what might have transpired that night, but for now, have some sweetness and first kisses. This is my last ficlet of the night (writer brain is tired), but if anyone wants to send more to my inbox, I plan on doing more ficlet writing tomorrow.

___

Crowley’svoice was soft when he reminded Aziraphale about the state of the bookshop. Itwas softer when he suggested Aziraphale spend the night, and the two kinds ofsoftness were different, somehow, in a way Aziraphale understood even if he couldn’tquite explain it. They were silent on the bus ride back to London, seated sideby side, but when Crowley hesitated and rested his hand on top of Aziraphale’s,where Aziraphale was clutching his knees, the angel looked at it, turned hishand so his palm was up, and let their fingers thread naturally together. Theylooked at each other. They didn’t say a word. They didn’t have to.

Aziraphaleentered Crowley’s flat ahead of the demon with some trepidation. He couldn’t recallever having been inside Crowley’s flat, not this one or any other, despiteCrowley’s frequent visits to his bookshop. The entryway was dark and grey anduninviting in every way. Down the hall wasn’t any better; Crowley’s houseplantsmight have given it a homey appeal if they hadn’t started trembling the momentCrowley stepped into the room, and the low light made it difficult forAziraphale to see much at all.

“Livingroom’s through there,” Crowley said, gesturing farther down the hall. “I’ll bethere in a sec. Make yourself at home.” He disappeared through another door,and Aziraphale made his way into the living room, keeping his hand along thewall as he walked. He had an unnerving feeling that to let go would invite himto get lost in the gloom.

Hestubbed his toe on the sofa and swore.

“Language,angel!” Crowley teased from somewhere behind him, and Aziraphale whirled aroundand fell backwards. He landed on something soft but oddly uncomfortable. “Hangon,” Crowley said, and then there was light. Aziraphale blinked, and Crowleygave him an apologetic smile as he pulled his glasses off and stepped away fromthe light switch. “Sorry,” he said. “I like to keep the dimmers on low. It’s notusually a problem, what with the whole…” He gestured to his yellow eyes. Eyesthat could, naturally, see in the dark.

Aziraphalecoughed and cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s alright.” He pushed himselfupright properly and looked around. He patted the thing he was sitting on. “Er,what is this?”

Crowleywinced. “It’s a sofa.” He snapped his fingers, and the modern furniture lostits odd shape and sleekness, morphing into something a little more squashy andcomfortable. Aziraphale settled gratefully and Crowley took a seat next to him.He set his glasses on the coffee table. “So.”

“Indeed.”

Aziraphalecould feel Crowley’s eyes on him. He kept his own on his lap and, when he couldstand that no longer, looked carefully around the room. The décor was modern,he was sure, but it was far from inviting. It wasn’t cozy the way his bookshopwas. Used to be. Still, Crowley had shown a good deal of grace, letting Aziraphalestay, and he didn’t want to be rude. “It’s, er, very nice. Very nice place you’vegot here.”

“It’sawful. You hate it.” Crowley didn’t sound accusatory. He sounded like he wasstating offhand facts, although there was an odd note to his voice.

Aziraphaleswallowed hard and nodded, “Yes, alright, I do. How do you live like this?”

Crowleyshrugged and leaned back, draping himself over the sofa. “I don’t, really. Ispend a lot of my time out and about. Or, you know. With you. I only come backhere to water the plants and whatnot.”

“Oh.Then why-“

Anothershrug. “It’s stylish.”

Aziraphaleblinked. He looked at Crowley, who gave him an embarrassed smile. “I know. It’s…Idunno. I guess I’m just…well, playing at being somebody.”

“Playing?”

“Youknow. Acting.”

Aziraphaletilted his head and frowned. “Why would you have to act?” He liked Crowley justthe way he was.

“Because…”Crowley huffed. “Because I just do, alright? Being who I want to be…feeling howI feel…I can’t do that. It’s not allowed. So at least if I’m a flash bastard, ifI play at that, it’s sort of adjacent. I get to be showy. I get to feel things,to say things. I get to act like I don’t care. But that’s not…” He trailed off,sounding frustrated, and then said, “When I’m with you, especially these lastfew days, that’s the closest I’ve ever been to just being me.”

Silencedescended over the room as Aziraphale took that in. For as long as he could remember,Crowley had been a little abrasive with something of a devil-may-care attitude.But Aziraphale had also seen beneath it time and time again. And he’d seenCrowley’s desperation in the end times, the fear and the need to flee, and thedesire to take Aziraphale with him. Finally, Aziraphale said, “The world almostended this afternoon. I should think, if there was ever a time to simply…beyourself, now would be it.”

“Yeah.”Crowley sank deeper into the sofa cushion, looking morose. “You’d think, wouldn’tyou?” The softness was back, but it was couched. Careful.

Whenit became apparent Crowley wasn’t going to say anything else, Aziraphale said, “Thatday at the convent…when I called you nice…”

Crowleyflinched. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’tbe. I just-“

“Ipinned you to a wall, angel. And not in a fun way. Because you paid me acompliment.” Crowley sighed and ran his hands through his hair. It stuck up inspikes. “I want…I want to be nice. Not…not Good, Good is boring, but…I could benice, I think. Sometimes.” He chanced a look at Aziraphale, who blinked backplacidly, afraid anything more might frighten Crowley off. The demon was tense,like he was poised to run. “Not all the time. But…it would be nice. To be nice.”

Theywere on a precipice, Aziraphale realized. One they’d been climbing for a verylong time. Crowley was close, his thigh just a few centimeters from Aziraphale’s,but the demon wasn’t moving. He wasn’t letting himself.

Verycarefully, Aziraphale said, “You chose to run away from things.”

Crowleysighed, his head drooping. “Yeah. I do.”

“Youwanted to run from the apocalypse. But you didn’t.”

“Couldn’t,could I?”

“Becauseof me.”

Crowleylifted his head. They looked at each other. Aziraphale swallowed hard. “Thatwas why, wasn’t it? Why you changed your mind about Alpha centauri. Why you didn’tleave at the end. Because of me.”

