#on the other hand it is truly just. *gesturing wildly* why was this necessary. like i get diff formats etc etc but also. Why | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

jingyismom · 3 years

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Another twt threadfic import! Wangxian, 9k, post-CQL getting together Explicit, No Warnings POV switches wildly at will, and LWJ gets drunk but nothing happens at that point! Proceed for humor, tension, sweetness, and spice.

Anybody else think about what would happen if post-CQL, pre-relationship wangxian were traveling and Lan Do-Not-Indulge-In-Pleasure Wangji walked in on his very good friend Wei Wuxian...

...Indulging In Pleasure?

First, he would Run. Door slammed shut. Possibly colliding with a few walls while he tries to figure out how to Get Away to Meditate Immediately.

Wei Wuxian comes after him asap to apologize. There is a lot of overlapping apologizing, and little to no eye contact.

Maybe after, though, Wei Wuxian would feel a little...frisky. And a tiny bit defensive. "Lan Zhan, everybody does it!! It's not THAT upsetting!"

Lan Wangji cuts a glare at him. "Everyone does not do it."

Wei Wuxian suddenly has a lot of new things to think about.

(This is only ONE interpretation of Lan Wangji's relationship to self-pleasure...but it's a pretty fun one imo)

Wei Wuxian can't stop thinking about it. Has Lan Wangji really never...like NEVER never...is that. How could he even ask that? He can't, right? It'd be weird.

It Eats At Him. He loses sleep.

Coincidentally, so does Lan Wangji. They both lie awake at night in their shared room, very determinedly Not Thinking About the things they have learned.

Lan Wangji recites rules for hours trying to get the image of what Wei Wuxian looks like when he's doing THAT out of his mind.

Maybe, ages after Wei Wuxian thought Lan Wangji had fallen asleep, he hears him shift. It's a small sound but Wei Wuxian knows Lan Wangji doesn't move at all when he's really out.

"Can't sleep?" He says into the dark.

Lan Wangji takes a long time to answer. He's debating pretending not to hear. "No."

Wei Wuxian sort of thinks he knows why, but isn't sure exactly WHY why...like. Is Lan Wangji freaked out and disgusted? Is he confused? Is he...intrigued?

"It's because of the rules, right?" He asks instead. "It's a Lan thing."

Again, Lan Wangji takes a long time to answer.

It is only partly true. It is a rule, in a way. At least, that's how Lan Wangji had interpreted it when he was young. But it became a mixture of habit and shame, of self-disgust. And then after Nightless City, it simply did not occur to him. His body did not seem to work that way anymore.

He can't say any of that.

"Yes." It's not entirely a lie.

The horrible inconvenience of his body working that way, again, now, is another thing entirely. He does his best to ignore it. He does not want to address it. Meditation is his best friend once again.

"I really thought you'd started bending rules," Wei Wuxian muses aloud. "That's such a...specific one to stick to."

Lan Wangji has no answer for this. He honestly agrees.

After a pause Wei Wuxian goes on. "You never even thought about it? What about if you marry? Or what if you NEVER marry?"

Even in the oddly comforting unreality of the dead of night, Lan Wangji can't begin to discuss most of this.

"You said yourself no woman would want to marry me," he deflects.

"Ugh, did I?" Wei Wuxian says. "I suppose I did. Stupid. Anybody would be crazy not to want to marry you."

The silence after this declaration is particularly loud. Wei Wuxian covers it with an awkward laugh. "Anyway, I guess you probably think it's just another way the rest of the world is...gross. And...debaucherous. Huh."

Lan Wangji hears the self-effacement in his tone. "No. It is natural."

Wei Wuxian goes silent for a long moment. "Then why the rule?"

"It is...easier," Lan Wangji struggles to merge truth with the fib. "To deny one's—it is not a question of judgment. Do not worry, Wei Ying."

Wei Wuxian huffs. "I'm not worried, Lan Zhan." Well, he's not anymore. But then he processes the rest of it. "So. Then, it's less of a rule? And...more of...a...guideline?"

Lan Wangji says nothing. He's already said too much. He should be asleep. He should have pretended he was.

Wei Wuxian doesn't know why he's pushing this so hard. He can't make his mouth stop saying words, carried forward on a tide of morbid curiosity and an abstract sense of unjust wastefulness. If Lan Wangji is going to miss out on the natural pleasures of life, he at least wants to understand.

"That's a lot of years of dedication to a not-rule," he says.

Lan Wangji is silent, again.

"Must be difficult," Wei Wuxian insists.

Lan Wangji resists the urge to say both "it isn't" and "it is."

"You're not even curious?"

Lan Wangji is not. He understands the concept. Understands the truly unsettling ferocity of his own feelings, his own desire. Understands that some things, once begun, have a way of getting under one's skin and living there. The combination of these things is unthinkable.

"You could ask, if you were," Wei Wuxian goes on, unperturbed. "I don't mind."

This is not what Lan Wangji thought he meant. His mind is suddenly bursting with the most inappropriate of questions: mainly, horribly, "What do you think of, when you do it?"

"I would not," he manages to say.

"No, you wouldn't, would you," Wei Wuxian concedes. He is aware, distantly, that he is trying to cover up the acute awkwardness of being caught with his dick out with the hazier, less severe awkwardness of talking too much. It doesn't stop him. "You're not made of jade, but you do like to pretend you are."

He knows, immediately, even before Lan Wangji's sharp intake of breath, that he's said the wrong thing.

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I didn't mean that. I didn't." The silence is accusing, unforgiving. "I'm sorry. That was wrong."

Lan Wangji just lies there, silently blindsided. This is how Wei Wuxian sees him. Not as the bloodless statue of a man others see, but as a man desperately trying to realize that vision. And this...all of this, has only reinforced it.

"No," he says quietly. "You are right. It is easier."

"You keep saying that," Wei Wuxian says after a thoughtful silence. "Easier than what?"

This, Lan Wangji does not have the words to explain. There is no way to encompass the depth and breadth of it.

"It is time for sleep," he says.

Wei Wuxian chuckles darkly. "It was time for sleep ages ago. But alright. I can take a hint."

Neither of them sleep.

~~~

Days pass, and they do not speak of the incident again, though neither of them find themselves capable of forgetting it. The next time it comes up is completely by virtue of a series of accidents.

At dinner Wei Wuxian, in the habit of adding more food to Lan Wangji's bowl every time Lan Wangji adds some to his, does so without looking at what he is doing. When Lan Wangji hurries to douse the fire on his tongue with water, the nearest cup to his grasp contains something else entirely.

Wei Wuxian fortunately catches him before his head hits the table, this time.

When he wakes, bleary and unsteady, Wei Wuxian hustles him up and over to the stairs before he can get loose and wreak havoc. He learned his lesson the last time.

He helps Lan Wangji up to their room with an arm around his waist, and it's necessary but still feels a little bit like a violation. Lan Wangji does not like to be touched. It is probably a blessing that he won't remember this come morning.

Wei Wuxian is proud that they only stumble once before he figures out how to hold up the hems of both their robes with his one free hand, even with the distracting, warm weight of Lan Wangji's head on his shoulder. Once in the room, however, Wei Wuxian begins to regret his strategy of supervised confinement. There is nothing to do but sit while Lan Wangji stares at him, unfocused but intent.

"Lan Zhan...are you in there?"

Lan Wangji nods but doesn't break his stare. The room feels uncomfortably warm.

Wei Wuxian rolls his head back to look at the ceiling. Maybe a couple of petty crimes are worth ending this...but no. It wouldn't do to have rumors of Hanguang-jun vandalizing farms across the land. As funny as it would be, it wouldn't do at all. Wei Wuxian groans.

He stands and begins to putter around the room, pacing when that fails. Lan Wangji watches him with his silent, heavy gaze. The room really is far too warm.

Wei Wuxian unbuckles his belt to get rid of his thick outermost layer. Lan Wangji makes a small noise and laboriously turns himself around to face the wall.

"Lan Zhan? You alright?"

"Mn," comes the reply, with an exaggerated nod.

"What are you looking at over there?" He's irrationally half afraid Lan Wangji could start hallucinating.

"Away."

"A what?"

"Looking away."

"From?"

Lan Wangji glances over his shoulder, slow and shy, his heavy-lidded eyes falling on Wei Wuxian's hands at his belt.

The room gets warmer.

"Ah...hahaha...Lan Zhan. I'm just feeling a little hot, okay? Don't spit blood."

He takes off his belt. Lan Wangji faces the wall. When he shrugs off his long, thick vest, Lan Wangji starts wobbling, and it takes Wei Wuxian a confused minute before he realizes he's trying to stand up. He rushes to help.

"What now??"

"Leaving."

Wei Wuxian sighs. It has begun.

"You can't leave, Lan Zhan, it's late. Where will you go?"

"Outside." He's tugging insistently against the hand holding onto his arm.

"Okay," Wei Wuxian relents. He does sort of want to get out of this room. Get some fresh air. "Alright. Let's go."

Lan Wangji makes a distressed noise and tears his arm away. "Alone."

Wei Wuxian stares. "You can't—why?"

"Privacy."

"You—what do you need—" Wei Wuxian deliberately drops the question. "Sorry, Lan Zhan, you can have privacy in here, OR you can go outside. Not both."

Lan Wangji pouts. It's horrible. Wei Wuxian is not equipped to handle it. He opens his mouth to distract him.

Lan Wangji speaks first. "Not me. You."

"Me what?"

"Privacy."

Wei Wuxian's brain stalls, unable to follow Lan Wangji's logic. "What for?"

Lan Wangji makes a gesture at him that manages to be sloppy, elegant, and vaguely suggestive all at once. Wei Wuxian's face heats.

"I'm--I'm not. Doing. I wasn't going to do anything, Lan Zhan. I was just taking off one layer, see? To be more comfortable."

Lan Wangji blinks, unfocused, and sways. He's silent long enough that Wei Wuxian starts to relax and hope that he might just fall asleep. Which would be a blessing, given how difficult his heavy stare and softly parted lips are making it for Wei Wuxian not to Think Bad Thoughts.

Lan Wangji, however, is trying very hard to think thoughts with very limited success.

"Why?"

Wei Wuxian frowns at him. Which is bad.

"Why not?" He tries again. His words are not very good at present.

"Why am I not comfortable? It's a warm night."

Wei Wuxian is speaking slowly, like Lan Wangji is a child who does not understand such things. Lan Wangji frowns. He understands plenty.

He shakes his head and makes the motion again, the one Wei Wuxian understood. "Why not?"

Wei Wuxian is silent a long while, his face screwed up strangely. Lan Wangji wants to pat it smooth but knows he should not.

"It's..hah, Lan Zhan, it's not like people are always...you're not always...in the mood, you know?"

Lan Wangji does not know. He cannot, at this moment, conceive of not being at least slightly aroused. And besides there is nothing different now from the time he had seen—no, he does not think of that.

"Why?"

Wei Wuxian sighs. He almost looks sad. That's bad.

"Sometimes you're thinking of other things, or busy, or lonely, or..."

Wei Wuxian keeps speaking, but Lan Wangji has stopped listening. Wei Wuxian need not be lonely. He is here. He can help. He can help with this and Wei Wuxian will stop looking sad.

"Not alone," he says. "’M here."

Wei Wuxian stops talking, and smiles at him. Good.

"That's true."

Lan Wangji nods. Good. Wei Wuxian smiles some more, and shakes his head.

"Don't you think it's time to go to bed, Lan Zhan?"

Lan Wangji's ears heat. He would like to. He did not expect Wei Wuxian to ask. He nods and takes Wei Wuxian's wrist, pulling him toward the bed. Wei Wuxian makes an odd sound when they get there, and Lan Wangji looks down at where he's holding onto him, to make sure his grip is not too tight.

"Lan Zhan, I'm not sleepy," Wei Wuxian says. "You can...you can sleep though."

Lan Wangji stares at him with that same, open-mouthed stare. Wei Wuxian's own mouth is very dry.

"Not sleepy."

"Okay," says Wei Wuxian, jittery. "Maybe. You could just try lying down. And see if you get sleepy."

Lan Wangji looks at the bed. And then looks at Wei Wuxian.

"Not sleepy."

"...Okay."

Lan Wangji tugs on Wei Wuxian's wrist. Wei Wuxian's stomach lurches. He clears his throat.

"What is it?"

Unsteadily, Lan Wangji turns toward him. He reaches for the ties of Wei Wuxian's robes.

Wei Wuxian grabs his wrists and holds them away from himself as if they're on fire. A nervous laugh fights its way out of his mouth.

"Ah, Lan Zhan, I...I'm good. I'm not warm anymore. I'm fine. Happy. Like this. Okay?"

"Happy," Lan Wangji repeats.

"Yeah."

Lan Wangji seems to consider this.

Eventually, he relents, and goes to sleep.

Wei Wuxian sits up all night wondering if Lan Wangji was actually trying to do what it seemed like he was trying to do, and what it might mean if he was.

~~~

The time after that, it is Wei Wuxian's fault entirely.

It has been three days since Lan Wangji's accidental drunken night, and Wei Wuxian can't stop thinking about the intent in his drowsy gaze, or the brief second Lan Wangji's hands were at his waist. Every night when they go to bed, the room, the inn, are different. But the tension created in his spine by the memory of wanting and being so close but so far, is the same.

Wei Wuxian wants to drink.

But he knows that he probably should not under any circumstances get tipsy alone with Lan Wangji if he wants to preserve their friendship. So drinking is out. But he needs...he feels like he's going crazy. He needs some kind of...release. And it's been days, he's been too keyed up to try jerking off since The Incident. Plus Lan Wangji has just always been nearby. Which is great, actually, he would gladly go on forever this way, but it's also not ideal when being around him at all has been getting him half hard with no way to take care of it.

But they're two mature adults. They fight monsters every day. Wei Wuxian has been dead for crying out loud. It shouldn't be hard to ask for some privacy. It's understandable that he should need some, sometimes. Lan Wangji had seemed to understand even when he was drunk out of his mind. Of course he understands—Wei Wuxian has only gone a few days and he's starting to fray, imagine Lan Wangji going all these years without. Imagine if he ever did...it

would probably be. It'd probably be...really...

He doesn't think about it. He doesn't ask.

He decides to sneak off into the woods, instead. Except, when he gets up to leave, Lan Wangji gets up as well.

"Ah...are you. Going out too?" Wei Wuxian asks.

Lan Wangji blinks at him, and backs up a step in that unconscious way of his. "Apologies. I assumed, from the hour, that you had deemed it was time for us to eat."

"Oh. We could do that."

Lan Wangji shakes his head. "I would not infringe on your plans."

Wei Wuxian cringes internally. "You're not. I was just...I was just. Going. Out. To...to walk."

Lan Wangji stares at him with new suspicion. Wei Wuxian crumbles.

"I needed some privacy."

Lan Wangji's ears heat, and his eyes slip to the ground. "I see."

Wei Wuxian turns as if to leave again, and suddenly Lan Wangji realizes that he has nowhere to go.

"Stay. I will go."

"Ah, you don't have to, Lan Zhan, don't worry about it."

"Nonsense. It is more comfortable here."

He barely gets through the sentence once it registers what he is saying. What they are discussing happening in this room. His ears are on fire.

"Yeah which is why you should just stay here, comfortable."

Lan Wangji shakes his head and moves to brush past him.

"Or we could both say."

Wei Wuxian has no idea what makes him say it. He's playing with fire, and this was not the plan. But he keeps hearing Lan Wangji's sad voice saying it is easier. The loneliness in it. A twisted part of him doesn't want Lan Wangji to be left out in the cold. Literally or metaphorically.

Lan Wangji has frozen. He does not know what Wei Wuxian is suggesting. Does not want to assume. Does not want to even entertain the idea that he might mean—

"I don't mind if you don't," Wei Wuxian goes on.

Mind? Lan Wangji does not mind. That is not the cause of the white noise now roaring in his head.

"It's up to you. We both stay, or I can go,” says Wei Wuxian.

It is childishly manipulative, transparently so. On reflex, Lan Wangji cuts a glare at him, but quickly looks away. It feels lewd to look at him at all, just now.

"You could...play a song, or something, if..."

Lan Wangji has to look at him then. He wants him to play for him while he...while he...

Wei Wuxian's face scrunches up. "That...that's probably. This is probably weird. You probably don't want to be aware of—this was weird. Forget it. You can go, I can go. I just thought you might not mind, since—"

He cuts off as if he's said something he didn't mean to.

"Since?" Lan Wangji prompts. He has no idea where the sentence was meant to lead.

"Ah..." Wei Wuxian rubs the back of his head. "That night you drank my wine," he starts.

Lan Wangji's stomach drops.

"Ah, it's nothing bad!" Wei Wuxian hurries to say. "Don't look so upset."

"What did I say?"

Wei Wuxian has been acting distant the last few days. This explains everything. He must have said something untoward. Unacceptable.

"You didn't really say anything much."

Lan Wangji's alarm heightens.

"Did I—do—"

"Don't worry!" Wei Wuxian almost shouts. He can't handle the stricken expression on Lan Wangji's usually calm face. "You didn't do anything bad."

"Then what—"

"You...sort of. You. You wanted to help, is all."

Lan Wangji's eyes widen further. He looks absolutely horrified. Wei Wuxian wants to kick himself.

"I—it wasn't—"

Except it was sort of like that. But not in...not in a bad way. It was sort of...weirdly cute. He doesn't think he can say that. He takes a deep breath.

"It wasn't bad. Nothing happened. You just seemed...you weren't upset by the concept."

Lan Wangji stares at him.

"...But you clearly are now, so."

There is a long, awkward silence. Lan Wangji stares hard at the wall.

"It does not upset me," he hazards. He wants to be clear on this. Does not want Wei Wuxian to think him judgmental, or a prude.

"Okay."

"It is natural to require privacy for such things."

"Yes."

"Therefore I shall leave you."

"...If you like."

That strange opening, once again. The offer to...to share space, while he—

"What would you like?" Lan Wangji finds himself saying. His breath leaves him with the words.

"I'd like to know what really keeps you from doing it, even now."

Lan Wangji looks at him, shocked.

"If you just didn't want to, or didn't feel like it, that would be one thing," he goes on, "but that's not what you said."

Lan Wangji curses himself for speaking so freely, that night. "Why does it matter?"

Wei Wuxian frowns at him, thinking.

"Because sometimes, I think you find little ways to punish yourself. You don't deserve that. Especially not like this."

It feels like a physical strike, and Lan Wangji flinches from it. The worst part of it is that it might even be true.

"Pot. Kettle. Black," he counters.

Wei Wuxian huffs. "That's fair. Yeah, that's fair."

"So is your point," Lan Wangji is forced to concede. "Possibly."

Wei Wuxian's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, that...that's unfortunate."

"If you say so."

"We should do something about it."

The both of them go very still.

Wei Wuxian did not mean it to sound like such a pointed suggestion.

Lan Wangji does not know what to do with it.

Wei Wuxian laughs again, but it trails off pitifully.

"I didn't mean—" he starts at the same time Lan Wangji says,

"Alright."

They both snap their mouths shut.

Lan Wangji knows he has said the wrong thing, now. Knows he has given away a weakness, read the wrong thing into their situation, making it hopelessly awkward between them at last.

Wei Wuxian takes stock. It's rare for Lan Wangji to express himself like this. He can't shoot him down. He can't let that wounded look stay on his face.

"You could try it," he says. "I could...whatever you need." That sounds wrong. He tries again. "I could answer...questions. Or I could. Be moral support." Everything he says sounds stupid.

Lan Wangji is turning slowly pink. It's extremely fetching. Wei Wuxian can't help but try to deepen the shade, an old reflex.

"I could show you how."

It's a joke, and it's not. He meant to tease, probably. It did not come out that way at all. He can't take it back.

Lan Wangji thinks he should probably feel patronized, but his heart is thudding too hard for him to think clearly. He should say no. Of course he should. He knows what this would do to him, knows he would never be able to look at Wei Wuxian the same. He is already tortured constantly by the glimpse he accidentally stole. This would make things exponentially worse.

But at the same time, contrary to popular belief, he is only a man. How is he to deny something so close to what he has always wanted, freely given? No matter that it means nothing. He cannot quite refuse outright.

"I understand the mechanics," he says instead. Neither a yes nor a no.

Wei Wuxian smiles crookedly. "There's a little more to it than that."

This is somewhat of a genuine surprise. It must show on his face.

"Tips and tricks," Wei Wuxian says, "I know a few."

Lan Wangji can feel his face flushing now, hot and likely obvious. It is not a usual occurrence.

"I've had way more practice than you, you have to admit."

Lan Wangji generally tries not to think of it. "I suppose."

"Ah, Lan Zhan, are you mad there's something I'm better at than you?"

"Of course not," Lan Wangji replies, automatic. "You are very skilled at many things."

Wei Wuxian is grinning at him now. It feels more natural. He realizes he's been baited into relaxing somewhat.

"Alright," says Wei Wuxian, his grin fading a little, "if it's too awkward, then forget it. But the offer stands."

Lan Wangji feels very much pulled along by Wei Wuxian's current. It is a familiar feeling. He does the only thing he knows how to do any longer: he gives in.

"Alright."

Wei Wuxian blinks. In absolutely no part of his mind had he expected Lan Wangji to accept. He doesn't know what he thought. He wasn't actually thinking.

And now...

He. Well. Now he has to do as he said he would.

"Alright," he echoes back. "I...then. Alright."

It should be easy, in a sense. Once he'd become an official Jiang disciple and entered the dorms, it had become a necessity to tune out the presence of other people. But other people aren't Lan Wangji. And he can't remember anyone ever watching. That's certainly...something else.

He goes back into the bedroom, stripping off layers as he goes. He leaves most of them on—he's pretty sure this isn't supposed to be that kind of show.

Unless it is.

But it's not.

He turns to find Lan Wangji hovering, eyes averted, very much visibly embarrassed, and he has a very genius, very stupid idea.

As a teacher, he has come to appreciate that interactive learning is a powerful tool.

"Lan Zhan," he says, "learning by doing works best, sometimes."

"That is true," Lan Wangji says slowly.

Wei Wuxian shrugs. "Just an idea."

"Clarify." He does not want to misunderstand again.

Wei Wuxian fights his own blush at being made to say it. "We could do it at the same time. I could show you and you could try it. That way I could...you could. It might help."

Help what, he's not sure. He knows how all of this sounds. And yet here they are. He just can't stop himself.

Lan Wangji is having trouble deciding which of Wei Wuxian's suggestions should be accepted and which should be dismissed. He is unversed in what parts of this might cross the line of friendship.

But Wei Wuxian is offering. And in a deep, secret place, deeper even than his hopeless love, a part of him not only wants to see Wei Wuxian this way, but wants to be seen by him. He wants Wei Wuxian to have this part of him, whether he would care to keep it or not. He wants to give it to him more than he wants to have it himself.

"How?"

Wei Wuxian has once again not thought that far ahead. He scans the room, mind scrambling.

"Well. I...could sit. Here. And then you could also...you could sit."

He's staring at his bed, trying to think of a way this is not just him asking Lan Wangji to climb into bed with him. It occurs to him that's what he's been doing this entire time. He almost panics, but then...

Lan Wangji has been agreeing.

He looks at him again. Really looks. He's embarrassed, yes. A little lost. But underneath that, he looks determined.

For whatever reason, Lan Wangji wants this.

It settles the disquiet in Wei Wuxian. There's something Lan Wangji needs, here, and he's in a position to figure out how to let him have it. That's as worthy a cause as any.

"Get comfortable first," he says. "No Hanguang-jun allowed, this lesson is for Lan Zhan only."

Lan Wangji reaches up to take down his elaborate set of hair ornaments, and Wei Wuxian turns to consider the bed. It doesn't look very comfortable to lean on any part of it, so sitting is probably not ideal. It might be a hard sell, but he sees only one option.

"Lan Zhan—"

Lan Wangji is standing behind him, undone and soft. Smaller, without his tall hair and his billowing layers. Vulnerable. Wei Wuxian's heart does something complicated but familiar, and then picks up its pace. He'll have to tread carefully. To be careful with him.

"We'll just lie down first," he says. "Get used to that and go from there."

He expects A Look at the concept of getting used to lying down. But Lan Wangji only nods at the floorboards.

It's a little bit heartbreaking. Wei Wuxian is fairly certain a comforting touch wouldn't help. He stretches out and shimmies over to the side, as far as he can go to leave room. Lan Wangji only hesitates a moment before following suit. It's unfair how graceful he is, even in moments like this.

"Alright?" Wei Wuxian keeps his voice as soft and unobtrusive as he can.

Lan Wangji nods at the ceiling this time, his hands folded over his chest as if ready for sleep.

"It's really not a big deal, once you're used to it," he says, letting his mouth run. "It's like eating, or playing music. You figure out the ways you like to do it, and

try to get better at them."

He feels silly, giving a lecture on this, but he thinks the chatter is having the desired calming effect. Lan Wangji's breathing looks deeper. More even. But maybe he shouldn't be staring at him so much just now.

He turns to the ceiling, too.

"It's good to start slowly," he says. "Relax, get your body tuned into touch the way you want it to be. Don't just dive straight in."

There is a beat of silence, of stillness.

He actually has to do this now.

He takes a breath and pulls open his robes. Sets a hand on bare skin.

"Like this."

Lan Wangji can barely hear him over the rushing, pounding blood in his ears, in his mind, in his everywhere. He is aware of movement beside him, and the awareness that Wei Wuxian is undressing further, is bare, is touching himself, floods him with something like burning slush.

"Whenever you're ready," Wei Wuxian says, and the rustle of fabric sounds lewd in the silence. "Just touch your stomach or something. Ground yourself."

Hastily, jerkily, Lan Wangji unties his robes and tunic, opening them just enough to lay fingertips on flesh.

He cannot get enough air.

"When that feels nice, you can try something else. Like finding other places that feel particularly good. You know."

Lan Wangji has vague ideas. He does not really know. Does not think he could find them now, like this, strung so tightly.

"And whenever you feel like it, you can move on to more things. Or even The Thing, depending on how it feels."

Lan Wangji hears the slide of skin on skin. Hears Wei Wuxian's hand moving lower. The displacement of the waistband of his trousers.

He has never been so hard in his life. He wonders if it is possible to die from such a thing. He feels as if he might.

"How is it?" Wei Wuxian asks. His voice is breathier than it was a moment ago.

Lan Wangji feels dampness bloom in his own trousers. He clenches his fists and shuts his eyes.

"Lan Zhan?"

Wei Wuxian glances over, and sees the pained look on Lan Wangji's face. He stops the light, tentative touch he's been using on himself.

"What is it?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. Wei Wuxian frowns.

"We can stop this right now," he says. "I'm sorry if I pushed it too far. I..."

"No," says Lan Wangji. "You did not. It is not your fault. I should not have agreed."

"Why not?"

Lan Wangji does not know where to begin.

"I should have known I would not be able to."

