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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 4 months

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Merry whatever

Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles, day 25

Prompt: Christmas

Rated: G

CW: none

Tags: Fluff; Getting together; First kiss

Notes: Continued from day 5

Steve is just putting the last of the cookies into the oven - stars and trees and gingerbread men with little vampire teeth - when there’s a cacophony of swears and noise from the roof and a giant letter X crashes into the snow outside the kitchen window. He wipes his hands on a towel, slips into his boots and coat and makes his way outside.

“Eds? You still alive up there?”

“Barely!”

Eddie pops his head over the edge of the roof. He’s wearing the Santa hat again, the one they found in the attic together with the letters and the rest of the decorations.

“Your roof is a fucking ice rink, Harrington. Veritable death trap up here.”

“Hey,” Steve sloshes closer, almost trips over a plastic elf protruding from the snowy lawn like a tiny, cheerful goblin in a striped hat. “Don’t whine at me. I told you it was a bad idea, getting the letters up in that weather.”

“Yeah, yeah, mom!” Eddie snarks. “Now get that thing back up here.”

“Of course,” Steve rolls his eyes but still tucks the fallen letter under his arm and clambers up the ladder. “No fun if we don’t break both our necks.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Eddie takes the letter from him as soon as he’s within reach, then extends a gloved hand to help him onto the roof. The wool is scratchy against his skin, but Steve still revels in the warmth of it, the firm press of Eddie’s fingers entwining with his. “Didn’t survive the literal apocalypse to be taken down by some holiday decorations. Now help me put this- woah!”

He slips on the icey roof, teeters dangerously close to the abyss, eyes comically large and arms ruddering in the air for balance. Steve does what he does best and flies into action, bodily lunging himself at him and pulling him against his chest. He goes down on the shingles ass first, Eddie sprawled on top of him. By some Christmas miracle, Steve manages to grab a hold of the X before it can fall a second time.

Eddie’s breath is warm against his neck, hands clawing into his coat, and oh shit, they’re close. So very close. Much closer than two buddies who just happen to be spending Christmas together should be.

“You okay?” Steve says over the sound of his own blood roaring in his ears.

“Peachy,” Eddie pulls back, shoves the Santa hat out of his eyes. His very brown, very pretty eyes that Steve has caught himself thinking about an absurd amount lately. There's a bright pink flush coloring the bridge of his nose - probably from the scare. Or the cold. Yup, the cold, that’ll be it. “Reckon you’ll ever get tired of saving my ass, big boy?”

“Never.”

The word is out before Steve can bite it back. And maybe it comes with a little too much force, a little too much conviction. The smile slips off Eddie’s face and he blinks. Gulps. Disentangles himself from Steve and takes the letter from his hand.

For a few moments, the only sounds are those of the wind on the roof and Eddie’s struggle to put the letter in its proper place.

“Still feels weird sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?” Steve says lamely.

Eddie chuckles and slots back into space beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder and knee-to-knee.

“That it’s all just … over like this? That we’re here and get to do all this boring, normal stuff like baking cookies and putting up lights and celebrating Christmas?”

One of his hands finds Steve’s knee - a light, reassuring touch.

We’re here.

We’re both here.

“Dunno,” Steve shrugs. The sky is turning dark and Hawkins is spreading out under them, a sea of twinkling lights slowly coming alive. “I like normal.”

I wanna do a million normal things with you, for a hundred years. I don’t think I’d ever get tired of it.

“Yeah,” Eddie hums, a low and content sound that Steve feels in his own body, close as they are. “I'm starting to get the appeal.”

Then, before Steve can say or do anything stupid, he bends down to retrieve something from somewhere by their feet. He reemerges with a toothy grin, a plug and an extension cord.

“Okayyy, let's get these babies lit up, shall we?”

Steve turns as the neon lights flicker to life behind them, basking them in their glow and-

“Oh,” says Eddie. “Whoops.”

The words sparkling down at them, bright and cheerful for all of Loch Nora to behold, read MERRY SMAX.

The laughing fit hits Steve so hard that, this time, Eddie needs to grab him before he can fall off the roof.

“You asshole,” he wheezes into the leather of his jacket. “You did that on purpose!”

Eddie gasps through his own laughter, tries to put on a serious face. “What? Stevie, you wound me! What do you take me for? A troublemaker? A fiend with no respect for the honored tradition of this fine, Christian holiday?”

His eyes are large and round with mock-offense, Santa hat flopping around with the force of his own laughter, face alight with that gorgeous toothy grin of his. He’s ridiculously pretty, so fucking pretty with the lights twinkling all around him and Steve’s brain just sort of short-circuits. Not for long. Just for a second.

Just long enough to lean in and press his lips to Eddie’s.

When he pulls back, Eddie isn’t laughing anymore. Instead, he’s staring at him, mouth aghast and eyes wide.

“Shit,” Steve blurts. “I mean- Sorry, I dunno what that was, I-”

Something flickers across Eddie’s face, something needy and raw.

“I’ll show you what the fuck it was,” he growls and pulls Steve back in.

This time, it takes the blare of the fire alarm from the kitchen to break them apart.

MERRY SMAX, everybody!!!

Part 3

All my holiday drabbles

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steve x eddie #steddie brainrot #steddie fanfic #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #steddieholidaydrabbles #steddie holiday drabbles #hype's holiday drabbles

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aptlyattorney · 2 years

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"A full pan probably would be that much... well, I'm not expecting the brownies until later, but you can call in and ask the Kitakis if they could deliver sooner." Phoenix gives his younger protege a lazy smile. "if you do, just wake me up when they get here."

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

The lawyer had finally been given his objective. "... Cool. Great. Sure thing. Do I have to clock out?"

Phoenix purses his lips in thought. "You probably shouldn't do drugs on the clock, yeah. I already paid for the delivery, so make your decisions at your leisure."

" I- didn't say I was having any !" His finger is still raised in the air when declaring as he leaves, bag tucked under his arm. Apollo returns seconds later to take his phone from his desk, avoiding any smirking eyes before the door closes again. The bakery, at least, smells no less unusual than he remembers, though there are more travelers still allured in one direction. Apollo peeks his head in, checking and rechecking that indeed, the sign blinked 'open.'

" Hey, Wright Anything Agency, uh, picking up an order?"

Some muffled words behind the privacy curtain at the back of the kitchen signal the singular reformed gangster striding out. He hops the counter with a grin. "Yooo, big A! how's it rolling with my main man, huh?!" he gently punches each of Apollo's shoulders before grabbing the attorney for a forearm shake whether he wants to or not.

" Ah, hey, Wocky," Naturally, saving one's life would make someone a longtime friend, though his weak smile is his one defense to stay quiet and not 'say something a fuckin' pussy would.' Not entirely because the lawyer's reputation was founded on it, but it was wisest to stay on a notorious family's good side, no matter the promise of a new leaf. Apollo is jerked into the movements, though performing his best for the gesture. “ Has business been good? It's been a while since, well, I came into this part of town-"

"Yeah, you ain't been hiding from us, right? Dunno why else a bro would be too much of a bitch to come-" "WOCKY!" Apollo flinches over the boom of the matriarch’s scolding, shoulders high, tight to his neck until the youngest Kitaki speaks again. Wocky plants his fists on his hips and sighs. "...Why a bro wouldn't come see his G. naw, i'm fuckin' with ya! we've been doin' great, even better than before!! but without all the fun family business shit- and I been feeling top notch, in my fucking prime after my whole 'getting a bullet outta my heart' thing!" As alarmingly threatening as wocky's smiles could be sometimes, he treats Apollo to some sincere warmth.The lawyer is attentive, but still sniffing the air at times, too fearful to see whatever The Plum might be doing . Slick smiles are not well faked, even his bracelet despises the effort of his forced expression. " I'm glad to hear it- I think our friend Eldoon told me a while ago you were getting out of the hospital, er, sorry I couldn’t be there for the ICU visit."

Wocky considers this for a moment before smirking and briefly fisting apollo's shoulder. "yeah, you're alright, man, I can respect that. ain't nothing free in this world. sorry, only the fam and the hoes get to see me laid up in bed." the young man puffs his newly-healed chest up and flexes one arm. "how bout you, though? big A been gettin' any big cases?" He leans close with a grin and whispers, "Anyone i know?"

Apollo restrains, near perfectly a snort, helped along by the gentle strike he gets again from Wocky. To imagine he might still have 'hoes' to entertain certainly spoke much of his over-large confidence, especially a few weeks out of major surgery. No doubt, the scar had been the subject for weeks, his big opener for conversations. " Ah, well, we've had some... interesting run-ins here and there- a small seedy circus if that rings a bell?- that is the reason I have a cat now, Trucy's been accused of theft... proven innocent, of course, Oh, and I'm officially related to the Wrights, heh." Apollo wanders to the checkout counter, where buns and bagels have yet to be sold. " It seems slow for this time of day... I guess everyone's gone to the concert."

"Circus?” He scoffs. “ Naw, that shit's for clowns and we don't clown around here. Yeah, it'll pick up around noon and later this afternoon, when peeps get the munchies. Oh, damn, talkin' 'bout the kush-" wocky vaults back over the counter and into the kitchen, coming out with a disposable baking tray soon after. he drops it onto the counter and grins. "you and your old man lookin' for a little somethin' somethin' today too, huh? set of four--an' a bonus for lil' T!" it's a little pack of gummy bears.

Trucy. Still considered more innocent than himself, and he was yet to cause any legal trouble among the three of them. Until the 'good kush' is mentioned, he might have gone headlong info the entire case, and the tightrope incident, and the tray further solidifies that this was no prank to get him to ask for drugs. "Ah- no, just him. I, need to stay alert, and he's got a case of... The Mondays, Chronically." Bears in pocket and tray in hand, the wafted scent is .. strangely just as much like brownies as any other. Perhaps his nose had gone too blind before he'd even come inside.

"uh-huh, whatever you say, big A. all business all the time. sure." wocky's sneering amusement leaves no doubt he doesn't believe Apollo's firm clutch on sobriety and professionalism. "you're that kid who always got straight a's in his class, ain't ya, bro? ain't ya, big A?" still, he laughs and waves away any protest. "Yeah, we're even, no strings. maybe not the next time though... a man gotta share with his homies once in a while!" as if he himself could be called a grown man. " Say hi to your old man and kid sis for me, big A!“

Just like in school, getting knocked on for trying to keep his shirt clean and his eyes forward. Apollo rolls his eyes through all the teasing, nodding as generously as needed for Kitaki, and to assume still a professional veneer. " Alright, uh, big ...Kay- well, I'm sure Trucy will enjoy being thought of," The star of the show still deserved little presents , even when she wasn't working.

#Converted from Discord #bodejustice

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pynkhues · 3 years

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Prompt 47!

Sorry this one is so late! I hope you like it!

47. Cuddling under blankets

It takes her two days to cave.

Two days to feel the frost in her joints, her perspiration crystalise, her breaths escape in clouds of bitten mist, and god, Beth thinks, staring up at the roof of the cabin, half expecting stalactites. This is not what she had in mind when Rio said safe house.

Not that she was entirely sure what she did have in mind before - - well. Just before. Had never spent all that much time thinking about where it was Rio went when everything had gone south, but if – gun to her head – she’d had to guess, she’d have thought: luxury apartments, sundrenched holiday houses, riverside lodges.

A place his G Wagon would look at home in the driveway, the parking lot, pulled up on the curb.

Somewhere he’d look at home.

The thought makes her wet her chapped lips, sink deeper into the threadbare blankets on top of her still-trembling body, and her gaze dart sideways to where Rio crouches stoking the last flickering embers of the fire.

It’s raining. or rather, it’s sleeting. Shards of ice colliding with the thick glass windows, escaping down the chimney to make the flames spit and smoke below, and when it had first started, Beth had watched Rio cuss. Watched him prod balls of tattered newspaper and sticks she’d collected and tried to dry yesterday, but it hadn’t done much good. The rain had gotten heavier and the fire smaller and she’d seen the chill find him. Pink his nose, ears, stiffen his fingers, and she’d though good, she’d thought he deserves it, but she’d still left him the last of the hot water in the flask even as her own fingers were turning blue.

Now, she holds them close to her mouth, exhales, but her breath is barely warm, and she can’t stop trembling, so she shoves them between her legs instead, and looks at him across the tiny, dim cabin, and says what she’s been saying for the last half hour:

“It’s going to go out.”

He’d ignored her the last time, and scoffed the first time, but now at least it’s enough to make him spin around and look at her, bundled upright on the only bed in the place, the look on his face like he’d forgotten she was even there, and Beth huffs, tilting her chin towards the fire.

“Poking at it isn’t going to miraculously fix the chimney leak,” she adds this time, a shiver rolling up her spine as Rio stares back at her, the erratic glow from the dying flames licking across his features – his plush lips and sharp nose and swollen eye, but god, it’s not that. It’s just - - it’s the cold. That’s all, and when his nostrils flare a little, it’s too easy to add: “Well, it’s not,” because she’s right.

Across the room, Rio finally drops the fire poker back to the tray and stalks his way towards the tiny sofa where he slept last night, tucking his arms high up into his armpits as he drops onto it, leaving his back to her as he hunches forwards, making himself as small as possible in the frigid space of the cabin.

And she doesn’t feel bad.

She doesn’t.

This entire situation is his fault.

It was him who showed up three weeks ago with a new plate, telling her to print two million dollars cash. It was him who’d had that spring to his step while he told her about a new client, and it was him who had her show up at a hotel bar with a suitcase full of fake cash to meet a guy who turned out to be an old-partner-turned-bitter-rival of Nick’s.

She still doesn’t really know what happened, just suddenly it was a few days later and Rio was back at her place with a black eye and a limp and an order.

Bring the plates.

He’d driven them through the night.

Now, across the cabin, he drops a hand to rub at his bad leg, and Beth’s frown deepens as she wriggles back into the dusty mattress, her gaze holding on the narrow line of him, and here’s the thing.

It’s not like she hasn’t thought about it.

Last night had been bad enough, but tonight with the rain and the sleet, without any real insulation and no fire, they’re practically case studies for hypothermia. For the bone chill and the frost bite and the slurred speech and the shuttered eyes and the slip towards a forever sort of unconsciousness.

And like, she knows that the best ways to avoid hypothermia are warm drinks, food, blankets, getting off the ground, and body heat, and just - -

Look.

They finished the cocoa hours ago.

Beth sniffs, rolls her eyes to the ceiling, feels a jittery tension in her body as she blinks hard and finally just says it:

“Come here.”

Rio twists his neck back instantly at that, his eyebrow arched, but he doesn’t make any indication that he’s likely to move, and right, Beth huffs. Why should this be any easier than literally anything else? Her head’s already starting to feel heavy, her thoughts tangled, and she figures the best way forwards is to - - well.

Be the danger.

With a trembling hand, Beth slowly unwraps the blanket from around herself, revealing her stiff jeans and loose sweater, the cold washing through the thin fabric like a rinse, and her teeth are already chattering when she says:

“Body heat.”

His other eyebrow raises to join the first, gaze dropping to her chest where she knows her nipples are peaked in cold, and Beth scowls.

“Not like that. Just - - we’re both freezing right and now, and this - - look. It works.”

“Yeah? You learn that at Journey Scouts?”

“Got the badge and everything,” she bites, and she’s sure she’s visibly trembling now, can feel it, and she sees Rio stare at her, shake his head, start to tell her to bundle up before she kills herself or something, and she adds: “You either come over here and get in the blanket with me or we’re both going to freeze to death right now, and what are your gang buddies gonna think of that, huh?”

Outside, the wind howls and the sleet is starting to get heavier, thicker, careen into hail, and god, it’s cold, and Beth can barely feel her anything anymore, and Rio’s still staring at her, his eyes (or, well, the one she can see below the swelling) dark, and she’s halfway to giving up and flinging herself back on the dusty mattress and trying to shiver her way to any sort of warmth, when Rio suddenly pushes up off the couch and beelines towards the bed.

Which - - right, Beth thinks. This is good, this is what she wanted. In her head, there are vague flashes of real warmth, his body pressed into hers, a memory of heat and desire twisted up and around and over and over, and something drops through her like a lick of flame, and she swallows only to suddenly find herself being gripped around the waist and pushed sideways. Within moments, Rio’s slipped his body beside hers and laid them both down, the mattress frigid beneath them, as Beth desperately tries to adjust the thin blankets back across them both.

She inhales sharply when she feels Rio’s leg press sideways against her own.

His arm against hers.

Both of them suddenly pushed like fish fingers against each other on their backs.

Or like corpses.

The thought makes her swallow.

Makes her gaze flick up to see his swollen face, his pink nose, his unusually pale features.