“Yeah,angel. Because of you.”

“Right.”Aziraphale nodded. This was something he’d never done before, but he’d seen itdone often enough to understand the mechanics of it. He reached out and cuppedCrowley’s cheek. The demon looked up at him, surprise and uncertainty in hiseyes.

“I’dlike to kiss you,” Aziraphale said, very quietly. “Would that be alright?”

Crowleywas leaning in before Aziraphale finished the question. His fingers tangledgently in the angel’s curls and an arm wrapped around him, holding him close. Crowley’slips were hot on his, and Aziraphale parted his own so that Crowley’s tonguecould slide inside his mouth, mapping every inch of it. For all the heat, it wasnot a heated kiss, but slow and methodical and almost heartbreakingly gentle. Aftera moment, they broke apart, their noses brushing as they regarded each other. “Doyou know,” Crowley said, “I’ve wanted to do that for a very long time?”

“Ihave an inkling,” Aziraphale admitted. In hindsight, it was obvious. “I’m sorryI made it so difficult for you.”

“Yeah,well. If it was easy, it wouldn’t be us.”

“MayI kiss you again?”

Asmile curved Crowley’s lips, and his eyes flicked down just slightly. “You don’thave to ask every time, angel. Consider this an open invitation.” He kissedAziraphale again. And again. And again. By the time Aziraphale left Crowley’sflat the next morning, he had quite lost count. But that was alright. He had ahappy suspicion that there would be a great many more.

#good omens #ineffable husbands #my thoughts #my writing #honestly ill take any ficlet prompts they dont even have to be direct reactions to the show #the writer brain is hungry and bursting with words #sorry about formatting tumblr hates me #good omens spoilers

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sinesalvatorem · 6 years

Text

My Best Explanation of My Father

I think I’ve finally, finally understood the basis of my father’s parenting style. Which is also why I can finally articulate its fatal flaw.

My dad recognised that there are certain virtues you need to know, feel, and reflexively practice. Things like thrift, honesty, reliability, hard work, perseverance, attention to detail, and not complaining instead of acting. So, he did the obviously logical thing and tried to instill them in me through explicit instruction.

The thing is, virtues generally can’t be taught. Knowing about them is only part of the problem. You have to be able to feel that they are true. And that can only happen when they’re harnessed in the service of doing what you actually value. Of bringing about the satisfaction of your own purpose, rather than anyone else’s. Of creating the world you want to live in.

Which meant I didn’t immediately get them. I would have to act in the world until noticing the patterns in my own actions made them click. The problem is, he was terrified of the ways I might hurt myself if I didn’t know these things. So he didn’t see giving me the opportunities to make mistakes until they stuck as being the most important things he could be doing if he wanted me to Get this.

And, well, I just didn’t live in a world in which this was true. My time wasn’t my own, so I couldn’t use it to pursue projects that might fulfill me. Instead I had to use it going to school or doing homework or working in the garden or on otherwise externally imposed tasks.

But the problem is, not a single one of those tasks inculcated a sense of meaning in me, because none of them affected my goals. They didn’t contribute toward anything. It was clear from primary school that I would do as well in school whether I showed up every day and did all the homework, as if I showed up once a week and never took notes. I was once bumped from grade 5 into grade 6 for two weeks and followed all the lessons perfectly, despite showing up in media res.

And yet so many hours of my day were directed toward this. I had to take notes in class. Would whether I took notes affect anything about my education? Empirically, no. Would doing homework affect anything? Empirically, no. Would studying for tests affect anything? Empirically, no. Would going to class affect anything? Empirically, no. I’d even do just as well on exams, despite all of this.

Every single time I tested whether something adults were forcing me to spend time on affected my education in any way, the answer was always no. Literally the only things in school which affected the progress of my learning were having conversations with teachers and getting new books. Everything else was a distraction, and I knew it was a distraction. And once you know that, it’s impossible to value the thing anymore.

So I always hated being in school, and in addition to this had to deal with the fact that all my peers had it out for me. But this combination of experiences - meaningless dead time loosely related to learning, and constant bullying - was allotted a huge amount of my time by forces external to me. And when it wasn’t that, it was something else my parents had decided I should be doing.

Furthermore, at the time, I didn’t have a very secure sense of property. Most of my things weren’t really “owned” by me, so much as they were treated as being on loan from my parents. My school treated it as axiomatic that any student’s belongings could be taken by teachers, and the other students took it that my belongings could be taken because I didn’t fight back at the time. (That’s another essay.)

I also didn’t have much persistence for anything I owned. We moved a lot, based on my parents’ plans, so pretty much at random (from my subjective perspective) I’d have to choose which things I’d have to abandon to move to a new place. And, of the things I carried, some of them were on loan from my parents, so who knew when I might stop having them? In my early years, I cried a lot any time the things I thought of as my possessions were taken from me. Over time, I just realised I had to stop caring about my things, because they weren’t really mine anyway.

My father is quite familiar with classical economics. He knew that in societies where people have an insecure sense of property, they also don’t value labour. He also knew that I wouldn’t have had a secure sense of property and I didn’t value labour. In retrospect, I’m kicking myself wondering how he didn’t put these two together. Or, if he did, why he didn’t make the obvious adjustment.

(Things started improving in this vein when I started getting a weekly allowance, but definitely the best thing they could have done would have been to give me more opportunities to earn more money, plus a belief that I’d get to keep things I paid for.)

So, I lived in a world where most of my time was taken by others, and nothing I made or acquired persisted. So I just gave up on the outside world. Turned off and dropped out as far as external circumstances were concerned. Why should I care about anything going on outside of me? It wasn’t like any choice I made would affect it.

So, instead, I exclusively paid attention to the inside world. I thought and studied and theorised. I followed whatever was interesting until I could find cool surprises. I solved problems only when the rewards of the action existed solely in my head. After all, if I solved a problem in the outside world, there was no reason to think that I would get to keep anything valuable that was produced.