Wei Wuxian considers this. "There's nothing wrong with not being able to...perform. Under pressure. That—"

Reflexively, he glances down at him, and learns with immediate, brain-melting clarity that performance is not the issue. The sight chokes off the rest of his words. He tries to compose himself. He’s supposed to be helping, not panting like a dog. That's just taking advantage.

"Or. Ah...Do you feel like trying to tell me what the problem is?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head and blows out a frustrated breath. "I am sorry."

"Don't apologize," Wei Wuxian says, resisting the guilt that wants to spring on him. He can troubleshoot this. It's Lan Zhan. He deserves to feel good. "Is it just because I'm here? I can go."

"No," Lan Wangji says quickly. "I will go."

"Lan Zhan..." Wei Wuxian says gently. "You can't go out in public like that."

Lan Wangji knows this. And he has had this problem before, to a lesser extent. He is very good at getting rid of it. Only just now, with Wei Wuxian's warmth palpable beside him, he finds himself unable to concentrate.

Embarrassment and frustration are rolling off of Lan Wangji in waves. Wei Wuxian casts about, desperate for a solution to the distress he has inadvertently caused.

"Lan Zhan, relax. It's only me. We have time to figure it out. Take a deep breath."

Lan Wangji breathes. It shudders out of him.

"Can I help?" Wei Wuxian asks.

He means it in a general way.

Lan Wangji's eyes snap open and fix him with a disbelieving stare, and he hears, then, how it sounded.

But Lan Wangji looks so...helpless. Almost pleading.

He doubles down.

"Let me help."

Lan Wangji stares at him with confusion just on the edge of fear. Wei Wuxian reaches out to hover a hand over his arm.

"Can I touch you?"

He sees Lan Wangji's throat bob as he swallows hard. He gives the slightest of nods. Wei Wuxian presses down on his bicep in what he hopes is a comforting way, and sweeps his thumb back and forth. Lan Wangji is so warm, even through his remaining layers.

"It's only me," Wei Wuxian says again. He runs his hand down to the fist curled tightly on Lan Wangji's stomach and gently pries it open. He wraps his fingers around his hand and rubs the back of it with his thumb until it relaxes. "It's just us. You trust me, and I trust you, right? Nothing to worry about."

Every word Wei Wuxian says is like another blade to Lan Wangji's gut. He should not be allowing this. In the name of trust, he should not let Wei Wuxian touch him with kindness, with the assumption of pure friendship. He should stop this.

But Wei Wuxian's hand is warm on his. A gesture so simple, reducing Lan Wangji to a hopeless, lovestruck fool. He cannot pull away from it. He could not bear to.

But then Wei Wuxian is moving their hands to rest on the bed between them, and letting go. He slides his hand back up Lan Wangji's arm to his shoulder, then down just slightly. Almost to his chest. Lan Wangji cannot breathe.

Wei Wuxian goes up on an elbow, looking down at him. His robes fall open just slightly, revealing a slice of skin. Lan Wangji looks away.

"Can I show you?" Wei Wuxian asks softly. His hand is a heavy weight. He is asking...he is asking to...

Lan Wangji should say no.

He cannot say it.

He nods.

When Wei Wuxian's hand moves, when it slides to the center of his chest and beneath the fabric there, Lan Wangji closes his eyes. The first touch is a shock. With considerable effort, he does not flinch. He does not gasp. He keeps still and quiet as the small, shivery waves of sensation roll across his body, growing and fading as more of Wei Wuxian's hand comes in contact with his skin. It rests there, then, and Lan Wangji is grateful for the pause. He needs it to calm himself, to keep from shaking out of his body and into the ether.

But then it begins to move, a slow caress, and Lan Wangji feels all of his hair stand on end.

He did not know touch could feel like this.

"Alright?" Wei Wuxian asks, his hand petting up and down the center of Lan Wangji's chest, gradually widening into oblong circles.

The bright softness of it is beginning to overwhelm Lan Wangji, the sharp awareness it brings to his body unfamiliar and heady. He nods.

They have come this far. He does not know what it would do to him to stop, now. The only way out is through.

Wei Wuxian brushes his fingers out deliberately farther, catching across a nipple. Lan Wangji does not manage to stop his shocked intake of breath at the difference in feeling, at the very pointed, very intense pleasure. Wei Wuxian circles his fingertips almost casually, and does it again. As if it is directly connected, his cock jerks, the damp spot in his trouser spreading. Again, and he clenches his teeth against the sounds working up in his throat.

"Is that too much?" Wei Wuxian asks. He feels unsteady, jittery with adrenaline and determination. He can't believe Lan Wangji is letting him do this. He knows he has to make the most of this one chance.

Lan Wangji shakes his head, and Wei Wuxian gives his nipple a gentle squeeze. At that, Lan Wangji does gasp quietly, his hands fisting tight in the bedding.

"Enough," he forces out, hoarse.

Wei Wuxian's fingers still. "You want—you want me to—"

Lan Wangji nods, his skin flushed with embarrassment and arousal in equal parts. Wei Wuxian moves his hand to rest low on Lan Wangji's stomach, and all his muscles jump and tense in response. It is too intimate, this touch, somehow. More intimate than the others. His cock aches, and leaks, and he is nearly tempted to take it in hand himself. But he is paralyzed still by fearful embarrassment, and now also by his ferocious desire, empowered by all this unexpected fulfillment of distant, illicit hopes.

He waits.

"Lan Zhan, look at me," Wei Wuxian murmurs. He doesn't think he can do this without looking into his eyes and knowing he's really alright.

Lan Wangji's eyes open with a flutter of dark lashes, and their darkness, their intensity, shocks straight through to Wei Wuxian's own arousal. He had expected discomfort and uncertainty. The nerves are there, the slight fear, too, and the embarrassment, yes. But these are nearly subsumed by stormy, determined desire.

Wei Wuxian sees now, he thinks, what Lan Wangji meant. How simply not giving in to the slightest temptation might prove easier than keeping such fierce feeling leashed. He had not realized Lan Wangji might contain such heat, such extraordinary worldly needfulness.

It's insanely arousing. Wei Wuxian struggles not to fall upon him and ravish him on the best of days, but this...

He clears his throat. "Ready?"

Eyes still locked on Wei Wuxian's, Lan Wangji nods, clear and careful. Wei Wuxian slips his hand down, beneath his waistband, immediately hot and slick. He can feel Lan Wangji's hard muscles twitching beneath smooth skin and coarse hair. He lifts his fingers to skim his knuckles along his length, and holds back a shiver. Lan Wangji is hard, and hot, and smooth as silk. And big. Really big.

Wei Wuxian's mouth waters, and that is...a new response to this type of information. He files it away to think about never again.

Lan Wangji can only breathe in short, shallow pants. The light touch is driving him to distraction, too much and not nearly enough. His hips jerk unconsciously. His focus, his restraint, is beginning to drift out of his grasp.

Wei Wuxian wraps his hand around him loosely, and strokes him once from root to tip.

A long breath shudders out of him along with a small, pained sound he does not mean to make. He shuts his eyes tight, but then Wei Wuxian lets go. Lan Wangji makes another sound. Quieter, yet more embarrassing.

"Not enough room," Wei Wuxian says, his hand flat on Lan Wangji's stomach, between his hips.

Lan Wangji does not understand how a touch that was so overwhelming a moment ago could be so grounding now. He is able to fill his lungs easier, for a moment, even though he aches for the touch to return.

"These—can I—” Wei Wuxian tugs at his trousers.

Lan Wangji nods without looking, without thinking. He does not care. Not now.

Wei Wuxian shoves them down. Lan Wangji knows he is shifting, straining for him, but cannot do anything to stop. He is bare and pleading, and he finds he cannot mind at all.

Wei Wuxian knows he shouldn't stare, but it really is impossible not to. Lan Wangji's cock is huge, beautiful, and dark with need. It looks almost painful, honestly, and Wei Wuxian very purposely does not think about how that might be particularly turning him on. Instead he does what he's here to do. He helps.

He touches him gently at first, then more firmly, each stroke coaxing another pulse of precome from his tip. Wei Wuxian didn't even know you could get this wet. But then, he hasn't really taken stock of the state of his own trousers. All of this is very new. He's honestly happy to be surprised.

Lan Wangji is shifting under his hand, breath erratic and noisy, his face contracted in an ecstatic, agonized expression. It's so beautiful Wei Wuxian wishes he could paint it. Wishes he could paint it across the backs of his own eyes and look at it forever.

"Come on, Lan Zhan," he hears himself saying. His voice sounds like a stranger's. "That's good, just let go."

Lan Wangji groans. It's low, and quiet, but it makes Wei Wuxian's cock twitch so hard he gasps.

"Come on," he breathes. "That's right."

Lan Wangji tosses his head to the side and gasps, then visibly bites back another noise. Wei Wuxian tightens his grip and focuses on twisting his hand at the right time, adding and releasing pressure in the right places.

Lan Wangji cuts off a louder sound, sweat breaking out across his skin.

"Wei Ying," he murmurs then, as if dreaming.

Wei Wuxian knows he will be hearing it in his own dreams for the rest of his life.

With one more aborted cry, Lan Wangji's perfectly muscled stomach tenses up in a shallow crescent, and he comes. Head thrown back, throat working with the ragged sounds forced through it. He comes, and comes. Wei Wuxian has never seen this much come in his life. He strokes him, and pulls him through it for what seems like forever. Finally, he quiets, and the ribbons of white shorten and then cease entirely.

Lan Wangji's breaths come hitched and wet, almost like little sobs. Wei Wuxian stares. His mind is entirely, screamingly blank.

At length, Lan Wangji's eyes blink open and look at him with bleary shock. He looks drunk. He looks fucked out. He looks incredible. His eyes are big and damp, his mouth full and red and open. Wei Wuxian wants to—but no. He can't, because—but then Lan Wangji's gaze cuts down to Wei Wuxian's lips, and—

Wei Wuxian leans down and crashes their mouths together. No finesse, no care, no gentleness. He just needs to taste him, to feel him.

Lan Wangji makes a soft, wanting sound and kisses back, sluggish but no less enthusiastic for it. He grabs him with both hands and holds on tight. Wei Wuxian licks into his mouth, hot and soft and insistent, and Lan Wangji hears himself make another awful sound. He tries to keep up, wants distantly to be good at this, feels as if maybe, somehow, if he were, he might be allowed to have it again.

This need collides with the more present one to feel the give of Wei Wuxian's lower lip between his teeth.

Wei Wuxian is the one to make a sound now, sudden and cut-off but needful nonetheless. His fingers dig into Lan Wangji's waist, slippery with come. This combination reawakens Lan Wangji's briefly calmed desire. Now that the dam has burst, he finds himself wanting all sorts of filthy things, most urgently for Wei Wuxian's spend to mix with his own on his skin.

He tries to focus on the kiss. Tries to make Wei Wuxian make that sound again.

Wei Wuxian is losing the struggle not to rut against Lan Wangji's hip. This all started because he was already going out of his mind, and now that the barrier between them has crumbled, what he has wanted hopelessly and what he needs immediately have become the same thing.

"Lan Zhan," he pants against his open mouth, "I...I need. Can I—"

Lan Wangji's fingers dig into his arms. "Yes." His voice is low and shredded. It's so hot Wei Wuxian is surprised he doesn't just come from the sound. "Please."

"Oh, fuck," Wei Wuxian mumbles, and fumbles his trousers down.

He gets a hand around himself—the same hand, still wet, and fuck, oh fuck—but Lan Wangji puts an arm around him and pulls him close, against his side. He sees, out of the corner of his eye, that Lan Wangji is—he's still—

They lock eyes. Wei Wuxian swallows hard. "Do you...do you still need..."

Lan Wangji blinks rapidly, then nods mutely.

He does not actually know. He has no idea what he needs, other than to see what Wei Wuxian might do next.

What he does is push himself up, thighs astride Lan Wangji's hips.

Lan Wangji is not prepared for it. All his breath leaves him once more.

"Is this—too much?" Wei Wuxian asks, leaning over him, breathing hard, pink with his own flush.

Lan Wangji tries not to do anything too extreme, like gripping Wei Wuxian's bare, muscled thighs with both hands.

"It is not," he manages roughly.

Wei Wuxian grinds down against him, and his curse is drowned out by Lan Wangji's sudden, anguished oh.

"Is it—Lan Zhan—is it—"

Lan Wangji's hands are fisted tightly in the bedding, his eyes squeezed shut and turned away. The pale column of his throat is exposed, tense and lovely.

"Please," he breathes.

"Oh, Lan Zhan," Wei Wuxian chides softly, an odd pang in his chest. "It's alright."

He brushes damp hair from Lan Wangji's face, careful not to touch his ribbon. He leans down close and kisses the corner of his mouth. He's so perfect. Wei Wuxian hates to see him seem so conflicted about something so good.

"You can let go," he says again. He doesn't know how to make him understand. "With me, you can, if you want to. I want you to. I really...if you need—whatever you want. I'm here."

As he speaks, he can't seem to stop his hips from moving, little catches of almost-friction between their cocks making Lan Wangji's breath hitch beneath him.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He could be ruining everything. But he can't stop. He's never been this close to anyone, or wanted anyone this much. And it's not anyone, it's Lan Zhan. He wants him. He wants to make him feel good. He wants to be the person to do that. Preferably forever, but he'll take just this for as long as he can have it.

He kisses Lan Wangji's jaw, his perfect throat.

"Is this good? Do you want it?" He has to ask.

"Yes."

Breathless, the both of them undone. He kisses farther down.

"Do you...do you want to touch me too?" He tries not to sound too hopeful.

A pause, then the hoarse reply. "Yes."

"Then touch me."

Another pause. Hesitant fingertips at his knee, sliding upward. The barest touch of a palm on his thigh. He places his own hand over it and presses it down.

"Hold on," he says.

Then he thrusts against him and bites down gently at the same time.

Lan Wangji grips him hard and gasps, chest heaving against Wei Wuxian's.

"Yeah," Wei Wuxian goads, thrusting again. It feels so good. It feels better than anything he's imagined. "Yeah, like this, Lan Zhan, oh fuck."

It's incredible, and yet he needs more. He does his best to line them up and take them both in hand, but his hand is only so big, and between the two of them he's pleased to say neither of them would be considered small. He tries though, and it's almost perfect. Lan Wangji beneath him, writhing and panting, his helpless little noises and upward thrusts. The slick drag between them as he holds them together. He knows he's not going to last, but he almost doesn't care. The best part is watching him.

Lan Wangji is coming apart. He is reduced to sensation, overcome entirely by the sharpness, the omnipresence of pleasure. The only thing anchoring him to the world is Wei Wuxian's soft voice in his ear, Wei Wuxian's hands on his body. He has no idea if a second release is possible, but for now he is blissfully, mindlessly tossed in the ceaseless current.

He is aware of Wei Wuxian taking his hand and moving it, and then the hot, slick mess of them pressed together in his hand.

"Ah," Wei Wuxian pants against him. "That's—good. Together, like this—oh, fuck, Lan Zhan, your hand is—I—"

He groans right under Lan Wangji's ear, and it's so obscene, so honest, that Lan Wangji's climax drags him under with no warning. It feels like every vein, every nerve bursting, filling his limbs, his mind, his mouth with something bittersweet. Like something breaking in him beyond repair.

Lan Wangji moans, long and low and pleading, as he comes. The sound, the sight, the tightening of his hand around them, are all too much. It sends Wei Wuxian over the edge after him, jolting and groaning. He looks down to watch, awed where he might've thought he should be disgusted. In the height of it, he wants to smear his hands through their spend on Lan Wangji's perfect skin, to paint their names in it.

He doesn't do that. This has already pushed through too many boundaries. He collapses into the mess instead, an unsubtle compromise, and then finds himself too weak to move.

When the euphoria fades, it hits him. What they've just done. What he's done, really. Mad with want and lacking any impulse control whatsoever, he may have just done what demonic cultivation and 16 years of absence couldn't manage. He may have just driven Lan Wangji out of his life for good. He...he thinks, probably, the effect won't be quite that drastic. But he's suddenly afraid it could be.

Lan Wangji comes back to himself warm and pleasantly weighed down. Slowly, as his breathing evens out, the comfort bleeds out of him leaving only exhaustion and nerves.

He is not sure how much he has given away, in this. How much of what he has just done can be excused. He tries to still the tremors that are still pulsing through his muscles. Tries to regain his footing, to think. It is nearly impossible with Wei Wuxian still draped over him, boneless and pliant. But he would not trade it away, not a single moment of it.

Eventually, unfortunately, Wei Wuxian lifts up and off. Lan Wangji feels a moment of stark, certain grief, and turns away from him.

"We should clean up," Wei Wuxian says quietly.

Lan Wangji nods. They should. There is...much to clean.

A hand grasps his arm, sudden and solid.

"Lan Zhan, we're okay, right? I didn't. I didn't...this wasn't wrong."

Lan Wangji shakes his head. It was far from wrong.

"Okay...okay. Then, are you okay?"

Lan Wangji does not want to lie. It is a difficult question. It is possible he is alright. He simply does not know.

"Did you know?" Lan Wangji asks suddenly, without premeditation of any sort.

He wishes he could shove the words back into his mouth. But he cannot help but wonder. How much of this was...a knowing kindness? How much of this was pity, born of his own horribly obvious desires?

"Know what?"

Lan Wangji takes a breath. As much as he wishes he could, he does not think he could go back. Back to before he had this, knew this, felt this.

"That I wanted you."

There is a stunned silence. The hand on his arm tightens painfully.

"No," Wei Wuxian says. "You—how long?"

Lan Wangji shakes his head. That, he is not sure he can make himself say.

"Did...did you know?"

"Know?" Lan Wangji repeats, confused. Of course he knew his own desires, as unfortunate as they were.

"That I wanted you."

The silence then is suspended. The moment before a fall. Lan Wangji turns.

"You what?"

Wei Wuxian blinks at him. He really is an unparalleled mess. Lan Wangji aches with how much he loves him.

"Lan Zhan," he says, covering sheepishness with a reprimanding tone. "You didn't really think you were the only one, after that?"

Lan Wangji feels as if he is making rather a habit of complete and utter breathlessness. He stares at him, at the earnestly hopeful look in Wei Wuxian's eyes.

"I did not know."

"Well," Wei Wuxian says. "You do now. In case...in case that matters."

Lan Wangji does not know what is happening inside him, but it is riotous. He shoves it down, out of the way. This is something, but it is not...he cannot. He has lied by omission, he feels, too much now. He cannot continue.

"Then you should know," he says, measured as he can, "that what I feel is more than wanting." Wei Wuxian continues to stare at him. Lan Wangji has to look away. "In case that matters."

"It matters," Wei Wuxian says, a thin croak. "It—Lan Zhan, how much more, exactly, could you be, ah, specific? Because I don't want to say the wrong thing, but—"

Lan Wangji cannot bear to speak of it anymore. He unties his ribbon and lays it across Wei Wuxian's palm, at which point Wei Wuxian stops speaking and stares at it, instead of him, for a long moment.

"Lan Zhan..."

Lan Wangji's heart is heavy even as anxiety sparks through his overtired veins. But then, suddenly, he is horizontal again, and there is a riot of a different sort, of heat and limbs and lips, and he is being kissed all over his face.

"How long?" Wei Wuxian is saying again, between sweet pecks and lingering presses. "You wouldn't say. How long?"

"Wei Ying?"

Wei Wuxian can tell Lan Wangji hasn't yet caught up, and it's adorable and sad at the same time. He takes pity.

"I'll go first. I think I've probably loved you since forever, but I didn't know until, well, until I thought I'd lost you, back then. How stupid is that? Now you. Tell me how stupid we both are, how long we could have been doing this."

Lan Wangji is staring at him with unadulterated awe. It's cute, but it also makes Wei Wuxian feel squirmy and uncomfortable. He kisses him again, deep and slow, a new way they haven't tried. It's extremely good.

He manages to tear himself away. "Tell me or I'll stop kissing you," he says. He doesn't even know if it's a good threat. He hopes it is. It'd get him to speak if their places were reversed.

"Always," Lan Wangji breathes, still awed, still wide-eyed and sweet. It gives Wei Wuxian pause.

Lan Wangji sees him looking back through his spotty memories, trying to fit this information into them. He feels a stab of regret that he never made it clear before now. He resolves to make it abundantly clear every moment from here on out. He surges up to kiss those memories away.

It takes a long, long time before they clean up and do anything else.

In the future, Lan Wangji still doesn't make a habit of engaging in self-pleasure. He doesn't have to. Except, of course, when Wei Wuxian realizes he's rather sad he missed out on watching.

~The End~

If you enjoyed this, you can keep up with new threads as they happen on my twitter. If you want to see me in Real Writing Mode, check out my works on ao3!

#my fic #mdzsnet #theuntameddaily #the untamed fanfiction #wangxian fanfiction #this escalated very quickly #but still managed to be 9k words in three days #threadfics are both a blessing and a burden #they're quick and messy and fun #this one got called wholesome a lot #if i had a dollar for every time my smut has been called wholesome......#i work SO hard to take it as a compliment hahaha

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

Note

I’m bad at prompts so I have an aesthetic vibe for a fic: dusty library, silver glasses, warm blanket, hot tea, cold voices.

Jon wants to get Martin’s attention. Daisy and Melanie have an unusual plan.

“I think he’s made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I need...I need to make sure he’s okay. Daisy’s already tried and well, you-”

“Absolutely not.”

“Exactly.”

Jon sighed. He needed to trust Martin, he knew this. But how could he, when he faded more and more each day? When Jon couldn’t reach him, couldn’t know he was safe? He needed to touch him, make sure he was still solid, still there. That Jon still cared. And if Jon could just break through-

“He won’t let me talk to him. And I don’t know what to do.” The words came out more plaintively than he would’ve liked. Melanie gave him an unimpressed look, Daisy leaned back on the couch. He didn’t know why he’d suddenly decided to confess his feelings to these two, perhaps it was the leftover alcohol in his system from their afternoon drink. Basira was off on another lead and Daisy needed the distraction. They all did. And now they were back at the office, bored and lethargic, Jon dodging the paper balls Melanie lazily tossed his way.

“You’ve got to do something,” Daisy drawled, idly picking at her nails. “To get his attention. You’ve got to make him come to you.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Jon groaned in frustration. “If I did, I would’ve done it already.”

“Wait.” Melanie sat up straighter, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “I know exactly what to do.” Daisy and Jon shared a glance as she broke into a smirk.

“And Martin won’t be able to resist you.”

____________

“Is this really necessary?” Jon asked, flinching back as Melanie applied the pink-coated brush to his cheek. “It seems a bit excessive.”

“Stop moving. And yes, if you want to look the part.” Melanie wielded the makeup brush like a weapon as Daisy followed with a critical eye. “Does he look pathetic enough?”

“Hmm.” Daisy leaned forward, uncomfortably close to Jon’s face. “I think he needs a bit more. Just a pinch.”

“Agreed.”

“This is ridiculous,” Jon snarked, leaning away from Melanie’s hands. “I don’t know why I agreed to this. It’s not going to work.”

“You agreed to this because you know it’s going to work,” Melanie insisted, dipping the brush in the compact. “Trust me, Martin won’t be able to resist doting on you if you look properly ill. When I came here the second time ‘round, he hovered outside the door the entire time. “Do you need anything, Jon? Can I get you some tea? Are you feeling alright?”

“That’s not what he sounds like-”

“That’s exactly what he sounds like,” Daisy smirked, settling back into the couch. “If you don’t like the makeup, we can always go with option two-”

“I am not letting Melanie punch me, thank you very much.” She still harbored a lot of residual (and rightful, in his opinion) anger from the surgery incident, and he wasn’t willing to be the outlet for it. “How do we know he’ll even see me?”

“He goes down to the library every Wednesday, sneaks in and out real quiet-like,” Daisy repeated for the third time. “Trust me, I know his patterns.” There was still some Hunt in her yet, no matter how much she starved it. Listen to the quiet. He didn’t say it aloud, but from the look in Daisy’s eyes he didn’t need to. “We’ll set you up there. Don’t worry, he won’t be able to miss you.”

“Whatever you say,” he grumbled, batting away Melanie’s hand. “Are you done yet?” She evaluated him with a scowl.

“That should do it.” She shut the compact with a definitive snap. “I was going to add a bit of purple eyeshadow under the eyes, but that might be overdoing it. You already look like a zombie.”

Daisy nodded appreciatively. “Powder did the job. God, Melanie. You’re a pro.”

“Thank you,” she preened as Jon rolled his eyes. “Now, for the finishing touch!” She leaned forward, yanking the scrunchie out of his hair and ignoring his yelp with an air of satisfaction. “Perfect!”

“I fail to see why that was necessary!” His head ached from the sudden pull on his hair, which was now falling down his shoulders in a tangled, ruffled mess. God, I must look insane. He lifted a hand to put it in some semblance of order when Melanie grabbed at it, stopping him in his tracks.

“No, you’ll ruin it!” she snapped. “Martin likes it when it’s down.”

“How do you know that?”

“God, he really is oblivious,” Daisy said with a disbelieving chuckle. “I may have only visited a few times, but even I saw the way he stared at you whenever you so much as touched your hair. It was sickening to watch.”

“C’mon, we’ve got to get you settled. We have to time this perfectly.” Melanie gestured impatiently for him to get up. “Daisy’ll take you up. I’ve got to grab something.” Jon didn’t trust her but in all honesty, what did he have to lose? The things we get up to when Basira’s gone...though I suppose this is significantly better than the Coffin Incident.

Daisy took his arm, leaning on him for a bit of support as they made their way up to the library. To anyone else it would look the opposite, that he was the one relying on her- Daisy was good at hiding her weakness. “There’s a couch by the front desk,” she murmured as they rounded the corner. “It’ll be right in his line of vision.”

“What if he isn’t paying attention?” Jon worried, watching as the other staff studiously avoided their gaze, side-stepping them in the hallway. The Archives were truly toxic, and no one wanted to anger the heavily-scarred, scowling Archivist and his rabid ex-cop friend. For the first time in his life, Jon was intimidating. He didn’t like it.

“He always pays attention to you,” Daisy insisted. “He just doesn’t want you to see it.” The words put a lump in his throat. He wondered if they were true. He opened his mouth to reply when Melanie scurried up behind them, her arms full of-

“No.”

“Yes.” Melanie pushed into him, impatiently urging them forward. “Trust me, it’ll work.”

“I am not-” He was cut off by a surprisingly strong push from Daisy, landing him on the couch with an ‘oof.’ Melanie threw the offending object around his shoulders- a fluffy pink blanket Jon recognized from its place on Basira’s cot. He tried to worm his way out of it but Melanie gave him a sharp slap on the arm, ignoring his hiss of pain. He looked around, wildly embarrassed by the entire situation to find that the room was strangely empty, which was surprising for the time of day. I suppose everyone’s trying to avoid us these days.

Daisy froze, her eyes narrowing and posture straightening. “He’s coming.”