God, it’s cold.

Beth sniffs, looks down as she wriggles further beneath the blankets, curling her socked-toes to try and hold the blanket to them.

“So,” she tries. “How long are we going to be here?”

“I dunno,” he answers instantly, voice light, like he’d been waiting for her to ask. “How much holiday leave you got?”

Beth scowls, twisting to look at him, and then away, and then back, fixing on the way he hasn’t taken his gaze off the ceiling. It leaves her with little to look at but his swollen eye, the skin darkened with bruises around his temple, and she can’t quite keep the edge out of her voice when she asks:

“Did your brother give you that?”

“Cousin.”

He sniffs as he says it, nose wrinkling, and if she didn’t know any better, she’d swear he winced too at the motion of it. Pressed against her own, his arm feels tight, stiff, his leg cold against hers, and fine, if that’s the way he wants to play it.

“Oh, sorry. Did your cousin give you that?” Beth asks, correcting herself, and at least now, Rio does twist his neck to look at her, his eyes wide in the dark, the whites of them near luminous, and god he is - - he is too close. So close she can feel the cool of his breath against her cheek.

He doesn’t reply, and Beth swallows, something in her gut twisting, fingers trembling as the silence pulses between them, and she doesn’t know if it means yes, or if Rio’s insulted she’d even think that (Nick had just seemed - - and Rio - - something. There was something, that’s all), and it makes her look away. Makes her stare up at the ceiling like he’d been doing, like she had earlier too, watching the timber roofing tremble and listening to the shatter of sleet.

She thinks her toes are going numb.

She thinks her lips are.

She thinks the cold is starting to wrap its fingers around her ankles and pull her into its clutches, starting to leave her tired, and suddenly she’s grasping at anything to distract herself. Anything to keep her head above the threat of frigid oblivion, and she’s halfway through the chorus of Do You Wanna Build a Snowman? before she even realizes what she’s humming.

It’s not until Rio snorts beside her that it means anything to her slow turning head.

Beth’s gaze fixes back on him, and it’s sudden then – the memory of Jane and Marcus singing it to each other through the laundry room door while they played, back when Rhea still came around, back when Beth thought - -

After - -

Beth blinks.

A shiver wracking her chest as she clutches the blankets a little tighter.

“Does Marcus like Frozen?” she asks, like she doesn’t know, and from the way Rio makes a low noise of affirmation, she knows that he doesn’t.

Something in Beth loosens, tightens, loosens again.

“He really likes that snowman,” Rio says, sniffing again. “Olaf.”

His lip twitches – something between a smile and a grimace, and Beth can’t help but grin in reply, her own gaze holding now on the twist of his mouth.

“Jane had a stuffed one that sang the song from the movie. The Summer one. I took out the sound box and stitched it back up.”

Rio barks on a laugh, even as Beth cringes at the memory. It probably wasn’t her finest parenting moment, but after hearing the same song for the thirtieth time in a day, she was about to start tearing at the wallpaper.

“I told her he just wasn’t feeling well,” she adds. “But secretly I’m hoping she forgets he ever sang.”

It’s weird, the voice in her head that tells her it’s not a secret anymore.

Not now that she’s told him.

She doesn’t know why that leaves her pressing her arm to his a little tighter.

“Damn, you’re doin’ better than me,” Rio tells her, his voice low, a little slurred, hoarse with cold. She thinks that’s one of the symptoms of hypothermia, isn’t it? God, she can’t remember. “I gave Marcus’ to one of his cousins.”

Beth laughs.

Looks at him.

Vaguely, something in her head tells her to listen to his chest. Check for a rattle. Is that for hypothermia? No. Pneumonia, she thinks. Tries to summon up her badge training. God, she feels drunk suddenly. Woozy. She lifts her head and places it on his chest anyway, and if he’s surprised, he doesn’t act it. Instead, his arm circles around her shoulders, pulling her into him, which is silly, she doesn’t need the rest of her to hear the ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum of his heart beneath her ear. Doesn’t need to drop his mouth to the crown of her head, doesn’t need to inhale either, but she shivers at the warmth of his exhale there when he does that and when his freezing hand finds her shoulder, it’s too easy to reach back.

To pull it around her arm and under, squeezing his fingers into her armpit to warm them, and when his fingers creep forward to squeeze her breast, she doesn’t move them, couldn’t, she doesn’t think, not with his heartbeat so close, and his chest isn’t rattling but it might, she thinks, and god, it’s so much warmer like this, so she shouldn’t move her head just yet.

Just to be sure.

Just to warm them up a little.

Just for now.

#beth x rio #intimacy prompts #thanks anon!#this was a fun one and let me write one of my fave tropes which i have written tragically little of haha #beth boland #rio #my fic

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alittlebitmaybe · 3 years

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i’ll stay warm

for @sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo!

Prompt: ice skating

Relationship: Geraskier

Rating: G (with very mild language and a tiny bit of blood)

Warnings: None

Other Tags: Fluff, Companionable Snark, Already Dating But Too Dumb To Notice, First Kiss

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

“You’re going to tie those—,” he gestures to the slim planks of iron on Jaskier’s kitchen table that have leather cords threaded through holes bored into either end, “—to your shoes, and you’re going to go down to the river and stand on it.”

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Read more on ao3 or below the cut!

“Let me get this straight,” Geralt says.

Jaskier waves him on.

Jaskier, unperturbed, says brightly, “Uh-huh!”

Geralt says, “Why?”

“Because Priscilla asked me along, and it’s good fun, and you can do all sorts of loop-de-loops and swirlies and spinnies and whozits and, uh, whatzits. I dunno, Pris knows all the tricks, I never got the hang of it. But, Geralt, people have been doing this in Oxenfurt for years. It’s the only way fashionable and exciting persons such as I pass the winter these days, gliding as an angel over the ice, cheeks chapped fetchingly pink, you know, it’s all very attractive, one may say winsome—”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” Geralt crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back in the small chair and tucks his shoulders in. He takes up too much space in Jaskier’s quarters, and already he rues the day he agreed, in a fit of insanity, to pass the season in the city instead of trekking up to Kaer Morhen as usual. “You’re going to die.”

Jaskier hacks a laugh into his steaming mug and nearly spills tea all down his robed front.

“Nonsense!” he cries, once he has recovered himself. “We go every year once the freeze is hard enough, me and Pris and all my many other dazzling friends, which I absolutely have.”

“And if Priscilla told you it was fashionably good fun to walk yourself off a cliff…”

“I’d do it, obviously,” says Jaskier, not missing a beat. “Haven’t you ever had to cross a frozen river on your travels, Witcher? How’d you go about it then, if not on skates?”

Geralt levels him an incredulous look. “How would I get a horse across a frozen river?” he asks, and Jaskier frowns in thought as he takes another sip.

“I mean, you could just—,” he mimes pushing outward with one palm, “—give ‘er a good shove and see how far she gets.”

“Could give you a good shove. Bet you wouldn’t make it far.”

“I’ll have you know, I have the grace of a, a, er…elk? Are elk graceful?”

Geralt nods and says seriously, “Especially the newborns.”

“There you have it. Graceful as a tiny baby elk with those on my feet, I am.”

“Maybe you should wear them all the time.”

“What good would that…” he starts, and then comes, “Hey. Rude. Remind me why I wanted you here?”

Geralt grins and shrugs. His own mug is on the small table, and he sniffs the steam coming off of it. Floral. He takes a sip. Carefully does not spit it back out. Sets the mug back down farther away.

When he has successfully resisted the urge to spit on the floor to clear out his mouth and looks back up, Jaskier is still holding his own mug gently in the curl of his long fingers, and a lock of rumpled hair has fallen into his eyes. His robe hangs open at his collarbone, down the line of his chest. He wears a strange expression that lies between the exasperation Geralt expected and something startlingly softer.

“So you’ll come with us,” he states.

“Someone has to take your body back to your mother when you break your neck,” Geralt says.

Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You jest, but Mum would be thrilled to see you. Likes you better than me, I think. Her only son! But you’ll come, eh?”

Geralt ducks his head quickly to hide the smile creeping across his face, grabbing his boots and yanking at the laces before acquiescing, “Yeah, I’ll come.”

“There now,” Jaskier says, appeased, “that wasn’t so hard, was it.” He knocks back the dregs of his tea, then stands and pads to the sink, talking on. “You should’ve known I wouldn’t let you stay cooped up in here all winter. I’ll have to see if I can dig out my spare pair of skates, they’re older—animal bone, not iron—but they might be big enough for your witcher feet, and it really works just as well. Or maybe Pris knows someone…I even heard they’re renting the things out down at the river now. Industrious, isn’t it, the ways people come up with to make some coin?…”

Geralt half-listens as he ties neat knots, lost somewhere in the midst of mulling over what Jaskier has described, trying to give it the benefit of the doubt despite its obvious frivolity. Based on the day’s weather it will be a clear night with a brisk breeze, a bright moon. The wind chill will have them each bundled up in furs, and the tip of Jaskier’s nose will go pink as he rubs his gloved hands together for warmth and glances happily over at Geralt. The river ice will be torchlit and smooth as glass, and they’ll strap on their skates and step out onto it. They’ll have a good hold on each others arms, for balance, but then as they gain their footing they’ll find their fingers threaded together and neither will let go. Geralt will listen to the quickened beat of Jaskier’s heart as they pick up the pace, and eventually Jaskier will break their hold to skate backward and taunt Geralt with a small twirl that ends only a little unsteadily. Geralt will smirk and give chase, chuckling when Jaskier squawks and takes off at speed. It’s no use, of course, even with Geralt’s inexperience; Geralt will anticipate his movements, head him off, catch him by the wrist, by the shoulder, and they will collide chest to chest with a huff, the momentum from the chase sliding them a few more feet across the ice before they come to a halt. Their cold noses will almost be touching, there will be frost on the riverbank, there will be a distant owl hooting its nighttime song. Jaskier will quirk his lips and say, “Gotcha, Witcher,” and Geralt will lean in, feel his hot breath, press their lips together—

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, tapping him on the shoulder. A hand waves in front of his face. Geralt keeps his expression carefully neutral as he comes out of his sudden reverie, though he’s been caught red handed. “Are you meditating? We’ve got to be off to the market. Have you even been listening to me?”

“Never,” says Geralt, and Jaskier scoffs and whacks him gently upside the head.

The riverbank smells like dead fish.

Geralt knew this. He doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t know where the pine-scented idyllic winter wonderland from his earlier distraction even came from, because it couldn’t be farther from reality.

Besides the fish stink, his boots squish and stick unpleasantly in the muddy ground, and the place is teeming with cityfolk, the crowd so thick that you can’t see the opposite bank even despite the abundant torchlight.

“Are you sure it’s frozen solid enough for this?” Geralt asks sourly.

“Of course,” Jaskier replies.

Geralt’s frown deepens. “Couldn’t we go around the bend where there’s not so many people?”

“And where’s the fun in that?”

“Breathing room.”

“I asked about the fun, Geralt. Ah, there’s my girl!”

Priscilla pushes through a group of loitering teenagers and throws her arms around Jaskier’s neck, only her toes left on the mud. “Jask! I see you got your…friend to join us.”

She pauses before friend, eyeing him overtly, but Geralt doesn’t notice because one of the teenagers has been shoved, giggling, into him by another of the group. He steadies her, and does not react when she turns to apologize, catches his unnatural gaze, and stifles her laughter. He doesn’t see Jaskier watching him past Priscilla’s ear, the fond crinkling around his eyes when Geralt gently straightens her and returns her to her place in the circle, which subsequently puts a few feet between itself and the newly-noticed witcher.

“It was either this or die of boredom in the dark, wasn’t it, Geralt?” Jaskier says finally as he releases Priscilla.

“I chose the dark,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier sticks out his tongue.

“Well,” Priscilla says, straightening her skirts, “shall we?”

Geralt pulls both sets of skates from his deep cloak pockets and passes the iron pair to Jaskier, who hops around indelicately while securing them over his boots, rather than plop himself on the soft ground—which is, of course, what Geralt does to put on his own. Priscilla and Jaskier waste a few minutes on a tiff over whether it is polite or belittling for Jaskier to insist on helping her with her own skates whether she wants it or not, but eventually they are all ready to go.

Geralt is the first to the ice. He tests the toe of his bone skate against it, judging the friction of it, deciding if it is likely to hold his weight even with the evidence of the dozens of people currently gliding and spinning past him. It seems stable. Stepping out, he finds it surprisingly easy to get a feel for balance, the minute shifts of weight that send him one direction or the other. He swings himself wide and turns around to see Priscilla and Jaskier also stepping out onto the river, Jaskier clutching tightly to Priscilla’s sleeve, face white and eyes trained on his feet.

“It’s okay, darling, you’ve got this. You made such good progress last time, come on now,” Geralt can hear Priscilla murmuring under the loud chatter of nearby skaters.

When Jaskier sees Geralt watching them, he bodily removes Priscilla’s hands from his person and says, “Please, Pris, I’m a capable man.”

She bristles immediately, leaving him to stand on his own. “And I wasn’t a capable woman when I was putting on my skates?”

Jaskier ignores her to begin shuffling awkwardly across the ice, his knees locked straight.

“Jaskier?” Geralt says apprehensively.

“Doing peachy, thanks, it’ll come back to me, just need to recall how to, um—oh no—” Jaskier starts with a strained voice before he promptly stops, because he has begun to slide inexorably forward. Priscilla and Geralt both reach toward him, but they’re too late; Jaskier’s arms wheel wildly, he tilts on wobbly ankles, and he faceplants onto the ice.

“Ow,” squeaks the Jaskier-shaped lump.

“I think your nose is broken,” says Geralt. He dabs at the blood on Jaskier’s top lip with the edge of his own cloak. They are safely back on the bank, and Jaskier is, this time, sitting in the mud. “I guess you were right,” he goes on wryly. “You’re exactly as graceful as a baby elk.”

“I knew you were making fun of me,” Jaskier says thickly, due to the nose injury. “I also knew you’d be a natural. Bastard. I could never get the hang of this stupid bullshit.”

Geralt hums and wipes off the last of the blood. At least it’s clotted quickly. Maybe it’s not a break.

“You didn’t need to lie about your abilities. Who are you trying to impress?”

Jaskier snorts, then winces in pain. His fingers twist in his lap. “Oh, that’s funny.”

Now, Geralt is often joking, but he’s fairly certain that that wasn’t one. Did Jaskier also hit his head? He pushes back Jaskier’s fringe to check his forehead for signs of bruising and doesn’t find any. “Um,” he says, “what is?”

Priscilla skates past holding hands with a woman that Geralt thinks she met approximately three minutes ago. She calls, “All right, Jask?” and in reply, Jaskier gives her a bitter thumbs up. She winks and swoops away as quickly as she came.

“Because I was trying to impress you, obviously,” he answers, gazing after her, before he turns his eyes back to Geralt.

Geralt pauses. “Why?”

“Because I’m actually always trying to impress you. And everyone else, constantly, but…mostly you.”

“You don’t do a very good job of it,” he says, and regrets it when he hears how it sounds coming out of his mouth.

Jaskier smiles. It’s genuine, if a little wistful, like Geralt has amused but not surprised him. “I am well aware, thanks.”

He reaches for the words that will take that edge of resignation off Jaskier’s face, feeling like a fumbling fool. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you don’t need to try to impress me.”

“Yes, I know it doesn’t matter, but I can’t help—”

“No,” Geralt interrupts, “I mean you don’t need to try because you do.” He clears his throat. “Impress me.”

“Oh,” says Jaskier, and then nothing more. “That’s. Okay.”

“Yeah,” says Geralt. He has never been so exposed in his life. He thinks that’s probably a bad thing. “How’s your nose? We could try again, if you want.”

Jaskier looks around at the laughing crowds and shrugs. “Came all this way, got all bundled up. Might as well! I’m sticking with you this time, though.”

They find a spot at the farthest reach of the torchlight where the ice is less populated to step out. Geralt goes first, as before, and finds his footing even faster this time. He returns to Jaskier’s side after a moment of testing the reliability of his newfound skills, and presents his forearm as a handhold. Jaskier does not protest about his capability this time and takes the offering. With a long preparatory exhale, he puts one foot and then the other onto the ice.

“I’ve got you,” Geralt says quietly.

Jaskier replies, “I know you do.”

“Can’t let more harm come to the money maker. I’ve gotten used to staying in inns.”

“Good gods,” says Jaskier, “I’ve broken him.”

They gradually move farther from the bank. “Loosen up,” Geralt tells him. “Don’t lock your knees. It’s like you’re trying to fall over.”