But I could always keep knowledge and carry it around inside me. Knowledge was the only thing no one else could take away, so it was the only thing I cared about. My father always thought I was a wuss because I couldn’t take even minor pain. But the problem was, I couldn’t take minor pain for no reason. What, you want me to do this slightly painful work that will have exactly zero benefit to me? Of course I’m going to complain!

Meanwhile, at seven years old I was coming in covered in ant bites every day, because I couldn’t stop performing experiments on ant colonies to figure out how they worked. The collective agency of ant colonies was fascinating, and anything I learned about them was truly mine. That information belonged to me; earned by my own investigation. And if I really was gaining something from it, I could endure however much pain being covered in fire ants brought me. Just not the stubbed toe I might get from doing externally-imposed work.

But it’s really obvious why my dad’s lifestyle contributed meaning and virtue to him, but his attempt to propagate it didn’t contribute meaning to me. His family was actually living at the edge of their productivity. Any work he did was really work that would contribute to all of them. If he built furniture, he’d sit on that furniture. If he planted crops, he’d eat those crops. His actions improved his world, so he identified with them.

My actions didn’t improve my world. The chores I was assigned weren’t actually at the edge of our productive potential. Important things weren’t left to me until late in my teens, so in the meantime any work I did was work whose value I’d never see. It would never provide anything to me. Even working in the garden was completely meaningless, because I didn’t consume any of the plants we grew (other than sorrel, the one thing I liked being involved with).

Nietzsche’s idea of master morality vs slave morality is really just about this. Master morality is identification with your actions, because their consequences belong to you. You act because it will bring you benefit, so you want to act. Slave morality is alienation from your actions, because their consequences don’t belong to you. You act to avoid punishment for inaction, but action itself doesn’t bring you anything but the absence of punishment.

And as a child I had a huge amount of slave morality because I had the circumstances that foster the subjective experience of slavery. I’ll call this experience of the world ‘slave condition’. I gradually shook off this slave morality in various areas of my life, but it actually only started coming off at home by complete accident.

In my mid-teens, my dad started assigning me work in the garden any time he saw me walking around unoccupied. This pretty much destroyed my subjective quality of life. Until then, the only place I’d gotten meaning in life was being able to pace and think, and now I wasn’t able to because any time I tried to use for that would be stolen. So I just became suicidally depressed because continued life no longer contributed to any feeling of gain. During this time, I eventually gave up on complaining when forced to work, and instead just started internally fantasising about death any time I was working.

However, I think he misinterpreted this as me somehow having acquired the relevant virtues that correlate with not complaining, when what had actually happened was that I no longer valued my life enough to argue for it. But after a few months of this, he started trusting me to have more control over my life. And then, the moment I was exchanging this otherwise meaningless labour for control over my own life, I suddenly became way more enthusiastic about working.

Which of course was the point at which I started acquiring virtue, and my father started trusting me more, and I started acquiring more virtue. A virtuous cycle, if you will. However, what this means is that basically the entire course of my learning to be a real person happened between 15 and now. I’ve had 5 years to become a person, because for the first 15 years I was in the stasis of slave condition.

And you know what’s the most horrifying thing about this? It was an accident! The ideal way of raising a child, it’s now apparent to me, is to give them as much power to control their lives as possible - within moderate safeguards - while letting them keep or lose what they earn or squander. Basically, putting them in the master condition so they develop master morality. And then they’ll have all the virtue they need to succeed in the world.

Meanwhile, I was in the slave condition for the first 15 years, and so had slave morality. It’s only because my father accidentally pushed me over the edge from “low meaning in life” to “no meaning in life” and then mistook depressed nihilism for virtue once that I ever got placed in the master condition in the first place. And then I’ve spent the past 5 years trying to develop increasing levels of master morality.

But it is utterly horrifying that I could have just never made it due to this one simple mistake. The mistake of thinking that one must be a master to be allowed to be in the master condition, instead of realising that the master condition creates masters. I could totally be like one of my uncles right now if I’d either failed to get depressed or my father had been better at accurately judging emotions. I was saved by a coin toss. *internal screaming*

I mean, luckily enough, now I’ve got it. Now I’ve fully internalised that I can make my own world. Now I value working hard, because I get to keep what I work for. I love earning money so much - not even because of how much money I’ll have, but because I made that dollar. My life is on a clear upward trajectory, and it only took insights my father already knew, plus one that apparently he didn’t:

To truly value action, actions must bring value.

I expect this is still an ongoing problem, even now that I’ve emigrated. When I left, the only notable conflict between my parents seemed to be over division of labour. My father wanted my mother to do work she didn’t value, and thought she was lazy for not wanting to do it. But he doesn’t seem to notice that the things that bring value to him aren’t the same ones that bring value to other people. No one else in the family wants to work on the garden because the garden is effectively his hobby.

If you want people to be active and motivated, you have to let them do things that will actually improve their lives. You have to let them take actions that improve the quality of things they actually care about - not things you think they should care about. I hope my parents realise this in time for my younger brother to become a master on something other than a coin toss.

#tragic backstory #heroic growth arc #amateur self-psychology #mother visible

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thewritingfox · 6 years

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Soulmates- Chapter 8

Master Post-> https://thewritingfox.tumblr.com/post/174423752657/soulmates-master-post-first-draft

At last they arrived and Miss Cici excused herself to make a phone call. After getting lost for a few hours, it ended up being a sixteen hour drive. When they got there both boys unloaded what bags they had and collapsed on the couch in the light blue and black painted sitting room. “This house is HUGE, and it looks like a mix between modern and straight out of a fairytale.”

“It’s been in his mother’s family since early settlers. Her family snuck on the Mayflower and to avoid being captured and hung by those crazies they fled into the woods as far as they could until they figured they were safe and built this place. It’s been burned down a few times, and every few generations it got remodeled. She decided she wanted to restore it as best as she could, but also update it at the same time. I think it was disguised as a plantation at one point and helped hide escaped slaves, though I could be wrong.”