Melanie swore, running around the corner and coming back with an old, heavy tome she'd snatched off the nearest shelf. She grinned, an almost manic thing that Jon instinctively leaned back from. “The final touch,” she said proudly, not waiting for his answer as she opened the book with a flourish, flipping the pages in front of his face like a fan. He flinched back, utterly confused.

“Melanie, what on earth are you-”

_______

Martin heard him before he saw him.

The scurrying of feet across the hardwood was strange enough, but Jonathan Sims sitting on the library’s best couch, sneezing into a fluffy blanket and looking bleary-eyed and very exhausted was even stranger. Well, not the exhausted part. That was Jon’s normal state of being.

But there he sat, wrapped in Basira’s fluffy pink blanket with a flushed face, messy hair, and an ashen pallor that could only come from sickness. Martin had seen it before, back when he lived in Document Storage and Jon was working himself into the ground, much like he was doing nowadays. He felt that pang of worry that accompanied those long nights in the Archives, something he was trying desperately to tamp down.

Working for Peter was infuriating and isolating, just as it was supposed to be. He was constantly reminding himself that it was for the greater good, that he was doing something important, protecting his friends. Protecting Jon. But how could he protect him when he kept finding Martin, even though he promised to trust him? How could he protect him when he kept throwing himself headlong into any danger he could find? How could he protect him, when his biggest enemy was himself?

Another sneeze. Jon looked almost confused by it, maybe even offended that it happened. It made him want to smile, an urge he fought down as he tried to remember Peter’s promise to keep them safe if he kept his distance. He hazarded one last glance, sure that he wasn’t in Jon’s line of sight that he noticed one last detail- Jon’s sweater. Incredibly baggy, worn, light blue knit- a color he’d never seen on him before.

Martin’s sweater. And with that, he found himself walking over to Jon almost involuntarily, steps loud and purposeful as they startled Jon from his perch on the couch. And when Jon noticed him he smiled, so bright and happy and obviously extremely out of it if he was having this reaction to Martin. His face really did look flushed up close- he must have a fever, especially if he wandered up here in this state. Martin successfully resisted the urge to feel his forehead.

“M-Martin!” God, how could he not talk to Jon, when he said his name with such happiness? He fought to keep his voice level and cool as he responded.

“Jon. What are you doing up here?” Jon’s smile dimmed slightly, and Martin tried not to feel guilty. He did not succeed.

“I, um-” Jon stuttered, his usual sign of nervousness as he ran a hand through his hair. His hair, that was mused and tangled and falling in his face. Fuck. “I w-was reading.” He struggled to pick up a particularly heavy-looking book from where it sat on the couch next to him, its title obscured from Martin’s view. “It was getting, er, a bit stuffy down in the Archives.”

A red flag if Martin ever saw one. They rarely left the Archives these days, unless it was for a quick lunch and even then, Jon had to be dragged out bodily. He sighed, trying not to meet Jon’s pleading eyes. And still, he couldn’t help but ask. “Are you...okay?”

Jon looked down to his lap, the blanket half slipping off his shoulders as he fidgeted with his hands. Martin looked pointedly away. “Not feeling very well,” Jon murmured to the ground, looking strangely nervous, maybe even guilty. That didn’t make sense. He must be really ill, if he’s actually admitting to it. Martin hesitated, fighting between what he should do and what he really, really wanted to do. The cold evaporated just a little and Martin had never felt so seen.

He missed that.

And so, less reluctantly than he would have liked, he extended a hand down to Jon, who looked at it in shock. “C’mon. Let’s get you back downstairs, I’ll make tea.” Make tea. His solution for everything, he remembered Tim deriding. But Jon looked at him like he’d offered much, much more than that. Maybe he had. The hope in his eyes was too much to bear. So when Jon put a thin, scarred hand in his, he looked away, even as he helped him to his feet.

To his disdain and delight, Jon immediately leaned into his side, as if trying to leech warmth that Martin couldn’t provide. In fact it was now Jon who was the warmer of the two- the Eye would not accept the chill of the Lonely, and the fever probably didn’t help. He was like a touch-starved cat looking for a crumb of affection, and god did he want to give it to him. If it were the Martin of a year ago he would have blushed, stammered, maybe even squeezed him back. Now he can only offer him the shoulder, nothing more.

Jon didn’t say anything more than a muttered thanks as they made their way down to the Archives, as if he were afraid of spooking him. More than one staff member they saw stared; Martin had been AWOL except for a few official emails, and was now suddenly the assistant to the head of the institute. To see him with the dreaded Head Archivist must have been even more of a shock. He felt pity- what a pair we make.

By the time they arrived at the archives, Jon had leant almost all of his weight against Martin’s side, making it difficult to maneuver them both down the stairs. No one was there, and he wanted to scold the other three, wherever they were, for leaving Jon to wander in his condition. I’ll fix him tea, get him on the cot and then I’ll go, he promised himself.

Easier said than done.

He barely managed to pry Jon off of him, and only with the promise to return with a cup of tea did he let go. Never in his wildest daydreams did he imagine Jon to be this clingy, hanging off him like a limpet. As he made his way to the break room he drew the Lonely back to him like a security blanket, albeit a cold one. You can’t stay. You have to go. He looked blankly around the room he used to think of as a safe haven; it was no longer familiar, different mugs on the table, different food in the cupboards, a bag of makeup on the counter. He no longer had a place.

Jon was sitting up on the cot when he arrived back, cup of tea in hand. He pointedly didn’t meet his eyes as he handed it over, staring at his feet and ignoring Jon’s thanks as he turned to leave. Go go go-

“Wait!”

Damn it.

He turned. “What is it, Jon? I have to-”

“Will you stay?” His face was so open, so vulnerable it made Martin ache with longing. “Just- just for a bit.”

Martin sighed, trying to maintain his stoic façade. “You know I can’t.”

“I miss you.”

“Jon-”

“I know, I know,” Jon replied, voice going quiet. He thought dying would harden the man, but it only seemed to soften his sharp edges. “I’m sorry.” He held the mug between his hands, staring down like it was something precious.

“It’s fine,” Martin replied, though they both knew it wasn’t.

“Will you stay if I don’t talk?” Jon leveled that hopeful gaze at him again and Martin looked up to the ceiling for divine intervention that wouldn’t come.

“Jon-”

“Please.” He was begging. His eyes were bright, whether from tears or the fever Martin couldn’t discern. But what was he to do, say no? Not when he was like this, not when he was sick. Martin made excuses, none of them particularly convincing even to himself and they certainly wouldn’t be to Peter, but it didn’t matter. He’d already made his choice as soon as Jon said the word.

“Okay. For a bit.” That smile again. Jon said nothing as Martin tentatively sat beside him on that small, rickety cot. He would only stay for a bit, until Jon fell asleep. He had no one to look after him, after all. He would go back up and face Peter later.

For now, he let Jon rest his head against his shoulder. He let his fingers rise of their own accord and brush the hair from Jon’s face, eliciting a shiver. When he fell asleep, Martin didn’t move. He needs the rest. So he sat, reveling in the warm, heavy weight of everything he’d given up, everything he stood to lose, and knew he made the right decision.

Much later, when he’s faced Peter’s disappointed gaze and a mountain of extra work, he notices the strange, powdery cast on his sleeve from where Jon had laid his head. When he rubs at it, his fingers come back with hints of pink and white. It takes him a moment to put the pieces together- the footsteps in the library, the absence of Daisy and Melanie, the makeup on the counter. He wants to roll his eyes, wants to be angry.

Instead, for the first time in months, he laughs.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581141

#my writing #prompt fill #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #daisy tonner #melanie king #season four #lil bit of fluff lil bit of angst #i apologize if this wasn't what you were looking for but the idea grabbed me and i couldnt let go lmao #balanced-to-a-tea

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hailbop1701 · 3 years

Text

Curing a Rainy Day

A sort of five times Star Trek gen fic for your viewing pleasure. I mentioned I would write it but please be aware that I wrote this on my phone late at night and I has no beta. Typos and mistakes will be found. 🤣

-H❤🖖

Word Count: 2,166

Sulu:

Leonard McCoy wasn’t a huge touchy-feely type of man. Well, that’s what he really wants folks to think anyway. He was a doctor and that meant it was his oath-bound duty to cure what ails his patients. Whether it was from a physical malady or an emotional one. The first time he initiated his “Rainy Day Cure” --title courtesy of his daughter-- to one of the command crew he was surprised that it was Sulu of all people. If Len were being honest he thought it would have been Jim. Sure he had hugged the kid in the past but he always let Jim be the one to initiate contact. The reason why is complicated and a story for another time.

When he found him the young pilot was huddled alone in Observation Room Five, his shoulders hunched, his down so his eyes were hidden and mind lightyears away. Leonard had a feeling he knew where. The chaos after Khan and Marcus had caused a lot of damage, and not all of it was physical. They were all still healing even a year later. They had left Kronos not three hours ago and according to the mission report, Sulu’s younger sister was…

Not who she claimed to be. ‘Yuki,’ McCoy recalled her name lamely as he made his way loudly over to the depressed man.

She revealed that she worked for Section 31 and was determined to fix the Federation the right way. Though the term “Right way” is skewed for many folks. War was almost started, again and the Enterprise had to stop it, again. Section 31 now had the last little pebble of Red Matter and was holding it like a…” Nuclear deterrent” as the old saying goes.

Shaking his head Leonard pushed recent events to the back of his mind and continued on his own mission. Plopping down on the couch that faced the giant window of stars, McCoy leaned forward so his elbows rested on his knees.

He didn’t offer his apologies or sympathies, he knew Sulu didn’t want them. So they sat in silence. Sulu just shook his head and looked up at the doctor with confusion and betrayal in his eyes. “I don’t - I” he stopped swallowing and the helmsman looked so young Leonard didn’t even think about it until after he had already done it.

He wrapped an arm over Hikaru’s shoulder and squeezed. Sulu stilled for a moment before relaxing and saying what needed to be said, a weight slowly lifting off his shoulders and his chest.

Scotty:

Leonard and Scotty were both having a terrible terrible time. The cold sucked in Leonard’s opinion and being trapped on an ice ball of a planet only confirmed his feelings. Looking over at the Enterprises Chief Engineer, Leonard had a feeling that he wasn’t alone in his thoughts and feelings.

The Scot was curled into a tight ball up against the last running console the entire ‘Fleet base had. He was shivering and muttering to himself, glaring at the distress signal he had rigged up. There was nothing they could do but wait. Rubbing his hands together to warm them Leonard moved toward the console and slid down to the floor next to Scotty. Touching shoulders with Scotty, McCoy tucked his hands under his arms and sighed. There was nothing he could really say to ease the engineer’s anxiety -- which stemmed from Delta Vega no doubt -- so he simply let his presence be enough.

Scotty glanced at Leonard to see that he was looking back at him with calm understanding. Grunting Scotty curled himself closer to the CMO and let the man wrap an arm around his shoulders. They didn’t speak a word and only moved when they heard the sounds of the rescue party on the other side of the sealed doors.

Chekov:

Pavel Chekov was the youngest of the command crew, so he was automatically protected and treated like the youngest sibling of a giant family. The navigator understood that his friends didn’t mean to and that it was just sometimes a reflex but he was getting damn tired of it. Today was his birthday, he had finally turned twenty! Chekov was so pleased to find that after the incident with Khan he was being treated like he should. There was one person who always treated him like he was young and precious.

Pavel found that he didn’t mind so much. Doctor McCoy treated almost everyone that way -- even though he wasn’t that much older than the rest of them -- in an almost fatherly manner. A true caretaker. Chekov allowed the behavior from no one but McCoy.

Leonard walked into “Rec Room Two” taking in the crowd with a softening scowl. A small wrapped parcel gripped in his hand. He looked down at the present, weighing it in his hands carefully. With a sigh, McCoy strode through the room looking for the birthday boy. Jim waved at him wildly from the other side of the room a huge grin on his face. Narrowing his eyes, Leonard saw that his captain wasn’t in fact drunk at all. Grunting in approval he smiled at Chekov who was hurrying over to greet him.

“Happy Birthday Pavel,”

Chekov grinned and his eyes widened at the present presented to him. Leonard gestured for him to open it and the young man did excitedly. The wrapping paper littered the floor a long black box in its place. Slowly opening the box the navigator knocked a silver antique pocket knife into his hands. Examining it closely he looked up at McCoy in confusion.

Leonard shifted nervously on his feet. Clearing his throat he pulled out a similar from his belt. “My daddy gave me this one to match his when I turned twenty. I know your pa wasn’t around as you grew up and so I thought…” his sentence fell into silence. For once Leonard McCoy was at a loss for words. Pavel quickly wiped a stray tear from his eye and grinned at his friend holding onto the gift tightly.

“Thank you doctor!” he said gratefully and Leonard understood that it was for more than just a knife. A small smile graced the CMO’s lips and pulled the kid in for a hug.

With anyone else, Pavel would have been annoyed. This was an exception.

Uhura:

Leonard was tired. He longed for his bed but as he looked around at all of the injured crew he pushed the longing away. There was no time for it. Rubbing the blurry fatigue from his eyes he pushed on. Triage, surgery, aftercare. He really didn’t truly stop to breathe until the middle of gamma shift when the ship was sleepy and quiet. The only noise was the soft beeps and whistles of monitors. His nurses quietly whispering and working.

Christine hours ago told him to stop worrying and to go to bed already but something in him just couldn’t. Blinking dumbly down at the PADD in his hands he sighed and signed off on the next round of Spock’s antibiotics. During the Enterprises most recent scuffle the bridge took a hit and the science station exploded sending the first officer flying, earning him a ticket to medical.

After the fight was over and things had only calmed down to a trickle of wounded instead of a flash flood, Nyota Uhura breezed through sickbay’s doors. She waited patiently and even helped where she could. When Spock came out of surgery and was placed in a private room she immediately went to his side and hasn’t moved an inch since. Jim would have been right beside her if he could afford to. But it appears the admiralty wanted words and had kept him busy since. McCoy had barely just convinced him to get some sleep saying that he would call if anything changes.

That was three hours ago.

Leonard walked -- though Nyota would say shuffled -- into Spock’s room, his eyes going straight to the monitors above the bed. The half Vulcan was resting peacefully. McCoy knew it was only a matter of time before he woke and would go into a healing trance. Something that should be monitored anyway. Leonard quietly wondered who he would grant the opportunity to slap Spock awake this time…

“Leonard!”

The sound of his name made the CMO snap his head in Uhura’s direction. Her eyes were fire, filled with frustration, exhaustion, and worry. McCoy winced, “Sorry Nyota, guess my mind wandered a bit,” he said somewhat sheepishly. Her expression softened a flash of guilt passing through her features.

“You need more rest. You’re going to run yourself into the ground at this rate,” she scolded half-heartedly. McCoy gave her a small smile and a shrug,

"I'll rest when I'm not needed." He whispered and badly covered up a yawn. The hidden meaning behind his words wasn't lost on the linguist though. She pressed her lips into a tight line deciding not to comment. Instead, she rested her gaze on Spock once more her hand inches away from his.

So deep in thought, Nyota hadn't even realized that McCoy had left and come back, a tray with a couple of hypos in his always unwavering hands. Catching her eyes he gave her another encouraging smile. He took care to tell her everything he was doing and how it would help keep infection away. Leonard knew he didn't have to explain but he felt it necessary to fill the quiet with "Illogical chatter" as Spock would surely call it.

Uhura was so tired and so frazzled that she was startled to find the CMO crouching in front of her with concern all over his face. "You need to get some rest Nyota. I can have a cot brought in if you'd like…"

Uhura, let a few tears fall before she bottled it up again. She shook her head wiping her face, "I'm alright Leo. Everything is just catching up to me…" she mumbled with a watery chuckle. Leonard snorted at the nickname she had given him,

"Just let me know darlin' "

And without truly thinking about it he pulled her into a hug. It only took Uhura a second to process what was happening before she wrapped her arms around him tightly. A genuine smile breaking across her face. The first time in hours she felt content, safe, and able to truly breathe.

Jim:

James T. Kirk was a touchy-feely type of man. Leonard supposed it may be from a less than stellar childhood. So whenever Jim would pull him into a one-armed hug or slapped his back or even leaned up against him, McCoy would let him. He would definitely bitch but only half-heartedly, Leonard needed to keep up appearances after all.

So when they found Jim partially dead, hanging from his wrists in a cave all smirks and charm…

Well, no one batted an eye when -- after he made sure that the man would live -- Leonard pulled his best friend in for a hug. Jim just laughed, laid an arm over McCoy's shoulder, and leaned into the hug.

"I only had to get tortured and offered to an alien God for you to hug me. Good to know,"

"Shut up Kid,"

Spock:

No one ever thought the words McCoy, Spock, and hug would ever be uttered but stranger things have happened on the Enterprise.

No stranger than an alien device that turned back time. In a physical sense anyway. Leonard looked down at his adolescent hands and sighed with a heavy eye roll. "Not this again," he grumbled with a shudder.

Looking around the room he saw Jim shouting at Mudd who had bought the alien weapon and decided to point it at him and Spock. McCoy tilted his head, his eyes going comically wide.

Spock!

Where was the green-blooded rugrat? Leonard looked around and sighed in relief at the sight of the first officer. He was hidden under a rickety wooden table. Crouching down Leonard gave Spock a small smile, he waved and gestured for the Vulcan to come closer. Apparently the younger you go the further your mind goes with it. Spock had a mentality of a...of well, a toddler. He couldn't have been more than two.

Spock stared at Leonard intensely before darting out and crashing into his legs. McCoy stumbled a little before he got his footing. Spock looked up at him with wide scared eyes, tears threatening to fall. 'Must have gotten all Vucan-y at four or five,' Leonard thought as he picked up his friend.

Leonard pulled Spock close, hugging him to his chest whispering softly. Spock seemed confused for only a moment before he buried his head into the young CMO's neck.

Jim of course saw it all and later under the threat of meeting his end via an airlock kept his mouth firmly shut. The only thing the Starship Captain said -- which everyone agreed-- Doctor Leonard McCoy could absolutely cure a rainy day.

Tags:

@lauraaan182, @chickadee-djarin, @cowenby2, @bluesclues-1234, @sayuri9908,

#star trek aos #leonard mccoy #leonard bones mccoy #jim kirk #james t kirk #spock #mister spick #nyota uhura #pavel chekov #hikaru sulu #montgomery scott #fanfiction #hailey the queen of typos

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herstarburststories · 4 years

Text

Wedding Dress

Kinktober day 13: Cunnilingus

Pairing: Domestic!Dean Winchester x Reader

Summary: Dean is hiding under your wedding dress— he can have some fun while he's in there, right?

A/N: I'll admit that my mood isn't high today, and writing this one was kind hard at some point. So, @theicariantouch helped me a lot more than they usually already do and I'm so glad. Thank you, hon! This is co-written.

Warnings: oral sex (woman receiving), cute, kind public sex

“You look beautiful!”

You rolled your eyes at your mom's obvious lie, although the look on her face told you that she truly believed that adjective could be used properly there. Perhaps that was the 'perfect child' syndrome again when mothers saw their newborns — the unfinished, strange little creatures as they were — as the cutest beings in the galaxy. No one would have the heart to tell them that their baby looked like an old knee, and neither did you about the clearly ugly clothing.

The inordinately puffy dress was more beige than white with a massive bow laced to crown at the small of your back, no cleavage, and sequins embossed with an opalescent gleam trailing along the waistline. It wasn’t in an elegant way like Cinderella’s, but in the most démodé, antiquated manner possible. You'd never wear it for any party, much less your marriage — plus, you just tried it on because you imagined it'd be funny to twirl and watch the skirt flutter, maybe feel like a princess for a hot minute.

There was something those movies didn’t tell you about the dresses like this, and that was the fact they were heavy. You only wore it for a couple of minutes, and you already wanted to cut it open with scissors and walk around naked for the rest of the day.

After all, this wasn't really your color.

You replaced your wrinkled nose with a playful grimace followed by a shrug. “I guess I'll try another. The siren cut one is really pretty.”

“I'll ask for them to get it.” She nodded, getting up to summon Cecilia — the unfortunate worker that had fetched at least fifteen different dresses for you by now — and the third glass of champagne for herself. She quickly got lost in the lavender-scented castle of dresses, high-classed scenery marked with the quiet lull of Celine Dion playing in the background. You scoffed, turning around to meet the mirror again just to make sure this one was a definite no until your eyes found something way more interesting.

Dean Winchester — the man you made a home out of — was looking at you through the large glass window. It was so easy to spot the smile on his face while he observed you with a lionized intensity as if you were his favorite movie that he couldn’t get enough of watching. Dean's vivid green eyes were almost glossy with adoration and loyalty — because that was the only way this magnetic man knew how to love. And he loved you; oh, how much he loved you and the life he never thought he'd get with you. That marvelously dazed look on his face almost fooled you into thinking that this was the right dress.

Sweetened seconds of longing looks soon shifted, changing into a frown of yours as Dean stepped into the fancy boutique. You moved your body to glance at him, the skirted ends of the dress dancing around your legs as the subtle woosh of fabric echoed. Fortunately, it seemed to break Dean's focus as well, his eyes now sharpened on your confused expression.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was out for lunch with Sammy, so I decided to drop in.” He smirked, approaching you. You placed your hands on your hips and glanced at him. Your bridal instinct — which, funnily enough, sounded a lot like your mom — screamed for you to cover yourself up, but what was the point? He had already seen it, and that definitely wouldn't be your dress.

Nonetheless, you arched your eyebrows and wore an accusative tone as you spoke, “You aren't supposed to see me in a wedding dress before our marriage, Winchester.”

“I don't believe that.” Dean rolled his eyes and placed his hands on your hips.

God, that puffy beige abomination had enough cushiony material to suppress the sensation of Dean's hands on you. Yep, big no.

Childish joy was spreading across your face with a beam as you put your arms around his neck. “You, of all people, a skeptic?”

The Winchester pulled you closer donning that lopsided grin that often made you want to drag him to the nearest bed, but, before he could even speak, you heard your mother's voice nattering to Cecilia about shades of white steadily growing louder.

She would kill you and Dean both if she saw him there.

“Hide, now!” You pushed his chest only to gain a confused look from the retired hunter. “My mom's coming. You know how crazy she is about matrimonial traditions and whatever! You need to go, now!”

Dean gulped as though just now noticing your mom's echoing voice and high heels clicking against the floor. How was that more threatening than the howls of the werewolves he used to kill?

“Dean!” you pleaded when he didn't move.

He glanced at you with desperate eyes, suddenly paralyzed with fear. “What? I can't go through the front door, she'll see me!”

“Are you afraid of my mom?” you say incredulously, a frown abruptly sharpening your painted features.

Dean glared at you in exhaustion. “You aren't?”

“That's not the point!” You groaned. Dean seemed to finally catch up to the idea, abruptly making a beeline to the dressing room encircled with thick velvet curtains the color of spilled wine. “What are you doing?”

He gestured wildly, clearly with only one goal in mind: hide. “Getting in the dressing room!”

“All the others besides mine are occupied!” you hiss sharply, because you’ve been trying on gowns of all shapes and sizes long enough now to know the drill. You pointed to the ostentatiously large gown you were wearing. “They’ll see you once I go back in to change out of this.”

Dean looked you up and down, a completely inappropriate smirk growing on his lips when you were about thirty seconds away from getting caught violating the imagined laws of matrimony. “I wouldn't mind seeing you change this. I can even help you to-”

“Dean!” you hissed as an idea struck. What else could you do? You weren't signing up for a two-hour-long lecture about the importance of tradition for your own wedding, but there was no other place you could hide Dean in. Your mom's voice was progressively getting closer and closer. What you did next was a desperate yet necessary measure. “Get under me.”

Dean's brows knitted together incredulously. “What?”

“You heard me! This thing is so big it’ll hide you,” you exclaimed in a lower tone than your nervousness desired, denoting the excessively billowy dress. You lifted the smoothly flared skirt just enough not to show your panties and barked: “Get inside, now!”

Dean shot you a wink before dutifully doing what he was told. “That's what she said.”

You just rolled your eyes at his muffled retort, beginning to question why you had agreed to marry him in the first place.

It didn't take longer than ten seconds for your mom and Cecilia to pop up. The latter held a bundle of dresses in diversified shades of white before settling them on the Victorian-esque marble top table, sighing in relief at the final release of her admittedly heavy burden.

“Honey, we brought you five siren cuts!” Your mom, though, had an excited smile on, already grabbing one of the many dresses and pushing it into your arms. “Try this!”

Cecilia gave you a friendly smile, gesturing to the long, silken dress you’d just been given. “This one is from Mattel's new collection.”

Dean shifted under your gown, his spiked hair tickling your leg. He was a big man, so you knew this was difficult for him too. You gulped, heart pounding like a drum inside of your chest while you tried to come up with a request to keep them away long enough for you to get rid of Dean.

Glancing around the classy room, your eyes caught a myriad of vibrantly colorful dresses swaying on a rack next to the wall of mirrors. This was it. This was your out.

Your gaze landed back on the two women in front of you. The icy current from the air conditioner combing through your hair didn't help the blood running cold in your veins. You swallowed the lump in your throat and wore your best poker face.

Was this how Dean felt when he had to lie for a job when he was a hunter? You didn't know, but what you knew for sure was how his greedy fingers felt pulling your panties to the side when he was hiding under your improbably enormous wedding dress in the middle of an ostentatious clothing store.

“They all look so pretty,” you said, suppressing your scoff as Dean pecked your thigh, “but I was thinking about red ones?”

Cecilia opened her mouth to respond, but your mom was quicker. With a shocked expression and her hand resting dramatically on chest, she said: “Red?! That's not a color for a ceremony in the church.”

You were ready to offer her a swift retort as this was your wedding, not hers, but Dean's kisses kept rising higher and higher. Son of a bitch! You’d kill him if it didn't feel so good. You were already wet, momentarily losing track of space and time. Everything with him felt like the comfortable warmth of afterglow.

That is, until your mother brought you back down to earth with an admonishingly chide tone: “Y/N!”

“I just want to see how it fits me. Please.” You knew he was purposely ignoring your pussy, kissing near it but never getting to the point. You placed you hand on the part of the dress that his head would be, pushing him a little closer. The next word wasn’t meant for your entourage, but it made sense anyway: “Please.”

Cecilia curved the corner of her lips in sympathy. “Of course. We just got a new package a few days ago. I think they will fit you perfectly!”

Dean's lips kissed your heat. You bit your bottom lip to control a moan, summoning a nod interlaced with a tight smile for Cecilia. You doubted you were able to come up with anything else more coherent than Dean and more right now.

“I'll make sure it isn't too red!” You mom huffed, following the worker as she turned away to grab what you asked for.

Dean's hand held onto your leg as he started to lick in slowly, savoring your taste. He had to be controlling himself carefully, staving down his own desire to go deep and eat you out hungrily like he usually did.