Jaskier grumbles but takes the advice, and eventually he gains the confidence to move a little faster, though not to stop hanging on to Geralt. They stay on the fringes where they are less likely to be run into by a distracted stranger, gliding along at pace, with Jaskier remarking on the who’s-who of Oxenfurt society who are also out tonight. Geralt recognizes some of the more powerful names, but mostly he lets Jaskier chatter on so he doesn’t think too hard about his feet.

Priscilla passes by and greets them a few more times with her new companion, who at one point proclaims, “You two are so cute together!” before Priscilla drags her back into the mob. Geralt glances over and thinks Jaskier might be blushing, but that might also be due to the swelling around his nose.

“Should ice your face,” says Geralt.

“Sure, later. Hey!” He swings around to face Geralt, stopping their progress. “Spin me!” At Geralt’s no doubt dubious expression, he pouts. “Geralt, I demand to be spun. It’ll be fun!”

“Fine,” Geralt sighs.

He takes Jaskier’s hand, and has a flash of his daydream. There’s too many people, and it does still smell like fish, but this isn’t too far off—

He collects himself, holds their joined hands over Jaskier’s head, and gives him a little push to start him spinning, not too quick, but Jaskier takes it upon himself to propel himself a little faster. Jaskier laughs and maintains his balance remarkably well, until he exclaims “Oops—dizzy—!” and topples directly into Geralt, succeeding in knocking them both down, Geralt on his own back, Jaskier flat on his chest.

Geralt, trapped between the frigid ice and Jaskier’s weight, looks up as Jaskier starts to laugh. The steam of his breath hits Geralt’s cheek, and his knitted hat has gone askew, and his nose is turning purple, and Geralt puts his hand around the back of Jaskier’s neck and pulls him down and kisses him.

Jaskier leans away. “What?” he asks, eyes wide, then continues, “oh, who cares,” and leans back down.

Later, with an ice pack pressed to Jaskier’s face and two more hot mugs at the kitchen table, Geralt watches Jaskier rummage through his cupboards. He comes back with two packets, one matching the floral tea from earlier and a different one. He hands the latter to Geralt.

“Black tea,” he says, “for you. Noticed you didn’t like my herbal stuff. I don’t either, to be honest, but I already spent the coin on it.”

“Thanks,” Geralt replies, oddly touched.

As Jaskier passes Geralt to take his seat, he leans down and pecks him on the cheek. Smiling faintly beneath the ice pack, he says, “You know, Witcher, I’m glad you’re here and not up in some weird lonely castle,” and Geralt finds that he is, too.

#my fic #the witcher #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #geraskier fic #it's fluff time friends!

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kiraswritten · 4 years

Text

All I'm Worth (ReaderxBucky) | pt. 2

(REPOST)

pairing: reader x bucky barnes warning: smut, unprotected sex (pls be responsible1!!!), dirty talk, praise kink (this is gonna be a reoccurring theme around here so welcome),Sargent kink a/n: thank you so much for the positive feedback!

part one

Bucky smirked, his metal hand holding onto the edge of his shirt, his gaze locked with yours as you watched him intently. He carefully peeled off his shirt from his body, your eyes immediately glued onto his abs, you licked you lips at the sight.

Bucky threw his shirt on the ground, he lifted his ass off the bed as he pulled down his basketball shorts, along with his boxers, letting his hard cock spring free from its confines.

You bite down on your bottom lip, rubbing your thighs together at the sight.

Bucky grabs his dick and pumps it twice, spreading the pre-cum all over the shaft. “Want a taste Sugar? Or you want me to fill you up instead?”

You let out a small high-pitched whimper, unable to choose.

The amount of times during the day you thought about sucking Bucky off was unreal, you’ve always wanted to taste him, wanting him to grab you by your hair, fucking your face with need. But the thought of him filling you up with his cock, you wondered how hard and fast he’d thrust inside you and you couldn’t wait to find out.

You licked your lips, your eyes locking with his as you crawled towards his lap. Bucky parted his lips slightly, watching you intently. You lean forward, each hand on Bucky’s thighs, “Can I be on top?” You ask, batting your eyelashes at him.

Bucky lets out a low moan, his flesh hand grabbing you by the back of your neck, pulling you into a hard kiss. You taste yourself against his tongue, moaning as his metal arm grabs you by your waist, your wet pussy grinding on his cock.

His metal hand lets go of your waist, he spreads your legs with his hand as the two of you continue to kiss.

You suddenly break away from the kiss, uttering ‘fuck’ as you felt Bucky stick two metal fingers into your wet pussy. Your forehead rests on his shoulder as he pumped his two fingers in and out of your pussy, you could hear how wet you were as he did so.

“Ready Sugar?” He asks you softly, you look up to meet his gaze, you nod.

His fingers leave you, making you whine from the loss, only to be replaced by his hard cock, you bite down onto your bottom lip, hard, not wanting to scream.

Bucky does an experimental thrust, making you arch your back from pleasure, “Bucky!” You cry out.

His mouths opens at the sight of you on top of him, he licks his lower lip, letting out a groan.

“Bucky?”

The two of you stop movements, focusing your attention at the door. You hear a knock at the door, followed by Steve calling out to Bucky once again.

You begin to move away from Bucky when he suddenly holds you by your waist, thrusting into you once more.

You cover your mouth with your hands, muffling the moan.

“Yeah?” Bucky replies to Steve, sounding unfazed.

“We got a meeting in ten, I can’t find (Y/N) you know where she is?” Bucky smirks, looking up at you.

Your hands still covering your mouth, you look down at Bucky in horror, “Dunno where she is pal, but I can go look for her,” He says, his pace not wavering.

You hear Steve’s steps recede, Bucky grabs your arms, pulling you closer towards him, he wraps your arms around his neck.

“Bucky!” You whisper-scream, trying to glare at him but failing as he cupped your breast with his hand.

“Don’t act like you didn’t like that Doll, I could feel your pussy clench on my cock, you liked it, you like me fucking you right under Steve’s nose, huh?” He says, pinching your nipple.

You whimper, nodding your head, “Yes, Buck, oh my fu-”

“We gotta do this quick Darlin’, they’re waiting for us,” He whispers into your ear.

“Can you come for me Sugar? Like those other times, can you? You do it so well, come for me again,”

You nod your head furiously, you push his back onto the mattress, your hands directly onto his chest. Bucky’s hands slide down, gripping onto your ass.

You gasp, feeling yourself edge closer and closer to the brink of pleasure.

“You look so stunning Sugar, fucking yourself onto my dick, you take me so well.” He grunts, his dick hitting your g-spot.

“Oh, fuck,”

“You’re close aren’t you? Your pussy’s gripping me so tight, come on Baby, cum for me, cum on my dick,”

Both your thrusts grew erratic, you close your eyes as you tried to keep up with Bucky’s pace, your clit rubbing against his pelvis, your mouth hangs open.

“I’m-”

“Let go Sugar, cum,”

Your orgasm hits you out of nowhere, your whole body tingling as you continued to hump Bucky’s cock, riding him out throughout the whole thing. Bucky finds his release as you milked his cock, his cum filling you up.

–

The two of you entered into the meeting room with two minutes to spare, Bucky sitting next to you.

You hoped that you didn’t look too flustered, you could feel your heart pounding inside your chest.

The meeting flew by without a hitch, it was mainly Steve telling you and the rest of the team details on the upcoming mission. You were trying to focus on Steve’s words if it weren’t for Bucky’s hand holding onto your knee.

It was a simple touch but it reminded you of the activities you two participated previously. You tried to keep a calm demeanor, you didn’t want anyone to think anything was going on.

Another ten minutes flew by and the meeting was over, you stood up from your seat. The others quickly left the room, only leaving you and Bucky inside.

You were headed back to your room when Bucky grabbed you by your wrist.

“Your room?” He asked you, his eyes clouded with lust.

You visibly gulped, immediately turned on from the way Bucky was looking at you. You simply nod your head, the two of you walking your way towards your room.

–

The moment you closed the door your back was pressed up against the wall, Bucky’s lips on yours. The two of you engaged in a heated kiss, tongues wrestling for dominance, which Bucky one of course.

Clothes ripped off of each other’s bodies, in a blink of an eye, you were naked on top of Bucky just like before.

Bucky felt your pussy wrap around his cock so nice and snug, the moment he thrusted in, he felt as if he were in heaven. He didn’t move to let you get used to his large size, only till you began gyrating your hips did he start to thrust into you.

“I found heaven between your legs Baby,” He grunted, both of his hands holding your waist. Your hands were planted firmly onto the headboard of the bed, your tits bouncing right in front of Bucky’s face.

“Wish I had a camera right now Sugar, need to save this moment ‘cause you look fuckin’ fantastic. Riding my cock, you’re breathtaking,”

“Harder Bucky,” You gasped, feeling his dick lightly graze your g-spot.

Bucky’s thrusts became slower and deeper, you could feel every part of his cock buried deep inside you, “Oh, fuck, yes, Bucky I-” you let out a gasp, his cock hitting your g-spot dead on.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling your chest flush against his, “do that again- fuCK!” you cry out as he did, never feeling this type of pleasure before.

“God, you sound amazing Doll, like my dick that much, don’t cha? Like me doing-” he grunts, his metal arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you up, he pulls out of you before slamming inside of you, hitting your g-spot once more, “-that? You like that Sugar?” He growls into your ear, he bites down onto your earlobe softly.

“B-bucky….” You couldn’t think of anything else to say, your mind was blank, you could only remember his name.

His flesh hand snakes down between your bodies, his fingers quickly rubbing your clit.

“Fuck,” You pant, your eyes shut tight, you couldn’t take any more pleasure.

“You’re squeezing me so tightly Doll, you like that? You like me touchin’ you like this? Tell me, tell me what you need,”

“Bucky, oh God, Bucky! I-” You try to say but he quickened his pace, rubbing your clit as he began thrusting back into you. Your hands grip tightly onto his shoulders.

“You feel so good Baby, your pussy was made for me, you take me so well Sugar, you feel so fucking amazing.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes!” You say, his words making you even wetter, your nails clawing deep into his skin.

Just when you could almost feel that tightening in your core, signaling your release, Bucky pulls out of you. Before you could protest, he flips the two of you so that you were right under him.

He grabs both of your wrists with one hand, pulling them upward. You look up at him as he parts your legs with his knee, he slips his dick inside you once more, wrapping one of your legs around his waist for a better angle.

“Oh fuck,” your back arches from the bed as Bucky quickens his pace once again, that familiar feeling in your stomach growing.

“God you feel so fucking amazing, tell me when you’re close Darlin’, okay?”

You nod furiously, he lets go of your wrists, both his hands now on your breasts, both flicking and pinching your nipples, adding to the pleasure.

“Bucky, I’m- Oh fuck, keep going Sarge, fuck!”

“You’re so good to me Darlin’, your body knows who it wants and needs.“

“Now tell me Sugar, who’s cock do you need?”

“Yours Sarge, only yours!” You answer breathlessly, your hands gripping onto your sheets.

“Ah fuck, Sugar, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, can’t last any longer, cum for me, cum for me Baby,”

His name escapes your throats along with a high-pitched squeal, your pussy clenches all around him, signaling your release. Bucky lets out a grunt, fucking into you till he reached his own orgasm, your juices mixing with each other’s.

He falls on top of you, his metal hand carrying most of his weight so he wouldn’t crush you, the two of you breathing heavily, catching your breaths.

“That was, that was…” you tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

He smiles at your gesture, his flesh hand holding onto your hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing your fingers.

“You were amazing Sugar,”

You feel your face heat up from his comment, you closed you eyes, covering your face with your free hand.

“What’s wrong Darlin’? Why you acting all shy with me, especially since…” he trailed off.

“Nothing I’m just not used to… your new nicknames for me. I already get flustered enough when you call me Doll,”

A smile graces his lips, “Didn’t think my words affected you that much,”

You bring your hand away from your face, glaring at him, “Barnes you know damn well your words affect me.”

He lets out a chuckle, “I meant prior to this, though if I knew beforehand, I would have made a move way sooner.”

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes #marvel smut #bucky barnes fanfic

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elisela · 4 years

Text

make my wish come true buck x eddie, g, 2k, fluff and sweet drunk boys for @madamewriterofwrongs because for once it wasn’t @tylerhunklin who said “yes write it” after sending me a TikTok

“Four,” Buck says. His head is tipped back on the couch, cheeks flushed, eyes bright—Eddie wants to reach out and touch him, to trace the lines of his face with gentle fingertips, to press his mouth against Buck’s and see if his lips are as soft as they look, if they would give way underneath Eddie’s teeth and thumbs and—“no, five,” Buck says, looking over at him. “Six? I dunno, Eds, s’probably time for water.”

“Probably,” he says. He doesn’t move. The kitchen—it’s so far away, and the couch is already tilting a little, pressing Buck right against him, his body radiating heat that Eddie feels down to his bones. He presses a palm down on the arm of the couch, but his stomach lurches as soon as he shifts forward and he gives up. “Gonna regret this in the morning.”

“Long way from now,” Buck says, and his head drops onto Eddie’s shoulder. “Hey, Eddie. Truth or dare?”

“This is a bad idea,” Eddie says. He’s still sober enough to know that Buck’s usual dares take a dangerous turn when they’re drunk—it’s only happened twice before, but he can still recall how cartwheeling into the side of the house had quickly ended the game last time. Still. “Dare.”

“I dare you to do a handstand for five minutes,” Buck says. His breath blows out over Eddie’s skin as he laughs, seemingly already picturing Eddie struggling in his mind.

“Fine,” Eddie says. He still doesn’t move. “I’m gonna puke on your floor though.”

Buck’s arm slides along his waist as he twists, ending up with his face smashed into Eddie’s neck, his weight pressing Eddie back into the couch. “Nevermind,” he says, and he rubs his nose into the crease of Eddie’s neck, laughing again when Eddie tries to push him away. “I don’t wanna clean it—no, stay—”

Eddie relaxes, stops struggling against him, but Buck’s still got most of his body tucked against Eddie’s so he doesn’t feel bad about the hand he keeps on Buck’s waist. “S’this mean I win?”

“No,” Buck says. “I get a do-over.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too,” Buck says, poking him in the ribs. “You can’t just say you win, Eddie—” the way Buck’s lips brush against his skin drives him crazy, and he’s too buzzed to remember that he really shouldn’t be leaning into it, he should probably pull away, move himself across the couch and to a safer distance, where he couldn’t smell the shampoo Buck uses from the way his hair tickles under Eddie’s nose, “—uh, did you say truth or dare?”

He frowns. “Um. Dare?”

He always chooses dare. Buck somehow hasn’t caught on, but he’s not worried about Buck’s dares, all some variation of physical stunts that will likely result in one of them breaking a bone at some point if they keep it up. But truth—he’s heard the questions Buck asks Maddie, asks Chim. He can’t risk that Buck wouldn’t dig straight to the bottom of his soul if he got a chance.

“I dare you to get us water,” Buck mumbles.

“Okay,” Eddie says, and neither of them move for several minutes. Buck’s head gets heavier on his shoulder, and Eddie feels his own tilt down until his cheek is resting on Buck’s forehead. It’s—gravity. Alcohol. Nothing he’s doing of his own volition, just—”you still awake?”

Buck hums. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get tacos.”

His stomach turns over. “Pancakes.”

“Oh, those dumplings you like at that one place—”

“The one by—”

“No, the other one,” Buck says. “Think they deliver?”

“Not at three in the morning,” Eddie says. He doesn’t really know what time it is, but it’s been dark for hours now, so—maybe.

“You ever been to San Francisco?”

“Not since I left my heart there,” he says, and snorts when Buck makes a confused noise. “It’s—nevermind. No. Have you?”

“”m gonna take you ‘n Chris,” Buck says. “There’s a place, they have these green onion pancakes—it’s amazing. I dream about ‘em.”

“When’d you go to San Francisco?” He’s heard Buck’s life story, knows the trips he’d been on with his family, the route he’d taken through South America and up through Mexico before landing in Los Angeles. Nothing further north than L.A. had ever been mentioned.

“After Abby,” Buck says. “Drove up the coast, tried to get used to being alone again. Didn’t need to, I still got you guys.”

His throat is only dry because of the alcohol. God, he wants. He wants to tell Buck that he always has him, has Chris, that as long as Eddie’s alive he’s going to wait until Buck decides he wants him. He thinks—well, he’s never quite sure if he’s reading things the right way. There’d been the ghost of Abby, then Ali, then a long stretch of no one until Buck had started to make comments about dating, about finding someone, but—nothing ever came of it. And every time Eddie thought, this isn’t something just friends do—like this, this cuddling on the couch with Buck’s fingers pressing idle patterns against his skin—he’d turn around and see Buck getting just as close with Hen, his feet in her lap on the couch at work, or catch him flirting with other people.