“Wow, that’s incredible!” Roman gaped. Virgil nodded in agreement.

“It’s like time just stopped here.” She mumbled as she walked over to the dusty portrait of Virgil’s mothers hanging over the fireplace, smiling nostalgically. Virgil touch the lockets around his neck. He hadn’t thought of the two much since in years and he suddenly felt guilty about it. He was in their house, he’d destroyed their happy ever after. He shook the thoughts from his head, feeling tears spring up in his eyes. “I suggest we each take a guest room for the night, I’ll order us some chinese-” Miss Cici rushed into the room in a flurry of anger, grabbed her suitcases and stormed upstairs in the direction of guest room and everyone winced at the sound of a slamming door. Virgil stood from the couch and followed the sound of angry crying and stopped outside of a door.

“STUPID IDIOTS! WHY CAN’T THEY JUST UNDERSTAND?! THIS IS MY JOB! I AM PERFECTLY CAPABLE OF TAKING CARE OF MYSELF! UGH! STUPID BRYAN AND STUPID JAY! THEY DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT IT’S LIKE!” Virgil knocked softly and she threw open the door, the anger on her face melting away as she looked at the boy who she thought of almost as her son. “Oh hello Virgil. I’m sorry about all that! I just-”

“G-got i-int-to an a-argume-ment w-with y-your s-soulm-mates?”

“Yeah, they think that I should’ve stayed home with them and rested. But I had to see you off to college and I have to take care of your aunt.”

“R-rested?” She grimmiced.

“Well, I suppose I can’t hide it much longer. The boys and I decided we should have a kid and they’re worried that working will kill the baby.”

“O-oh!”

“Yeah, and I know stress is bad, but this job is the opposite of stressful! All I do is a few chores, play games with your aunt, and make sure to administer her medicines on time.”

“Y-you kn-know I-I n-never w-was t-tol w-what’s w-wrong w-with h-her. A-all I kn-know i-is sh-she’s r-really s-sick.”

“Oh boy,” Cici said nervously as she scratched the back of her neck. “To put it simply, she’s dying, very slowly. It’s something that happens after your soulmate dies, you slowly start dying. Most die almost instantly, but something in your two sides of family seems hellbent on continuing to live, but the result is a very slow and painful death, and it doesn’t help that she is killing her body with all the smoking and drinking she does. She’s just causing herself more pain. The medicines help ease her pain and keep her alive, though even they won’t be able to help forever…”

“O-oh… oh w-wow…”

“I know,” she sighed. “A lot of information to take in at once.”

“Y-yeah…”

“But, hey, she’s a stubborn one! I bet she can make it to a hundred and be the oldest living survivor of soulmate death, just to spite the doctors telling her she’ll die! And didn’t you say that Roman said that the other two lived nearby?”

“Y-yeah. Th-though w-we d-don’t kn-know m-much e-else. P-Pat c-can’t d-decide w-what h-he w-wants t-to d-do i-in l-life a-and L-lo j-just w-want-ts t-to l-learn e-ever-ry-th-thing he c-can.”

“Lo sounds like a smart boy.”

“F-from w-what I kn-know he is. K-keeps t-to h-hims-self f-for the m-most p-part.”

“Hm… We should probably head downstairs, your aunt will be ordering Chinese soon.” Virgil nodded and stood with her and went downstairs together and found Roman had taken his bags and aunt Mabel’s to some guest rooms while she was on her laptop trying to find a chinese place that she found satisfactory. Virgil asked her for some pot stickers and orange chicken, then grabbed his bags and went in search of a spare room to put his stuff.

The room he chose was next to the room he and his mother had practiced art in so many times when he was little, and was dark and dull in comparison. All of the furniture was made out of mahogany and had plain white sheets and a white duvet. He set his suitcase on the bed and watched it sink deep into the memory foam. He laid back on the bed and took off the necklace and looked at his mothers. He wondered what they’d think of him. Would they be proud? Happy he was back home? Or going to their school? He knew he’d never actually know. He started to drift off to sleep when he heard a loud thump and then profuse swearing coming from the next room. He stood to investigate.

He found the next bedroom over’s door slightly ajar and spotted Roman sprawled unceremoniously on the floor, rubbing his head. “Well, brilliant!”

“R-Ro? W-what ha-happened?!”

“Oh I just stubbed my toe and then tripped.” Virgil tried to cover up his laughter, but failed miserably. “Yeah I know, utterly brilliant of me! Thank Virge!” Virgil suddenly became very serious and grabbed Roman’s hand and almost effortlessly lifted Roman off the floor, “accidently” pulling him a little too hard, so Roman was now in his arms. Virgil smirked but then his face turned to concern and lightly touched the spot where Roman had hit his head. Virgil could tell it hurt a lot, but he wasn’t concussed. “V-virge?” Roman stuttered sheepishly. Virgil could feel Roman’s breath on his chin, suddenly noticing how much taller than the boy he was when he stood straight then realized just how close Roman was. He blushed and pushed Roman back softly then went back to his room before softly closing the door. He grabbed a pillow off the bed and started pacing before sinking against the door. He pressed his face into the pillow. He buried his face deeper into the pillow as his face got redder. Their faces had been so close, and now all Virgil could think of was Roman’s cute face. He didn’t realize he’d started screaming into the pillow until his throat hurt. From somewhere in the house he heard someone calling his name, saying that food was there, but he found himself unable to move for a few more minutes before uncurling himself from the ball he’d formed to go down and eat the warm food that was waiting for him. As he settled down and looked at his family, he smiled softly thinking about how lucky he was.