You watched the pair leave, impatience fraying your scattered thoughts. You clenched down tightly, trying to force his tongue out of you as you waited for your mother to leave. Unfortunately, she stopped in the middle of the aisle to abandon Cecilia in favor of another worker swathed in a collection of bridal veils. Too risky. Maybe pushing him to the door would be better long term than having Dean to go down on you right now, but it certainly wouldn’t be as pleasurable.

You decided to consider this one of the little adventures pre-marriage: the eldest Winchester was now licking his way inside you, fingertips sinking into your skin as he pressed his mouth and tongue against your wetness.

God, you loved that man.

“Thought you'd like to see some options without your mom.” Cecilia's voice out of nowhere almost made you jump, but you were able to restrain yourself. The fear of getting caught suddenly putting your body in place again, but Dean wasn't having any of it. As soon as you forced a giggle out to answer her, his mouth was on your pussy again.

“Yeah, she can be a little controlling.” You coughed. At least you could use the subject to excuse your discomfort.

You could practically feel Dean's smile on your pussy as he sucked your clit, wriggling his finger inside you. You pressed the hand on the other side of the thick curtain of fabric of his head down harder — for anyone else, it would look like this gesture coupled with your heated expression meant that the dress was uncomfortably hot.

At least, Cecilia thought so. With an understanding, saleswoman grin, she asked: “Do you want help to take the dress off?”

“No!” you almost screamed. It felt good to actually expel the noises you were withholding, even if it was on accident. “I mean, no. No, thank you. I'll take it off myself and try this red one — Can you keep my mom distracted for a couple minutes? She wouldn't like to see me in this.”

Coming up with a lie while your fiancé was sucking your clit and fingering you, checked.

“All for the bride.” Cecilia winked at you and left.

It took a couple seconds for you to regain some self control. With every ounce of willpower you had, you forced yourself to lift your dress and push Dean away from your trembling legs.

“What are you doing?” you asked, glancing at his face. That idiot wore a cocky smile on and had the audacity to lick his lips.

“What? You can't tell me to get between your legs and not eat you out. I'm a good soon-to-be husband.” He winked.

“You're unbelievable.” You sighed, shaking your head. “Hurry up and make me come, and don't get the dress dirty. Cecilia might be able to keep my mom away for like, five minutes. Do a good job.”

Dean chuckled, not able to discern if he was confusing reality and porn again or if this was actually happening, but your taste on his lips was evidence enough to make it uncontestible. He gave you a loving gaze despite everything before coming back to finish what he started. This was it, that was his girl.

“I can't wait to marry you.”

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bluescluelessly · 4 years

Text

Tossing the Script out the Airlock (and Good Riddance to it)

[Rating: Teen] || hurt/comfort, suspected infidelity, polyamorous relationships, made up Stewjoni biology because George Lucas didn’t say Obi-Wan wasn’t a little weird and if he’s gonna give his birth planet a stupid name then I’m gonna give him stupid biology tweaks, and use of Dai Bendu, the language of the Jedi (translations at the bottom of the post)

tw: mentions of grooming (because Palpatine)

Ships: Bail Organa/Obi-Wan, Bail/Breya, Anakin/Padmé

Palpatine tries to convince Anakin that Padmé is cheating on him with Obi-Wan. Anakin confronts his friend about it, finds out a bit more than he bargained for, and not at all what he was expecting to.

°|●.*•

From the Revenge of the Sith Novelization:

“That’s why I put you on the Council. If the rumors are true, you may be democracy's last hope.”

Anakin let his chin sink once more to his chest and his eyelids scraped shut. It seemed like he was always somebody’s last hope.

Why did everyone always have to make their problems into his problems? Why can’t people just let him be?

How is he supposed to deal with all this one Padmé could die?

He said slowly, eyes still closed, “you still haven’t told me what this has to do with Obi-Wan.”

“Ah, that – well, that is the difficult part. The disturbing part. It seems that Master Kenobi has been in contact with a certain Senator who is known to be among the leaders of this cabal. Apparently, very close contact. The rumor is that he was seen leaving the Senator’s residence this very morning, at an… unseemly hour.”

“Who?” Anakin opened his eyes and sat forward. “Who is this Senator? Let’s go question him.”

“I’m sorry, Anakin. But the Senator in question is, in fact, a *her*. A woman you know quite well, in fact.”

“You–” He wasn’t hearing this. He couldn’t be. “You mean–”

Anakin choked on her name.

Palpatine gave him a look of melancholy sympathy. “I’m afraid so.”

Anakin coughed his voice back to life. “That’s *impossible!* I would *know*– she doesn’t… she couldn’t–”

“Sometimes the closest,” Palpatine said sadly, “are those who cannot see.”

Revenge of the Sith, Matthew Stover, p. 250

°|●.*•

This is it. Anakin is going to just… ask him. He’s not sure what he’ll do if he finds out Obi-Wan has been sleeping with his wife, but…

Well, he’ll figure that out if it’s true.

He went to Padmé’s apartment, felt for himself the evidence that Obi-Wan had been there.

Now, he needs the truth. He needs to be wrong.

“So… I heard you spent a late night with a senator,” he asks, trying not to sound overly accusing. Obi-Wan always gives him the benefit of the doubt.

Several emotions flicker across Obi-Wan’s face then. He eventually fixes his gaze on Anakin, a modicum of panic in his eyes. Anakin’s heart sinks.

The next words out of his old Master’s mouth, however, catch him by surprise.

“You… know about Bail?”

Anakin’s eyes go wide. No, he didn’t–

– but he can’t help thinking he knew it, it was a male senator –

– “Bail?” He blurts out, confusion showing. “No, Palpatine said–”

“– Palpatine saw me with Bail?” Obi-Wan asks, his voice rising an octave.

“No–” Anakin insists, hands going up in a placating gesture. “Not– I didn’t know about Bail. I uh. Palpatine told me he heard you were seen leaving Padmé Amidala’s Apartment.” He explains, and some of the worry drains from Obi-Wan.

“Oh,” he says, sounding infinitely relieved. “No, I, er. Well, I definitely haven’t been making ‘late visits’ to Senator Amidala.” He gives Anakin a curious sort of look. “I hear she’s spoken for, not that I would pursue her, in any case. It would be… awkward.”

“Awkward?” Anakin asks, feeling as if he’s missing something.

Obi-Wan gives a tired sort of smile. “Besides the fact that my preference is not for the fairer sex; she once made an advance, and I turned her down.” Seeing Anakin’s flaring temper, he is quick to clarify, “long before your knighting, Anakin. But, as I said, awkward.”

Anakin nods, appeased. Then, he remembers there’s a more important topic to focus on here. “So… Bail?”

The reaction is immediate; Obi-Wan’s face blushing a dark red as he looks away. “Yes, I– if you could keep that to yourself, I’d appreciate it.”

To hell with it, Anakin thinks. “Sure Master, I’ll keep your senator a secret if you keep mine.”

“The fact that you think your relationship with Senator Amidala is a secret is adorable,” Obi-Wan responds, a glint of amusement in his eye. “Half the council is still asking me why they weren’t invited to the wedding; I can’t give them an answer, as I wasn’t invited either.”

Anakin looks shocked by that information, which is truly endearing. “Wait, they aren’t mad?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “You proved to me that you could put responsibility over your wife on Geonosis. Relationships aren’t forbidden so long as there’s not an unhealthy attachment involved. Anyways, we’ve always bent the rules a bit for you.”

Anakin feels as if a weight has been removed from his shoulders. A weight that Palpatine put there, he thinks.

The old man has been wrong about the Jedi on two accounts now… why does Anakin hold what he says about the Jedi in such regard?

Perhaps he should fact-check more of the Chancellor’s absurd claims.

“Ah.” Anakin responds intelligently. “… so why does your, um, thing with Bail need to stay a secret?”

Obi-Wan’s red cheeks return once more. “Well. A… few reasons. Not that I think I’d be in trouble for it, but… I’d like to respect Bail’s privacy. He is, after all, Married.”

“Does Breha not know?”

“She knows,” Obi-Wan assures his former Padawan. “I wouldn’t agree otherwise. But that doesn’t mean they want the whole senate knowing about their … arrangement with me; or others.”

Again, Anakin nods to show his understanding. “The less people who know, the better. Right…”

“Exactly.”

“Still,” Anakin starts, bemused, “I didn’t take you for the 'mistress’ type.”

A complicated flurry of emotions cross his friend’s face. “… neither do I,” he responds, a little clipped. “I think of myself more as Bail’s type.”

Anakin realizes how insensitive that came off a bit too late. “I’m sorry–”

Obi-Wan waves him off. “It’s difficult to understand when I haven’t explained. Bail is Bi; he generally prefers men, but his heart belongs fully to Breha. I prefer men as well, and I have… a condition… so we came to a mutually beneficial arrangement, in which Bail and I enjoy one another while on Coruscant, as he and Breha cannot be together as often as they’d like to be.”

Anakin gets all that, he does. But one thing sticks out to him that he feels needs to be clarified. “You have a condition?” Is Obi-Wan sick?

If its possible, Obi-Wan grows more embarrassed. “Well, I’m from Stewjon.”

That clears nothing up.

At Anakin’s clueless expression, Obi-Wan sighs and explains. “Right, quick biology lesson. Somewhere down the evolutionary line, it was decided that Stewjonians need more incentive to reproduce. So, while it isn’t necessary in order to live out a full, average life span, our bodies naturally produce more beneficial hormones during sexual intercouse. This means, the more I…” he pauses, looking displeased by the verbal corner he’s painted himself into. “… get laid, the slower I age, the faster I heal, and the less sleep I need. All beneficial to fighting a war, yes?”

That’s all news to Anakin. Fascinating. “So do you have… other arrangements too?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “As of now, just Bail. I could, of course, visit the lower levels to the same effect, but I find it safer and more preferable to have intercourse with someone I like and trust.” Less likely to catch something that way, too.

Anakin nods, strange mixtures of relief and utter confusion swirling in his mind. At least he knows Obi-Wan has no interest in Padmé… but that doesn’t explain the way he felt his presence in the force, in her apartment.

“Okay. Uh.” He hesitates, knowing there’s no real, good way to word this. “Just… to be 100% clear, you’re not having secret meetings with Padmé in an attempt to overthrow Palpatine and the Senate?”

The look Obi-Wan gives Anakin would make someone think he had just grown a second head.

“… no, wherever did you hear such nonsense?”

Anakin rubs the back of his neck, feeling the last bit of worry ebb away. “Just rumors.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. “Truly, the Senate gossip gets wildly out of hand. I’ll admit, I do on occasion have tea with Padmé, but there’s nothing treasonous about friends visiting one another and trading stories and doing each other’s makeup from time to time.” He pauses. “And while neither of us have very high opinions on Chancellor Palpatine’s term, there’s no plot against him, as far as I am aware. We are both just eager for this war to end, and for him to release his emergency powers so the Republic can return to democracy.”

“You think his rule is undemocratic?” Anakin asks, looking appalled by the idea.

“He’s been in power long past his elected term,” Obi-Wan points out. “A new Chancellor should have been elected already. Over this time, he has used the war to gain far more emergency powers than any one person should hold.”

Sensing Anakin’s impending argument, he continues. “… Of course, this makes it far simpler to fight a war; I simply worry that when the war has ended… he won’t give up his power so easily. He has resisted peace talks, and every other attempt to bring this war to an end sooner. So I… have concerns.” He gives Anakin a tired sort of smile. “But last I checked, he hasn’t yet made it treasonous for Padmé and I to exercise our right to free speech.”

“Of course not,” Anakin responds, sounding distracted. He’s always thought having one person to make decisions was a good thing… or, does he just think that because Palpatine has told him it’s a better idea so many times?

He has many things to question. But, more importantly right now, Obi-Wan mentioned make-up?

Anakin shakes himself from his thoughts, giving his friend a curious look. “Uh. Rewind a second. Did you say Padmé did your make-up?”

“And I did hers,” Obi-Wan answers easily. “We both had dates.”

That would explain why they were, in some cases, sitting closer than friends would; as far as he could tell in the force.

“Bail takes you on dates?” Anakin asks, curious but trying his best not to be pushy about it. This is something new, which he never anticipated learning about his Master… he wants to know more, but as a Jedi with his own secret significant Senator, he understands the secrecy.

“Not all of them are Bail,” Obi-Wan answers after a moment, as if weighing how much he should admit to. “But yes, he does. He’s quite a gentleman really; I do look for other potential partners, but I fear he’s spoiled me for most.”

Anakin can imagine; having a Senator as a partner is pretty nice. “The tea is that good?”

“And the company,” Obi-Wan agree, a crinkle at the corner of his eyes. “I’ll admit… I’m glad you know now. I don’t like keeping secrets from you.”

That warms Anakin’s heart, so much that he doesn’t quite know how to express it, so he deflects. “If you have pictures of yourself in that makeup, you better not keep them secret anymore,” he teases with a grin.

the teasing pulls a laugh from Obi-Wan, who shakes his head. “I don’t; but I’m certain Padmé has plenty. I think she even took a few of us the one time Bail stopped by her apartment to pick me up.”

Oh, he is definitely getting those from his wife later. “So Padmé knows about you two?”

“She introduced us,” Obi-Wan admits fondly. “I don’t share details with her, but she’s a smart woman.”

That she is. “Why am I the last to find out?” He protests, trying his best not to let it come out sounding whiny.

“Because, my dear padawan,” Obi-Wan starts, gently ribbing him. “You are a dear friend, and an unparalleled partner in combat, but you can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

“I can keep a secret!” he argues! “I swear, Master, no one else will ever know. I only talk to you and Padmé, anyways.” He pauses, “Well, and Palpatine.”

“And he mustn’t know,” Obi-Wan insists, more serious now. “Bail is one of the leading senators advocating for clone rights and peace talks, Anakin. He is a good man. And, he disagrees with Palpatine quite often. I shudder to think what the Chancellor would do with this information, should he find out. I wouldn’t put it past him to use it in an attempt to not only discredit Bail, but to berate the Jedi as well.”

“But neither of you are doing anything wrong,” Anakin states, frowning.

Obi-Wan’s eyes close for a moment. “And it’s not wrong for a system to want to remain neutral and out of the war, yes? And yet, Palpatine did everything in his power to try to strongarm Republic forces onto Mandalore, even rushing a vote 3 days ahead of time, without Satine present, based on a doctored holorecording.”

Anakin doesn’t look at it that way… but he’s not going to argue with Obi-Wan where Satine is involved. Though he now questions how romantic their relationship really was, he knows they were, at the very least, close.

“Just please, don’t tell him, Anakin.” Obi-Wan persists, looking up at his friend beseechingly. “If for no other reason than Bail values his privacy.”

“Of course,” Anakin agrees easily. “Like I said, I won’t tell anyone. I just… nobody really talks to me about Palpatine like you are now. I guess most people know he’s my friend and are too afraid to say anything less than flattering… You’re giving me things to think about.”

“I try to be honest with you whenever I can,” Obi-Wan responds cautiously. “You aren’t a child anymore, and though old habits are hard to break, I don’t want to keep sheltering you as if you aren’t a capable adult.”

“I sense you have more to say,” Anakin prompts when Obi-Wan doesn’t immediately continue.

His friend nods, looking troubled. “I know he is a close friend of yours, Anakin, and one of the few people you knew and liked here, after leaving your home. Which is why I–mistakenly, I think–didn’t object to his interest in you. Initially, I had hoped another friend would make your transition from Tatooine to Coruscant easier… but… well. I find the way he treats you… inappropriate. In some cases, predatory.”

And with those words, Anakin suddenly feels on the defensive. No, Palpatine is his friend, like a grandfather to him. He isn’t… predatory, or–

Obi-Wan’s hands are up even before Anakin can think of a rebuttal. “I don’t claim to know all the details… but the fact that when you were younger, you didn’t feel comfortable telling me anything of your activities on your outings with him says quite a lot, Anakin. And more than that, when I started to suspect something was amiss, and attempted to join you on visits with him, or simply ensure you weren’t left alone with him, he used his position as the Chancellor to strongarm me into backing down. It was… is, concerning.”

And, that’s news to Anakin. He understands why Obi-Wan hadn’t told him sooner, too. He was a headstrong kid; any attempt to protect him, especially from someone he saw as a friend, Anakin would have just taken as Obi-Wan ‘controlling’ him. He knows better now; after years of being Obi-Wan’s equal. But then, it may have just pushed him away, and further from where Obi-Wan could attempt to protect him.

Still, he feels the need to explain himself. “It’s not– He didn’t do anything… like that…” He starts, floundering a little. “It’s just, I didn’t want to tell you, because he took me places I shouldn’t really be going, and I had fun, so…” might as well come clean now, it’s not like he can get in trouble for it anymore. “He used to take me on trips to the lower levels, like, clubs. And he taught me how to make a chance cube land on the side I wanted, so we would find corrupt senators, and cheat them out of their credits. And, Palpatine said he gave the money to charities, so we were doing good things, you know?”

Obi-Wan closes his eyes, and Anakin is reminded of when he tested his patience early on as a padawan, and his Master would silently count to keep himself calm.

He hasn’t needed to in a long time, not since well before Anakin was knighted.

And despite what the action reminds him of, Anakin knows his Master’s temper isn’t directed at him.

“… Anakin,” he starts, tone gentle but tight. “Please, just. For a moment, put Ahsoka in your place. If she was telling you what you are telling me now… what would you think?”

And Anakin’s gut does a flip, because deep down, he already knows.

He… he knows that Palpatine uses him, says one thing and does another, feeds him constant doubt about his friends, about the Jedi…

He knows this, and yet, no one before has had the nerve to say anything even slightly negative about Palpatine to his face. No one has ever dared do anything but say how great his close friend, the Chancellor, is.

Because like Anakin, people are afraid of him.

He feels a tremble start in his fingers, finally faced to acknowledge how afraid he is. How much it terrifies him to know that Palpatine holds all his secrets, that should Anakin ever be less than his enthusiastic friend, he could be ruined.

He, the hero with no fear… is afraid; a frightened boy in the face of a decrepit old man.

And only now can he show it, in the presence of the only person he’s ever known to have the courage to speak up about someone so untouchable.

As if sensing Anakin’s oncoming panic, Obi-Wan interrupts his thoughts, voice kind and sad. “Anakin, dear one, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He moves closer, and any restraint Anakin had breaks.

He feels 9 years old again, lost and seeking comfort in Obi-Wan’s arms. “I can’t say no,” he whispers brokenly. “Master– Jaieh, I’m terrified of him.”

Hearing Anakin call him Jaieh, like he hasn’t since he was young, since it was too hard for him to call anyone ‘Master’ without dredging up bad memories, Obi-Wan accepts Anakin into his arms, no hesitation or holding back.

Anakin needs support right now, needs to know that he isn’t alone in this, that if he asks, Obi-Wan would walk right into Hell with him. “Enoah foh bika, Anakin.” he promises him, reassures him. “Enoah foh mikeelal.”

“Paienoah kodaih bika,” Anakin says, but it comes out unsure, like he’s asking. Like he doesn’t know if he’s accepted, if he’s really not alone in this.

Obi-Wan’s heart aches, and he holds Anakin closer, pressing a reassuring kiss to his temple. “Haj Dai, Anakin. Paienoah kodaih bika.”

Anakin shatters then– or it feels like he does. So many doubts, so many fears, and Obi-Wan bats them all aside with a few words. Words said so easily, words Anakin feared shouldn’t apply to him.

He cries, his earlier suspicions and anger forgotten, absolved now, as he is faced with the truth that Obi-Wan cares for him; that his best friend is his truest ally, that Obi-Wan accepts him and will always accept him.

As he allows himself to acknowledge that Palpatine is a liar and a manipulator, and he is (and always has been) coming up with vile falsities in his attempts to drive a wedge between Anakin and Obi-Wan; the one person he can rely on absolutely.

And through it all, through his tears and his shattered sense of self, Obi-Wan holds onto him; not judgement or disgust, nothing but kindness and acceptance as he carefully picks up the pieces and helps Anakin piece himself back together.

How he could ever doubt Obi-Wan’s character… he would say he doesn’t know, but he remembers. He knows all the little things Palpatine said, all the betrayals he implied, the way he twisted Anakin’s thoughts to see himself pitted against Obi-Wan instead of regarded with him, as he should. They are a team, The Team.

He should have recognized long ago that their accomplishments aren’t a competition, they are an accumulation of the good they can both do, together and apart.

Anakin may be late, but late is better than never, and he recognizes it now, at his lowest and most vulnerable moment. A competitor wouldn’t hold him and build him back up, stronger than before. A friend does that, a friend and mentor and good person.

When he can speak, albeit in a watery way, Anakin wipes his eyes, face still hidden in his Master’s shoulder. “What am I going to do?”

The answer doesn’t come immediately, and that in itself is a reassurance. Anakin doesn’t want unthought-out platitudes, he wants honesty, and preferably, a plan.

“I don’t know what we can do right this moment, Anakin.” Obi-Wan admits. “He is still the Chancellor… and that won’t change until we end this war. But I can promise you this, my dear padawan, you will never have to go see him alone. You need only ask, and I will be by your side. And as soon as circumstances change, I will do all there is in my power to make sure he never comes near you again, Anakin.”

He sniffles, more reassured by the realistic response than he could ever be by promises that can’t be fulfilled.

“Then we’ll just have to try harder to end this war, huh?” Anakin goes for an optimistic tone, hugging Obi-Wan more snugly.

Another comforting kiss goes to his temple. Obi-Wan is frugal with his shows of affection, so it means all the more now that he is giving them so openly. “We will, Anakin.” He promises, and his voice is so steady, so sure, the rock that Anakin can always lean against. “Together, I doubt there’s anything you and I can’t do.”

“Together,” Anakin agrees, a knot in his very soul coming loose.

Obi-Wan is right. They are The Team, and that isn’t just a title. Together, they can do anything they set their minds to.

They can defeat Sith Lords, they can end a war, and maybe, just maybe, they can even save Anakin Skywalker’s soul from the Devil.

°|●.*•

Dai Bendu Translations

“Jaieh” || ● Simplified Meaning: Master

Literal Meaning

roots: ‘je’- mystic, ‘ai’- mastery, non ownership. so ‘one who is a Master in the ways of the Force’, implying more like a teacher than an owner.

“Enoah foh bika, Anakin. Enoah foh mikeelal” || ● Simplified Meaning: I am here, Anakin. I am with you.

Literal Meaning

Enoah fo - I am (in a permanent state, not transitive)

bika- here

[Anakin]

Enoah foh- I am (in a permanent state)

mikeelal - comitative ‘you’/with you.

“Paienoah kodaih bika.” || ● Simplified Meaning: We are here together, now and forever.

Literal Meaning

Paienoah - We are (in a permanent state, and this has implications for the future)

kodaih - Exclusionary ‘We’ - all of us jedi (exclusionary, implying the inclusion of Anakin in the Jedi and alluding to the exclusion of Palpatine as not a Jedi)

bika - here.

so essentially, “We are jedi, and we are together, and Palpatine is not, and this matters for the future.”

“Haj Dai, Anakin. Paienoah kodaih bika.” || ● Simplified Meaning: Yes, Anakin. We are here together, now and forever.

Literal Meaning

Haj Dai - literally ‘Force Wills’, a reassuring ‘yes’.

[Anakin]

Paienoah - We are (in a permanent state, and this has implications for the future) [italics stress is on ‘are’]

kodaih - Exclusionary ‘We’ - all of us jedi (exclusionary, implying the inclusion of Anakin in the Jedi and alluding to the exclusion of Palpatine as not a Jedi)

bika - here.

so essentially, “Of course, Anakin. We are jedi, and we are together, and Palpatine is not, and this matters for the future.”

Thanks to @jasontoddiefor @ghostwriterofthemachine for the translations to Dai Bendu, their fancrafted Jedi Language!

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apocalypsewriters · 3 years

Text

The Aftermath of Brownies

A/N: I would recommend reading this post first, since it inspired me to rewrite this piece, but if you don't, here's the breakdown.

Victor-Hecate had trouble sleeping due to being touch starved because of their powers for six years, so their queerplatontic partner, Tora, baked lactose free brownies with him and watched a movie together until VH fell asleep

Also! A million thanks to my amazing friend @pagesofcursive for editing and inspiring this piece.

Warnings: brief mention of death (because it's Tae, and they can't be there without it) and let me know if there's anything I missed

Summary: Victor-Hecate can feel people's death when he touches people, but their partner, Tora doesn't affect them as much in short term. What happens when they fall asleep on her?

Tora finished the movie alone, brownie stuck in her teeth, leg numb underneath her, a sleeping person on her shoulder, and a hand tangled in her own. She groaned softly, extracting her leg and stretching it out in front of her. Victor-Hecate, or, as she typically called them, Vaytch, had fallen asleep with twenty-five minutes left in the movie and was now drooling a little onto Tora's pajama shirt. She didn't mind. It was worth it to make sure he got sleep, something he struggled with often but was working to fix. Starving herself of physical contact for six years had taken a toll on Vaytch, leaving them jittery, stressed, and exhausted from sleepless nights. Tora often snuck up on them playfully to make both of them laugh, but sometimes they startled even when that wasn't Tora's intention.

With a sigh, she flicked off the TV, tossing the remote remorselessly onto the table with a clatter that echoed around the house. Gently, after laying eyes on Vaytch's softly snoring form and making her typical split-second decisions, Tora lifted them off her shoulder and deposited their head into her lap. Her curls tickled her legs, clad in pajama shorts. Tora sprung a ringlet or two around her finger before gazing mournfully at a book at the other arm of the couch. Wonder was a book heavily recommended (read: forced) to her by the other two of her dynamic trio- her partner, Vaytch, and Lynn. Her fingers tapped frantic rhythms on the couch for what felt like half an hour but must have only been a few moments before that distraction wasn't enough. She twisted a strand of her cropped hair over and over, tugging at it until that patch of her scalp held a dull ache. Tora drew in the short fur of the couch, keeping her movements small to ensure Vaytch wouldn't be disturbed. She needed sleep. Desperately. Tora couldn't afford to wake them. But her mind skittered around, frustration building at being trapped, even if by her own means and an adorable cage. Still, she couldn't move. She wouldn't move. She shouldn't move for selfish reasons.

However, glancing at the clock to see only seven minutes had passed since the end of the movie, she gave up. Leaning and stretching, trying and failing not to shift the sleeping head in her lap, she snagged the book. Triumphantly, Tora returned to her spot on the couch, only to find Vaytch's head lolling off of it at an extremely uncomfortable angle. They didn’t stir. Strange. Maybe he was more tired than she thought. Mentally shrugging, she gingerly lifted their head back into her lap, smoothing some stray curls back into place. She stroked their cheek apologetically, barely feeling his breath on her hand.

Wait.