It’s fine. Eddie’s just not used to friendships like this, such tactile, vulnerable relationships, but he can live with it, even if he constantly wants more, even if he sometimes would bet on Buck wanting more, too.

“You ever go?”

“No,” Eddie says, even though he’s pretty sure Buck had already asked. His hand is in Buck’s hair, somehow, scratching the pads of his fingers against Buck’s scalp. “Want to.”

“Let’s go,” Buck says. “Trade our next shift, we can take Chris—”

“Our next shift is Halloween,” Eddie says, and there is absolutely no one who will trade them if it means they end up working on Halloween.

“The one after that, then we have six days—there’s the bridge and Chris would love Alcatraz and we could drive up—”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Eddie says, a yawn interrupting his words.

“Cool,” Buck says, and Eddie can always tell when he’s smiling by how his voice sounds. “But ‘m still hungry.”

“Water.”

“Carbs,” Buck says. “Oh, sourdough bread. You think Uber Eats can bring it?”

“I think we should have water and go to sleep,” Eddie says, but again—he can’t bring himself to move. Buck is warm against him, soft and happy, and Eddie would stay awake all night if it means getting to touch him like this, getting to drop his chin down so that his lips almost brush Buck’s forehead as he speaks, a poor imitation of the way he wants to kiss him.

“You remember the sourdough french toast we had last Christmas? Where’s that? I want it.”

“Chris wants a dog for Christmas,” Eddie says, dropping his hand to the back of Buck’s neck and squeezing. The groan it draws out of Buck is enough for him to squeeze harder, and the little gasping noise he makes when Eddie rolls his thumb up behind Buck’s ear—“I think I’m gonna give in.”

“You should,” Buck says. “A big one. What do you want for Christmas?”

“Someone who will take care of a dog when Chris inevitably loses interest in twice-daily walks,” Eddie says, shaking his head. It bumps his chin against Buck’s head, and he catches himself just before he presses an apology kiss to the spot. “Dunno. It’s October, I haven’t thought about it. What do you want?”

“You,” Buck says sleepily. “And carbs. Maybe together, like, at the same time. Oh, you know those banana muffins you make and you make them into pumpkin muffins for Halloween? Do you have Christmas muffins? Like—wait, what would you put in Christmas muffins?”

“Maybe eggnog,” Eddie says, and then he blinks when everything Buck said filters through the haze covering his thoughts. “Wait. Did you—”

“Eggnog in muffins? Eddie, that’s gross.”

“‘s’not gross,” he says, because he makes amazing eggnog french toast—well, Sophia makes it, same thing—and he can’t see why eggnog muffins wouldn’t be delicious as well, but really there are more pressing issues here like “did you say—”

“You.”

His hand stills on Buck’s neck. “Like,” he says, slowly, trying to force reason through everything he’s had to drink tonight, “like—you want to spend Christmas together?”

Buck snorts, but he doesn’t say anything for a long moment and Eddie wonders if he’s drifting off to sleep, or if he’s having the same trouble trying to think clearly. “If that’s what you want me to mean,” he says finally, yawning. “You’re right, we should sleep.”

“I want to know what you meant,” Eddie says, and a second later Buck’s hand is cupping his jaw and pulling him down, tilting Eddie’s head as he brings him into an open-mouthed kiss; Eddie tastes the bitterness of the vodka on his tongue as Buck kisses him, swallows down the soft noises Buck makes, keeps his hands absolutely still against Buck’s body like if he moves it’ll break the spell. “If you forget this in the morning—” he says when Buck pulls away, and Buck laughs softly as he moves away, shaking out his limbs before standing up.

“I won’t,” he says. “Come on, you can sleep in my bed. I’ll keep my hands to myself, I promise.”

“I—” can’t make that promise, he thinks. His lips are still wet from Buck’s kiss, and he shakes his head. “No, I’ll sleep here. Don’t—just—”

“You worry too much,” Buck says, “I’m a little buzzed but not so drunk I’ll—” he trips over an errant shoe as he passes by, and Eddie reaches out to steady him. “Okay, just because I tripped doesn’t mean—”

“Just go to sleep,” Eddie says. “Goodnight.”

“Eddie.”

“Goodnight,” he says again, because maybe he can forget—or not forget, but convince himself that one kiss doesn’t mean that much, that the thrill it sent up his spine was just because it’s been so long, that—

“Goodnight,” Buck says, and he bends down to kiss Eddie’s forehead before he stumbles his way out of the living room and up the stairs. “You can come join me when your back starts to hurt, old man.”

Eddie flips him off, even though Buck can’t see, lays down, and prays.

-----

“God,” Buck groans the next morning, cursing loudly when he runs into a chair and it scrapes against the floor, “death would feel better than this. I want coffee. Come make it for me.”

“Just because I cave to a ten year olds whims doesn’t mean I’ll cave to yours,” Eddie says, pulling his arm down from where it had been over his eyes, blocking the sunlight. “Do you have to have so many damn windows?”

Buck’s been up for ten minutes, talking loudly to Eddie the entire time, and it’s all Eddie can do to lay there and pretend like his heart isn’t breaking. He knew it, he knew, he should have—stopped him, or something. Should have let the “you” go unanswered, ignored it, realized that being lonely and drunk caused a person to do things they didn’t mean and make promises they wouldn’t keep.

He closes his eyes again as Buck walks over to the couch, lets himself be manhandled into a seated position while Buck sprawls out next to him. He can do this—it’s just the same kind of contact they usually have. He’ll be fine.

“Whatever,” Buck mutters. “Here, I want you to listen to this,” he says, nudging Eddie until Eddie opens his eyes and looks at him. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Eddie says, waving a hand weakly. He’s not sure what he expects, but bells and Mariah Carey in October is definitely not it. “Buck.”

“Told you I wouldn’t forget,” Buck says, leaning against him. “I’d kiss you again but something died in my mouth overnight—”

Eddie leans over and hits the pause button on Buck’s phone. “I’m telling everyone you played me All I Want For Christmas is You, you know.”

“Good,” Buck says, grinning. “It was pretty romantic of me, right?”

“I think we have a very different idea of what is or isn’t romantic,” Eddie says, but he turns his head to the side and presses a kiss to the corner of Buck’s smile, then another, and has to pull himself back before he does anything else. “Let’s go talk about it during breakfast. I’ll take you out.”

“It’s a date,” Buck says, and leans in to kiss him again.

#buddie fic #buddie #eli writes #more shit based on tiktok videos lets all be surprised #evan buckley #eddie diaz #drunk boys in love #yes i wrote what is essentially a christmas fic in september

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screaming-introvertedly · 3 years

Text

my heart told me to need you, so I do

Rusty Quill Gaming, Zolf/Oscar, G, 18-month time gap, fluff and angst, the inherent intimacy of having someone's fingers in your hair

Also on ao3!

“Wilde? Thought you could use a break. Brought you some tea.” Zolf came into the small room of the inn Wilde had claimed as an office, brandishing a clay teapot with a towel wrapped around its handle and two small teacups.

“What, nothing stronger?” Wilde asked, glancing only briefly up from his papers.

Zolf snorted. “Wouldn’ta thought you’d be the sort to get drunk before noon. ’specially not with all the—” he gestured at the piles of work in front of Wilde, setting the cups down on the one clear corner of the desk.

“Mm, you should’ve known me in my university days. Tea sounds lovely, though, thank you, Mr. Smith.”

As he’d gotten more and more into his work that morning, Wilde had propped his head on his right hand, absentmindedly tucking his fingers up into his hair. Now, as he set down his quill and went to sit up, he found his fingers caught in the countless tangles and snarls there, and he hissed a soft curse as the movement tugged on his oversensitive scalp.

Zolf, pouring tea, looked abruptly up at Wilde’s pained noise.

Wilde carefully extracted his hand from his hair, untangling a ring that’d gotten snagged, waving Zolf off with his left.

Zolf’s eyebrows crept further and further up his forehead. “You alright there, Wilde?” he asked, with a smirk in his voice even if it wasn’t quite on his face.

“Fine, fine,” Wilde breezed, shifting in his chair and reaching for a teacup.

Zolf’s gaze steadily worked its way over his head and face, taking in his appearance—no doubt he had some hideous dark smudges beneath his eyes—and the wrinkles on Zolf’s brow deepened. Wilde blew over the top of the teacup, disturbing a curl of steam, and took a delicate sip, preparing his rote response: Don’t worry about it, Zolf, I’m fine, stop asking.

“Wilde…. when was the last time you brushed your hair?”

The question caught Wilde off guard. How long had it been? He’d gotten rather used to his hair being short, but it’d grown back considerably since… since Damascus. Since—mentally, Wilde gritted his teeth—since Grizzop had chopped it all off.

All these months later, and you’re still barely able to think their names. He berated himself every time. You lost them. They’re gone and it’s your fault, and you can’t even think their names?

“Does it matter?” he said out loud, realizing how long a pause there’d been. He took another sip of his tea. Academically, he knew it was jasmine, probably perfect, prepared just the way he liked it, but he couldn’t taste it at all.

“Does it… well, no, I guess not really.” Zolf crossed his arms, voice deliberately even. “I was just wonderin’ why your hair looks like there might be a rat or two livin’ in it.”

“Flatterer.”

“I’m serious, Wilde. You always seemed to—I dunno, take pride in your appearance before. You were meticulous. Fussy, really. So what happened?”

Wilde raised an eyebrow and tugged up one leg of his hakama, revealing the anti-magic cuff around his ankle.

“Oh, for the love of—do you not know how to take care of yourself without magic?”

Wilde only shrugged, not meeting Zolf’s eye. “It was easier back then, Zolf. I’ve been… busy, you know how it’s been.”

“It’s brushing your hair, Wilde, it’s not like you’re taking… I dunno, three-hour long bubble baths or something.”

Ooh, what I wouldn’t give for the chance…. Wilde gave an affected sigh and turned back to his paperwork, setting the empty teacup aside and picking up his quill. “Would that I had the time, Mr. Smith.”

Zolf stood in front of the desk in silence, arms crossed, while Wilde stared with unfocused eyes at the stacks of reports and made idle, useless marks with the quill, purposefully ignoring him.

After half a minute of increasingly belligerent silence, Wilde looked up at the stony-faced dwarf as if he’d just noticed him, and asked, as lightly and casually as he could, “Was there something else?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared. His mouth pursed. For all that he liked to play the stoic, he was actually rather easy to read. That, or Wilde had grown familiar enough with Zolf that he could sense tiny changes in his moods, a thought that both gave Wilde pause and made something warm and comfortable curl up, pleased, in the middle of his chest.

Zolf was still just looking at him. Wilde raised his eyebrows. “Zolf?”

“You need to take a bloody break, alright?”

“I am fine—”

“And,” Zolf continued, trampling all over the end of Wilde’s sentence. “I know how to do hair, so let me.”

Wilde’s mouth went inexplicably dry. He had to swallow twice before he felt like he could speak with anything approaching normalcy. “…What?”

Zolf’s nostrils flared again. Wilde would have smirked if he hadn’t been busy panicking.

“I said…” Zolf began, speaking slowly and clearly, “I’m actually pretty good at doin’ hair. My mum and dad, they—I’ve—well, I’ve had a lot of practice, right? It’s a—dwarves and braids, it’s a whole—” He blushed angrily, even though Wilde hadn’t said anything, and gestured to his own beard. “So… just, let me.”

By the time Wilde had gathered his wits enough to nod, a little dazed, Zolf had already left the room.

Wilde remained sat at the desk, hands pressed flat to its wooden surface to keep them from trembling. He was about to have Zolf’s fingers in his hair. Zolf, who’d been a constant, solid, steady presence in his life for these past few months, obstinate and compassionate and deep-down good and whose wellbeing Wilde was rapidly coming to realise may be crucial to his own, who’d seen Wilde at his lowest and stayed with him anyway, had found Wilde the same week he’d finally accepted his team wasn’t coming back from Rome, and had cradled his broken pieces in his hands and forced him to hope… his head was getting away from him.

Point was, Zolf was about to be touching him. Quite a lot.

…how was he supposed to stand it?

Zolf’s heavy footfalls sounded in the hall, leaving Wilde with very little time to collect himself. Zolf returned to the room, holding a soft-bristled brush, a comb, and—gods—a bottle of his own hair oil. He stood behind a long, low couch, the place where Wilde slept when he couldn’t quite drag himself all the way down the hall to his bed, looking expectantly at Wilde.

Wilde tried to disguise his deep, steadying breath as a sigh of resignation. Despite his best efforts, it still hissed too quickly through his nose. He rose from his chair, spine popping and settling back into place after so many hours of hunching over his work, and he walked to the couch, perching in the middle, right at the edge of the cushion, hands folded neatly in his lap.

From this angle, Wilde was fairly confident Zolf couldn’t see his face. He allowed himself one moment to let his mouth fall open, one unsteady inhale as his fingers spasmed in his lap.

There was a frustrated grunt behind him. “Scooch back a bit, leggy git, can’t reach you from ’ere.”

Wilde swallowed. Settled further into the couch, stretching his long legs out. Rested his neck on the edge and let his head fall back.

And then Zolf’s fingers were there, brushing against the back of Wilde’s neck, and Wilde’s mouth went dry. Thick and gentle, calluses a little rough against Wilde’s skin, he started slowly at first. Took small lengths of Wilde’s hair, separating and lifting them away from his head, holding each lock firmly at the base so the comb didn’t pull as he softly teased out the tangles from the ends.

As he worked, he hummed thoughtfully, sometimes clicking his tongue and making little disapproving noises at the state of Wilde’s hair, sometimes muttering under his breath in concentration, little strings of “now how in the bloody hell did—” and “oh, for the love of—”

Wilde was grateful for Zolf’s noises, because there was a better chance they covered up his own. He had his teeth clamped down so hard on his tongue he tasted blood, trying to stifle the little gasps and back-of-the-throat sounds he refused to call moans, even in his own head. This was utterly ridiculous. Just because it’d been absolute ages since anyone touched him with any sort of kindness—and the person who currently had his fingers buried in Wilde’s hair just so happened to be the same person Wilde had been silently pining after for several painful months—didn’t mean he could completely lose his head.

Zolf worked his way from the ends up to the roots, from the left side of Wilde’s head around the back and to the right. Wilde let his eyes slide half-shut, wanting to luxuriate in the sensation but too on edge to let himself fully relax, sure he would do something truly embarrassing if he didn’t keep a tight rein on himself.

The comb snagged and pulled one particularly tender spot right at the nape of Wilde’s neck, yanking his head backwards. He gasped aloud, hands fluttering reflexively to his throat, knees jerking up below his chin. Zolf’s touch immediately gentled and he hissed through his teeth, muttering, “Sorry, sorry,” as he extracted the comb. Wilde fought to steady his breathing, clenching his fists at his sides.

“It’s fine,” he gasped, aware of how breathless he sounded and unable to do a thing about it.

Really, he was grateful for the pain. It provided a distraction from the truly lovely sensation of fingers in his hair, jolted him back into his body from where he’d been floating, a little untethered. He had to remain focused. He couldn’t afford to let anything slip out.

Soon, his hair felt smooth and lighter-weight than it had in some time, easing a headache he didn’t even know he had until it wasn’t there anymore. Zolf neatly parted it, switching to the soft-bristled brush and running it through each side. The hair curled in warm, gentle waves around Wilde’s face. He let his head tip forward, his breaths evening out as the brush stroked from roots to ends over and over, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Enjoy it now, because this cannot be allowed to happen again. You cannot allow yourself to fall in l—to care too deeply about him or else you are lost, you are compromised, and if you lose him, you will never be able to put yourself back together again—

The hairbrush paused. Wilde surfaced, realising belatedly that Zolf had been speaking to him, and was now waiting for a response.

He managed a questioning “hmm,” aiming for casual and missing by a mile. But anything other than a hum would’ve given away the crack in his voice. He tilted his head back. Zolf’s hands cupped his skull, gently supporting him.

Zolf snorted. Upside-down, Wilde had a great view of his wonderfully-expressive nostril flare. “I said, I’d like to use some hair oil on you. Jus’ didn’t want you startled.”

Wilde hummed an acknowledgement, letting his eyes drift shut again.

The pop of a cork, a quiet glugging, and the room filled with the smell of ginger and orange. Wilde swallowed reflexively. It was the same smell that followed Zolf around, the same oil that the dwarf used in his own hair before he’d cut it short, and still used in his beard.

So now Wilde was going to go around smelling of Zolf whenever he turned his own head. It would drive him utterly to distraction. And Zolf expected him just to be able to handle it?