TAG LIST:

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#roman sanders #virgil sanders #sanders sides #thomas sanders #logan sanders #patton sanders #soulmates #soulmate au #fanfic #fander fic #fandom

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accio-ambition · 7 years

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Hello hello hello! Welcome to a new week of @captainswanbigbang chapters and stories. You might notice that the rating on this story has risen. After some guidance from the CSBB mods, I aired on the side of caution. So maybe this gives you a little bit of incentive to see exactly why it's gone up. But it won't happen for a little while still. You know, after Killian shows up. That might count as a spoiler, but, c’mon, you knew it ws coming, didn’t you? Once more, a huge massive thank you to @sotheylived for betaing this mess of words and @shipsxahoy and @queen-icicle-fandom for not only reading through the whole thing but making great art to it. I'm still amazed.

Summary: Bouncing around with her son for the majority of her life, Emma Swan has told herself she’s happy in the city. It’s where the most camera operating jobs are, and that’s how she makes her money. But when an old friend calls her and asks for her help on a new project in small town Maine, Emma finds herself in a place she’s never been with people she doesn’t know filming a profession she knows nothing about. But when the captain of the ship she’s filming begins taking a keen interest in her and her life, she finds herself wondering whether she might just catch something other than fish. Deadliest Catch AU Rating: M Content warning: Character death, some violent situations

FFnet/AO3/Cover art/Snapshot art

Chapter Three

They make it into a road trip, not that they have any other choice. It’s not like she can afford to ship all of their stuff across the country, especially after the down payment she had to make on the house.

(To be fair, if she were to have a dream house, this would be as close as she could get to it. Slightly Victorian, three bedrooms, a view. It really is something else.)

She rents a U-Haul and they load as much furniture and as many boxes as they can into it on a Thursday night right after Henry graduates the fifth grade.

(Even on her deathbed, she will not admit to tearing up at that silly ceremony. He’s moving to middle school, not leaving the house and going to college.

Still, he’s her little boy and he’s growing up far too fast for her liking.)

It takes a lot of time and strength – especially the couch and their mattresses, she has Henry run to their neighbors and ask for their help – but the truck is full and her trusty Bug is hooked to the hitch, all ready for them to set off in the morning.

“How long is it going to take us?” Henry asks that night as they sit on the floor of their empty living room eating pizza.

She shrugs. “Probably closer to a week than not,” she tells him in between bites. “Depends on how much driving we do in a day.”

“You mean you do,” he quips back.

Emma makes a scrunchy face of displeasure. “I expect you to entertain me. No falling asleep for the entire ride.”

Smug smirk intact, Henry chomps on the last bit of his slice. “I promise nothing.”

They both sit in silence for a while, digesting and contemplating their next step in life together. At least on Emma’s part, memories of what’s occurred in this apartment flitter across her mind. Frequently stubbing her toe on that doorjamb, Henry sticking seasonal jellies on that window for the world below to see.

It’s not much, but it’s been a psuedo-home for them.

Henry breaks the quiet by standing up to stretch. “Can we stop at some famous places?” he asks.

Standing up beside him, careful not to spill any of her leftover crumbs on the sleeping bag they’ll sleep in tonight, Emma says, “That’s up to you. You’re going to be my navigator.”

His eyes go wide and he utters yes under his breath. “Perfect for Operation Pirate!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah,” she says through her last bite of pizza. Brushing her hands off, she nudges him toward the sleeping bag that awaits him in what used to be his bedroom. “You’re going to have to get a good night’s sleep to be worthy of my first mate tomorrow.”

(Although how she’ll sleep tonight as the captain of their vessel is up for debate.)

(She’s not going to sleep well at all.)

But still, Emma is taking one last walk through the apartment as the first rays of that hot Arizona sun hit her for the last time. She’s got hot chocolate in one hand and her phone in the other, watching for a reasonable time to wake up Henry and savoring these last moments alone.

And then it’s on the road. Phoenix to Albuquerque, Tulsa to Cincinnati, a brief hop around (and maybe illegally over, whoops) the border at Niagara Falls. It takes them about ten days, with all the stopping Henry has her doing, but it’s well worth it. When else are they going to road trip across the country like this?

When she pulls off the highway exit marked Storybrooke, Emma finally understands what David and Jefferson meant. Not even five minutes’ drive from the highway and they’re surrounded by trees. A couple more minutes and Emma watches as a sign welcoming them to town rolls past the passenger window.

It really is small. Smaller than she thought it would be, but somehow also larger.

(To be fair, she had no idea what she was expecting. She just knew that it wasn’t anything like Phoenix.)

There’s one stoplight at the entrance of town, flashing yellow. There’s the diner, a B&B, what looks like a handful of mom and pop shops. Absentmindedly, Emma wonders where these people get their groceries because Storybrooke doesn’t seem like the sort of place to house a Winn Dixie or a Giant.

She turns right at the next intersection, heading closer to the water. Her foot lets off the gas and the car slows to a crawl as Emma peers at the numbers adorning each house and mailbox.

The house looks just like the pictures, maybe better. The sun is setting behind it when she pushes the gearshift into park on the street. Surprising no one, Henry is conked out, his head leaning up against the window with his jacket balled up in the space between his head and shoulder.

Turning the truck off, Emma’s careful to be quiet getting out. She doesn’t want to wake Henry, number one, but number two, she wants some time to explore her new digs on her own.

The gate squeaks a little bit as she pushes it open. The third step up to the front door creaks when she puts her weight on it. Ms. Shoemaker told her she’d put a key beneath the welcome mat, and when Emma squats down, she finds the key in the exact middle of the dusty outline. Carefully, she inserts the key into the lock, turns it, and gently opens the door.

She’s got a house. A real bonafide house with a fence and a porch and a fucking welcome mat.

For a moment, she allows silent tears to roll down her cheeks, her hand over her mouth to hold sobs in. As a kid, this is all she really wanted: a place to plant roots, somewhere to look forward to coming back to at the end of the day. She had it for a little bit before Neal and now it’s come back to her somehow.

Right now, Storybrooke feels like the right decision.

After wiping her face and cleaning herself up a bit, Emma heads back to the truck and, this time, she doesn’t hesitate slamming doors and talking to herself. Henry’s got to wake up, which he does with a start when she sneezes while grabbing her purse.