Freezing in place, Tora pricked up her ears, trying to hear her partner’s snoring. It was generally pretty consistent, she’d learned from her own sleepless nights spent with them, but now there was eerie silence. Cold panic shot through her. What was going on? The fuzz of the couch made quiet, vague ripping noises as she dragged her fingers in short bursts rapidly along it. Critical information tickled the back of her brain. Tora always forgot the important things when they were necessary. Desperately, she tried to pursue the swiftly fading memory as it slipped from her fingers like water through a sieve.

To shake the unease resting like a dead weight in her chest, Tora picked up her book again with a small grimace, hoping that by distracting herself, the wild thought would return from the overgrown, chaotic mass of her mind and come into clarity. Absently, she appreciated the weight in her lap, pushing her fingers through ringlets. Vaytch never stayed this long on her, generally taking breaks now and then. It was a nice change. Tora sighed and laid back, soaking in her presence, his warmth, simply enjoying their company. She was so glad they had found each other, that Vaytch could touch another person without hurting. Numb was better than hurt in Tora's experience. It truly was lucky that Tora just made her numb; nothing bad came from it. She paused in her rippling through of book pages - the sound was nice - as a revelation struck.

Vaytch had never spent this much time on her because periodically they pushed away. She pushed away from Tora's touch, saying they needed to take a break. They took time to recuperate, saying he felt lightheaded after too long, that the emptiness echoed in her bones. How long was too long? The question shook Tora as she frantically wracked her brain again. Twenty minutes? Her eyes darted around the room, checking for the time.

It had been sixteen minutes since she last checked the clock. Spending precious time slipping up with the simple addition, she finally figured it had been about ten minutes short of an hour since Vaytch fell asleep. Easily over an hour since they took a break.

She gripped their wrist, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. Wait, wait... there! Vaytch's pulse was still there, albeit agonizingly slow.

Tora extricated herself from underneath the sleeping form, simultaneously trying to get out as fast as possible while still being delicate with Vaytch. She slid onto the floor while tossing the book away, catching herself with a hand on the cold floor. Was Vaytch's arm at an odd angle? Hesitantly, Tora adjusted it, keeping her hand away from bare skin. Now it looked worse, and she let out a curse. Tora desperately pulled Vaytch's arm out, letting it flop down and bounce against the side of the couch. She bit back a scream of frustration. Holding only the long sleeve so as to not touch Vaytch's skin, Tora lifted his arm and tucked it into his side, her fingertips briefly brushing the back of their hand. She flinched away immediately, wincing as her movement roughly jostled their seemingly peaceful form.

Switching from biting the inside of her cheek to her lip, Tora sat crisscrossed in front of the couch. Seconds crawled by as aches grew on her hunched back and furrowed brows. "Vaytch." Her voice was soft, scratchy from lack of use. Her throat rasped as she coughed to clear it. "Vaytch." Tora cringed at the desperation in her voice. Forgetting the more extreme movements that had yielded no result, Tora gently shook their shoulder, willing for them to wake up, to open his eyes and spite her fading hope. "You have to wake up now. This really isn't funny." Tears sprung to her eyes, and she raised her voice to combat the sob building in her throat. She was almost shouting, "Tae, you're not touching me anymore," Tora almost shouted. "You're fine. If you're not fine, Vi will kill me." She laughed weakly, incredulously at the situation she put Vaytch in. It was Tora's fault she was passed out, not waking up, heartbeat slow, too still to be considered normal. "Your brother probably would too." This was all Tora's fault. How could she let this happen? She ran her fingers hard through her hair, leaving her scalp stinging. "Ple-ase," Tora begged. She gripped her own arm tightly but could barely feel it. "You can't leave me. You were just starting to- to get better. I was never supposed to hurt you. Why-" She bit back a sob. How awful would it be for Vaytch if he woke up, probably in pain, to see Tora crying pathetically on the floor?

Itching for something to do as panic still clawed at her, Tora heaved herself to her feet. Shaking her legs awake, she walked a lap around the coffee table. She washed and dried the brownie pan - taking longer than she should as she got sidetracked filling up the dish soap, then the hand soap in the kitchen and bathroom - before returning to sit in front of her partner.

After switching her seated position three times, she finally settled. Somewhat. Rocking side to side slightly, her thumb and pinky vibrated back and forth on her knee. It had been - Tora glanced at the clock - eight minutes since she'd stepped away. The beautiful sound of Vaytch's snoring had begun to return, which was music to Tora's ears. "Vaytch," she whispered to herself. She strangled the urge to stroke their cheek comfortingly, worrying it would halt their recovery. "Vaytch, please." Tora was louder this time as she zeroed in on his sleeping form, willing her to wake up.

Miraculously, after two more painfully slow minutes of Tora's constant shifting, Vaytch's eyelids flickered. Tora leaned forward in anticipation, almost falling on top of them but catching herself just in time. She released a huff of air, not realizing she'd been holding her breath. Tora swayed, lightheaded, and threw her hand out to stabilize herself, rattling the coffee table in the process. The sound reverberated around the room as she cringed, her chin tilted down.

"Babe?"

Tora's head snapped up, almost giving herself whiplash. Vaytch's eyelids were still semi-stuck together as they blearily tried to focus on her. "Thank goodness you're awake!" The words came out in a louder than intended, slurred together rush.

His expression was baffled, a fold in the sofa imprinted on their cheek. "What?"

"Well, you weren't waking up, and I was so worried, and I called your name, and you were still asleep, and it's all my fault and-"

Vaytch reached out and stilled Tora's wildly gesturing hands, propping themself up on an elbow. Their eyebrows were pushed together in such a way that Tora wished she could push them apart, the way she always did when they were stressed. "What are you talking about? Are you okay?"

Tora gulped and fruitlessly tried to gather her thoughts together in a coherent way. "I'm fine now," she said, her voice full of relief. "You just fell asleep on top of me, and you lay there for too long so you weren't snoring anymore, and your heartbeat was slow, and you didn't react when I shook you, and then I remembered that you'd never stayed on me that long 'cause you said even numb would get too much, so I was really worried, but then-" Tora broke off, finally taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Then you finally woke up. Are you feeling okay??" she asked, offering Vaytch a hopefully comforting smile.

"Now that you mention it, I am kind of sore," Vaytch said. "Almost like everything fell asleep." Wrinkling her nose adorably, they released Tora's hands and sat up, rubbing their legs. He held out a hand and, once Tora accepted it, pulled her onto the couch beside her and placed the clasped hands between them. They rubbed the back of her hand with a thumb comfortingly. "It's very sweet that you were worried about me. But I'm okay now. Really," they said reassuringly in response to Tora's disbelieving expression. "I've been through worse, so it'll be fine. Seriously," they said with a snort, "you should have seen what happened when I met Juni and Bella."

Tora chuckled weakly as she remembered hearing about that. Sensing Tora's skepticism at their well-being, Vaytch held out her arms. Not needing another invitation, Tora launched herself into their embrace, knocking him backward, taking care to avoid any skin-to-skin contact. Vaytch squeaked as she squeezed. Tora felt overcome with gratefulness that he was still there to hug her back. She smiled into their shoulder, finally relaxed after half an hour of worry. Vaytch was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

#hehe. angsty #victor-hecate #tora #fusion au #tw: death mention #writeblr #writing #original character #writers on tumblr #writers #qpr

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erin-bo-berin · 4 years

Text

Wanna Be Bad

MASTERLIST

I’ll be honest, the idea for this fic came when I was listening to early 2000′s music from my childhood. This was inspired by the song I Wanna Be Bad by Willa Ford (hence why I titled it after the song). If you want to check out the song or listen to it while you read this (which I recommend) you can do so here. Gotta admit though that little 8 year old me had no idea what the ACTUAL meaning of the song was until much, much later. Anyway, this is a different format than I have written so far, cause I’ve included the lyrics in the story since different parts seem to actually describe what’s going on. The lyrics will be in italics between parts of the story. Hope you all enjoy!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: Mature (smut)

Word Count: 3,524

Do you understand

What I need, need from you?

Just let me be the girl

To show you, you

Everything that she can be

Is everything that I can be

Fucking Spencer Reid.

Spencer Reid; aka your FBI partner and the one man that you can’t get out of your mind.

He’d been your partner for over 3 years and extremely welcoming when you joined the Behavioral Analyst Unit of the FBI. At first, he wasn’t a problem and you were friendly.

Until it slowly dawned on you just how attracted you are to him. It had hit you like a bucket of ice water had been poured over your head. That shock was bad enough.

What was worse was the no fraternization between team members rule that came from the unit chief. She was friendly and a team player but it was something that she was strict about. It had never been a problem before, since the rest of the team’s significant others were not a part of the BAU, let alone worked in the FBI.

But here you were, with a growing attraction to him. It was a crappy situation knowing that your one sided sexual tension with him could never be acted upon simply because you knew Spencer was one to follow the rules.

My turn

Let me let you know that

I can’t promise that I won’t do that

So, boy say the time and place

Cause you make me want to misbehave

The things you would do the man.

The things you wish you could do to him.

Your eyes follow him, along with the other teammates. He’s currently explaining a geographical profile he’d worked on for a current case. You’re thankful that all eyes are on him because it disguises your own staring.

You can’t lie, your partner is drop dead gorgeous. Over 6 feet tall—coming in at approximately 6’1, he’s long and lean but with some definite muscle to him. He’s not scrawny like he once was, something the team likes to playfully tease him about, once showing you pictures of the decade younger Reid.

He’s also gotten even more attractive as he aged. Not that he wasn’t cute when he was younger, but he’s aging like a fine wine. At 38, he’s even better looking than you could fathom.

His brown locks that he always changes up is now on the longer side, his curls sometimes more wild, sometimes more tamed. You’ve imagined many times running your fingers through them.

His dark eyes are as much of a wild card as he is. At times appearing green, others looking like a rich brown. You’d guess they’re hazel but you’re not exactly sure. It’s not like you can bring that up into a random conversation without sounding totally crazy.

He sported more of an unshaven look these days. After many years of being clean shaven as a young FBI profiler—again, you’d seen plenty of pictures—he had quite the scruffy look going on. Needless to say, you were a big fan.

Now, his lips, something you’d fantasized about a lot. He had lips most women would envy, plump and quite the pale shade of pink. Sometimes they’d darken a shade when he bit down on them while he was thinking.

Speaking of, he had one of the best smiles you had probably ever seen on a man. One that was sure to get any woman’s lady bits roaring.

He kinda also had this habit of licking his lips. It was definitely something he wasn’t conscious of as he did it quite often. Whether it was while he was working, when he was thinking, before saying something, everytime it happened you could feel a desire form deep within you.

Oh, the things that tongue could potentially do.

But it didn’t stop with just looks with the good doctor.

His mind was probably the sexiest thing about him.

His brain was filled with an immense amount of knowledge. At first it had surprised you at just how attractive you found it, but you quickly learned that you loved to hear him share his facts and statistics. He truly was like no other.

Sometimes you purposely mixed up your facts just so he’d correct you.

And he would. Every single time.

It’s a shame he couldn’t talk smart between your legs.

Spencer Reid was definitely a wild card alright.

To be so smart, he was hard to figure out. He always seemed to be more reserved with you than the rest of the team members. You knew it could possibly be the case that he’d known them longer, but it always felt like he held himself back.

Your eyes followed his movements, his hands gesturing wildly at his display as he talked.

His hands were large, with long slender fingers, often used to mess with a pen or pencil absently, or to push his hair back out of his eyes. You didn’t have to explain the kinds of things you’d imagined regarding them.

Today, he was in a navy blue suit, a purple button down and a matching navy tie. He looked good. Not saying there wasn’t a time that he wasn’t, but there was something about today’s attire that was better than usual.

Purple really suited him, you thought.

It’s a shame (really, a damn shame) that you knew he would never break the rules because if he ever named the time and place...well let’s just say you wouldn’t turn him down in the least.

Maybe it was time to up your game a little.

I wanna be bad

You make bad look so good

I got things on my mind

I never thought I would

In any other situation you would’ve never thought about tempting fate and ignoring a rule made by your boss. You had sense enough to know it was a bad idea, but something about Spencer was so intoxicating, it was like you could never get enough. The desire burned through you constantly like a paper set aflame.

You told yourself it wasn’t a crime to look nice for work. You had a job where it was reasonable to be a bit more dressy and make yourself look nice. But deep down, you knew you wanted to test the limits.

You went to work one day dressed in a tight black fitting skirt, one that hugged your ass perfectly along with a turquoise button down, some cleavage purposely on show. Paired with a pair of your strappy black work heels, you were prepared to face the day.

Never in a million years did you imagine doing something like this, but here you were. Wild thoughts of Spencer ran rampant in your mind, even in the middle of cases to the point you had to try twice as hard to focus. Maybe it was time for him to have a taste of his own medicine.

It puzzled you for most of the day when he seemed to ignore you more than usual. You’d figured your attraction to him was one sided, but the change in his behavior hurt a bit, knowing he was only interacting with you when he absolutely had to. At the end of the day, he was still your partner.

It was only during a briefing later on, when you were actually entirely focused on work that you felt eyes on you. Your gaze cut across the table just in time to see Spencer’s eyes rake across you, licking his lips in the process. His eyes cut away quickly when his met yours and he grabbed for his cup of coffee taking a drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

He was definitely trying to appear as if he wasn’t just staring at you moments before.

A heat stirred within you as you’d realized what had just happened.

Something was brewing.

I, I wanna be bad

You make bad feel so good

I’m losing all my cool

I’m about to break the rules

I, I wanna be bad

The tension had begun, ironically, during a raid on a case you were working on.

After working surveillance with Spencer alone, you’d caught the perp in the act and called for backup immediately. SWAT was already ahead of you, waiting for instructions.

In efforts of a surprise takeover, you both were hidden in a cramped space to try and locate his current location before you sent SWAT inside.

His breath was hot on your neck and you were pressed against him, his chest flesh with your back, all while your ass was pressed against his crotch.

You didn’t miss his sharp intake of breath even though you pretended not to hear it.

Attempting to free yourself of the small space, you happened to brush across him, more specifically his crotch. His hand immediately flew to your hip, grabbing you a little harder than necessary. Your mind was whirling enough as it was at the close proximity.

“Not yet,” he whispered, low enough for you to hear, “SWAT’s about to go in.”

A moment later you both were on the move behind them, announcing that you were FBI. But you didn’t forget the moment that was now seared into your mind.

Spencer was definitely the only one you’d break the rules for.

I want to be bad with you, baby

•

What’s up?

Tell me what to do, how to be

Teach me

All your rules from A to Z

But I don’t want your other girl to see

That you’re messing ‘round with me

You and Spencer didn’t speak about the incident.

But suddenly, his rules had seemed to change.

When it was just the two of you, he actually seemed to flirt with you.

“You not tired yet?” he’d grinned, seeing you pick up more paperwork you’d need to complete before next week.

“Oh, but what if I said that this stack was all yours Spence?”

“Oof,” he mock grimaced, putting a hand dramatically over his heart, “Why do you wound me so?”

You chuckled, plopping it down on your desk, before sitting in your chair.

“Unfortunately, that pile is all mine.”

“Well maybe I can stay late to keep you company and watch you in your misery.” A smirk ghosted over his lips.

You bit your lip, watching him.

He was definitely flirting. Wasn’t he? But you could admit you were bantering more with him, returning his own flirty comments.

Only, that is, when no one else was around.

It wasn’t a secret that things like this had to be hidden from your unit chief. If she had caught wind or even a tiny bit of suspicion what was simmering between you both, you could possibly be in trouble.

“Oh please, don’t go out of your way to ruin your evening plans with my misery,” you deadpanned, even though he knew you were kidding.

“Let me know if you need anything. A pen, food, a shoulder to cry on.”

You peer sideways at him, half grinning.

“What was that last one?”

He points to his shoulder, a faux frown on his face before chuckling.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Should I boy?

Tell me what I got is what you want

Tell, tell me do I, I turn you on?

I don’t want no one judging me

You cannot believe that the team suggested you and Spencer being the ones to go undercover to catch your current unsub. Of all the places.

You were tracking an unsub that was currently killing exotic dancers; his hunting ground being a certain strip club which is where you were currently undercover as, you guessed it, one of the dancers.

Spencer, on the other hand, was dressed as one of the many rich gentleman in the audience, playing the part of another regular man come to see the show. You both had your eyes out on the floor in search of our current unsub.

“Y/N,” came from the hidden earpiece was your boss.

“Be as coy as possible, but refuse any activities with any of the other men. We want to see if that brings our unsub out. You tell them your client is Reid, got it?”

You groan inwardly. This was your worst nightmare due to the fact that your sexual tension was at an all time high with him. You’d rather not jump him with the whole team just outside.

As part of your undercover identity, Candi, you were dressed in a tasseled, silver one piece, cut all the way down your torso to show off your stomach, your boobs practically spilling out of the small swath of fabric covering them. There was just enough fabric to cover your nether regions and it all tied in the back with two thin strings. Basically, it left little to the imagination.

“Sweetheart, how about a little dance?” came from your left.

A distinguished looking gentleman, with white hair held out a twenty in your direction, a grin on his face.

“Sorry, already promised one to that gentleman,” you motioned to Spencer, who was in character, watching some of the other dancers, his eyes roaming the room before they landed on you.

“Gotta go,” you said, with a flirtatious smile.

The man shrugged and turned his attention to another girl.

You approached Spencer, trying to calm your nerves and keep in character. You put a hand on his shoulder flirtatiously and greet him.

“Hi there, big boy.”

You walk around to face him, hands resting on the back of his chair as you lean into him, pushing your ass outwards while pressing your breasts against his chest.

“How’s it going?” you mumble lowly in his ear.

Your hands trail over his shoulders as your hips sway back and forth in front of him.

“Nothing yet. I, um, I’ve been keeping an eye out.”

You nod, continuing on. You flip your hair as you turn, your ass grazing his crotch. Your hands glide up your legs as you turn to face him again, your touch moving up your stomach reaching your boobs, beginning to rub them sensually as you bite your lip. Your eyes lock on his as your hands slide up his thighs before you settle in his lap, his hands resting on your bare sides.

His eyes haven’t left you since you began and you see his teeth scrape his bottom lip momentarily.

“Anyone look suspicious?” you whisper, leaning forward as your hips grind slowly.

His breathing sounds heavier than before and he struggles to answer your question.

“One guy in the corner hasn’t taken his eyes off you.”

Your fingertips trail down his chest. Holding on to the edge of the chair, you lean backwards slowly, in an attempt to be tantalizing and sexy like you’ve seen the other girls do, but also to see the guy Spencer was referring to. You peer to the corner towards your left quickly and see what he’s talking about.

You hum your agreement and move upright, one arm raised above your head, your fingertips trailing down the opposite arm. His fingers dig into your hips as your hips circle above his crotch.

“Y/N,” he rasped.

It’s then that your thigh brushes his crotch that you can feel he’s hard. You inhale, your eyes widening the slightest as you look at him; his eyes haven’t left you.

Suddenly a voice fills your ear and you know Spencer heard it too.

“We got him!”

I wanna be bad

You make bad look so good

I got things on my mind

I never thought I would

After a clothes change, you were back in your normal clothes post undercover job. The heat still burned inside of you hours after what happened at the club.

You all, indeed, captured the right unsub. Apparently you had caught his eye since you were “new”. Looked like Spencer had been right.

Speaking of, he had practically disappeared after the team bust in to arrest him. You hadn’t seen him until you had gotten back to the BAU and even then he was across the room discussing a closing report with one of the other agents.

You bit your thumbnail as you paced the room. You couldn’t hold out any longer and you knew you had to do something. You were in an empty office down the hall from the BAU unit, knowing he’d be down the hall at any moment.

Mere minutes later you heard footsteps and you opened the door just enough to see him coming down the hall, looking at a file as he walked. You grabbed his arm and pulled him into the room, closing the door behind him.

His back was against the door and he looked down at you, a slight squint to his eyes, his tongue moving over his lips as he—as usual—licked his lips.

“I had to do something,” you said by way of explanation before grabbing him by his tie and pulling him down towards you.

I, I wanna be bad

You make bad feel so good

I’m losing all my cool

I’m about to break the rules

I, I wanna be bad

Your lips met his in a burning kiss. You heard a plop of the file as he tosses it carelessly on the floor before pulling you closer, his lips moving quickly with yours. His hands hooked behind your thighs and he hoisted you up, carrying you towards the empty desk in the room.

“Fuck, earlier,” he breathed, kissing down your jaw, “You drove me crazy.”

“I kinda sensed that,” you chuckled, “Sorry about that.”

He nips your jaw, bending lower to kiss your neck as he sets you on the desk.

“All it took was one look at you in that outfit and I was already hard,” he groaned into your neck, sucking on a spot before flicking his tongue over the bruised skin.

“Why Spencer Reid, do I turn you on?” you smirked, pulling at his tie to undo it.

“Fuck yes. Probably as much as I turn you on, sweetheart.”

Your teeth raked over your bottom lip as the heat roils inside of you. You’re throbbing with want and need; you have an itch only he can possibly scratch.

He has your shirt over your head before you can even get his tie off. He lowers you back against the top of the desk, kissing down your torso, his hands working to remove.

“This is an unfair advantage here,” you moaned, “You’re way overdressed.”

He tosses his tie before pulling off your pants and underwear and you sit up on your elbows, watching him.

With one lick up your slit, you’re a moaning mess.

“I always imagined you talking smart between my legs,” you mumbled, anticipating his next move.

“Mm, that’s something to try another day,” Spencer smirks, unfastening his pants.

He leans over you, kissing you roughly as he slides inside you. He moans against your mouth, his teeth gently tugging your bottom lip as he pulls away and thrusts slow and deep within you.

“Damnit, Spencer you are not going to tease me now like you have for the last 3 years.”

He chuckles, standing upright again, pulling you to the edge and as closely as possible to him as his hips move faster and harder.

It’s rough and fast as if you can’t get enough of each other and he’s quickly got you writhing on the desktop.

“Fucking shit, Y/N,” your name drags from his lips in a low grown.

This was so much better than you’d even imagined, the lighting fire of ecstasy in your veins being caused by no one but him. Your hands grip the edge of the desk so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Spence!” you shrieked loudly as he hits a particular sensitive spot.

You’re so glad there’s no one else around down the hall.

“Oh my god,” he moans, his own release falling over him.

Your gaze takes in his slackened jaw and thrown back head, his throat vibrating with his groans. It’s so incredibly sexy, you almost go over the edge yourself at the sight.

His thumb circles your clit, insistent on getting you off as well. The pressure builds inside you until you can’t contain it anymore and you let go, ecstasy flowing through your veins, his name falling from your lips repeatedly.

When you finally feel like you can breathe again, you struggle to sit up, already missing the feeling of him inside of you.

“Good God, if only I knew you were as good at that as you are at profiling,” you said, half dazed, reaching for your clothes as he hands them to you.

He snickered as he pulls himself together, bending down to pick up the file on the floor and heads to the door. He stops with one hand on the doorknob and looks at you.

“You know, I kinda hope this isn’t a one time thing,” he said, almost meekly.

Your answer puts a smile on his face.

“Believe me. Next time, I’m having my way with you.”

I, I wanna be bad.

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid gifs #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid smut #dr spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid smut #dr spencer reid gifs #spencer reid x reader #Criminal Minds #criminal minds gifs #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut

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youbloodymadgenius · 4 years

Text

Photographs, Cuddles and Hot Cocoa (Modern!Ivar x reader)

A/N: Happy birthday, @flowers-in-your-hayr 🎉 May your day be the most beautiful! 🌺 Hope you’ll enjoy this silly thing I wrote. And @maggiescarborough, thank you for planning this special challenge.

Of course, I chose an Ivar's moodboard. And now it’s Christmas in May 🎄

Once again, I wholeheartedly thank you, @inforapound. You’re the best beta ever. And my friend 🌷

Obviously, the moodboard belongs to you, @flowers-in-your-hayr 😉

Summary: You’re tired and wanted to cuddle but Ivar’s got other plans. You’re not thrilled.

Warnings: fluff with no plot; Ivar may be a little OOC, sorry about that.

Words: 2066

"Ivar, where are we?"

Looking around, frowning, you don't even try to hide how annoyed you are, your head resting against the car window. He gives you an amused smile, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheek.

"You don't remember? I thought you'd recognize this place."

He seems slightly disappointed, which doesn't help your mood. Because you should be the disappointed one. Well, you probably are. More disappointed than he is, anyway.

"No, I don't."

He lets his hand fall back into his lap, clearly surprised by your increasingly irritated tone.

"Just look around, love."

"That's what I'm doing, Ivar! I'm not sure what you want me to say. That we are in the middle of nowhere? Okay, we are!" Blowing up, you raise your voice. "I'm not stupid, Ivar! I know we're on the heights of Kattegat, not far from the chalet since we didn't drive long. But we could be anywhere! It's white, white and white! There's snow everywhere!!! How am I supposed to recognize this fucking place, Ivar???"

"Okay, take it easy Y/N!" Smiling, he squeezes your knee. It's infuriating how he can stay calm on the rare occasions when you're the one who gets angry. "Remember, we're on vacation and we've got all the time in the world. Just tell me… what's wrong?"

You soften in spite of yourself when his forget-me-not blue eyes peer into yours.

"Imtiredandwantedtocuddle." You mumble, suddenly shy and embarrassed, sucking on your lower lip.

You're speaking the truth. Christmas Day with Ivar's family had been surprisingly successful. Sigurd had behaved, Aslaug's cooking had been, as usual, scrumptious and the gifts appreciated. Your somewhat grumpy lover had even been cheerful – well, most of the time. So yeah, everything had gone well. But it had been exhausting. Waking up at dawn, baking a cake, a two-hours drive to Kattegat, a whole day of smiling and keeping the conversation going, you and Ivar eventually had arrived at the Lothbrok's chalet very late last night, for a well deserved week's holiday, just the two of you. And this morning, all you wanted to do was cuddle, wrapped in a thick blanket. But here you are now, wearing your brand new snow suit, in the middle of nowhere, at the insistence of Ivar, your stubborn fiancé.

Ivar stifles a chuckle, scrunching up his nose. "Fuck, I love your pouty face, Y/N!"

Sticking your tongue out at him, you can't help but close your eyes, purring with delight as his hands cup your face. You love him so fucking much.

Still, you're not ready to admit defeat. Not just yet. "I'm not that easily bought, Ivar!"

Flashing his trademark smile, he gives a peck on your forehead, laughing. "I know, love!! If I promise tons of cuddles later, will you be less angry?"

"Maybe." A whisper escapes your mouth while a faint smile appears on your face. As much as you'd like to, you can never stay mad at him for long.

"Then I promise." His voice is soft now, his smile genuine, his eyes full of love, and you know he won. You'd do anything for this man, for his happiness.

Intertwining your fingers with his, you bring his hand closer, kissing it gently while releasing a light sigh. "Okay, let's start again." You stop, glancing around one more time. When you speak again, there's not the slightest hint of annoyance in your voice. "Mind telling me where we are? Because I swear to you, I don't have a clue."