Sure, it wasn’t as though he’d never entertained the idea of swiping one of the little bottles, sprinkling a drop or two on his wrists or his lapel—or his pillow—and returning it before it was missed. Especially when Zolf had been away on a mission for longer than expected, or, even worse, stuck in the anti-magic cell, and every day of the quarantine Wilde grew more paranoid, more certain that today’s check would be the time he found blue veins in Zolf’s skin, that this would be the day that proved his compan—his partn—his Zolf was gone.

But he’d never actually done it. He wasn’t quite that pathetic, thank you. Not yet. (And if Zolf truly had been turned, and Wilde had killed him, returning to a bed that smelled of him would’ve been… unimaginable.)

When those strong, blunt fingers stroked across the top of Wilde’s head, he did his best not to flinch. Zolf had obviously warmed the oil in his palms, and he smoothed it into Wilde’s hair, fingertips pressing down, digging in, massaging deeply into Wilde’s scalp. The ginger sent tingling warmth through his entire skull and answering shivers down the back of his neck.

Wilde released a held breath, letting his head fall back into the support of Zolf’s hands. He seemed to really be taking his time, giving Wilde one of the best scalp massages he’d ever had. Short nails scratched very gently at Wilde’s temples. Gooseflesh prickled down his arms. The smell of the oil saturated his senses. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open; they kept sliding shut completely without his input, narrowing all of his concentration down to Zolf’s fingers on his skin, Zolf’s smell in his head, Zolf’s care and attention enveloping him. Wilde started tensing and relaxing his thighs, clenching his fingers in the silky material of his trousers just to give himself something else to focus on.

It could have been anywhere from fifteen minutes to twelve days later when Zolf cleared his throat, a little awkwardly, and Wilde forced his eyes open. He felt… good. Almost as though he’d managed to doze off for a bit. His entire body was loose and relaxed, tingling warmth and lassitude in all his muscles. He lifted a hand languidly to his hair, which was smooth and soft, bound up in a loose, messy bun with a strip of cloth.

“Huh… no braid, Mr. Smith? I’m a bit surprised, I must say,” Wilde chuckled, syllables a little slack and rounded at the edges.

Zolf cleared his throat again. “Gotta let it sit first.” His voice was rough.

Wilde flopped his head to look in Zolf’s direction—it was extraordinary, it was like he had no motor control whatsoever. Zolf wasn’t looking at him, apparently totally focused on wiping the oil off his hands with a rag.

“I’ll just… go and get the innkeeper to draw you a bath. You’ll wanna wash your hair after it’s had some time to sit. Then I’ll… yeah. I’ll braid it.”

And Zolf left the room.

Wilde tilted his head back up, looking at the exposed wooden beams of the ceiling. He was more relaxed, more at peace than he’d been in… years. Luxuriating in the unfamiliar feeling of being well taken care of, of being given the chance to rest. It wasn’t that any of the problems Wilde needed to fix had gone away, they just… didn’t matter for the moment.

For the moment, he just sat in the middle of a cloud of ginger and orange, and breathed.

#rusty quill gaming #zoscar #i went 'hey i should write a dwarven hair braiding fic!' and then didn't even get to the braiding #that's for the sequel #i dont know if there's a rqg fic tag uhhh #zolf smith #rqg oscar wilde #rusty quill gaming fic #my fiction

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goldenlaquer · 4 years

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alright thanks! so since I'm not in a good mood I wanted to request some fluff scenario like a cuddling session with their s/o or something like that for the joui 4 and hijikata :)

I know this has taken a while for me to write, but I hope that you are in a better mood! Sometimes, when I get in a bad mood, I think of a quote by Master Oogway (Kung Fu Panda 1): “ Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift.” :)

Joui4 + Hijikata Cuddling Headcanons:

Sakata Gintoki:

Mr. Gintoki is all tuff and like: I’m not a small spoon, I’m a big spoon. Yeah, right. When he tells you that, just smile and nod. Smile and nod.

Anyway, you got your arms wrapped around him, face pressed against his curly hair, which tbh feels like hugging a sheep.

He’s “complaining”, but you notice how there’s no bite in his voice at all, how he shifts even closer to you, and how his body relaxes against the curves of yours.

Place your feet on his calves. They serve as heaters. Actually, his whole body is like a furnace. Perhaps comfortable for about 5 minutes, but you gonna start sweating after that.

And because he’s a 14 year old stuck in a man’s body, he might say something wholly inappropriate for the cuddle session, but the best part about being a big spoon is that you can smack him on the head for that.

Katsura Kotarou:

Katsura is on the bed/couch before you can even say “cuddle” , his coziest pair of fuzzy socks on and warmest blanket ready.

You’ve opened his eyes to the wonderful world of simply laying down with your partner and holding them. He will now be collecting three times a week, minimum, thank you very much.

It’s hilarious, really, his face is carefully calm but his eyes are childishly gleaming with excitement.

He likes to play with your hair (and you better do it back because his hair is canonically very soft??) and the motions of his warm fingers running through your scalp are so nice that they have the power to make you doze off.

Big spoon. Small spoon. It doesn’t matter. Katsura is just fine chilling and holding his girl.

Do not be alarmed of the presence of the third person in the cuddle session. That’s just Elizabeth.

Sakamoto Tatsuma:

What a happy cuddler!

Sakamoto prefers to hold you face-to-face and he holds on tight, sometimes so tight that you feel like you’re being strangled by a boa constrictor. When you tell him to loosen his grip, he laughs and tells you, ”Sorry, you’re as cute as a bird! I have to squeeze so you won’t fly away!” OK, that was cheesy, but it’s Sakamoto.

Another thing about facing each other is that Sakamoto is prone to guffawing in about 3 seconds of eye contact. But the best thing about that is when he nuzzles into your neck to calm himself, and you can feel the vibrations of his giggles though your skin.

Because he’s the human version of a puppy, Sakamoto can’t stop wiggling his legs against yours.

But when duty calls, he’s very reluctant to leave the session; will hang on for dear life (squeezing you to near death).

Shinsuke Takasugi:

Cuddling? A foreign concept to Takasugi.

But he’ll give it a try on his downtime, which are a rare thing in itself.

Takasugi is amused as you usher his head on a pillow, making sure he’s comfortable before you lay down next to him, arms wrapping loosely around his body. And for a second, you’re afraid that he doesn’t like it because of how still he is but, surprisingly, Takasugi slings an arm over your waist as he leans in to tuck your head under his.

If you’re feeling brave enough, bring your hand up to stroke his hair. He will allow you to touch the strands, which feel pretty silky smooth for a man on the run.

Though the session is brief, Takasugi really does enjoy the warm moment with you, expressing it by giving you one slight squeeze before he pulls away.

Hijikata Toushirou:

“H-hell no!”

Amazingly, you watch the Demon Vice Commander of the Shinsengumi flush at your suggestion for a cuddle session, his eyes darting everywhere but your face.

“Why not?” “Because I said so!”

Maybe Toushi hates the concept of cuddling, but he can’t stand it when you get all pouty on him, so he caves, his face still red as he opens his arms wide for you to nestle against his chest (an a m a z i n g chest btw, i dunno how he packs in all that mayo and still maintains a healthy bod)

Cue awkward arm placement and embarrassed noises. Hijikata can’t stop worrying about someone (preferably not Okita) walking in on him being all lovey-dovey with his girl. He’s got a strict reputation to protect after all.

Eventually, Hijikata relaxes against you, almost wondering why he even bothered protesting the cuddle in the first place when you were so soft and warm.

Subconsciously, the palms of his hands come up to pat your back, a gentle and steady rhythm that has the both of you holding on to each other tighter.

After the cuddle session, Hijikata won’t be so opposed to future sessions, but please don’t tell anyone. Please.

#sakata gintoki #sakamoto tatsuma #katsura kotarou #takasugi shinsuke #hijikata toshiro #gintama headcanons #headcanon #gintama imagine #answered ask #asks closed

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allie1804-fan · 3 years

Text

Kerensa Part 2

This is a continuation of Kerensa Part 1 which you can find here

Kerensa (Part 1)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5 , Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13

Kerensa (Part 2)

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Warnings: Explicit content.

Chapter 8

Discovery

“Keanu!”

He didn’t say anything, just looked from the fridge to her, his eyes wide, a stunned expression on his face. Her eyes tracked to the place he was focussed on, on the fridge door. They had bought a fridge magnet from Tresco Abbey on their visit the previous year and, tucked under it, was the 8-week scan picture.

She approached him slowly, wondering about his reaction. Was he angry that she’d kept this a secret? Was he happy?

“Keanu,” she said again when she was standing right in front of him, “Keanu sweetheart, we’re going to have a baby. That’s your baby there a few weeks ago, at 8 weeks. I’m 11 weeks now and I’m sorr”

She couldn’t even get the word “sorry” out before he was giving her a smacker of a kiss and hugging her close.

“We did it? We really did it, back in LA before I left?”

She nodded, tears flowing down her cheeks now, seeing from his broad smile and excited exclamation that he was truly happy.

“Uh-huh, I only found out when I got here. But I didn’t want to worry you when you were so far away. I wanted to tell you face to face.”

“I think I need a sit-down,” he said “then you can update me on everything”

She chuckled.

“Come on, let’s go sit out on the swing seat. That’s our place for big chats right?”

“Right” he grinned.

They sat swinging in the sunshine and she updated him on her health, the due date, her worries, and the advice of the consultant.

“You used the medical cover right?”

“Yes, thank you” she squeezed his hand, “I really appreciated that. Meant I could see a good specialist quickly. And the next scan is in 2 days, back in London. If that all goes well, we can make arrangements to fly back”

“And it’s safe right?”

“Yes - to be honest, it was probably safe already but she just advised that I not do anything that I could later blame myself for if I lost the baby in the early weeks. She recommended calm and rest so that’s what I’ve been doing. He hugged her to him again.

“I’m so relieved, I was worried when you didn’t come back that there was something wrong, that you’d decided we weren’t enough, that you preferred it here, alone to being in LA with me. I know it wasn’t your favourite place and I was being difficult before……”

“I was worried too”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath.

“Can I ask you something? About your past?”

“Sure ….why?” he looked curiously at her wondering what on earth from his past had worried her.

“When you had a girlfriend before, and you had to go on location, would you be, errr faithful or did you, you know fool around?”

“I would never” he started to protest

“No hear me out, would you say to your girlfriends that you couldn’t promise to stay faithful when you were away?”

“Oh, well, yeah that’s true, back in the day, I found monogamy hard. But that’s because the girlfriends I had back then, they were never…… it was never real enough you know, there was never anyone who I loved like I love you”

“Is that how it was, with Autumn?”

“Yeah, yes, it was.” He paused as a thought occurred to him “Did she say something to you?”

Kerry nodded, swallowing hard at the memory.

“What? What did she say?”

“She …” Kerry took another breath, “she asked how I was coping with your whole ‘what happens on location, stays on location’ thing and, she said” Kerry couldn’t finish.

“What?”

“She said a leopard never changes its spots”

“Man, she is a piece of work!”

“mmmm” was all Kerry could say.

“is that why you came back here?”

“Yeah a bit, it just messed with my mind and I was obviously a hormonal mess without realising it as well. I was impressionable you know?”

“I’m so sorry she said that, that’s low and, I dunno, I thought she was over it and she was my friend ……. Clearly not”

“I’m sorry hun”

“Yeah, me too – and I promise you, those days are over. I am faithful, happy with monogamy now. I would never do anything to hurt you, especially not that, OK?”

“Ok”

Their updates completed, Keanu found himself yawning, still suffering from jet lag, so he took a nap while Kerry went in search of something for dinner from the deli. Keanu found her baking a quiche when he returned to the kitchen. He stood and watched her for a moment before she noticed him

“You really are glowing you know. When I got here and found you sleeping, I could see it but I just thought it was the sea air, but you look ….radiant, so very beautiful” Kerry smiled

“Thank you ….You’re lucky you missed the vomiting weeks, not so beautiful then!” she said as she popped the quiche in the oven.

“Come 'ere I’ll make it up to you. I would have held your hair back and rubbed your back if I’d been there.”

“I know hun”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a little peck on the lips.

“But you feel good now?”

“Yeah, yes. Still scared, but well.”

“I don’t think being scared is ever going to leave us is it?”

“Not unless they’ve invented a portable ultrasound that you can have strapped on permanently, no.”

“It’ll be ok, I’ll keep you safe, I promise”

“After dinner and a quick night-time walk with Scout, they headed up for an early night.

In the bedroom Kerry started to undress when Keanu stopped her.

“Let me”

“I can’t, we can’t” she started, thinking that he wanted to undress her as a preamble to sex.

“No no I know, that can wait. I just want to see you. Then I’m going to take a quick shower, I still feel grubby from traveling.”

He took over undoing the buttons of her grandad-style shirt, taking it off and placing it on the chair in the corner of her room. Then he untied the bow on her wrap skirt and unwound the layers so she could step out. He reached out and felt her slightly rounded belly.

“Ooh it’s firmer “

“Yeah I just noticed that too. They call it thickening, it’s the walls of the uterus changing.”

“Amazing, so wonderful” he marveled leaning in to kiss her.

Then he reached round to undo her bra sliding the straps off and pulling it away to reveal her heavier breasts, areola darkening already.

“Do they hurt?” he asked, reaching out to touch them but not wanting to hurt her.

“Just a little tender”

He cupped one in each hand and moaned.

“Wow, they were already gorgeous but now!”

She giggled

“I thought you’d like that aspect!”

He grinned then kissed her before turning away to undress for his shower.

“Shall I join you?”

“Sure, I’d like that”

“We can do that thing you like me doing, no need for you to go without!”

He grinned and rushed to take off the rest of his clothes and get the shower running. Kerry had had a large shower installed when she bought the house and did a few renovations to it, so there was room for two. As the steam billowed up, she lathered a shower puff and rubbed it over his firm chest and down to his groin cupping his balls with her other hand.

He steadied himself with one arm pushed against the tiles and the other around her waist. His eyes closed as the pleasure coursed through his veins.

His cock was already standing to attention and Kerry dropped the shower puff and wrapped her fingers around the shaft. She gripped it at the top, then she slowly pulled the foreskin down to reveal the head as she kissed him passionately, starting to Jack him slowly. With the fingers of her other hand, she softly rubbed the area under his balls making him groan deep in his throat.

“God I missed you!”

“Just for my hand jobs ?” she giggled

“No, but yeah you’re so good ….. the way you touch me ….. aghhh” he moaned again as she increased the pace and kissed him again.

Kerry loved the control she had over him and the pleasure she gave him when she did this. As she increased the pace again and gripped just a little tighter, she could feel him stiffen as he got close. Their lips parted as he came.

“Fuuuck” he shouted as his cum sprayed out over her hand.

He pulled her to him, laying his head on her shoulder and breathing hard.

“Thank you, woah, that was a whole lot of sexual tension you just relieved there! You sure you don’t want anything?” he asked after his hand wandered to her folds which were wet.

She declined, feeling strange even about the exertion and possible impact cumming could have.

“I know I’m being superstitious but let’s just wait till after the scan”

@fortheloveoffanfic @kindainlovewithkeanu @omg-imagine @keanureevesisbae @penwieldingdreamer @paperplanesandwallflowers @witty-wallflower @karlee1225 @bitchyslut99 @toomanystoriessolittletime @ladyreapermc @kissmyromanticquote @tacticalchics @utterlynuts @kylosbitch @thebigbubowski @thelightnessofthebeing @gatsbynouvel @keanuficfiles @fanficsrusz @jardaniswife @cheezbort @mazzylana97 @maggiemoo1892 @girlfriday007 @siriussnape07 @yomnaislame @soarocks @fadingkideclipseempath @franny-banks-world @keanulowe @babylovejongin @lucky134ever @jasmindaughteroftheworld @tomorrowsanotherday @fokinqueen @littlefreya @leftyreea @wheretheriversrunintothesea @iworshipkeanureeves @fics-not-tragedies @ficsnroses @fickenstein @popacherryvisitalibrary @aah8903 @thethirstyarchive @cynic-spirit @australianpsychos @meetmeinthematinee

#keanu reeves fanfiction #keanu fanfic #keanu fanfiction #keanu ofc fiction

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cal-puddies · 4 years

Note

okay if you’re still doing blurbs- I’ve always loved the idea of being with Ashton and like he’s the first person to make you come- like before him all your precious bfs disappointed you. And he’s so sweet but smug about it and reassuring you and he finds it so hot that he could do this for you xxx

“Did you?” Ash asks, knowing your long history of not being able to cum with another person. “Seriously, stop faking it for me.” He insists.

“No.” You say sheepishly. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I don’t, I happen to know I’m great.” He smirks, cleaning you up.

“And so humble.” You laugh.