“Are we here?” he asks slowly, stumbling over his words and rubbing his eyes.

“Yeah,” she replies quietly. She nods toward the house behind him as she adds, “The house is unlocked if you want to go look at it, but I thought we’d just call it a night.”

His jaw cracks with a yawn. “Good idea,” Henry grumbles, “Which one’s David and Mary Margaret’s?”

“To the right.” Probably. She’s kind of focused on going through her purse to make sure nothing fell out in between pit stops, but even then, when she hears the passenger door groan open, Emma instinctively tells him, “Be polite and knock on the front door. They know we’re coming.”

“Okay.” Emma hears him fumbling around and grabbing his backpack from his foot space before the passenger door slams shut behind him.

She follows suit, finding everything in her purse in its proper place for once, and closes the driver’s door. She inhales deeply, soaking in those last sweet rays of midsummer sun. It had been staring her in the face all day, burning her eyes more often than not, but after a long day of driving, it’s relaxing.

Still, all Emma wants is some food, a shower, and sleep. Lots of it.

Thankfully, living next door to friends makes that easy.

Emma’s pulling her and Henry’s bags from the Bug when she first hears the squeals. She barely has time to turn around before arms wrap around her shoulders and pull her into a tight hug.

“You made it!” Mary Margaret says in her ear, moving them back and forth. “I’ve been worried sick about you.”

Chuckling, Emma drops the bag she’s holding and returns the embrace. “I texted you when we were in Portland.”

“I know, but you’ve been driving for days, so I know it’s probably been tough.” With a contented sigh, Mary Margaret releases her from her grasp and pulls back to observe her. Even when they barely knew each other, Emma always felt like the other woman eyed her up and down like a mother would: made sure her clothes were clean and sturdy, her hair washed, her stomach satisfied. “Are you guys hungry? Do you want to start unpacking?”

“I don’t know about the kid, but I could use some food and a shower.”

Fully embracing that mothering nature of hers, Mary Margaret picks up Henry’s bag and begins to usher her up and into her home. “David’s just finishing up the spare room. I hope Henry doesn’t mind sleeping on a hideaway in the office.”

“He’s ten, his back will recover from it if necessary,” Emma says with a laugh. She heaves her own bag over her shoulder and takes a step away from Mary Margaret to head back to her house. “I’ve got to lock the place back up, but I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that.” The way her friend waves off the idea of safety - although there isn’t anything in the house right now, Emma still doesn’t want people going into it uninvited - appalls her. Mary Margaret glances back at her once she reaches the gate and shakes her head good naturedly. “People in town don’t really do that, especially for buildings they know aren’t lived in.”

Cautiously following her, Emma narrows her eyes. “Do people know that we’re going to live there?”

Mary Margaret nods. “They know someone is. Not you specifically,” she clarifies. She looks back at Emma again, at her raised brows and general air of confusion about her. Mary Margaret shrugs. “It’s a small town.”

“No kidding,” Emma scoffs under her breath.

Opening the front door, Emma is hit with the overwhelming sense of comfort. Before she even takes a complete step into the house, she can smell something delicious wafting out the door. It’s vaguely reminiscent of late night study sessions at the 24-hour diner near campus, of rocking Henry to sleep in his bucket carseat while trying to catch up on what she missed while incarcerated. It’s comforting and a little bit stressing, but overall relaxes Emma.

Actually making her way into the house, she spots the blanket she used to wrap herself in on the few occasions she hung out at Mary Margaret’s over the back of the couch. She recognizes a picture hanging on the wall in the entryway: it’s a picture of David grinning wide at a laughing baby Henry, her son’s eyes squinted closed in pure joy. She remembers taking that picture, one evening while the two of them tried to study for a test. Henry had been crying since they sat down, keeping them from doing anything, and didn’t stop until David picked him up and started making funny faces.

It’s comforting. It’s home. Not hers - her new home is approximately 150 feet to the left - but what she felt was home for the first time in that big city all on her own.

Her moment of reverie comes to a halt when David comes clunking down the stairs to her right. She looks up, smile already across her face in preparation for seeing the man who’s the closest thing she has to a brother in her life.

“Emma!” He wraps her up in a warm hug before he even reaches the bottom step. “Glad to see you made it across the country in one piece.”

“Yeah, there were some close calls there,” she jokes. Nodding toward the second level, she asks, “Where’s Henry?”

“He’s upstairs in the office settling in.”

“Did he ask you for the wifi password?”

“No, but I gave it to him anyways.” David claps her on the back and ushers her toward the kitchen, wrapping his arm around her shoulder as she wraps hers around his waist. “That’s how kids function these days, if Mary Margaret’s to be believed.”

“I’ve got it on good authority,” Mary Margaret interjects, carefully pouring a pot of pasta into a colander in the sink. When the steam clears, she busies herself with checking the sauce on the stove and dressing the salad next to the sink.

She’s so domestic, Emma thinks, settling nicely into the role of Mrs. Nolan. The way that David leaves her side to gather silverware and set up the table without so much as a question shows he’s acclimated to the husband title quite as well.

(She’s happy for them, she really is, but it is a little bit sickening in the way that watching puppies and babies play for too long is nauseating.)

“So dinner’s nothing too fancy, but there’s a lot of it, so we should all have enough for tonight and then I can send you back with leftovers.”

“Oh,” Emma comments, caught off-guard by her friend’s thoughtfulness. “Thanks Mary Margaret.”

She slides the pasta into a serving bowl with a smile in her direction. “That’s what I’m here for.” With the pot of sauce in one hand and a ladle in the other, Mary Margaret points between her and her husband. “We’re here for,” she corrects herself. “Really though. Especially as you guys are getting accustomed to the place and the job. If you need me to watch Henry, that’s fine. I’ll be working at the summer camp soon, but he can come with me.”

All Emma can do is nod and mutter, “Thanks.”