Leaning forward, Ivar points at a snowy tree out on the right side of the car. "Doesn't that oak remind you of anything? Really?" Frowning, he looks truly astounded, maybe disappointed too. Realizing that you probably unwillingly hurt his feelings, you stare out at the winter scenery, paying particular attention to the majestic old tree. And it just hits you. Shit.

"Oh gods Ivar, I'm so sorry… Of course I know where we are. But you know, with all that snow, I had no bearings. Yet I should have known. Oh gods, I can't believe I didn't recognize…" Stopping your useless rambling, you can't help but cringe, mentally scolding yourself. Your hand grazes his cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. Swallowing hard, you lower your gaze, slightly ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Ivar. That's our tree."

Your tree, which regally overlooks a small pond. This is your little paradise. Your secret place, where you first kissed eight years ago, after he gave himself to you like never before, revealing all his fears and insecurities. Your secret place, where he proposed to you last summer, crying in your arms, gobsmacked that you said yes.

"Yes, our tree." Smiling softly, Ivar grabs his camera from the back seat. "I'm glad your memory returned, I was beginning to wonder if this place meant as much to you as it did to me." He winks at you, but you can see concern in his eyes. Ivar will never be completely sure of your love, no matter what you say or do, because he thinks he doesn't deserve it.

"It's the best place in the whole world, Ivar." You reassure him, your hand barely squeezing his thigh. "I'll gladly forego a long cuddle session if it means spending an hour here with you." Tilting your head, you reach out, fingers skimming his jaw, before kissing him tenderly. You're the first to pull away, looking intently into his eyes. "Now tell me, my love, why did you choose to come here today? If this is about asking me to marry you, you remember I already said yes, right?" Chuckling, you pepper light kisses over his face as he wraps his arm around your waist, drawing you closer.

"Actually, I've wanted to take pictures here during winter for a long time." Backing up just enough to show you his camera, he gives you one last peck on the lips. "I've never had the chance since we usually only come here in July or August. So yeah…", he shrugs, looking sorry, "that's why I rushed you a little bit this morning. But just look…" Getting excited, he gestures wildly, showing you the scenery around you. "All this fresh snow, it's beautiful. And the brightness today is amazing. A perfect day for perfect pictures. It would have been a shame not to come."

His words bring a broad smile to your face. You love seeing him like this, passionate and committed. Photography is his happy bubble. A world where his legs don't matter, where he doesn't have to compete against his brothers. A world which taught him patience. And gods, he's good at it! One day his pictures will be exhibited, you're sure of it.

Scratching the back of his neck, he scowls for a second, his hand squeezing yours. "I realize just now that it was silly to bring you here. You could have stayed at the chalet. Shit Y/N, I'm sorry. Do you want to wait for me here? You could stay in the car, so you won't get cold. I promise to be quick. What do you say?"

Shaking your head, you put on your woollen gloves, your pompon beanie already on your head. "No way, Ivar. Of course I'm coming with you."

Your hand on the door handle, you give him a questioning look. "Where do you want to go? At the risk of repeating myself, there's snow everywhere."

"I know that," he giggles at your obvious, rolling his eyes. "We'll go to the pond of course, where else?"

Doing a double take, you stare wide-eyed at him. "To the… pond?" Your high-pitched tone giving away your unbelief, you see Ivar furrowing his brows.

When he speaks again, it's with an expressionless face, apprehension clear in his voice. "That's what I said, yes. Is there a problem?"

A problem? Of course there is. The truth is, there is a problem. A long list of problems.

First, walking in the snow is always challenging for Ivar, his leg braces and his crutch. And right now, even the wheelchair friendly path leading to the pond is nonexistent, covered with a thick layer of snow.

Second, it's too cold out here. Too cold for his legs, which will stiffen in no time, causing him terrible pain.

Third, he woke up this morning unwell, wincing, swallowing with his orange juice a double dose of painkillers while complaining about how the previous day had been stressful and tiring.

You're about to talk, to explain, when you catch his pleading eyes. He knows exactly what you're thinking. There isn't a sound out of him, but it's not necessary, you can't miss the silent question in his gaze. “Please. Don't."

Overwhelmed with mixed feelings, you remain silent for a minute. You hate seeing him in pain, struggling to take a step and knowing he'll pay for it later makes you sick. Yet, you don't want to be the one clipping his wings. You can't be the one restraining him. You're his lover, not his mother. Your task is to trust him, be there for him no matter what, not to coddle him. You have to remember that your high school sweetheart is not as reckless as he used to be. He knows his limitations as well as his abilities. He's learned not to overwork himself.

Biting your lip, you release a shaky breath. "I won't." Your whispered answer to the question he didn't ask brings a faint smile to his face. He nods, closing his eyes for an instant, relief written all over his face. "Thank you."

***

"I'll be right there, love." Leaning heavily on his crutch, Ivar slowly crosses the kitchen, heading to the open-plan lounge, two mugs of cocoa in his free hand.

Getting up off the couch, you rush to him, a warm smile on your lips. "I got them." Reaching out, you quickly grasp the cups, putting them on the coffee table before returning to him.

As soon as you slip your hand on his waist, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, a gesture expressing a sign of affection as much as the need to be helped.

He's in pain and exhausted. You know it, you see it but it was worth it. His radiant face, his joyful exclamations, his childish enthusiasm were worth it. Watching him taking pictures for almost two hours, his eyes full of stars, raving about the pristine white landscape was worth it.

"Here, careful." You don't let go of his arm until he sits down, cursing under his breath. "Don't tell me 'I told you so', please,” he mumbles, hiding a wince as best as he can.

Kissing his forehead, you laugh, shaking your head, “How could I? I've told you absolutely nothing,” before grazing his left leg. "May I take off your braces?" Knowing that he trusts you and he won't mind, you get to work right away, gently removing the heavy contraptions. He gives you a grateful smile as you carefully lift his legs, helping him to settle on the wide couch before snuggling against him, the both of you tucked up under a fleece blanket.

The crackling fire, the invigorating cocoa, the warmth of your man, the love you feel, your two beings radiating happiness and those cuddles you were craving for, everything is perfect.

You're dozing off when Ivar breaks the silence, his fingers brushing your side. "How about a bath?" You lazily raise your head, yawning and stretching. "Hmm… A relaxing bath… Sounds like a good idea,” you say, as your hand lightly rubs his thigh, feeling each and every knot.

Sighing with relief, Ivar sits quietly for a while before grabbing your wrist, his suddenly husky voice startling you. "No… not necessarily relaxing… See… that's what…" sucking on your earlobe, he's hard to understand as he puts your hand on his crotch, "… I was thinking about."

Bursting out laughing, you playfully squeeze his cock. "Is that so? Well, all you can think about is sex, right?"

Hand on his chest, Ivar gasps, playing that he’s offended, making you laugh even more. "How can you think so little of me? Of course not! All I can think about is you, Y/N. I just can't help it, you're so beautiful. And so fucking perfect!"

Gods. This is your man. And he's so fucking perfect too!

🛡⚔️🛡

@honestsycrets @lisinfleur @saldelys @waiting4inspiration @hecohansen31 @a-mess-of-fandoms @gearhead66 @readsalot73 @lonewolf471 @milkkygirls @ivarthebloodyking @fuckindiva @tgrrose @flowers-in-your-hayr @maggiescarborough

#ivar #ivar ragnarsson #ivar lothbrok #modern ivar #modern ivar x reader #modern!ivar #modern!ivar x reader #modern-ivar #ivar imagine #ivar the boneless #vikings imagine #vikings #vikings ivar #ivar fanfic #ivar fanfiction #flowers-in-your-hayr #Happy Birthday #birthday fic

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falcon-eye · 4 years

Text

Another ficlet featuring Cat OCs which will eventually become a part of a bigger story from @inexplicifics Accidental Warlord AU! This one kinda got away from me, Idk. I wanted to include a little more info on my Cats but after a while I felt like I was rambling. I also feel like the tone is kinda all over the place. I like what I wrote, but Idk about how I wrote it, if that makes any sense. And I’m not satisfied with the ending. I also hope the “deal” makes sense too. Idk. I’m just generally sorry for how weird this one turned out. Any questions, even if they’re just about the characters, please shoot them my way! Hope you enjoy!

The Law of Surprise had never steered Veko wrong. Well, ok, that wasn’t exactly true. It had never fucked him over, anyway. Well...

Ok, see, many, many years before the White Wolf began his reign, Veko and his twin brother Hamra had been traveling with the Cat School’s caravan. They always had, ever since becoming Witchers, although they sometimes broke off for hunts either alone or with each other. Siblings were rare among Witchers, twins especially, and identical twins even more so. Plus, Hamra was... gentle—for a Witcher anyway. He hardly made eye contact and often didn’t talk until absolutely necessary for days at a time, often using signs when he didn’t want to (or couldn’t) speak. Veko was used to it, often either being able to decipher his brother’s signs and gestures, or filing in the blanks himself. This also meant he was frequently his brother’s “translator” of sorts. Despite mostly taking hunts together though, Veko, like everyone else in the caravan, needed a break from time to time. Especially from his brother’s guilty looks.

It’s common knowledge that Cats are the more... emotional of all Witchers, prone to mood swings, rages, and the occasional bloodlust. It’s just how the mutagens made them, as much a fact as the sky was blue. Didn’t make it any easier on any of them, though. Veko knew this all too well.

Although Hamra was quiet, generally incredibly awkward and painfully shy, he too could and had been taken over by his emotions. And unfortunately, Veko was always in the line of fire—literally. The fight had been... stupid. Probably. Now, years later, neither twin can remember what the it was even about, and none of the other Cats were paying enough attention to care. Hamra was too enraged to remember what happened and Veko. Well, Veko, whether he was trying to calm Hamra down or was truly fighting with him, took an Igni to the face at basically point blank range. Sure, the smell of cooking monster was one Witchers eventually got used to, but as it turns out, the smell of your own brother’s flesh burning from his face and neck snaps you out of a rage pretty well.

Veko was out of commission for quite a while, by Witcher standards. The left side of his face, from under his eye down his neck, and disappearing beneath his armor, was a permanent web of tight, puckered scarring. It wasn’t bad enough to lose his ear or anything, thankfully, and no actual holes in his skin, but it was big and grotesque enough that there was no possible way to hide it unless he covered his entire face. So Hamra had to look at his greatest mistake every time he looked at his brother, and Veko had to deal with the sour smell of guilt pouring off of his brother almost every waking moment.

So, yeah, he needed a break and a solo hunt every once in a while.

This one was about as basic as they get; bunch of drowners terrorizing a local village, no problem. Veko took them out with ease. Or so he thought. Going back to the village to claim his pay, he heard an old man crying for help and realized one of the drowners had broken off from the others. Just great.

The old man and the drowner both were stuck in thick mud, a pathetic sight as the man frantically tried to free himself as the drowner clawed at him. Veko literally walked up next to the creature and decapitating it, yanking the old man out of the mud while still in mid swing.

“Witcher!” the old man cried, his knees nearly buckling once he was on solid ground. “Oh thank you Witcher! How could I ever repay you?!”

Sheathing his swords, Veko chuckled. “I mean, coin never hurts.”

As Veko wiped the mud from his face, revealing his burns, the man paled. “I-I don’t... I-I don’t have any money on me,” he said. “Please, sir, there must be something else I can give you!“

Veko sighed. “Not a problem,” he said. “How about this—first thing you see when you get home, I’ll take that. I’ve got to get my pay from your village anyway. Why don’t I stop by your house in the morning?”

The old man nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes sir Witcher!” he exclaimed. “I live on the edge of town, just a little farm, the one with the blue roof.”

“Blue roof,” Veko said, squinting at the old man. “Yeah, it’s suits you.”

The old man looked confused, but Veko waved him off and walked back to the village with him. Luckily, the alderman didn’t scrimp him over on pay, but it still wasn’t a great amount. However, despite actually being paid the amount he was promised, the local inn just so happened to be completely full. Whatever, you win some, you lose some. Pocketing his coin, Veko led his horse a little ways out of town and reluctantly set up camp.

Veko’s horse was a dun gelding, one of the several Law of Surprise claims and other non-coin payments Veko had made over the years. Once, he’d gotten a literal chicken dinner from a family (which he shared with them, godsdamned his bleeding heart). Another time, an old woman he’d saved from a werewolf offered him and Hamra her home for the night, and taught Veko how to knit when he couldn’t sleep. The horse was relatively new, having picked him up from a farmer with a bad wolf problem, and didn’t give two shits about the Witcher. Which was fine by Veko. He wasn’t close with his horses like some Witchers were. This was his eighth horse, appropriately named Eight.

Eight was a bastard of an animal, constantly biting at Veko’s fingers, clothes, weapons—really anything he could reach. He’d also literally kicked Veko in the ass a few times, and once right in the balls, to the entire caravan’s delight. Eight was also a particular fan of loudly chewing the bark off of whatever tree he was tethered to, which made trying to get peace and quiet a bitch. Not-so-secretly, Veko was hoping whatever the old man saw when he got back to his house was a different horse. It was too expensive to buy another one, and despite the fact that he and Eight hated each other, he’d never wish harm upon the animal. He just wanted to be rid of him, that’s all.

But when he arrived at the old man’s home the next day, horse, chicken dinner, knitting lessons—none of it came even close to what was waiting for him.

A petite woman in a pale blue dress covered in splatters of paint slammed the front door open as he approached. Her hair, brunette, was up in an approximation of a bun, but it was hard to tell as it was so messily put together and curled wildly where it escaped.

Veko saw the exact moment she saw his burn scars, but to his surprise, only faltered for a moment. “Witcher!” she shouted, marching right up to Veko and poking a paint-stained finger to his chest. “You can turn around and leave right now!”

Veko blinked down at her. “Uh, excuse me,” he scoffed, “I came here to get my payment. Who the hell are you?”

“Your bloody payment,” the girl hissed, throwing her arms out. “Surprise!”

“Eloise!” the old man Veko had saved came rushing out of his house, taking the woman’s hands in his. “Please, Eloise—“

“What in the hell is going on here?!” Veko exclaimed, making the old man flinch but the woman—Eloise—stood her ground.

“You asked my father to give you the first thing he saw when he came home, right?” she snapped. “Well I answered the bloody door, Witcher.”

Veko took a step back and raised his hands in surrender. “Ok, ok, so this is just all a misunderstanding, I get it. I’ll just—“

“No, no!” the old man exclaimed as Veko turned back to his horse. “Please, Witcher, it’s the Law of Surprise, it’s destiny!”

“Fuck destiny,” Eloise spat. Veko had to agree. But the old man was frantic now.

“To-to go against destiny—“ he continued, before breaking off into a hacking coughing fit that actually had Veko concerned the man would drop right there.

Eloise calmed her father down and held him until his coughing subsided. “Please, papa, you’re going to overwhelm yourself.”

“Eloise, my darling,” the man choked out, “this is all my fault, but please, you cannot go against the Law of Surprise!”

Veko watched the two for a moment before clearing his throat. “Maybe—maybe we can work something out,” he said. Obviously the man was only getting more and more worked up as the conversation went on.

Eloise glared at Veko for a moment before crossing her arms. “It’s ok, papa,” she said, still glaring, “I’ll talk with the Witcher and sort this whole thing out.”

“Y-yeah,” Veko said. “Um. Do you wanna...?”

Eloise grabbed him—actually grabbed him, the balls on this woman!—by the arm and dragged him behind the house, towards a small stable and paddock where a few goats were housed.

“Alright, Witcher, listen,” Eloise snapped. “I don’t believe in all this ‘destiny’ bollocks. The Law of Surprise is bullshit.”

“Hey, I’m with you there,” Veko said. “I normally get like livestock or food or stuff like that.”

Eloise sighed and bit at her nail, staring out across the paddock. “My father believes in all of it,” she said. “My mother died when I was young. Destiny, papa always said. It’s garbage. But my father... he’s very old. I need to take care of him. Whether I believed in all that shit or not, Witcher, I cannot come with you.”

“And I don’t want you to!” Veko exclaimed. “I can barely take care of my horse properly, let alone a human. You’d get killed or something. Why would I want you to come with me?”

Eloise scoffed. “I can think of one reason,” she said bitterly. Veko rolled his eyes.

“Oh please, I’ve got two hands and enough coin set aside for that.”

Eloise actually cracked a tiny grin. “Regardless,” she said, “my father isn’t going to let this go. And I don’t want this to work him up anymore than it already has. I’m afraid for his health.”

“What do you suggest?” Veko asked.

Eloise thought for a moment. Veko’s scar started to itch. It always did at awkward moments, or at least it seemed to anyway, and this was about the most awkward situation Veko had ever been in. This woman was actually... strangely intimidating! Veko turned away to scratch at his face, which seemed to break Eloise out of her thoughts.

“Do you... want something for that?” she asked. “We have some salves in the house just... in case we...”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Veko said as she trailed off in thought. After another moment, Eloise suddenly clapped her hands together.

“I’ve got it!” she exclaimed. “I know how we can appease my father and still make this work.”

Veko nodded awkwardly. “That’s... good, yeah. Um—“

“This will be your home,” Eloise interrupted.

“I don’t follow.”

“Simple,” Eloise stuck a finger in the air. “You’re a Witcher—you travel. So you must spend a lot of the money you earn at inns and on food and things.”

“Or I just sleep outside,” Veko cut in. Eloise waved him off.

“We could tell my father that the Surprise you’ve claimed is the right to come here and stay whenever you’re in the area. Or rather, the right to my home as your home.”

“How does that factor you into it, though?” Veko asked.

“Technically my father saw the house before he saw me,” Eloise replied. “Plus, we could say that I’m a part of the house, that I keep it for you. Or that the house and I are a package deal.”

Veko crossed his arms. “Do you think he’d buy that?”

Eloise crossed her arms back. “He will if you say it.”

Veko ran a hand through his hair and blew out a puff of air. “This is crazy,” he said.

“You claimed the Law of Surprise, Witcher,” Eloise snapped, “not me.”

Veko started scratching his scar in earnest now. “Ok, but what about the village? What are they going to say about you being ‘claimed’ by a Witcher?”

“Frankly I don’t give a damn what they think.”

“What if you want to get married someday?”

Eloise guffawed. “See, that’s the other thing,” she said. “I don’t want to get married. Ever. Having a Witcher ‘claim’ me as his would get every man in town to leave me well alone. This helps all of us.”

As Veko thought on it, Eloise slapped his hand away from scratching his face again. At his shocked face, she merely glared back.

“You’re something else, you know that?” he said. Eloise grinned.

“Why, because I’m not afraid of you?” She laughed. “You bleed just like the rest of us, Witcher. So what do you say?”

Eloise held out her hand and for a moment, Veko actually hesitated. Not because of the deal itself, but because this woman was truly unafraid of him, of seemingly anything, and it made him feel... vulnerable in a way he wasn’t used to. After a moment, Veko gently took her hand—and wow, she had a hell of a grip for a human woman, too! “Deal,” Veko said.

“Now to tell my father,” Eloise said, already starting to drag the Witcher back around the house.

As it turned out, Eloise’s father was thrilled with the idea. Eloise could stay with her father, destiny would be satisfied or whatever, and Veko would get free food and lodging whenever he was around (which probably wouldn’t be for a very long time anyway). The only problem was that Eloise’s father seemed to take Veko “claiming” his daughter and home as... well... essentially Eloise settling down with the Witcher “to start a family”. Veko was mortified but Eloise just smiled and nodded, going along with what her father said until he looked away and giving Veko a look that meant under no uncertain terms would that ever be happening.

A few details still had to be hashed out, but Veko wanted nothing more than to get as far away from this town as possible. How the hell had a drowner contract produced this much trouble?

Later, Veko reunited with the Cat caravan and Hamra. His brother chuckled softly at whatever look was on Veko’s face, and when Hamra signed asking how his hunt was, Veko groaned.

“Took out some drowners,” he said. “And... and Ham, I think... I think I got fucking married.”

Hamra actually burst out laughing, the first time the smell of surprise and amusement replaced the sour guilt that hung to his brother like a cloud, and Veko couldn’t help but join him.

Fuck the Law of Surprise, Veko thought. Never using that again.

#the witcher #inexplicifics #accidental warlord au #falcon writes #witcher oc

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years

Note

19. “Oh my God, you’re jealous aren’t you?” + 31. “I told you not to fall in love with me” for Reader/Klaus, pretty pls? 💛

A/N: In which Ben is a catalyst and rolling his eyes so hard he’d probably die if he weren’t already a ghost... Word Count: 1390 Content Warning: It’s Klaus, so the obvious warnings of reference to drug addiction apply.

Klaus’s fingers danced along the web of small, nearly invisible scars on your shoulder, tracing them almost reverently as you lay, half-asleep, beside him.

“What are you doing?” you grumbled, not bothering to look at him.

“Nothing!” you felt the bed rock as he jumped away as if burned. “Just…wondering.”

“Wondering?”

“You got those scars during the horrible six months where my father actually managed to keep us from seeing each other, right?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “But you knew that already. What’s up?”

“I was just thinking about how you never told me where they came from. And it’s basically the only thing I don’t know about you.”

“Oh, well…” you shifted awkwardly, not totally sure whether he was asking about the story now, or if it was truly just an observation.

“What?!” he cried out, indignantly. When you glanced behind you, he was sitting up and gesticulating wildly at the air off to the side of the bed.

“Good morning Ben,” you said casually, rolling back over and hoping that this distraction of an obvious argument with his brother would get Klaus to leave you alone and you could go back to sleep.

“You told Ben and not me?” Klaus suddenly cried accusingly. You could feel his glare burning into your back and rolled over to face him completely.

“Yeah. Well, I mean, when we were fourteen Ben was a way better listener than you. He kind of still is.”

“How do you know? You can’t even see him. For all you know he could be mocking you or talking over you the entire time or have walked away and left you talking to the empty air!”

“Geez, Klaus, calm down. Where is this anti-Ben animosity coming from all of a sudden?”

“I just thought we were best friends. But it turns out it was you and Ben sharing secrets.” His lower lip stuck out in a pout that seemed shockingly real in comparison to his usual theatrics.

And then suddenly it dawned on you.

“Oh my god, you’re jealous aren’t you?” you said, Ben echoing you in near unison and causing Klaus to flinch.

“Pthbt tch no. Of course not. Why would I be jealous of Ben?” he sputtered, his voice raising in octave, telling you he was definitely lying.

You shifted, leaning over slightly so that you were sure he was looking at you (although if you had asked him, he would have told you that wasn’t necessary and he was never looking anywhere else).

“Klaus I-don’t-think-you-have-a-middle-name Hargreeves, there is no reason for you to be jealous of your brother, nor has there ever been.” You smiled down at him and he swore for a moment that his heart stopped. “You are…my very best friend in the entire world, always have been, always will be.”

He looked away, pout turning to something infinitely sadder for a flash before he hid it over with dramatics once more.

“There’s something more going on here than me telling Ben about my horribly embarrassing failed attempt to scale the academy wall and crash landing in the rose bushes and not you, isn’t there?” you asked, trying to catch his eye again.

“I…no. Of course not.”

You flopped back over to stare up at the ceiling. Now you knew something was wrong because he wouldn’t even look you in the eye while he lied to you. That usually meant he was hiding something serious (usually related to the severity of his drug use, or incidents caused by such). A near-silence fell over the bedroom and you thought for a moment that he might have gone to sleep, until you noticed the hissed, vehement one-sided conversation that suggested Ben was still about. You couldn’t tell what either of them was saying, but Klaus seemed upset and you ached to reach out and comfort him. Something in your gut was telling you not to though, so you stayed quiet and waited.

Later, you sat on your couch, still trying to figure out what happened earlier that morning. Klaus rummaged through your cabinets as if it was just another day, but he hadn’t spoken a word since you’d gotten up. There was a strange tension in the air and you hated it, it felt too much like your best friend was slipping through your grasp and there was nothing you could do about it because you didn’t know why.

Finally unable to bear it any longer, you snapped at him. “What the fuck is going on Klaus?”

He jumps, turning to look at you guiltily, one peanut butter covered finger stuck in his mouth, open jar in his other hand.

“You don’t have any bread?” he asked sheepishly, gesturing with the jar.

You glared. “Gross. But not what I meant and you know it. There’s been something going on with you for days since you showed up and asked if you could crash here for a while.”

“I…” he walked over and practically collapsed beside you, rolling his head to the side to stare at you intently. “Do you remember what I said when we were kids?”

“You said a lot of shit; I’m going to need you to be more specific,” you laughed, turning to face him and sit cross-legged.

He sighed. “The first time you invited me to stay over instead of going back to the academy…when you offered to let me sleep next to you and see if that helped with the nightmares…”

You frowned, concern creasing your face. “There were a lot of jokes about us sleeping together. But we’ve been doing that for years now. I don’t understand what the issue is…”

He pressed his lips together and seemed unable to meet your eyes again.

“I told you not to fall in love with me?” he said softly and uncertainly.

You felt your heart drop. You would be lying if you said that you hadn’t fallen in love with your best friend, probably not that long after that very conversation, and the years hadn’t changed that feeling no matter how hard you tried to pretend otherwise. But surely if he had noticed, it was long before now, so why bring it up?

Your silence, and the expression of apprehension, nearly actually fear, on your face made his throat go tight and his breath quicken.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, trying to backtrack. “I shouldn’t have brought it up or let it…I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget it.”

“How long have you known?” you asked hesitantly. Even as he tried to backtrack, you felt a weight lift off you and decided that you might as well embrace it.

He was silent for a long time, and you watched as he braided and twisted his fingers nervously. You reached out to place a comforting hand over his, hesitating and hovering for a second, in case he wanted to pull away from you.

“I…for sure? Since I got unreasonably angry that Ben knew something about you I didn’t…” he shrugged. “But I’ve probably felt that way for so much longer. I mean, you’re the most important person in my life, Y/N. Always have been…”

“Wait…what?” your hand tightened unconsciously around his as you gaped at him. “I thought you meant…shit…you’re serious?”

“For once in my life. Looks like I broke my own rule.” He tried to laugh but it sounded strangled and sour.

Your heart leapt in your throat and you cast about, searching for what to say.

“Shut up, Ben,” Klaus scoffed before you could and you raised an eyebrow, questioning. “He said we’re both idiots and that we’re the only ones who didn’t see years ago what was between us.”

“Is he wrong? I mean…” you shrugged. “I knew how I felt but I tried to hide it because I’d rather have suffered in silence than risk losing you, and you apparently didn’t even realize…”

“You’re taking his side? I’m hurt!”

You rolled your eyes at the playful indignation in his tone, a far cry from this morning.

“Oh no,” you gasped exaggeratedly. “How will I ever make it up to you?”

The wolfish grin he shot you as he leaned closer sent a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t know,” he purred. “But I have a few ideas. And we have so much time to make up for.”