“I’m gonna make you orgasm one of these days. I’m just gonna spend a whole day working on you and youll give it to me.” He’s confident. “Just need to know when you are free to try.”

“Oh god, a whole day with you? Yikes.” You laugh, getting under the covers.

“I like that you don’t like me too much.” Ash chuckles, tucking his arm around you, pressing his lips to your shoulder.

“Oh I like you a lot. I just don’t want you to have a big head about it.” You turn your head for a kiss.

“I still can’t believe we’ve been having sex for six months and you still haven’t cum for me.” He grumbles a bit.

“The sex is amazing Ash. It feels good and we have fun... i dunno what to tell you.”

“Have you ever? Like I know not with anyone, but what about by yourself?” He asks.

“Yeah.” You nod.

“Hmm... ok.” He hums. “Get some sleep. We’re gonna work on this.” He kisses your cheek.

Ash is all in. Though it’s not really surprising.

There’s lots of foreplay and you can tell he’s trying to make something work for you. He asks to watch you masturbate, and finds you can’t orgasm while he’s watching. “Don’t you orgasm when we do have phone sex?” He asks.

“Typically.” You shrug.

“Are you uncomfortable with me in the room?” He checks.

“I don’t think so.” You shrug.

“Are you not relaxed?”

“I mean... I guess it is a little weird. I’m usually alone when I get myself off.”

“Ok. So maybe you’re a little uncomfortable when we have sex?” He reasons. “It’s ok. I just... wanna be able to make you cum. So just be honest with me sweetheart.

“I know... and hey, I have a few free days next week.”

“Good! plan to stay at mine. You’ll be all mine for a few days.” He smirks.

“I like the sound of that.” You grin.

When you go to stay with Ash, he doesn’t even try anything when you get there, which shocks you. He does everything to relax you and keep you comfortable though. Drawing a bath, cooking, giving you a hoodie of his to walk around in. He gets out your favorite blanket while you watch a movie together, and he gets you to bed early.

You know it’s a ploy, but you don’t know how.

Ash wakes you up in the morning by kissing on your neck. You turn your face into him and kiss him. “Mornin handsome.”

“Morning gorgeous. Hope you’re ready for this long day. Don’t fake a single thing, ok?” He checks.

“You got it.” You nod.

“We’re gonna experiment some, touch and play with you in ways I haven’t before. It’s all about you for now baby.” He nuzzles your nose before getting you on your back and settling between your thighs. His hands rub up and down your thighs, slowly inching closer to his intended destination. His thumbs slowly massage along your folds and he leans in to kiss you. “You’re my favorite.” He whispers. “You make the best fucking noises when I’m pleasing you. It gets me so fuckin hard to know I make you feel that good. I just want it to go all the way.” He murmurs against your lips. “Want you breathy and high with me. Wanna help you through that come down. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds so good.” You mumble back, kissing him.

His mouth starts down your body, leaving soft, teasing kisses. Getting you worked up wasn’t the problem, Ash could throw you a glance across the room and it could soak your panties. But he has a plan, and he’s determined.

“Need you vocal, talking to me. Direct me if you have to.” He mumbles against your thigh.

You thread your fingers in his hair and nod, letting out a noise of approval.

“That’s my girl.” He presses a kiss to your thigh, and then he turns to his point of focus. “How do I please you enough to orgasm for me.” He murmurs. He presses his lips to your folds, soft kisses before using his thumbs to pull your lips apart, revealing your clit and how wet he’s already gotten you. His tongue sets to work, doing the things he knows make you vocal, things you love and wind your body up.

You let him work for a little while, and you tighten your fingers in his hair. “Baby, can you… fingers?” You ask. He hums against you, and works his fingers in, happy to oblige anything you want. “Deeper, Ash.” You moan. He knows you like it deep, so he’s not surprised. He does it for a while, even giving his mouth a break, “can you C’mere?” You ask, tugging his hair.

“You want me…?” He asks, pressing his lips to your lower stomach. You nod and he keeps working his fingers in you, but moves up so he’s next to you.

You tug on his hair to pull him into a kiss. Something about this is so intimate and his focus was making you need him in a different way.

Ash’s fingers work you for a good half hour, until you push him away. You keep his face close, sharing kisses. He watches you close your legs and roll onto your side to face him. “Need a break.” You whisper.

Ash sucks his fingers clean and then he just pulls you in, kissing you. He lets his fingers linger over your skin, slowly kissing you, drawing soft shapes on your skin.

You let your hands wander on ash too. He seems to be enjoying this. “You know this isn’t about me.” He whispers holding the back of your neck.

“I know, but you’re making me feel so good.” You mumble. “Kinda wanna suck your dick.” You admit, small grin on your face.

“Is this gonna help you?” He asks.

“It might. You know I love giving a good blow job.”

“Ok…” he shrugs, and he lets you go to town. And you were feeling it, he could tell. Very into it and sloppy the way he likes. You keep looking up at him, giving him your best adoring eyes. Part of today is a triumph for him and part of today is really about making sure you can cum in the future which is for both of you, but he’s the first one that really cares.

He tries to pull you off before he cums but you aren’t having it. And he knows more than ever that you are so onboard for the plan for the day. “Fuck.” He moans, pulling you into a kiss. “You need a break or you wanna keep trying?”

“Your face says we’re gonna keep trying.” You smirk.

“I’ve got a few things up my sleeve yet. We’re gonna move into toys since my mouth and fingers didn’t do the trick.” He says it nonchalantly, but you hear it differently.

“I’m sorry handsome.” You answer quietly, small pout on your face.

“Babe… that’s not an attack. I knew what I was getting into. I’m just telling you what’s up. And maybe it’s good you sucked me off; I can really focus on you. Now.” Ash get up and heads into his closet, he comes back with a tote bag and sets it on the bed. “When you’re getting yourself off and you cum, is it more clitoral or do you usually cum from penetration?”

You’re curious about what all he has in the bag, but you won’t find out till you answer, so you try to think about it. “Usually, if you are involved, dirty texts or phone sex, I want penetration. And then if it’s just like ‘need to get off’ it’s more clitoral. It all depends on the mood.” You shrug.

“Ok… well great news is I’ve got stuff in this bag that can help with both.” He grins, he hands the bag over to you. “See if anything looks like a good starting point to you.” Its vibrators of different shapes and sizes, one dildo that’s not quite as big and another toy you don’t quite recognize. You pull out the dildo and give him a questioning look. “I’m not afraid to explore the idea that maybe I’m too big for you to enjoy.”

“Ash.” You chuckle, pushing your way into his lap, “I love your cock.” He hugs you briefly and you reach in the bag, grabbing a g spot vibrator, “let’s start with this. Start it on my clit for a little bit and then work it in.” You direct.

So you sit in on his lap, your side presses against his chest, his arm supports your back while the other one uses the toy. And Ash is good, even with a toy. He knows exactly when you need it inside with no direction. After 15 minutes in your clit, he works it in, pushing it in enough to hit your g-spot and he keeps hitting it there.

You grip your fingers into his hair and moan against his neck. “Ash… fuckkk.” Your breathing starts to change and everything is starting to feel a little different. You can feel yourself kinda getting close. “Touch my clit.” You whimper. Ash’s arm stops supporting you so he can touch your clit while working the toy. You let yourself lay back as his fingers gently start stroking along your clit, but you both notice that whatever was happening for you, no longer is. You groan out in frustration.

“Baby, were gonna get there.” Ash promises, knowing you’re just as frustrated. But he doesn’t show his frustration.

“Can we stop for a minute?” You ask, tears welling up in your eyes.

He nods, turns off the toy and pulls it out. He watches you cover your face and then a few tears fall. Ash sets the toy to the side and he moves to lay down with you, he pulls you in and holds you against him. “It’s ok baby. I knew this was gonna take work… we’ll get there.” He promises.

“I’m just so frustrated that I can’t do this for you.” You sob.

“Hey. Hey hey hey.” He hushes, pulling you tighter to him. “There’s nothing wrong with that, sweetheart. Nothing at all. Well keep working on it, but know that if we don’t get it, I’m not blaming you and I’m not blaming me. There’s no one to blame.”

He lets you cry for a little while, just holding you. You’d never felt more vulnerable, naked and crying in front of him like that.

And when you stop, he tries to lighten the mood. “Should we try another one of these toys or are you done for today?” He asks, slight chuckle to his voice. And you know he means you could really be done if you wanted.

“Let’s try one more.” You agree.

He pulls out the one you don’t recognize and he notices the questioning look on your face. “It’s for your clit.” He explains, “its supposed to create… a different sensation. Here.” He turns it on and holds it over one of your nipples, and then the other, making them extra hard. He quickly follows that up with his tongue, letting you feel the cool air on your wet nipples, he knows you love that. He pulls you onto your side, facing him, and pulls your thigh up over his hip. He positions the toy on your clit and he starts turning it up, watching you react.

“Oh…” you moan quietly, and he clicks it up one more, letting it work. “Holy fuck… Ash.” Your fingers grip in his hair. He works it over and over on your clit, watching you enjoy it. “It’s definitely… oh fuck.” You moan. He grins when you start whimpering, he recognizes it from the phone sex, he knows it means you’re getting close. “Ash! Your cock, please?” You beg.

“I don’t wanna ruin this for you, baby.” He hums, fully enjoying you.

“You won’t… holy shit. Please please please.” Your hips start to involuntarily buck, and ash couldn’t be happier.

“You sure little one?” He asks.

“Yeah… please… fuck… don’t stop this.. but please.” You whimper. Ash can you feel contracting the second he starts to push in. And it doesn’t stop like he kind of expected it too. “Thank fuck, oh fuck. Ash.” You moan.

He pushes all the way in and only shallowly thrusts, because he doesn’t want you to lose whatever you’re feeling. “God damn baby.” He groans.

“Fuck…” it’s breathy. “I’m gonna cum… fuck Ash I’m so close.” You start whining and he knows.

“That’s it, c’mon. Give it to me baby. Look at you, using my cock to make you feel good. So pretty when you need it.”

And his words, along with actions and the toy, finally get you to release for him. He listens happily as you moan and chant his name and once you’ve come down a little, he pulls the toy off. “Can I? I’m kinda close.” He whispers, meaning he wants to finish too, and you just nod, because he still feels good inside of you. You cling to him and let him go for it, only pulling away so he can kiss you.

You listen to his moans and groans and you can feel something building in your stomach again, but you don’t mention it. He grabs your ass to start pounding into you, and he doesn’t last long from there, neither do you. He watches you arch your back and listens to your moans, he knows it’s different than what you usually give him; not fake, yet still different from the toy aided one.

“You just came for me.” Ash mentions as you both come down. You push your face against his chest and gently bite into his skin as he rubs his hand up and down your back, his cock still buried inside.

“I did.” You agree. “Twice.”

“So that toys a keeper?” He chuckles.

“For sure.” You laugh. “Fuck I’m tired.”

“I’m not surprised, we’ve been doing this for like six hours.” He mentions, kissing your forehead.

“Thanks for not giving up.” You whisper, pressing your lips to his.

“Thanks for letting me make you cum.” He grins.

#ashton irwin #requests #ashton requests #cass #5sos #5 seconds of summer #5sos imagine #daddy ash #requests are still open #weekend with cass

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theatresweetheart · 4 years

Text

Quiet Comfort

Fandom(s): Sanders Sides, G/t

Summary: When Virgil just wants to nap, Patton is more than happy to help.

Warnings: Depressive thoughts, feelings of uselessness, over exhaustion, swearing, anxious thoughts/feelings

Pairings: Platonic Moxiety

Word Count: 2400 words

A/n: Me? Self-projecting on my writing? It’s more likely than you would think! This is just more of a comfort write for me and I had fun with it.

Enjoy!

Taglist: @isle-of-gold @sandersships @anonymous-bean

+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+~+

It was just one of those days.

One of those days where it felt like the weight of the world was constantly crushing down on your shoulders even though it wasn’t.

Like you weren’t doing anything right. Like there was nothing you could do to make yourself feel productive or useful in the slightest. When there was just so much that you could be doing but couldn’t decide on what task to focus on, so you chose something that wasn’t productive in the least. Like how everything had a due date and everything was just focused around that one due date. When emotions were high strung and exhausting and confusing.

One of those days where you just felt sad.

Maybe it was a sadness that you were used to, something you lived with and didn’t antagonize because if you did, you would feel worse in the upcoming days. Or maybe it was a sadness that just came and went. Felt heavy in your chest for a couple hours and then didn’t come back for a few months.

In any case, there were different ways to deal with this routine sadness. You could do something active, distract your mind from the fact that you felt this way. You could watch something. Make something to eat. Have something to drink. One could sit and tell someone else about their feelings, asking silently for support without outright asking for it—or if you had the confidence; outright asking for someone to help support you.

That was not the kind of person Virgil was.

He couldn’t just ask for comfort up front, especially not when he didn’t want to bother someone else with his personal problems. Besides, it’s not like he can’t figure it out on his own anyways.

So, he just sat quietly on the back of the couch. The TV was playing idly in front of him, but it was more just a voiceless noise at this point. Something that he wasn’t paying attention to.

He had been watching a movie with Roman before said man had to leave for rehearsal. The screen had been left on and Virgil hadn’t moved from that position yet. It had been nearly two hours at that point. It was just on the end credits of the movie now and if he were being honest, he didn’t really remember which movie they had originally been watching.

There was a lot going through his mind. More just the fact that there was so much that he should be doing that he wasn’t doing. It was the anxiety talking to him. Such as “if you don’t get this done immediately you are, without a doubt, going to die” but then the other part of it was “but if you work on it when you’re in this state, it will be half-assed and then you’ll have to go back and reedit it.”

He tried to remain as cool and collected as he could on the outside, trying not to let the rest of the household in on the way he was truly feeling.

Because of these thoughts, his mood only soured more. In all honesty, Virgil just wanted to nap. At least to temporarily ease the pains of the waking world.

He was tired. Exhausted.

Sleep hadn’t been coming easy to him for the past few nights and he was instead staying up late into the dead of night. Looking at his phone, scrolling through posts and things that had no meaning. It wasn’t that he was avoiding sleep, that wasn’t the case. It was more so the fact that he couldn’t. It was like his body was trying to fight him every step of the way. And so, he would still be awake into the wee hours of the morning.

There was one time where when he had finally wrapped up whatever he was doing on his phone, he heard footsteps from outside of his room signifying that Logan was up. Which meant that it was around 5:30 in the morning. He had been startled for one, and for two, he had realized that getting to sleep at the point wouldn’t happen.

Virgil had pulled his third all-nighter in a row by then.

Tucking his knees closer to his chest, he let his arms fold over the tops of them and he rested his chin on his forearms. His eyelids were heavy with weariness, but with all of the stuff that he knew he should be doing, a nap should be the farthest thing from his mind.

But the way his shoulders were starting to sag and how heavy his head was...sleep was so much easier than worrying about his daily tasks.

It wouldn’t hurt if he took just a couple minutes to himself.

Just a few minutes of shutting his eyes. He could get the work done after. He would feel more refreshed and ready to actually get it done in the first place.

So, with that in mind, he allowed himself to close his eyes but let his mind shut off for just a bit, enough time to catch up on some missed time. He would work better at full capacity and that way the work he did get done wouldn’t be half-finished.

With the music from the end credits playing, it was quiet and peaceful and he could finally just—

“Hey kiddo,” Patton’s sudden entrance from behind him startled Virgil into snapping awake, whipping around to face him.

Heart pounding, he took in a soft breath to try and steady himself, taking in the confused and somewhat surprised look on the Patton’s features. Of course, as soon as he was so close to relaxing, that chance would be taken from him too.

While he was a bit bitter about it, he wasn’t about to show it.

“Is something the matter?”

Virgil shrugged his shoulders in response, using a hand to rub down his face, trying to rub the exhaustion away. “Not really,” he admitted, turning to look over his shoulder again. “I’m pretty tired, though.”

Patton’s expression softened a bit more at that, understanding flickered for a moment before a bit of guilt. “Were you just trying to nap?” The little human answered with a hesitant nod and he bit his lip. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, I didn’t know, I—”

“That’s okay, Pat,” he shrugged his shoulders, rubbing his eyes after stifling a yawn behind his hand, “no harm done.”

The silence prevailed behind him for a moment before the sound of clothing shifting followed and then light footsteps. It took a minute before Patton was sitting on the couch, his body turned just enough to see Virgil in full—which wasn’t really a hard feat, especially now with how the little one seemed to be curled into himself.

“Have you not been sleeping well?” There was that concerned look, which seemed to only be magnetized by the large glasses sitting in front of big caring brown eyes.

Virgil only shrugged again.