David sneaks up behind her and surprises her with a brotherly kiss to her temple. Emma, unable to help herself, giggles. “And we’ll help you out tomorrow with moving things in,” he offers, walking past her to press a sweet kiss to Mary Margaret’s cheek before taking the salad bowl she’s holding.

Emma sighs in relief. “Great. Henry’s strong for his age, but moving that couch by myself was horrible.”

David laughs as he sets the bowl on the dinner table. “I can’t possibly understand why.”

“Are we ready to eat?” Mary Margaret asks.

“I was born ready.” Chuckling to herself, Emma steps to the bottom of the stairs, shouting up for Henry to wash his hands and make his way down, “or else I’m going to eat your dinner too!”

“Don’t you dare, Mom!” he responds quickly, sounding almost like a baby elephant trying to run for the first time.

Henry stumbles down the stairs soon after, barreling into the only empty chair left at the table. Together, the four of them eat in what soon becomes one of the happiest meals of Emma’s life. Henry and David hit it off immediately, trading smiles identical to the one hanging up only a few feet behind both of them. The Nolans talk about their wedding and subsequent honeymoon in the U.K., staying in castles and being treated like a king and queen. It’s nice to catch up with them. It makes Emma feel like she was privy to something she knows she has no right to be privy to.

The boys scarf down their food - second servings, even, in the case of her son - before quickly washing their dishes and scurrying off to the living room to watch some show David had DVR’d and Henry had been dying to watch.

Meanwhile, Mary Margaret and Emma stay at the table, talking and sipping at their respective glasses of wine until Emma yawns so intensely that it causes her jaw to crack audibly enough for her friend to hear it.

“Oh, I’m sorry for keeping you up,” Mary Margaret swiftly apologizes, her hand coming to rest on Emma’s knee in sympathy. “You must be exhausted.”

“A bit, yeah,” Emma admits. Another yawn surprises her and her one eyelid feels heavy with fatigue.

Standing from her seat, Mary Margaret grabs Emma’s hand to help her rise as well. “Here, let me show you to the guest room.” She leads Emma up the stairs, saying, “I know you’re pressed to move everything in, but don’t worry about getting up early tomorrow. Sleep in, take some time for yourself. We’ll take care of Henry until you get up.”

For some reason, Emma starts to tear up. She’s been on her own raising Henry for a decade that her friend’s simple offer to care for him is too much at this exhaustion level.

“Thank you, Mary Margaret,” she says graciously. Slowly, Emma opens her arms, silently asking for a hug, an offer Mary Margaret is more than happy to take her up on. “I know I’ve said it a million times since I got here, but I mean it.”

“You’re not alone here,” Mary Margaret whispers in her ear, her chin comfortably tucked into her shoulder. “This is the village it takes to raise a child.”

They linger in that embrace for a couple of minutes, Emma taking the time to absorb the warmth and homeyness that Mary Margaret emitted. Those tears from earlier threaten to roll down Emma’s cheek - fat drops that are completely unnecessary for such a happy moment. Sniffing, she finally pulls back and sends her friend a watery grin.

Mary Margaret mimics her smile, patting Emma’s cheek gently. “Sleep well, Emma. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah, see you in the morning,” she mumbles back. Stepping into the guest room, Emma happily falls onto the mattress and sinks into oblivion, traveling clothes and all.

#cs ff #csbb #captain swan big bang #ouat #storytime #my words #and now we say hello to mary margaret and david!#lowkey mom and dad of the story #not at all lowkey #but like #i love their dynamic #and emma missed them a lot

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dae-vil · 7 years

Text

How-To: Cake 101

Member: Kang Daniel

Genre: Father!AU, birthday scenario

Warnings: None

Daniel scratched the back of his head, looking at the recipe he found on the internet. “How-To: Cake 101“ sounded pretty legit, right? He read through the instructions quickly, nodding in approval. Looked easy enough to not mess up.

He put his phone on the kitchen counter, turning around to take his brand new “Kiss the cook“ apron, but it was nowhere to be seen. “I swear I put it here,“ a small frown made its way on his face as he heard suspicious laughter coming from one of the rooms. He followed the sound and stopped in front of the living room. Peeking in slightly, he saw Byul and Maya having a laughing fit while sitting on the floor with crayons and… his apron?

“What are you two doing?“ he asked, trying not to sound as shocked as he was feeling right now.

“Making it look pwetty!“ they answered in unison, giggling as they continued to draw random strokes on the fabric. A quiet sigh left Daniel’s mouth, but he started panicking as soon as he saw that apart from the crayons the two-year-olds also managed to find scissors and cut weird shapes into the apron.

He quickly took the scissors, ignoring the sounds of protest that came from the twins. “Where did you find this?“ Daniel asked with concern, moving the scissors to a safe place where his daughters wouldn’t be able to get them. Crouching down, he inspected both of them to make sure they didn’t cut themselves accidentally, and thankfully they were both fine.

Byul pointed to the table with a pout, “there,“ then she turned to her sister, speaking in some weird alien language only the two of them understood. Daniel checked the table just in case there was anything else they could take, but the only thing he found was some crumpled papers and a few pencils.

Well, there was no way he could use that apron now. At least it distracted the twins from any other mischief they could possibly think of, he’ll scold them later. After he had returned to the kitchen an idea popped into his mind – you had an apron as well! He looked around and indeed there it was, thrown over the chair in all its pink glory. Daniel put it on, his gaze wandering over to the clock and oh no, it was getting closer and closer to the time you were supposed to come back. In the morning he kind of kicked you out, sending you over to your best friend’s house to celebrate your birthday with her. In the meantime, he meant to prepare the house, set up decorations and make a homemade birthday cake, but all he did so far was take care of the kids.

Like the first step of the recipe said, he set out his ingredients, double-checking if he had everything that was needed. “Preheat the oven,“ he read aloud, moving over to do exactly what he said. Daniel continued to follow the steps, finding it surprisingly easy. It didn’t take him nearly as long as he thought it would, and he was already decorating the cake. Once the finishing touches were done, he proudly wiped his hands on the pink apron while staring at his masterpiece.