#Klaus Hargreeves #Klaus Hargreeves x reader #reader insert #fluff #don't know why my brain decided to go with mutual pining but it works #you can fill in the blanks you don't need me for that #featuring Ben Hargreeves being done with his brother's shit

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sassybirdmanandhisangstywife · 3 years

Text

Back again! I don’t know what happened with this chapter, it was supposed to be a short one full of terrible jokes and hidden plot points for later, but now it’s........this. I still like it, but wow. Not what I was going for. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this new addition! This should be the last chapter before it really gets interesting, but if this chapter shows anything, it’s that I really have no idea where this fic will go. Oh, and that Diaval is an idiot when it comes to his own injuries.

Chapter 3

Some Light Conversation

Water surrounded me on all sides, including from above. I had been harshly dropped into a body of water, with no recollection of how I got there. But at that moment it didn’t matter, all that really did was air. I surfaced, gasping for breath as I hear poorly covered laughter coming from behind. I spun around, my soaked hair plastering across my face, and crossly asked “What did ya do that for? I’m injured you know

“Oh stop complaining” Mistress said, arms crossed, but with a smirk on her face. “You seemed determined to be alright at the palace, why change that now?”

After shaking my hair out of my face, I proceeded stared incredulously at her. “Oh I dunno, maybe because I don’t have to pretend for either my daughter’s sake or to protect myself from the humans?”

“I thought you liked the humans”

“Liking and not wanting to kill are two very different things Mistress”

At this, Mistress paused.

“What, are you actually going to argue that?” I joked, but at the look on her face, my poor attempt at lightening the mood failed spectacularly.

“What’s wrong?” I asked gently. Usually I could always tell what was bothering her, far better than anyone else in fact, but for once I couldn’t fathom why she would be in such a mood. We had won. Truly won. Stephan was dead, Aurora ruling in his place, and peace at last between humans and the Moorfolk (well, for the most part). She should be happy, not whatever she was feeling to cause those expressions.

“I- I-“ Mistress stuttered. Actually stuttered. I didn’t think she knew how. This was getting more concerning by the second.

Just as I was about to repeat the question, Mistress finally spoke up. Well, sort of.

“.....It’s nothing. You needn’t concern yourself with it.”

“If it’s affecting you this greatly I would say it is necessary that I know” I argued, gesturing wildly and bringing agony upon my arms by doing so. Right, I’m extremely injured. Kinda forgot about that for a moment. But that doesn’t matter, my Mistress is hurting. “Please Mistress, tell me, what-“

“I said NO Diaval. I would hope you could understand that.” Mistress said, her voice bordering on a yell.

I was shocked. Mistress hadn’t seriously raised her voice with me since our very first years together. Whatever this was, it was clearly a problem that needed immediate solving. I began exiting what I now recognized as one of the Moor’s healing pools. But once again, my disagreeable body decided to remind me of it’s pathetic state. I toppled to the ground, slamming my head simultaneously underwater and into the ground. My body soon followed, and I couldn’t help the loud yelp that came out of my throat. I slowly reached my hand up from under the pool’s surface, and gripped the edge of the ground, pulling myself up until I could safely collapse back onto the grass. I panted softly, trying to cover the sound up as dogs pant and I am certainly not a blasted dog. Well except for that one time, but the only one who would dare say a word is Mistress, and she had been sworn to secrecy.

“Diaval are you alright?” Mistress asked, pulling me up and ever so slowly, helping me back into the healing pool’s waters. “That was a nasty fall. You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah well you shouldn’t have worried me” I grumbled, attempting to brush myself off but failing miserably as my arms had elected to stop moving all together. This was getting quite annoying.

“You’re right.” Mistress said, seeming to just realize that now.

I gaped at her. “I’m.....what?”

“Oh hush you heard me” she said, recovering her ‘evil Fae ruler of the Moors’ act. “I merely meant that we- ahem I have solved all of o- my problems for the time being. I needn’t feel anything other than relief. It was also-“ She cleared her throat deliberately. “....wrong of me to use that tone with you, when you were only trying to help. It won’t happen again.”

I hadn’t stopped staring at her, open mouthed, but now I nearly toppled over (again) in surprise. Mistress was.....APOLOGIZING?!? Since when was that a thing?? I mean, I’m not complaining, but wow. I attempted to recover from the shock and put on a grin, but it turned out more like a pained wince due to my condition.

“Well that’s new. Hope this version of you sticks around for a while aye?”

Mistress moved to give me a light smack on the back of my head, a customary reaction to my quips (which are quite humorous and undeserving of that response if I do say so myself), but stopped, seeming to remember my injuries just in time. So, in true Mistress fashion, she came up with the next best option.

“Only if this new version of you leaves my sight and never returns.”

“What new version of me? I have stayed exactly the same throughout recent events, unlike the rest of you psychos”

“The version of you who requires an absurd amount of help, mostly from me, to even stand up straight”

“Now that was just dirty!”

Mistress chuckled lightly.

“Now now Diaval, don’t start something like this unless you’re prepared to finish it”

I was about to retort yet again (as I could never stoop so low as to relent after such a remark) but just then I felt a wave of magic fall over my person and sink into my skin. My eyelids began to droop, and I could feel myself falling asleep fast.

“No fair....” I mumbled before falling dead asleep in the pool. Mistress really was evil sometimes

#maleficent #diaval #maleval #moors #fanfic #why are you like this #please just take care of yourself #i’m begging you

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1zashreena1 · 4 years

Text

No Shame -2

Pairing: M/F, nebulously OC/Priest!Diego Jimenez [Starz Power] AU IMAGINE

Rating: LITERAL FILTH

Warnings: Power imbalance, astronomical blasphemy, Diego’s pornographic mouth, old timey woman related bullshit, set some time before 1900 in what will be present day Mexico

A/N: I guess I’m just gonna keep writing until it stops?? I am an atheist so please keep that in mind as I unintentionally mangle Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular. This was prompted by an ask, you know who you are >.>.

Tag a friend! @girlpornparadise @nicke0115 @fleurfatale89 @mandoplease @heresathreebee @chensingmachinee

It takes some effort to lace up a steel boned corset by yourself while wearing it, but you manage.

"He already admitted to liking you, honey, calm yourself." Your father laughs uproariously at the ridiculous display of cleavage.

You shrug helplessly, Dress to impress and all that, you suppose. Besides, I want him to suffer. This time you do wear all the underpinnings deemed a requirement by polite society. You are going to make him work for it.

This was a mistake.

He had sent a cabriolet with its driver, that should have been your first clue.

The hacienda is a sprawling estate, acres of land carved from the surrounding jungle and most likely painstakingly maintained. You pass through meticulously flattened fields with small cabins for workers and then gently rolling pastures closer to the main house. There is a large stable and an adjacent training paddock where two exquisite horses are being worked. You ache to see the beautiful animals, they had always been beyond the means of your family.

Several other carriages are already here. Oh no.

This is so far above your station that you feel sick. This is a world of landed gentry, of manners drilled in by formal boarding schools and titles you could never aspire to touch. You have severely misunderstood what it meant to be a Don.

Why did he do what he did in the church? Why invite me here? Why ask my father to court me? I am nothing compared to this. You despair silently, your father oblivious next to you.

The servants seem to know who you are, And isn't that terrifying?, and you're led into some kind of sitting room with other guests. Your dress must be incredibly out of fashion, people are staring. Although it could be the vast stretch of cleavage on display, you make note that most of the other women are significantly smaller than you. Their brightly colored dresses are trimmed in lace with subdued skirts, your skirt has rather a lot of flounce to it and the lilac color seems so… bland. Their hair is combed and neatly contained, artfully placed solitary ringlets that you know were made with curling tongs. Your natural curls are wild and expansive, the single twist at each of your temples combined into one long braid down your back only to keep it out of your face. There is a family of blondes, but everyone else is brunette. Your deep red hair is garishly out of place.

I do not belong here. You are desperately trying to fabricate some excusable sickness to beg off and escape when you see him. He has a smartly dressed woman hanging off of each arm and is gesticulating wildly while relaying some story. Dressed in garments so fine you do not even know what the material is, the sight of him makes your womanhood clench and your nipples pebble.

Ridiculous.

He catches sight of you as you are turning away. You spotted some books on a shelf in a corner and are about to seek refuge when he breaks away to head straight for you. For the first time in your life you opt for cowardice and run. From the edge of your vision you can see that all it does is lengthen those stalking strides. The books that were meant to be your salvation are, of course, in Spanish. Well damn.

An extremely large hand lands on your lower back and your heart leaps. He rumbles much too closely for polite company, "Buenas noches, Señorita. You look ravishable."

Did he mean ravishing? You make the mistake of looking up into that painfully handsome face. His grin is pure predator. No, he did not. Your temper flares with your desire.

"Good evening, Father." You hiss quietly. "You have a lot of nerve." Is it rude to immediately insult your host?

"Me? But yet, here you are. Tell me, little girl, did you wear anything under your skirts this time?" Those dark eyes twinkle happily. He is enjoying this. You lean down to place a book on the end table and his gaze drops to your chest. Licking his lips, he mutters under his breath, "We have a selection of proverbs here. Somewhere."

This man is infuriating.

"Do you expect to find out?" The question is meant to sound condescending, it seems a tiny bit hopeful. Your brain is muddled by his proximity, the scent of expensive toiletries is highly distracting. You bathed outside under a spring fed waterfall this morning. What am I doing?

"I suppose that depends on how sinful you have been today. If you have yet to sin, may I offer my hand in assistance?" Diego leans closer with his seemingly solicitous offer. You are struck by the near perfect arrangement of his features, the tiny crinkles at the outer corners of his eyes only adding to his appeal. His lips are framed by perfectly trimmed facial hair, the smooth cheeks a sign that he must have shaved today. His smirk reminds you that you’ve been staring at him breathlessly.

"I am sure I can handle myself." You smile beautifically. He exhales in a huff, his shoulders dropping in surprise at your innuendo. Then he smiles a real smile.

You are devastated. He is a very attractive man, but this, this is blinding. Your heart stutters, your stomach drops, and you nearly whimper.

"I, I saw your horse." What? WHAT? Why did you just say that? "And the others, outside, on our way in." If you could melt into the wall and disappear that would be wonderful.

The hand on your back rubs a small circle comfortingly. Diego steps closer yet, his hip brushes your elbow and you curse your stature. He quirks a brow with his next question, "Do you like to ride?"

He is fairly excited at the prospect of your answer but you have no idea why. You cross your arms to get a tiny bit of space from him, it only amplifies your bust. Sighing, you answer, "I do not know. My family was never in a position to own a horse." There. Now he knows how poor you truly are, just how far below him.

"A shame." He murmurs, "You are built for it." His hand sinks lower to the very top of your buttocks. There is something you are definitely missing here. Brow furrowing, you look up at him. His expression softens at your obvious confusion, but he is still quite pleased. His subsequent offer is charming, "After dinner, would you like to tour the stables?"

Your whole face transforms as you smile broadly. "I would love that." The wonder in your voice is unmistakable.

"It will be my pleasure, little girl. Now, if you will excuse me, my sister is demanding my presence." He purrs. You follow his line of sight to a woman who looks vastly different from him, but has the same eyes. She arches a brow, just as Diego does, and gestures sharply.

"Of course." You answer softly to no one as he is already strolling away. The loss of his presence makes you feel cold and very alone.

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

Dinner is an ordeal. There are several courses, foods you cannot identify, and no less than three spoons. Dessert induces discreet gagging on your part as flan is very… jiggly.

Careful observation is enlightening, you learn that several other guests are Dons of neighboring towns. Their wives accompany them, but you get the distinct impression that the unmarried sisters and daughters are on display. You come to understand that Diego is the only bachelor Don of majority age in a 300 mile radius.

This is a competition that you have no business being anywhere near.

And just how old is he?

You are sipping chocolate next to an archway in the open air courtyard, attempting to ignore the stares, when a dark voice assaults your ear temptingly.

"Are you ready, little girl?" The purring rattle makes your knees shake and your mouth salivate.

"Oh yes please thank you now." Relief palpable, you whip around to find Diego looming over you, the one hand being held out in invitation is now firmly squashed into your generous bosom. His brows climb to his hairline as you clear your throat. "I- yes."

He wiggles his fingers in your cleavage and you take his hand with more force than is strictly necessary. He grins down at you, "Very good, little girl."

You whimper. You cannot help it, the tiniest of noises, soft and high pitched, your lips do not even need to part for him to hear it. Please no, not here in front of all of your peers, you silently beg. Except, his face goes slack and his fingers tighten around yours.

Oh. Do your noises have an effect on him? Is this power that you have? Experimentally, you lick your lips. His gaze drops and his pupils widen as he mimics your movements unconsciously. Oh yes, that curl of power surfaces again in your belly. This you can work to your advantage. You smirk, "Shall we?"

His dark gaze is hungry as he glares at you, displeased with the reversal in the play of power. He growls, "Yes, you shall ride."

You are drug off before you can protest about your attire not being made for such activities. You have a sneaking suspicion that his only suggestion would be to remove it. You are having trouble remembering why that is a bad idea while your hand is tucked into the crook of his massive arm, fingers curled around bulging muscle.

You need to clear your head.

The stables are dim in the evening light and the smell of grain strong. Your only pair of nice shoes clicks on the wooden floor as you pull away from him to look around. Diego releases you but watches closely.

The horse's names are engraved on plaques above the stalls. Your casita does not even have a street address. I do not belong here. Your hands reach out to touch and a large nose appears over the stall door. "Hello," you check the plate, "Dante." Of course this is his horse.

The gray muzzle is soft as velvet and the stallion huffs at you in a blast of air that blows your hair back. The horse darts forward and you realize just how big he is. One step backwards to retreat lands you squarely in the middle of a broad chest.

"I will show you." Diego states simply. He reaches up with both hands on either side of you and takes the halter in his grasp firmly. With a gentle tug, Dante's head comes down and Diego curves over you to touch his forehead to the horse's. "Now you, little girl."

You reach up to take Dante in hand and the stallion rushes to do the same with you. His forelock tickles and you laugh delightedly.

"He likes you." Diego declares.

"How do you know?" Intelligence shines brightly in the animal's eyes and you pet him.

"He bites everyone except me." Diego shrugs.

Oh. You hedge softly, "Maybe he senses that you like me." Diego snorts above you. Snippily, you elaborate, "Beg pardon? Are you often in the habit of asking to court women you do not like?"

"I have never asked to court another woman."

The rumbling admission gives you pause. Those massive hands settle on your hips and squeeze tightly. You continue petting Dante resolutely, determined to remain stoic. The hands slide inward, around your hips to spread wide over your entire abdomen. Everything inside you is aflame. Ever higher, his touch travels until he cups your breasts firmly. There is no give in the steel boned corset and the large man behind you growls in frustration.

"Why would you wear such a thing?" His voice is rough with want, it makes you gasp.

"For p-precisely this situation." Your retort is less bite and more whine. "You must understand that I am not some, some, plaything to be had, available at your beck and call."

His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down into you to whisper, "Are you certain, little girl?"

"I have already been the laughingstock of one community. I refuse to be the joke of another." Your voice shakes with anger. Or perhaps anticipation. It is difficult to tell as he licks your ear.

"Does this feel like play?" He growls as you are pressed to the stall door at your front. His hardened length bites into your lower back and he grinds his hips harshly. Your soft wail startles Dante and he shies away.

"You will ride Dante and then you will ride me. After that, I will have my answer." He sinks teeth into your bared neck. What was the question? Your thoughts have stalled entirely.

"I, I do not know how to. To ride." Rubbing your legs together, you keen quietly. Your center contracts down on nothing angrily and your fingers claw into the wood.

"I am quite certain that I can teach you. After all, you are a quick study." Diego releases you suddenly and your body trembles. He goes about the business of saddling his horse while you continue melting as you watch his muscles work.

Fully tacked and waiting, Dante snorts at you as Diego beckons. His dark eyes dance with mischief, "Come mount, little girl."

You set your shoulders with stubbornness and stomp to him. Motioning to the stirrups you bark, "I am too shor--"

Diego picks you up like a child and you scramble for the saddle. Your skirts get tangled between your legs and crushed underneath you when you sit. The feel of the saddle pressed hard to your core means that you do not care. Every time you shift or Dante moves the leather rubs you pleasantly. There is no escape from the stimulation and you can feel yourself becoming wet. You have no idea how much time has passed while you tried to acclimate to this new development.

"Shit." Your unladylike hiss is deafening in the empty stable.

Diego doubles over in booming laughter and you suddenly remember the source of your current vexation.

"A warning would have been nice." You snap. He looks up at you with tears, his face scrunched up adorably. Your heart stops as you realize how beautiful he truly is.

"How do I warn for something I have never experienced?" He chokes and resumes laughing gleefully. Truly, an overgrown child.

You sigh, but pick up the reins determinedly and look down at him expectantly. Smiling broadly with your taunt, "I await your instruction, Father."

Those brown eyes flash with fire and you wonder briefly if you should be playing with that. He licks his lips but goes on to correct your seating, show you the proper way to utilize the reins, and then leads you out into a small paddock behind the building.

Walking is a noticeable feeling. Trotting is just painful. A canter is delicious torture. The stride is smooth and rocking, your exhilaration is twofold with dual excitement. Dante is responsive and feisty, you enjoy his personality and try not to examine why too closely. Diego intervenes occasionally to make small adjustments but has proclaimed you a natural with great enjoyment.

It is almost dark when he leads you back inside the stable, your face beaming. You struggle to dismount, Diego simply hauls you off and plops you on the ground… Except your legs collapse.

Diego, The absolute cad, uses this opportunity to crush you to his chest and stabilize you by sliding a long leg between your own. The moment the pressure occurs you feel a vast amount of wetness. That cannot be good, you panic and shove away from him, stumbling over to a chest to sit. Your wild hair is a disaster and you hide behind it as you check your layers. Relief washes over you as the outer skirt is dry, only the three inner layers are soaked through.

"What?" You whisper to yourself in confused terror. Is this normal? Do all women have this response? Is there something wrong with me? Am I hurt? A shadow falling over the skirts pulls your attention as Diego kneels in front of you. His smirk eases your fears.

"Do you have a problem, little girl?"

"You knew what would happen." You accuse softly. He does not even attempt to feign innocence.

"Oh, of course." His pleased rumble is accompanied by a toothy grin. Your hand flashes out faster than you can see. The crack of the slap on his cheek is muffled by all of the equipment that lines the walls.

Oh no.

He lurches forward and you shriek. His left hand encircles both of your wrists and he slams them to the wall above your head. The right hand hits your center with considerable force. Your legs jump, but he has the left pinned and his bulk squeezed between.

"I did not me--" He does not let you finish.

"I know what you meant. But do you?" Diego growls. You shake your head, a single tear slipping out. "Oh, but you are wet, are you not?" His fingers locate that pulsing bundle of nerves and he rubs slowly from side to side. Just as you had done in the confessional.

"S-stop. The other p-people, my skirt, it is. P-please do not ruin me like this." You beg as tears drip steadily down your cheeks, eyes squeezed shut. The hand retreats, your skirt rustles as he slips under all of the layers and returns to you. The heat of his hand is like an open flame on your oversensitized center.

"It is simple. Do you want this or no?" The decision is anything but simple. You want it, you want him, even now as he restrains your body and threatens your reputation. Your fear is sharp and sour, you had hoped to start over here. A new home in a new country far from your disgraced status. You miss your mother. She would shake her head over it but tell you to chase happiness. What do I have left to lose?

"Do you truly mean to court me? It is not s-some cover to use me this way?" Why? Why do you have to ask these things? Why am I like this?

His fingers press harder and you writhe. It would not take much to break you, I wonder if he knows?

"I rather enjoy your company. Intelligent, you speak your mind, you respond beautifully, and you took my cock so very well, little girl." His praise is followed by a drastic increase in pressure and you sob your answer with your release.

"Yesss, yes, oh yes, please, yes. Yesyesyes. I want. Ohh, I want you." Your body seizes as you bear down on nothing, the pleasure almost painful. The sobs are cut off by Diego covering your mouth with his. He forces you wide open and licks everything he can reach, all you can do is give in to him. The hair on his face burns and you moan.

He breaks away, pulls you to your feet, and then directly into an empty stall. Your legs falter but the momentum puts you exactly where he wants you.

Which is straddling his lap. What is he-- OHHH. The feel of his straining manhood poking up into you makes everything clear. You brace on his shoulders as his hands dive beneath your dress to rip open the bloomers and then free himself. He is lying back on a bale of hay, your feet are flat on the floor to either side. You know when his pants are down because the heat of him is molten. His fingers stroke over you from bottom to top, you are dripping, then he angles his length and-

"Ahhhhh!" Your shriek is piercing.

"Ohhhh, sí, little girl. So tight for me. Such a grip." He groans and drops his head down limply. You cannot see anything through your layers and he feels enormous.

"Wait, wait, please." You pant and he freezes to look up at you. "I have never, I did not even know you could, in this way. What do I do?" Terrified, you place your trust in this man who tricked you but made you feel so very good.

"Knees. Kneel, here." He hisses and pats next to his waist. You both moan as you shift and wiggle to position yourself. As you settle you bounce a bit, he bites his lip and digs fingers into your thighs. You try it again, the friction of him slipping out of you is good, but when you ease back down, well, you both make noise.

"I, I think I see." You grit out. With the corset on you cannot move your upper body much, but your hips are free. Your eyes close and you let the sensations guide you. Your hips bounce, your rear bounces, faster feels better, if you lean forward onto his chest you can move your pelvis quicker. A hand fists in your hair and he pulls, Oh, that feels good, you open your eyes. He is staring up at you, pupils gigantic, panting harshly.

"You. You are a very, very, good girl." He marvels. You keen and go faster, the praise makes everything feel better. His other hand reaches between you, finding your pleasure again as you shudder above his big body, dropping your weight to impale yourself entirely as you convulse around him.

"Ohh, oh. Yesyesyessssssss." Your whining cries seem to please him, he works you over again and again. You have never experienced anything like this, you are starving for it. He releases your hair to burrow both hands under your skirts and reach around to grasp your rear. You yelp, "What are you--"

He slaps you with intent, you lurch up his chest from the force, then he yanks you back down to be filled decisively. You have not been spanked since you were ten, this is catastrophically better.

"Again!" You demand hoarsely. Diego laughs but repeats the maneuver. You yelp with each slap, then moan every time he fills you.

"Does my bad little girl need punishment?" He rasps into your hair. Nodding deliriously, you claw into his muscled chest, whimpering for more. "Do not fret. Father will take care of you."

"Oh yes, please. Please. Please, Father!" You have lost the last shred of control over your own tongue. Those strapping hands secure your hips and he snaps his own up into you. He hits something deep inside that makes you collapse and he does it repeatedly until you flutter around him weakly and bawl into his ruffled shirt. His movements become stilted as he grunts above your head. A few more vicious thrusts and he groans loudly while holding you fast to his pelvis.

You can feel him emptying into you. This, too, is not new to you but very much more intense than ever before. He is prodigious. That big body goes boneless below you and he sighs contentedly.

"That was far better than dessert." Diego declares.

You snort, then giggle, and the giggles morph into hysterical laughter before you know it. He slips out of your quaking body, it is a distinctly odd feeling, when he joins your mirth. You prop up just enough to see his face, laugh lines frame those deep eyes and he has dimples! This is unfair. The man is a work of art.

You try and fail to sit up.

"I. Um. I cannot seem to stand." The confession is small and self-conscious. You are deeply embarrassed.

"Then do not. It is raining, no one will come out here until it stops." A big hand strokes over your hair and you fight down panic. He breathes deeply, raising you with every inhale. The heartbeat under your cheek is strong and steady, inescapable as a force of nature. Slowly but surely the tension leaves your spine and you drape over him.

"I did not know it could be done that way." You admit. Stroking rhythmically over his arm is soothing.

"Your husband must have been quite unimaginative." His remark is offhand, thoughtless. It stabs into your chest and you remember your situation. You pull back and manage to sit upright this time, he allows it but does not fully release you.

Shaking hands reach up to touch his face. Diego arches a brow but remains still while you trace over his features. Your heart fills with dread but you have to know. Voice unsteady, you clarify, "Did you mean it? You want to court me?"

"I do not say things I do not mean." His eyes bore into you. Diego pinches your chin gently, "I believe you can appreciate that philosophy."

Your eyes slip away as you swallow nervously. "But, you would consider me still married, would you not?"

The soft chuckle catches you unawares, "You are not Catholic. Why would the rules of the church matter to you?" The question is rhetorical, but you have an answer.

"But you are." Turning back, you blink with the burn of tears. This is it, you think, He will agree and then toss you like the trash you are.

"Little girl. I can assure you, the church has written me off as unsalvagable long ago. I ceased adhering to their silly rules well before that. This is a different country with different laws. In fact, the church would not even recognize your marriage as it was done outside the bonds of Catholicism. You worry needlessly." It is obvious that he means to be comforting despite his flippant tone. He has put some thought into this topic.

"Well, in that case." Tracing a thumb over his lower lip, you lean down for a kiss. Diego attacks your mouth ferociously, all teeth and tongue and leveling maelstrom. All you can do is allow the storm to roll over you.

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

It never does stop raining. In fact, lightning and thunder come in off of the ocean. The two of you have to make a mad dash for the main house. His sister intercepts him in the courtyard to yell at him in Spanish until she sees you hovering just inside the shelter of the roof.

"Oh!" She gestures to you in frustration. "I see what you have been doing! Truly, Diego? I mean, look at her!" The dismissive tone hits you like a slap in the face. Locking your jaw, you step forward only to be blocked by Diego’s broad back.

"Do not! She is under my protection!" He roars. His sister steps back in shock. She peers around his bulk to look at you, then back to him.

"Your protection? What does that even mean?" She sounds flabbergasted and insulted by the feeling, at that.

"She has accepted my offer of courtship. You will treat her with the respect that is due." He snarls.

Oh.

No one has ever come to your defense before. Gratitude closes your throat with warmth. She stomps off in frustration only to usher your father through the doorway.

"I knew you were here somewhere. Ah, were you still out in the stables when it began to rain?" Your father smiles fondly at your soggy appearance.

"Uh, yes. Unfortunately." You clear your throat and glance to Diego. His lazy smirk is of no assistance.

"Come. You should get out of those wet clothes." His offer is sweet, but you can hear the unspoken '... And into my bed'.

His sister returns with a towel and a steaming mug of tea. She assesses you with a critical eye before announcing, "We have guest rooms. I would not send you home in this."

You are unsure if she means the storm or your attire; either way, you follow her through the house. She leads you to a spacious bedroom complete with a sleigh bed and water closet. It is pure luxury. She pauses at the door to sniff before leaving you, "Diego's rooms are directly across the hall. I will put your father in the other wing. I know how loud my brother can be."

The sound of the door closing behind her is deafening.