It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable when they didn’t say anything, but there seemed to be a question that was hanging unsaid in the air: Can I do anything to help you?

He appreciated Patton and his kindness, he really did. That constant worrying over if he was eating enough, drinking enough water, if he was taking care of himself properly. That mother-hen attitude was really endearing, but there was nothing he could really do to help him right now. Especially because he was just sleepless and tired. The most that could probably knock him out would be sleeping pills or something, which, isn’t exactly ideal either. Virgil just wanted to nap, at least for an hour—that’s really all he was begging for—and pills might knock him out for the rest of the day only to wake up at an ungodly time of night and then hit the ‘not-sleeping’ cycle again.

Which wouldn’t do him any good.

And then, he had an idea.

A stupid idea. An idea that was actually something he didn’t know he had even wanted until the thought had come from nowhere. An idea that was so embarrassing to even attempt to bring up in conversation without sounding needy or childish about it.

He turned his attention away from the larger presence, feeling heat creeping up the back of his neck. He could feel the pink tinting his cheeks, even as the warmth crept in. Suddenly, his hoodie felt a bit too warm for his liking and he rolled his hands into his sleeves, holding it tightly.

“Hey, uh,” breaking the silence wasn’t hard, it was what he was about to ask that was. Virgil cleared his throat after he knew he had Patton’s entire attention, even without needing to look at him—he could feel it. “This is such a stupid request—”

“I can guarantee that whatever you’re about to ask me is going to be anything but stupid,” Patton cut him off gently, causing Virgil to turn and look at him. That encouraging smile on his features.

That’s what you think now, he grumbled inwardly.

Quickly, he took in a softer breath, steadying the sudden flush of anxiety that spiked in his chest. “I was just, ah, wondering if I could, y’know, maybe sleep in your pocket?”

Oh God, it sounded even worse when he said it aloud.

He felt his face get hotter and instantly, upon seeing the somewhat surprised look cross Patton’s face, he turned away, wanting nothing more than to be able to pull his hood up and ignore this entire situation. To pretend that he had never said anything at all and just sit in silence like they had been before.

“Kiddo—”

“I know, it was stupid,” Virgil cut him off with a nervous laugh, trying—in vain—to hide just how embarrassed he was for even considering something like that. “I get it, it was a dumb request and- and it’s awkward and I get that, like why would I even ask, right? It was needy and clingy and made this really weird…so, if we could just forget that I even asked that in the first place, that’d be, um, that’d be great and I’ll just—”

“Wait a second, Virgil, that’s not what I—”

“—I’ll just find another place to, you know, I dunno, sleep or something. I was just…talking without thinking and here I am probably making the situation worse. So, if it’s okay with you, I’m just going to, uh, head to my room and stay there. Hopefully get some sleep.” Now with this terrible encounter under my belt, I can think about it for the next 20 or so years. “So, I’ll just go …”

“Virgil wait.” It wasn’t a demand, more of a plead, but the tone of voice it was said in was serious. It left no room for argument and Virgil’s eyes met Patton’s, almost terrified to see what he would find there. “What on earth was all of that about? You don’t have to be…ashamed to ask for something like that.”

The human swallowed nervously, the heat returning to his face and he knew that he was getting pinker by the second.

“You know me, I’m happy to help,” Patton continued his thought, leaning down a bit to get more on Virgil’s level. The sincerity was almost too much for him to face all at once. “If you want to nap in my pocket because it makes you feel better or safer, then that’s okay. If that’s what you need to actually get some sleep, then of course I’ll help you.”

The tension that had made Virgil’s shoulders tighten loosened almost instantly when he heard those words of affirmation. Every bad outcome to the situation—that had been helpfully supplied by his unhelpful anxiety—was thrown out and replaced by the fact that he wasn’t being turned away. That he wouldn’t have to live in the absolute embarrassment of asking in the first place.

At least, not for long.

Two cupped palms were raised in front of him and he slid off of the back of the couch with no hesitation. He stayed knelt comfortably on his hands and knees, though his stomach dropped when the hands did move on their own. It was still startling, even after staying around the three of them.

Usually, Virgil went places on his own. He would turn down help that was offered to him, mostly because he wanted to prove himself. (At least, that’s what he told himself.)

Instead of needing assistance into the pocket when the hand was close enough, to reach forwards and pulled the lip of the piece of sewn on fabric and peered inside. It wasn’t a far drop, so there was no use in wasting more time than necessary. He swung his legs over the edge of the palm and into the pocket itself, before pushing off and slipping into it with a controlled slide. The descent in had pushed his hood up and it laid half over his head and half over his shoulders.

It took him a minute of squirming to actually fit into the crevice of the pocket like he wanted to, laying it like a hammock. Except, in this hammock he was surrounded on all sides by safety and comfort and warmth.

There was the steady rise and fall of Patton’s chest to his left, the steady, thrumming heartbeat. It was a lulling sound, predictable and consistent. It was a sound that Virgil had found comfort listening to countless times before now.

Mixing the heat of the moment in with the comforting sounds and the exhaustion that he was feeling, the young male found himself pulling his hood up higher and tucking himself further into the crevice of the pocket and his hoodie in turn. This was the kind of feeling he had been yearning for. A gentle, understanding touch and a safe-place to relax. He was safe, he was comfortable and if he did wake a nightmare, he knew he could just raise his voice and he would be able to receive comfort within seconds.

He could feel the voice resonating to the left of him, but Virgil didn’t know what Patton was saying, possibly something along the lines of making sure he was comfortable. He wasn’t focused on the words, he was focused on the sound. The vibration that rumbled through him.

This was the intimate proximity that was relaxing. It wasn’t overbearing or overpowering. It was welcomed and special.

Virgil let his eyes slip shut and he crossed his arms over his chest, letting the exhaustion take over finally. In the peace and quiet of the pocket, he could succumb to his enervation.

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paperficwriter · 4 years

Text

So Much Missed Time

Garou always spends too much time away for Badd's liking.

So funny story, this fic was actually born from a NSFW challenge on Twitter, wherein I offered bits and pieces for milestone numbers of likes. I hope you enjoy it now.

Cut is for length as well as content.

The messy, awkward kiss from upside down takes Badd off-guard. But then, he should have been paying attention, dozing in the open like this. He’s in full hero garb, lying in the grass at the top of the hill overlooking the city, holding his bat against his side. “Hey!” he snaps, but when he opens his eyes and sees a familiar jawline, a long muscular neck, and just the softest strands of white hair, he yanks the head down harder instead of smacking it away.

Garou purrs, cool hands grabbing his face.

Badd’s panting when he finally grumbles, “Fucker. Where ya been? Worryin’ me sick, with that stupid hobo monster boy bullshit…”

Sharp teeth nip his bottom lip before immediately sucking at the skin. It’s embarrassing how easy it is to make him gasp and shudder at that. “Shut up. Had to disappear for a bit. Blame your little hero club. They always want to make my life difficult.”

Badd doesn’t have a response to that. He could retort that he’s not exactly making it easy for him either, showing up like this when he’s on the clock as Metal Bat. All it would take is one nosy asshole with a cell phone, and they would both be in trouble.

God, he tastes good. Kissing Garou is like kissing a snowstorm and a knife fight. Badd’s the one who has to bring the softness to it, or they would both pull away bleeding and bruised.

“Did you miss me that much, little Bat?” the Human Monster chides, one of those stupidly perfect fingers drawing circles on his chin. His catike grin and gold, mirthful eyes make his heart ache as much as his fists clench. “Was it that long?”

“Two weeks, asshole.” Badd grabs him and flips him over, next to him, but the bastard even makes falling look good, laughing and landing like it’s nothing. Then, he licks into his mouth like a real wolf, a wild greeting of wet pink, and Badd lets him in.

It’s a lifetime - being born, living, and dying to kiss those lips - before Badd finally pulls away. Then, he grabs loose fistfuls of black sweater and shakes Garou twice. This isn’t a fight. Garou would know if he wanted to rumble. “Ya could tell a guy,” he says, headbutting firmly into his shoulder to hide his face as much as get a smell of him.

“Huh?”

“Don’t ‘huh’ me,” he snaps. “Ya think I’m gonna tattle on ya? Let ya get caught? At this point?”

“I--”

“Do ya know how bad ya made Zenko feel?! She’s askin’ me when you’re comin’ t’ dinner again, and I can’t even tell her.” His voice is loud, and that stupid perfect chiseled chest he’s muffling it into feels like a wall. “I don’t care if ya treat me like a dickhead, but if ya hurt my sister’s feelings again, I’ll kill ya.”

For several seconds, there’s nothing. Then, Garou moves.

If it were anyone else doing it, maybe the sensation of arms encircling him wouldn’t be that big of a deal. Badd gets hugs a lot: from his barber, from Zenko, from his neighbors and people he saves. But Garou hugging him - holding him, pulling him in, slow and tight, like he’s something important - that’s completely different.

“Sorry,” a voice murmurs in his ear. It tickles.

Badd dares to hold him too, and at first, it’s trembling muscles and everything thin, so thin, has he been eating? And he doesn’t say anything, because another two weeks of nothing seems like too much to handle, and if he scares him away…

“I won’t do it again,” Garou whispers, holding him even closer, until there isn’t even room to breathe.

“I don’t care if ya need space, yeah?” Badd kisses his jaw. “Just talk to me.”

His shirt is being pulled up from where it’s tucked into his hakama, and fingertips move up his spine. “Later,” Garou agrees, husky and already much too close to him.

“Ya couldn’t jus’...wait for me to get home.” Badd can’t stand the thought of pushing Garou away, telling him to wait, because he doesn’t even think he can. Not after this long, barely even touching himself because he’s gotten too used to way Garou does it, pressing and digging in, finding every pleasure center he didn’t know that he had.

“No,” Garou says simply, “I couldn’t. Because they keep you on this stupid shift, and by the time you get home, Zenko would be back from piano.”

“Babe.” Badd pushes him back, and at first Garou snarls - did he think he was going to poke fun for being considerate? Or did he hate being interrupted? - but he peppers his cheek with kisses anyway. “Did ya seriously remember our schedules?”

“Yeah? So?” He’s trying so hard to look nonplussed, the loser.

Badd rolls him over so he’s lying on top of Garou’s body, gazing down into eyes that are growing darker. “I dunno. Somethin’ about ya bein’ sweet kinda gets me goin.’”

“Oh, is that what does it for you?” He grabs his ass and uses it to pull him in so tight, and both of them react to it, hard heat striking and rubbing between way too many layers of clothing. “Watch out, hero. I’m going to woo the shit out of you.”

Badd almost chokes on a snort, because he’s moaning now under his breath, leaning down to travel through all the lines of sinew and muscles and pale glory beneath him. Garou manhandles his chest, pulls and grabs at all the soft spots that should be embarrassing as hell, but it just has him devouring his mouth.

Someone could show up at any moment. Any fucking moment.

“I gotta get out of these fuckin’ pants,” Badd growls, and his fingers are shaking as he gets to work.

Badd is so focused on his own pants - damning all the straps and buttons, a curse of looking so fucking cool - that he almost misses Garou disrobing. He’s so long and graceful, it’s like what he imagines maybe a snake might look like shedding its skin. Actually no. Probably not, because there’s no struggle to it, no effort. This is a practiced dance, and Garou’s skin shines pale like snow, flexes hard like a statue. There’s nothing with any kind of give to it…

Badd can’t wait to get his mouth on him.

And then off go the little slipper shoes (cute) and white slacks, and Badd will never, ever get used to how he doesn’t wear anything underneath, or how the length of him swings free, long and hard and rising, especially when he notices how Badd is staring. He strokes it like it’s the handle of a sword.

“Seriously? You haven’t even gotten those stupid parachute pants off yet?” Something in Garou’s voice isn’t actually as annoyed as his words would make it seem. He likes to be watched, Badd fills in. “Let me.”

He doesn’t actually go for the pants. Instead, he travels up under the shirt, across his belly, pushing it up with just his wrists while his hands stroke Badd’s torso. Groping. Studying. Playing. How can he still have all his damn clothes on but feel so exposed?

Finally, Garou lifts the whole red garment off, and turns his head at the pants. Back and forth, a little frustrated. He better not try to rip them off. “These things are fucking stupid,” he grouses. “A corset would be easier to get off.”

Just a few more knots and there. Finally. Garou tugs them off and practically growls when his briefs come into view, like he had put them on this morning just to rile him up. “Why? Is that what ya wanna see me in next time ya decide t’ jump my bones in the woods?”

The glint of his eyes makes Badd’s entire body burn. “No.” Garou takes the underwear off in a movement that’s so fast it’s like a magic trick, like someone removing a tablecloth from a set table without disturbing a dish. Garou kisses him, possessive, hard. “Only because I would kill anyone else who dared to see you in it.”

Maybe if it were a different time and place, they might be tender. They might take their time, exploring one another’s bodies, the chill of Garou’s skin creating and then subsequently rubbing away goosebumps as they scatter across Badd’s flesh.

But the moment they are naked, and all there is is this, is them, after weeks without contact...the desperation ignites between their bodies. They have to touch, they have to taste, they have to rub and grind.

Badd follows his desire from earlier and at some point he actually licks all the way up Garou’s abs. They feel like river rocks when they’re still soft, before the sun dries them out.

Garou grabs his biceps and squeezes so hard that it almost hurts. He does that a few times, with different parts of his body, actually. His stomach, crushing him back against his front. His thighs, leaving marks. And when he digs his nails into Badd’s chest, he moans and squirms.

“Watch it. Ya want...fuck, ya want me t’ finish already?”

That just urges him on. He bites a pec so hard the Badd sees stars. He almost doesn’t notice Garou touch his cock until he presses a finger presses past his lips. It’s only when Badd swirls his tongue he realizes that he’s tasting himself, that Garou is playing with the tears of arousal that are building up and dripping down the length of him.

“I...really fuckin’ missed ya, Garou,” he whines, when his mouth is free again. “Seriously.”

“You think you were the only one?” That’s as close as he’s going to get the words back. It’s fine. He’s not with Garou because of his romantic streak anyway. Maybe he’s not with him at all, but even if he isn’t, it’s pretty clear they are both not-with-each-other together. That’s enough for now.

Badd gives him a kick when Garou pushes him down and grabs for his discarded pants. “Swear to god, if ya fuckin’ did all that just to run off…” He knows he won’t, but he’s still frustrated. He wants to keep going. He wants more.

Garou holds up a travel-sized bottle of lube, and Badd actually laughs. “I just like to be prepared, okay.”

Badd isn’t really given an option on what position to take. Garou takes his legs on his shoulders like it’s nothing at all, shoving two slick fingers inside, both stretching him and strangling out a moan from his throat.

“G, am I...fuck, am I too heavy? Ya don’t gotta…”

“Stop that.” His voice isn’t even strained. “You’re perfect.”

Badd flexes his abs to sit up just enough to snag his wild hair and pull him into a kiss. His prize is a sound of feral pleasure, like a dog having the perfect spot scratched. And that’s not including the third finger inside of him, crooking and seeking the part of him that’s sending his toes curling in the grass.

“Get in,” he groans, reaching out and down between his legs. “Garou, I need it…”

“Okay. Okay, fuck, hang on.” Badd watches him pour lube on his cock, so much that it drips in strings onto the ground, and then he’s shoving it in so hard and so fast that it’s a good thing Badd didn’t give him a hard time about the mess because fuck.

He’s trying not to think of the grass stains. Or the bite marks on either of them. Or any of the other marks that Garou is leaving, deep and passionate, as red as his trademark shirt. He wants to say he’s missed this, and he knows that Garou has too. Their kisses start tasting coppery. It’s like their first fight all over again, but some dreamy version, one that Badd never, ever thought possible.

Garou is so big it feels like he’s splitting him open, and maybe he is, because the flicker of his Fighting Spirit is keeping his stamina up with the (former?) Hero Hunter. “Garou…”

He doesn’t answer. His pupils are tiny sunspots lost in a golden glow.

He should have asked about a condom. Because when Garou comes, he can already tell he’s going to be dripping all the way home, until he gets to the bath. But that thought isn’t stopping him from curling up into a tight ball and then exploding between them, all over their fronts. If anything, it actually makes him come harder than he had thought possible.

Usually, Garou is ready to go, after he finishes. He’s out the window, or zipping down the hall, or whatever...but right here, in one of the most dangerous places they could be, he stays. A cold marble spoon against his back, a bit sticky, and clutching him in a way, but...he stays.

“I should go,” Badd says after some time, even though long arms are criss-crossed around him like straps. Garou makes a sound like an unhappy cat. “C’mon. Jus’ headin’ home. You can come too.”