“Daddy!“ he turned around, looking at the girls that stood in the doorway, „we’re bored.“

Daniel smiled his signature eye smile as he put the apron back to its original place and walked towards Byul and Maya. “Hmm, what should we do about that?“ he pretended to think hard, hands on his waist. “Oh! I have an idea! Do you want to hear it?“ he grinned at them, seeing their eyes lit up with excitement.

“YES!“ Maya shouted, jumping up and down as she tugged on Daniel’s pants. Byul stayed quiet, looking up at him with anticipation.

“How about you help me put up the decorations for mommy’s birthday?“ the response he got was loud cheering and more jumping around. Maya even hugged his leg in excitement, making Daniel nearly trip because he didn’t notice her, which resulted in Byul and Maya having another laughing fit while Daniel let out a chuckle at how cute they were.

He only gave them the easiest tasks such as “bring this balloon over there“ or “hold this for a while.“ On the other hand, Daniel was climbing on furniture to hang the streamers and the fact that he was slightly dizzy from blowing up who knows how many balloons didn’t exactly help him balance.

Once everything was done, without any injuries, he patted the twins‘ heads, praising them for doing a good job. “Now we just have to wait until mom gets home!“ just as he finished saying that sentence, the sound of the key being inserted in the door could be heard. He hurried over to the door, blocking your view just in time. You blinked in surprise, staring at Daniel’s chest for a few seconds until you looked up to see his nervous smile.

“I’m home,“ you said, hanging your keys on the key hook.

“Welcome home,“ Daniel answered quickly, still standing in your way with his hands behind his back. You moved to the left in hopes to walk around him, but he also stepped to the side, making it impossible for you to walk forward. You repeated that around five times, moving right and left and right again, but he always blocked the way.

“Daniel, what are you doing?“ you asked, unimpressed by his childish behavior.

“You need to wear a blindfold!“ he said, showing you the blindfold he was holding behind his back, shaking it in front of your eyes.

“You could’ve said that before we wasted 10 minutes of the day moving from one side to the other,“ you pointed out, hearing a familiar chuckle from behind Daniel. “Maya, Byul, are you two eavesdropping?“ you asked, leaning to the side to look at them, but Daniel covered your eyes with his hand, turning you around. You rolled your eyes, staring at the closed door as Daniel carefully put the blindfold on for you.

“I’ll lead you to the right place, so just trust me, okay?“ he asked, taking both of your hands as he tugged you forward.

“We’ve been married for years and we have two kids, do you think I won’t trust you to guide me when I can’t see anything?“ you asked sarcastically, shaking your head. “Just don’t let me stub my toe,“ you quickly added, knowing that the girls liked to place their toys all over the floor.

“Okay, don’t take your blindfold off yet!“ you heard as you stopped, Daniel’s hands leaving yours, making you feel less sure about your blindness. You focused solely on your hearing, hoping to hear something that could give you a clue to what awaited you. You knew that all of this was for your birthday, you weren’t that stupid, but you had no idea what Daniel actually planned. Was there some big party? Did he invite all of your friends? Are they silently laughing at you right now? Or did he bring something weird into the house? Perhaps you will take off the blindfold and find a horse standing in front of you. What if the twins are doing something they shouldn’t do and you won’t know because you have a blindfold on and Daniel disappeared somewhere? That thought irked you, and you lifted your hands up to touch the blindfold.

“Don’t take it off!“ you jumped at the sudden shout, your hands moving away from the blindfold as you held them in the air.

“I’m not,“ you shouted back, not sure if Daniel actually saw you trying to take it off or if that was just pure coincidence. It served it’s purpose though, you didn’t try anything after that.

A few minutes of silence passed by and your mind started to wander to the possible outcomes of today again. “No, let’s do it like this!“ Maya’s voice startled you. It was followed by a lot of shushing, and you hoped that you will be able to see what this is about soon. Two jump scares were enough for you.

“You can take it off!“

“Finally,“ you mumbled, quickly throwing the fabric to the ground as your eyes adjusted to the bright light.

Your hand was instantly covering your mouth that opened in surprise. In front of you, Daniel was holding a cake in one of his hands while the other secured the twins on his shoulders. Yes, his shoulders were so broad that he could have a small child sitting on each of them. Around you, there were tons of decorations that surely must’ve taken a long time to put up.

“Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday to you~ Happy birthday dear (Y/N)! Happy birthday to you,“ Daniel sang, Byul and Maya somehow following along, the eye smiles they inherited from their dad plastered on their faces. Daniel put the cake on the table, pushing you closer to it. You were still frozen, staring at him with a soft smile.

“Make a wish!“ Byul said loudly as she watched the candles on the cake. That made you snap out of your frozen state, and you leaned closer to the cake. You closed your eyes as you blew the candles out, following Byul’s order and making a wish. Cheers were heard as you opened your eyes, staring at your family. You started to tear up, not able to hold it back anymore, you let the tears of happiness flow down your cheeks. You felt especially emotional this birthday and seeing this beautiful sight just pushed you over the edge.

“Mommy don’t cry!“ the twins ran to you as soon as Daniel put them down, hugging you as you crouched to their height. “Don’t cry, you should be happy!“ you let out a laugh as you heard that, wiping your tears.

You didn’t even notice it, but Daniel disappeared for a moment, returning with a box in his hands. “Your birthday present, I, um, chose it,“ he said, handing it over to you as he cupped your cheek with one hand, wiping away your tears with his thumb. You smiled up at him, taking the present from him, your heart speeding up.

“LET’S HAVE A FOOD FIGHT!“ Maya shouted just as you were about to open the box. Terrified at what you just heard, you quickly turned around only to see Maya with a handful of cake, smearing it on Byul’s face who looked like she will start crying any second.

“MAYA NO!“ you and Daniel shouted in unison as you quickly put the present on the couch, hurrying over to stop the fight.

The emotional moment might have been ruined, but you could proudly say that this was the best birthday you had. Ever.

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