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

You wash up, but have nothing clean to wear. Additionally, your seat is throbbing. Touching yourself to bathe was excruciating with actual pain and such intense memory that you are exhausted when you slide under the covers nude. Your only good dress is in a ruined heap on the floor. Just as you should be, a lowly tramp.

A knock sounds and the door opens before you can respond. The source of all your woes strides in confidently and proffers a black garment. Not knowing what else to do, you take it wordlessly while clutching the sheet tight to your chest. It is a shirt, one of his shirts if the scent is any indication, and you assume you are to wear it.

Only he is not leaving.

Diego watches you with hungry eyes, waiting for the sheet to drop and reveal your naked body. An absolute cad.

"Is there any chance at all that I could at least have the illusion of privacy?" You ask dryly.

"Fine." He huffs and spins in place. Then stands there, waiting. Resigned, you whip the large shirt over your head as quickly as possible, then pull the sheet back up over your legs. The shirt tails fall just lower than your buttocks, you suppose everything important is covered.

"All right, I am dece--" He is climbing into the bed with you. Oh my. You squeak quietly, "What are you doing?!?"

Lying down next to you on top of the covers, he smiles at you and holds the arm closest to you wide open in invitation. He is well aware of how good he looks. How tempting.

"Come. You must be cold." It isn't exactly an order, but it is firmer than a request. It is the tone of a man used to issuing commands and never doubting that they will be obeyed. Oh, what the hell, he was inside me not less than two hours ago.

You crawl over the silky sheets and let him tuck you into his side. You are at a loss as to what to do with your hands.

"This, too, is a first for me." You admit haltingly.

"Was your husband demented?" The matter-of-fact tone sends you into a fit. You bury your face in his side to muffle your tired laughter. "Why do you do that?" Diego asks softly.

"Do, oh goodness, do what?" You chortle softly then compose yourself as best you can with no pants.

"Hide your mirth. Cover your laugh. Turn away when you smile." He is looking down at you in serious consternation. And awaiting an answer.

"It is considered rude for a woman to be loud with any emotion where I am from." The quiet explanation only serves to confuse him more.

"That seems tiring. You most definitely have feelings. Why are you forbidden to express them?" It is such a foreign concept to him, he is puzzled. You lay a hand on his chest cautiously. He does not flinch.

"I cannot say. I know that my mother raised her girls to be subdued and accommodating. I, of course, was a failure. My laugh is too loud, my voice too strong, my desires too ambitious. My own grandparents were shocked when I was married off. They assumed no man would tolerate me." I wish that man had ceased tolerating me sooner.

The hand on your back circles idly. It is lulling you to sleep.

"I forbid you to hide from me." He declares in complete seriousness. You are too tired to bother arguing.

"Fine. May you live to regret it." The last thing you know is his scent filling you to bursting.

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

You wake up on your back. Odd.

Your legs are spread. Very odd.

Luscious wet heat is washing over your aching center in waves. Oh no.

You come to full awareness in a panic. There, between your spread legs in the growing sunlight, is Diego's head, nodding rhythmically as he licks you.

Frozen in shock, you can only watch for a timeless moment as he laves over your womanhood leisurely. Long, decadent laps from bottom to top and then over again. You feel wetness dripping down between your cheeks, there is a sticky puddle under your behind. How long has he been down there?

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" You shriek. Lurching upward, you hit the headboard. His arms are wrapped around your thighs, strong as cable, and you fully understand your predicament. You are trapped.

"Mmmm. Is it not obvious?" The vibration of his rocky voice on your most sensitive parts is going to make you swoon. He resumes enjoying you noisily while you flail about uselessly. The sounds are obscene and offensive, you can feel yourself growing wetter. He moans appreciatively, "Yes, little girl. Soak my beard with your arousal."

You tremble in excitement and fear. If you are caught with him in here like this…

"Come for me and I will fill this pretty little cunt." He rumbles on, poking his tongue inside your entrance then gliding upward to stimulate your little nub of pleasure. You are going to, you can feel it building inexorably. There is no escape from his soft tongue, scratchy beard, and burning hands.

Your hands dig in the bedclothes as you keep in mind his decree. It is a struggle not to cover your mouth, but you are rather distracted. Your back arches steadily higher and you sink down onto his face. He moans happily and applies more pressure yet.

"Oh, oh my, you. You are. What is. I, I, please, oh please, do not stop." Almost. You are teetering on the edge of insanity when he pulls back. Nononononononono!

"Come for me, niñita. Come for Father." He attacks the bundle of nerves and you shriek as your body seizes. The contractions of ecstasy blind you momentarily while you sob blissfully. Your core clenches tight, shutting down your worrisome brain. He never ceases his licking, drawing it out until your legs twitch spastically and you push at his head weakly.

He sits up and licks his lips ostentatiously. It is a show for your bleary gaze. You notice his shirt is gone. The wide expanse of his body is bare to you for the first time. Oh. OH.

His shoulders and chest are well defined, muscles bunching and rippling on that broad frame. His torso is solid, his hips lightly cut out from his belly, and that thatch of hair begins at navel. You have never seen such a perfect specimen of malehood.

You must be gawking because he preens happily, puffing up under your favorable assessment. Surely he knows how he looks? His beard glistens in the warm light and you whimper.

"Now, roll over." Excuse me? His eyes crinkle in amusement at your confusion.

"What?" You blurt. Very sophisticated.

Big hands land on your hips and he urges you to turn to your left. Memories of every other time he has positioned you and the subsequent pleasure make you follow his lead. Flat on your belly, the borrowed shirt pushed high up your back, you squirm under him.

"What are you doing?" The question is quiet, but fearful. He strokes up your back firmly and you melt under his touch. His hands span your entire back and you rather like the feeling of being covered in him. He moves down your back to grip great handfuls of your rear. You squeak, but it feels so very good after the saddle yesterday. He growls approvingly as you arch into his touch.

"Yes, raise your hips to me. Now spread, there you go, relax here, there. Perfect." He manipulates your body to his liking until your hips are high in the air, your back sunk low, and your shoulders remaining on the bed. The narrow pelvis nestles up to your buttocks as his knees land between your own. A draft flits over your center and you suddenly comprehend what he intends to do. He is going to take you from behind, like an animal.

Are you insulted? I will reserve judgment until he finishes, no need to be hasty. You chastise your own impatience. Have you no shame?

He certainly does not.

"You are trying to be so good for me. Wicked little girl, dripping for my cock." He purrs above you, hands petting your derriere. You shake and squeeze hungrily. "I can see that." He moans.

Painfully embarrassed, you hide your face in the pillow without thought.

"Ah, ah! Bad girl!" He reprimands you roughly and slaps your right cheek. You yelp, he laughs lowly. Curving over your back, the heat radiating off of him is suffocating, he threads fingers into your hair and pulls until your head is tilted far back. He informs you ever so graciously, "I will help you behave."

"Oh, I, I am sorry, please." You babble, mindless with the pleasure of his hands on you.

"Yes, so repentant, I remember. You are very good at atonement, little girl. Now take this sacrament." He groans as he pushes into you. So thick, hot as fire, you twitch madly until the wide head is swallowed by your body. He does not stop, sinking into you for what feels like forever, until you feel the tickle of his hair. You worry he might come up your throat.

Rippling around him illuminates that you are stretched to the limit. He tugs your hair sharply and moans, "Are you taunting me purposefully?"

"I, no? Not, n-not taunting." You wheeze. He grinds deep and you see stars while your eyes are open. "Is that, it, not n-normal?"

He holds very still and demands quietly, "Do it again." You squeeze tight, he chokes above you, "You, Dios mios, you are doing that yourself?"

"I- yes? Sh-should I not be able to do, that?" Your question is baffled, Am I abnormal?

"Oh, little girl. Perfect, tight, wet, little, girl. Give yourself to me." He drapes his big body over you and turns your face to the side to receive a demanding kiss. He pulls back only to thrust home forcefully and you squawk into his mouth. The retreat makes you whine and clutch at him, when he slams forward you howl with how good it feels. Each thrust hits deep, it hurts and pleases you simultaneously, you cannot fathom what is happening. You clutch the pillow and sob happily.

Diego bucks into you at a breakneck pace, the bed creaks and you nod for more. You are stuffed full, unbelievably wet, and out of your mind with bliss. You want more, is that allowed?

"H-harder. Can you. Do more?" You stutter tentatively, afraid of offending him.

"Oh, yes, you sinful little creature. Take it, take it, take it." He growls in a rolling chant, snapping his hips harder. Your eyes roll back and you shudder through another climax, then a second, and a third, all one after another. You collapse limply, uncaring of his rough usage of you at this point. He bucks frantically, pumping deep to reach release.

"Oh, ahhhhh, yesss. Good girl. Good. Girl." He moans raggedly, filling you yet again. You did not realize men could do it so many times and so frequently. He pulls back and drops to the bed at your side. One large arm loops under your pelvis and he topples you over to crash against him. "Take a nap, little girl. You have earned it."

Your angry retort is cut off by a huge yawn. He strokes down your side endlessly, it does the trick and you drift off.

-----------

When you wake up again it is midmorning. You stretch happily in the sunlight, until your hips protest. Everything from navel to knee is sore. You sit up in a huff, wincing, only to realize that you are alone.

There is a plain skirt and very nice leather belt on the dresser, it is embroidered with a beaded pattern in green, yellow, and blue. The skirt is a little long, but you are rather short. Combined with his billowing shirt, you look like a child playing dress up. Your dress is gone, so this will have to do.

A servant leads you to the kitchens, she smiles broadly and points to your hair with a tiny voice, "Bonita."

"Thank you." You nod, unsure how to respond. Your father is at a large butcher block table, socializing easily with a young mother and her toddler despite the language barrier.

"Good morning. I apologize for sleeping so late, I must have been more tired than I realized." You announce your presence as casually as possible.

Diego's sister breezes into the room and announces that the carriage is ready whenever you are. The barb does not go unnoticed. You thank her sweetly for the hospitality as she herds you outside and sees you off as quickly as possible.

You wonder if Diego even knows you are leaving.

I still do not know why he pretended to be a priest.

#damnit diego #ok but this time its literal #starz power diego jimenez #diego imagine au 1 #maurice compte #zash writes #dick with side of feels #i would apologize but im not sorry #how dare you sir #anybody else remember the 90s tv zorro show?#because apparently i do

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promptis-imagines · 4 years

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How about Promptis go on their first ever date at an arcade or a fair and they're both nervous at first. They relax after a nice chat and some junk food and Noct notices a giant chocobo plush at a stall/prize counter and tries to win it for Prompto

nananasonatra: Noctis taking Prom on a summer carnival date. They both act like teenagers in love and at the end of the night they ride the Ferris wheel .Noctis bribes the operator to make them stop ontop .Sorry my heads fried in this heat lol

yes this is exactly what I need. You two have galaxy brains. So I will combine them: first date to the fair complete with shitty carnival games and a ferris wheel extravaganza

They are both very obnoxiously awkward. Prompto can’t stop talking even when he desperately wants to shut up. Noctis is having a hard time speaking at all. They went to the fair because hey, it’s in town! Surely that’s gotta be cheesy and fun. Thing is, both of them are too shy to admit that they love cheesy things (even tho they literally...are going on a date there. They’re doing their best). It’s the way there and the getting tickets where they’re still acting the nervous couple bit, but once they feel the adrenaline of a rollercoaster and stock up on junk food (a horrible choice before going on more rides), they start to loosen up and laugh off the nerves.

Also I can just...picture that scene. So vividly.

The sky was growing darker by the minute, which was only accentuated by the carnival lights dotting the view. Most of the rickety rides had been conquered, though not without a fair share of screaming on the couple’s part, so the tired boys decided to take a break for snacks before taking on the rest of the event.

Okay, maybe calling them “snacks” was a bit of an understatement. Two orders of fried oreos, an entire funnel cake, some wildly-oversized corndogs, and a large lemonade. They might have forgotten to grab dinner before the fair in their nervous endeavors, and nothing was healthy at the fair.

Sitting on that bench, laughing and munching on their food, any hint of awkwardness or fear was left behind in some gross seat of a rollercoaster car. Well and truly, this was a real date.

There was only a bit left of the funnel cake in the end. Prompto heaved a sigh, shoving the plate onto Noctis’ lap while his head flopped onto his shoulder. “You eat it,” he murmured.

Noctis pouted. “No, you.” The plate was passed back.

“Noooo, I’m so done, dude,” Prompto whined. “Just take one for the team.”

That earned a snort from Noctis. “What team? And why do we have to finish it?” he questioned.

Prompto paused, then sat up straight again. “I dunno. Feels wrong to just throw it away?” he reasoned. Especially considering that Noctis was the one who paid for all of it. He would feel bad, prince or not.

Noctis lightly bumped him with his shoulder. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s the last thing we have, and I’d rather toss it than have either one of us get sick before our date is over.”

He couldn’t lie, Prompto’s stomach still erupted with butterflies at legitimately hearing Noctis say they were on a date. He’d been dreaming of this for so long that he’d chalked up his hopes to wishful thinking. But no, they were here, and they were having a good time. It was enough to make him grin. “Fine, fine. Throw it away, and we can walk around for a while before hitting something that could make us lose all that food we just ate,” he conceded.

“Right.”

The two of them hauled their trash to the nearest trash can, and Prompto had to laugh at just how much powdered sugar had attached itself to Noctis’ all-black clothing. “Y’know, I applaud your choices to start wearing white,” he teased, making Noctis look down at his shirt.

“Oh, come on,” Noctis grumbled.

Prompto ran his hands along the worst parts. “No worries, I got you.” It only took a few seconds more for him to note how low the powder had gotten. “Um...”

Noctis huffed a laugh, getting the rest off. “You’ve got some on you, too.”

“I do?” Prompto asked with a confused expression. “Could’ve sworn I dusted myself off, already. Where’s it at?” he rambled, hoping he didn’t look like a mess.

“Hm, right here.” Suddenly, Noctis’ hand was on his cheek, his warm lips pressed gently to Prompto’s in a kiss that lasted all of three seconds. Nonetheless, his cheeks were absolutely burning afterwards.

When they parted, it appeared that he wasn’t the only one. Noctis’ cheeks were dusted a soft shade of pink, though it was hard to see under the harsh lighting around them.

It took a moment for either of them to say anything. “Did...you get it off?”

Noctis’ lips turned up in a faint smile. “Think so.”

Now it was Prompto’s turn to smile. “Cool. Thanks. What would I do without you?” he joked.

“Dunno. Have powdered sugar all over your face?” Noctis returned teasingly.

“All over? You saying I’ve got more on me?”

Noctis hummed in thought, once again brushing his fingers along Prompto’s cheek. “Nope, got it all,” he confirmed.

An eye-roll from Prompto. “Dork. Let’s move away from the trash can, yeah?”

The two headed back into the bustle of the fair, hand in hand without Prompto even realizing they'd reached for each other. It made him giddy all over again.

Before long, they stopped. A long row of carnie games sprawled out before them, vendors shouting for patrons to step up and take their chances. Stuffed animals of all shapes and sizes were presented along every surface, and it was a safe bet to assume they’d been waiting to be claimed for far longer than necessary.

Prompto looked over to his date. “Got something in your sights?” he questioned.

That got Noctis tugging him towards a nearby stall. “Does a giant chocobo sound good? I’ll try to win it for you,” he stated, all the determination in the world lighting up his eyes. It was rare to see Noctis this enthusiastic about something. Gods, it was cute.

Still, Prompto couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him. The thing Noctis had pointed out was giant, which also meant that it was going to be near impossible to get. “I mean, it sounds great, Noct,” he started, leaning against Noctis’ shoulder. “But I’m not gonna get my hopes up.”

Noctis knocked his head against Prompto’s. “What, don’t believe in me?” he returned in mock-offense.

“Oh, c’mon, you know these things are rigged,” Prompto reasoned. “Plus, this is a shooting game. One, that’s even more rigged. Two, we should both know by now that I'm the better marksman out of the two of us."

His boasting earned him a scoff from Noctis. "While I might cave and admit that, it doesn't mean that I'm bad at it. Have a little faith," he requested, giving Prompto's hand a light squeeze. Without waiting for a response, he was off towards the unattainable holy grail of stuffed animals. Oh, to be the carnie that got to proctor this little event in history.

Watching with an air of amusement, Prompto leaned on his elbows over the counter. "Heya! What's the requirements for getting that Behemoth up there?" he asked, gesturing to the comically large bird in question.

The carnie's polished grin focused on him. "Well, buddy, it's fairly simple!" he chirped. "All you've gotta do is shoot at those little targets that are moving across the planks." He made a grand gesture towards the back wall, which sported plenty of painted wooden ducks with red and white targets on their sides meandering in a single file. "Each duckie has a different number on the back. Shoot as many as you can before the time runs out, and your score will be tallied afterwards. Get over fifty points, and the chocobo is all yours. But watch out! Some of the ducks are hiding negative numbers that will reduce your score. So, care to test your skills?"

His speech had sounded so trained and NPC-like, Prompto had to laugh. "No, not me. But this guy wants to give it a go." He tugged on Noctis' sleeve, a grin of pride bright on his face. Noctis, on the other hand, had lost some of that brazen confidence in his expression.

It was always funny to watch people's eyes go wide. "O-Oh, Prince Noctis! Er, that is you, isn't it?"

"Nah, but I get that a lot," Noctis replied nonchalantly, rolling his shoulders in preparation. "Just a guy trying to win a chocobo for his boyfriend. Can I start?"

The man, seemingly recovered, nodded with his previous vigor. "Of course! Here is your weapon, good sir." After ducking down to grab one of the dingy guns from under the counter, he handed it over. "The timer starts when you first shoot."

Prompto cast a smirk at his boyfriend. "Let's see what you got, sharpshooter," he teased.

Noctis took aim. "Oh, hush. I'm doing this for you."

After a quick "Good luck!" from the man behind the counter, Noctis started the timer with a pop from the toy gun. One duck down, who knew how many more to go.

"Wohoo, got one!" Prompto exclaimed, beaming at a smug-looking Noctis. "Think you can keep it up?"

Still keeping his eyes on the targets, Noctis gave a little nod. "You bet I will. I've got someone to impress," he replied before knocking another off of the shelf.

Prompto snorted, slumping more over the counter. "You say that like you're on a date," he continued.

Another duck toppled. "And what if I am?"

That earned a dramatized gasp from Prompto. "Are you, now? Didn't know you had it in you to snatch a date. Always thought you were too shy." The mocking edge to his words were light, and he couldn't hide the slight giggling that followed. The next few shots hit the wall. He poked Noctis in the shoulder before wrapping an arm around his middle. "Trying to win him something?"

Noctis gave him a knowing glance. "I would be, if he wasn't doing stuff to distract me. Don't be disappointed when I can't get the prize for you," he warned, getting another target down.

Prompto leaned in to press a kiss to Noctis' cheek. "A good marksman should be able to work well under pressure." Still, deciding that he'd messed with him enough, Prompto let go and returned to being an encouraging spectator.

As the timer drew nearer to zero and the little duckies came crashing down, Prompto did have to admit that he was impressed. Especially considering the hindrance that was a rickety carnival gun, the sizeable amount of targets Noctis had managed to hit was most likely more than the average. Though he hadn't expected much of a reward from this mess, part of him was thinking he might be going home with a giant stuffed chocobo.

When the timer sounded, the carnie bounced back to life. "Aaalrighty, let's see how you did!" he said in his merry speech. He collected the last few fallen ducks, then laid them face up on the counter in front of them.

"Sweet, let's count 'em up!" Prompto was grinning as he began to turn over the targets. "Noct, count with me. This one's five," he stated, "and then eight, and…damn, negative six." Oh well, there were plenty more to bring the score up.

Noctis continued flipping over the next few. "Hey, got a fifteen," he boasted, shoving it over to the counted pile.

"Aw, so proud."

The scores varied for the rest of the ducks, some on the smaller or negative sides, presumably to keep the prizes from all being taken. Still, Noctis had gotten a few of the higher numbered ones. With one left to check, he had reached a whopping forty-five. Prompto was tingling with excitement; that chocobo was as good as won.

The last one stared them down with its chipped paint and bright, ducky smile. "You want to do the last one?" Noctis offered.

With a nod and bated breath, Prompto turned over the last one to add the number….

"Negative twenty?" he cried. "Why is that even in here!" Noctis groaned as well, and the two boys slumped against each other in defeat.

The man behind the counter drew up an apologetic smile. "Sorry, fellas, luck of the duck. But you still get to choose from one of the smaller prizes!"

He gestured to the side wall that sported the rest of this booth's treasures. They were way smaller than the grand prizes, more hug-to-your-chest size, but they were still something.

Noctis nudged Prompto's shoulder. "Go ahead and pick one."

"Mh-hm." Prompto's eyes flitted over the options: stuffed dogs and coeurls, moogles, various fruits for some reason, and a mini version of that giant chocobo above their heads. "Not to be predictable, but I do want the chocobo," he decided. So what if he consistently chose them? They were his favorites!

As it was being retrieved, Prompto turned to Noctis with a bright smile. "By the way, good job, dude."

Noctis shrugged, a light mix of embarrassment and pride in his face. "I would've won if it had just been about knocking them over," he reasoned.

Prompto chuckled. "Sure would've. They weren't ready for you," he teased.

"Here you are, sir." Holding it in his hands, Prompto decided that this was officially the best first date ever. How cool was it that his boyfriend won him something at a shitty carnival game?

They ventured back into the crowds, a bit dissuaded from trying any of the other booths for now. The chocobo plush was held securely with one arm while his other hand held fast to Noctis'. Now there was just the matter of deciding what else to do before calling it a night.

"Got any ideas what to do next?" Prompto questioned.

Noctis pursed his lips, doing a quick glance around. "Well, I think we already went on all of the rollercoasters, and you're not putting me back on that drop thing," he said definitively.

That drew a laugh from Prompto. "I half expected you to warp right off of that thing, by the way," he commented. "But fine, something else. How about…." He trailed off, rubbing his thumb along Noctis' hand. "Oh! We haven't done the ferris wheel yet."

What other way was there to end a night at the fair than being sappy while overlooking part of the city from the top of a rickety ferris wheel? Prompto hoped he wasn't coming across as too sappy, though; it was embarrassing, but he really did enjoy those dumb romantic fantasies. Even after being asked out, he was still worried that Noctis might laugh at him for wanting to do cheesy romantic things. Noctis just didn't seem like the type to enjoy that. He knew he was probably being ridiculous, but that didn't dispel the doubt in the back of his mind.

Thankfully, Noctis gave a casual shrug and nodded. "Sounds good to me. We can hit the ferris wheel and then head out for the night," he said.

Relief flooded back into Prompto's lungs, and before long, they were speeding up towards bright lights of the their last ride. Giggling, the two kept it up until they were running and dodging people in the crowd to get there first. Nevermind that they were still holding hands.

The pair stumbled to a breathless halt at the entrance gates, turning to each other with a full-out laugh. Prompto still had his chocobo clasped tightly between his arm and chest.

"After you," Noctis said, finally letting go of his hand to gesture to the open gate.

Prompto landed a playful punch to Noctis' shoulder as he walked past. "Really acting like a prince today, huh?"

"What, I don't normally?"

"Gonna have to give a no to that one, bud."

"Rude."

The worker got them situated in the seat, Prompto first. Noctis lagged behind slightly, turning to the lady in charge before climbing in next to his boyfriend.

Once they were snugly hip to hip, Noctis sighed. "How old do you think this ride even is?" he asked.

Prompto looked up. "Proooobably pretty old," he reasoned. "But I'm sure it's fine. They have, like, inspections and stuff, right?"

Noctis huffed a little laugh. "Hope so. If something does happen, I'll just grab you and warp off of this thing."

"My hero," Prompto teased. Though, as they began their ascent up and around the ferris wheel, the idea that it might break down did start to creep into his mind. A jarring bump halfway there didn't help one bit.

He pressed closer to Noctis' side just as he did the same. Prompto took a deep breath and closed his eyes, letting the feeling of being close to him soothe him. The warmth they shared was a nice defense against the cold winds, too.

A tiny smile formed on his face when he felt Noctis nuzzle slightly into his hair. "Sorry I couldn't get you the giant chocobo," he heard him murmur.

Prompto gave a slight shake of his head. "Nah, don't worry about it. This one's just as cute. And it's travel sized." He gave the toy a squeeze. Honestly, he was thrilled to have a gift from him in the first place. It was a silly little thing, but it made his heart swell in a way he thought he'd never feel.

As they completed the first rotation of the wheel, Prompto decided to look around more at the fair below. By now the sky was completely dark, making the colorful lights shine brighter. Laughter and shrieks of children reached even where they were up high. He even saw someone drop their cotton candy in a puddle, which he pointed out to Noctis so they could both grimace at the sight.

All of a sudden, they were stuttered to a halt at the top of the wheel. Prompto swung his leg a bit and laughed. "Welp, looks like we're up here forever," he joked.

Noctis snorted. "We'd better not be. I'm not sleeping on a ferris wheel."

"That's your problem with it?" Prompto laughed, making the seat sway slightly.

"There's other issues with living on a ferris wheel for the rest of my life. That one just came to mind first," Noctis said in his defense.

Prompto's laughter continued while he squeezed the stuffed chocobo to keep from dropping it. "Yeah, okay. Sleep is always your first thought."

"Don't judge."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Being stuck at the top really wasn't so bad. They could see everything, and it was just the two of them, despite there being hundreds of people around. It was as if they'd been brought up just to be alone for a few minutes.

A hand rested atop his thigh, and Prompto turned to face his date. And gods, did he look so good with the lights of the city behind him. Noctis' dark hair made him a silhouette, though his features were close enough to make out. His cool gray eyes had a soft shine to them, and he was looking at Prompto in a way that stole his breath. He had to be the luckiest guy in Eos right now.

Noctis quirked a small smile. "Is it…too cheesy if I ask for a kiss right now?"

Prompto paused, then cracked a smile as well. "Very cheesy. Do it," he replied.

"Then can I kiss you at the top of the ferris wheel?"

Without speaking, Prompto slid a hand along the side of Noctis' neck and pulled him in. His lips were tinged with slight cold, but they felt soft as they touched Prompto's. And just like that, they were sharing one of those dumb movie kisses on their first date at the fair. The thought made Prompto's smile grow as he leaned in more.

Once they pulled away, there were a few moments of silence between them. Then the ride began to move again, starting through one more loop before they would be let off.

Prompto couldn't hold back another little laugh. "Good way to end that?"

"Definitely," Noctis said, looking equally relieved and happy. "Now we can't say anything else for the rest of the time so we don't ruin it."

That earned a shoulder punch from Prompto. "Oh, shut up."

"See, like that."

Prompto grinned, taking Noctis' hand in his. "Too bad you're stuck with me, then," he retorted.

Noctis smiled back. "What a shame."

#I finally finished it lakfjagahgkjdk #this took me forever I am sorry #y'all be like: give me the tooth rotting fluff #and I try to provide #promptis #ask #thedarkrose17 #nananasonatra #answered

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