Okay, the Human Monster seems sated, and he’s about to pull his pants on when something hard and wide goes into his ass, which is still stretched but also elicits a noise from him.

“What the fuck is that?!” It’s not his cock. Or his fingers. Badd reaches back and feels the curved end of a plug that’s been rather unceremoniously shoved inside of him. “Where the hell were ya keepin’ that?!”

“While I understand that you like to wear pants that don’t have pockets,” he snarks, slapping one of his asscheeks and making the entire thing move inside of him, recharged electric heat coming from his toes and up to his eyes, “not all of us feel the same way. They are very helpful for carrying things like lube and toys and whatnot…”

Badd glares, and he’s not sure why, but he pulls his pants up the rest of the way. The walk to the train isn’t easy, and when someone offers ‘the best hero Metal Bat-san’ a seat, Garou shoves him into it, and for a second, his eyes roll up into his head.

Zenko isn’t home yet, thank god, and Garou backs him up into the bedroom. “You said so yourself,” he points out. “It’s been two weeks.” It’s only because he actually does sound somewhat longing that Badd doesn’t tell him to fuck off so he can go take the thing out and grab a shower.

Garou doesn’t remove it, though. He pushes Badd onto the bed facedown and tears the hakama off (which is fine, since it was never properly put back together). He pours more lube all over him, creating a layer of sheen so thick it catches the afternoon light in the window.

And he’s so glad they are alone, because Badd howls when Garou shoves the beast that is his cock in beside the toy. The bed, freshly clean, is quickly a mess of arousal and lubricant, pouring all over the sheets, not to mention the drool coming from the side of his mouth as it remains perpetually open.

When Garou comes, his fluids explode in all directions, and he wrenches his head up to kiss him like it’s a punch in the mouth. They’re both all in when it comes to making up for lost time.

#my paperfics #one punch man #batarou #metal bat #badd #garou #dirty paper #dirty paper warning

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sighmurderbot · 3 years

Text

Irish Coffee Chapter Three

Title: Gatorade and Sixth Floor Coffee

Chapter Rating/Warnings: G, I don’t think there’s even any profanity in this one

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: They meet over coffee and Kierkegaard. There was a spark in his honey-brown eyes that drew her to him. There was a sadness behind her bright smile that drew him to her. Spencer Reid/Original Female Character. Slow burn coffee shop meet. Strangers to friends to lovers. This fic is also available on AO3, it’s ahead of tumblr currently!

previous chapter//next chapter

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

One exhausting week rolled into the next. Spencer didn’t stop by every day, but the days he did I found myself smiling a little easier. He was considerate, always making sure I could clearly read his lips when it was noisy, always patient even when I could tell he had somewhere to be.

When the shop was empty he would linger an extra moment or two, giving me some sort of obscure fact about coffee, cafes, caffeine, or something else tangentially related. I soaked it up like a little knowledge sponge. The way he gestured with his hands when he got excited about what he was saying always put a grin on my face.

When the shop was busy, with suits shoving in and out, Spencer waited quietly in line and was extra polite when ordering, as if his manners would make up for the harsh and hurried words I was subjected to from others.

And every time he came in, no matter what time of day, rain or shine, he ordered a large mocha with extra sugar.

By the second week I started noticing him before he walked in. Something caught my eye, maybe it was his cardigans or incessantly mismatched socks, or maybe I was developing a Spencer radar, but I started to have his coffee ready before he reached the counter.

The first time I proudly plunked his order in front of him before he could speak I think I really threw him off. It wasn’t a busy day, and I was already leaning on the counter, allowing myself a little bit of rest. He paused, mouth still open, and tilted his head at the cup. He then pressed his lips together and frowned slightly. Was he disappointed? It certainly looked like it.

“It’s exactly how you like,” I hurried to assure him.

“Thanks,” he replied, slowly taking the cup. I felt my stomach drop as he began to turn away. I had been looking forward to his visit, especially since I hadn't seen him for a few days. Somehow the young doctor always found a way to make me smile.

“I thought,” I called out after him, stopping his movements, “that it would help to have it ready. You know, so I don’t have to go make it in the middle of talking to you.”

He turned back, frown now bent into a small smile.

"How efficient," he said. I shrugged.

"I like to maximize the good things in life."

Spencer didn't reply right away, instead electing to shyly drop his eyes and take a sip of coffee. His muscles relaxed a little as the hot liquid worked it's magic.

"How have you been enjoying Asimov?" I asked, falling back to a safe subject for both of us: books. Any tension that may have been lingering dissipated as Spencer's eyes lit up.

"Fascinating!" He started, and I settled myself against the counter a little more, perfectly happy to listen. After noticing my hearing aids, Spencer made sure to speak clearly when we conversed, and for the few brief moments I was with him, it was like my hearing had never started to degenerate at all.

"Psychohistory as a concept alone is fascinating, and when applied to a well developed futuristic universe it practically crafts the story by itself. The field itself only really became recognized when Lloyd deMause developed a formal approach to apply to the study of psychobiology, history, and social dynamics. Even that was fairly recently; deMause is still an influential figure in the field today."

Without fail, whenever Spencer stopped in, I learned something. The information, the passion with which he presented it, everything down to his soft, first-year philosophy professor look had me longing to go back to school. Listening to Spencer teach, whether it was conscious or not on his part, was like sips of water in the desert.

Not for the first time I wondered what he did for work. He was skittish about the subject, the first time I asked he dodged the question, and any time the conversation had neared the subject again he'd start to clam up, avoid eye contact, and worry at his bag or cardigan sleeve.

If he doesn't want to talk about it he doesn't want to talk about it, I reasoned finally. Lord knows there's enough secret jobs in this city, why would he take a break from work for coffee just to talk about work with a random barista?

So I had dropped the subject, and our talks flowed around books and philosophy and whatever tidbits of trivia were on his mind that day.

Unfortunately, our discussion was brought to a quick conclusion when another customer entered, sending the bell above the door swinging with an annoying tone that ensured I always had a low-level headache.

I stood and exchanged a small wave with Spencer. Even the way he waved, hand low, arm tucked into his side, made me smile. When he left he was careful not to rip the door open, the bell barely moved as he slipped away.

We continued like that for a time, but as fall turned towards winter, I found myself struggling to get out of bed in the morning. Exhaustion weighted my limbs before I even got to work, and even the heaviest concealer couldn’t cover the bruise-like shadows beneath my eyes. Whereas before I would tidy the shop during lulls, I now had to pause to catch my breath after rushes, as if every customer took what little energy I had with them. My Spencer radar didn’t go off for days at a time, sometimes almost an entire week would pass before he would stop in. I felt foolish for looking forward to a regular so much, but I couldn’t help myself. I enjoyed his company, even though I knew he probably didn’t give me a second thought once he was outside the shop doors.

It had been one of the longer stretches since Spencer visited when I woke up in the middle of the night, head aching and throat raw.

It was bound to happen eventually, I thought, dragging myself across my studio apartment and getting a glass of water. Even the simple liquid hurt to swallow.

I winced and returned to bed, grabbing my phone. Flipping it open, I navigated to the two numbers I needed and sent a message to my bosses for both the coffee shop and the diner. Surely they couldn’t begrudge me a single sick day.

Attempting another sip of water, I burrowed back into my blankets and slipped into a restless sleep.

Spencer

A few hours later, in another part of the city…

Spencer found mornings difficult, especially since he was left only with crappy sixth floor coffee until lunch. The team had handled back to back cases that left him drained and a pile of files towering on each member’s desk.

“Morning,” Morgan greeted as his younger associate stepped off the elevator. Spencer gave him a noncommittal noise and a nod, beelining for the bullpen’s coffee maker.

Prentiss glanced up, sharing a look with Morgan, and they both shrugged.

“I don’t know how you can drink this stuff,” Prentiss said, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed. “Why don’t you just stop for coffee before you come in?”

Spencer kept his eyes on the cup into which he was stirring spoonful after spoonful of sugar.

“I go out for coffee in the afternoon,” he replied evenly. Prentiss and Morgan exchanged another look, with the other man joining Prentiss and Spencer at the counter.

“Yeah, we noticed,” he said. “Must be really good coffee, in the years you’ve worked here you never used to go further than the cafe at the corner.”

Prentiss nodded in agreement. “And yet, you haven’t been there in two, three weeks, have you?”

Spencer turned, coffee held close to his chest as he looked between his coworkers.

“I thought there was a permanent moratorium on inter-unit profiling,” he frowned, lips drawn together in a slight pout.

“Not profiling,” Prentiss smiled.

“Just observing,” Morgan agreed.

“Hmph,” Spencer huffed, heading for his desk.

“So you're gonna take your favorite coworkers to your new go-to coffee spot?” Morgan called after him.

“I dunno,” Spencer replied, flipping open the first pile of his stack. “I’ll ask Hotch and JJ.”

“Oooh,” Morgan clutched a hand to his chest, as if injured, face drawn in overdramatic pain. “That hurts, Pretty Boy.”

The target of his teasing, however, was already working through the file before him. Morgan sighed, no more excuse available to keep him from doing the same.

At precisely 2:15pm, Spencer stood and gathered his things. He could feel Morgan and Prentiss studying him as he unclipped the gun holstered on his hip and carefully set the weapon in his bag. Slinging the strap over his head he settled it on his opposite shoulder, grabbed his scarf, and looped it around his neck.

“Off for coffee?” Prentiss asked, tone dripping with innocence.

“Yup,” Spencer replied shortly. “See you in a bit.”

“See ya,” she replied.

As the elevator doors slid shut before him, Spencer watched Prentiss slide her chair over to Morgan’s desk. They ducked their heads together, undoubtedly gossiping about Spencer’s mysterious new favorite coffee shop.

They were surprised, then, when he returned in almost half the usual time with no coffee in hand.

“Hey, kid,” Morgan leaned towards the small wall separating their desks. “You didn’t let our teasing stop you from getting your coffee, did you?”

“What?” Spencer looked up, as if Morgan had interrupted him in deep thought. Morgan raised one thick eyebrow.

“Where’s your coffee?” Morgan asked. Spencer frowned slightly.

“Didn’t feel like it today.”

Morgan glanced towards Prentiss, who tilted her head. He raised and dropped one shoulder.

There was no way they could know that Spencer had hurried a few blocks down from the office, whether subconsciously speeding his steps or not. Neither Morgan nor Prentiss could realize the way Spencer looked through the window to the counter, ready to smile at the sight of a blonde barista with a tall mocha in her hand. They couldn’t know the way his stomach dropped and shoulders drooped when there was no bright blonde with a ready smile and sparkling hazel eyes behind the counter that day. Instead there was a stranger, a young man with annoyance written on his face. A cloud passed in front of the weak fall sun and before Spencer realized it he was walking back to the BAU. His mind was far away, wondering what would cause a break in such a strict routine.

He hadn’t known Katie very long, but she was friendly, and she listened—really listened—when he spoke. She was so different from his world, so unusual, and yet so absolutely normal. There was much he knew about her: her determination, her punishing schedule, her devotion to cheerfulness, but there was so much more he didn’t know and wanted to find out, if only out of an academic curiosity to understand how and why she did what she did. Why she seemed to perk up when she spotted him on the sidewalk outside, why she let him ramble on far after anyone else would have told him to shut up.

And why, why wasn’t she at the coffee shop?

Because she has a life, the little voice inside his head mocked. Because you are a customer who is nice to her and it is her job to keep you coming back for overpriced DC coffee.

Shaking his head, Spencer tried to put her from his mind and steeled himself for the inevitable tag team teasing that Morgan and Prentiss would subject him to.

Katie

I groaned curses at the sun as it found a gap in my curtains, slicing through my dark room as easily as any blade.

Rolling over, the red LEDs of my clock told me it was far past time to attempt a shower and food, sick or not. I couldn’t really afford to be so late with my meds, but I hoped perhaps it would be an okay day and I could slip a few extra hours past my vertigo.

No such luck. I sat up slowly and the room tipped around me. It was a combination of floating and spinning while drunk, and it sent me stumbling to the bathroom on flimsy legs. It was like I had downed a bottle of jack and chased it with that soda from Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory that made people fly.

I almost overshot the toilet but an iron grip on the cold porcelain kept me anchored as I heaved. There was nothing to throw up, but my body hadn’t gotten the message. Nearly twenty minutes passed before I allowed myself to slump back on the tile floor, sweat sticking hair to my forehead and the back of my neck.

It was like I was on a teacup ride at the fair and it was slow at the moment, but could speed up again at any moment. I just prayed I’d be able to handle it when it did.

Somewhere in the other room my phone buzzed. I hadn’t thought to grab it in my mad rush for the bathroom, and at the moment I didn’t think I had the strength to retrieve it. It wasn’t hard to run through the people who might be contacting me. The only options were one of my bosses or Liz, and I didn’t feel like talking to them at the moment.

You can’t just isolate yourself when things get hard.

The voice in my head sounded a lot like my therapist from school. I sighed deeply, frustrated and tired, tipping my head back to rest on the glass around my shower.

“Right, shower,” I muttered. That was what I had originally intended to do when I got up. Moving slowly and carefully, breathing to steady myself, I flopped into the small tub and turned the shower on full spray, letting the water pepper across my skin.

Eventually I stripped off the tank top and shorts I had slept in, leaving them in a sodden heap near the drain, and grabbed the soap, scrubbing myself until the water started to run cold. After I was clean and all the soap suds had swirled down the drain I shut off the water and cautiously stood, white-knuckling the support bar I had installed in the shower after my first fall.

The room didn’t want to stay still, but it had stopped rotating enough for me to step out of the shower, make my way to the towel rack, and wrap myself in a large, fluffy towel.

Water dripped from my body as I padded out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, leaving wet footprints trailing the wooden floor behind me. I pulled a frosty gatorade from my fridge and a sleeve of saltines from my cabinet. Setting the sustenance on my bedside table, I dried off enough to keep my sheets dry and climbed back into bed, not bothering with pajamas this time.

Thankfully, I was able to keep some of the bland crackers and alarmingly blue liquid down. I downed my medication and sunk back into my pillows, even the little I had accomplished that day taking all my energy.

Hopeful that I’d wake with the cold gone and my meds working, I began to doze, and the dozing deepened into a dreamless sleep.

My one sick day stretched into two, then three. Fighting one disease was hard enough, and it intensified even the smallest infection from an annoyance into a massive burden. On the third day my phone rang. The conversation with my boss from the diner was quick and professional. I understood that he needed reliable employees, but I had hoped the fact that I was never late and always gave as much notice as possible for my sick days as possible would buy me some leeway.

Apparently not.

I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose as I snapped my phone shut.

It’s okay, I reasoned. I can pick up more shifts at the cafe and the bar. They’ve always paid better anyway.

Resting my head against the wall I studied my ceiling.

“What do I do, mom?” I whispered, closing my eyes.

“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.”

Emily Dickinson had been one of my mother’s favorites, and it was her voice I heard.

Right, I thought, steeling myself. What doors haven’t I tried yet?

Dragging my laptop onto my lap took more effort than perhaps it should have, but I managed it.

Scholarships.

Now that I had a full time work record to back me up, I might qualify for more money. And if I qualified for enough I could take the next step, instead of being stuck running in circles trying to earn enough over three jobs to pay for college by myself.

The sun had long since set on my third sick day when I finally shut my laptop and let sleep claim me once more. I now had a small spark of something to go with the stubborn determination my mother had instilled in me: hope.

#Irish Coffee #my writing #spencer reid #criminal minds #cm fic #cm #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #doctor reid #doctor spencer reid #criminal minds fanfiction

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kusunogatari · 4 years

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[ ObiRyū October | Day Sixteen | Incantation ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Verse: Ghost Among the Ghosts ]

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“Hi, Mom...it’s me again. I brought you some fresh flowers! Sorry I left the other ones here so long...I’ve been busy the last few weeks. School is going well, but...it’s a lot of work. I’m keeping my grades up, at least. But that means less time for...everything else. And no, I still don’t have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend, for that matter. But maybe that’s a good thing. I’d be really inattentive lately, and that wouldn’t be fair. I dunno, maybe I’ll meet someone after, y’know? But if work is busy too, then...guess I’ll just be a crazy old cat lady. Though I don’t have a cat yet…”

She’s rambling. But then again, that usually happens when she takes a day to catch up with her mother. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, Ryū lets an elbow rest on a knee, chin held in a palm. It’s nice to just...sit and chat.

And given Reika can’t really reply, it means she can go on for as long as she wants.

“Dad came to visit yesterday. That was nice. He said he was going to stop by and see you while he was here. I hope he did. Guess he didn’t leave anything, but...well, I told him I was going to stop by today. Maybe he just figured things would get cluttered, otherwise.”

Beyond the freshly-replaced flowers, Reika’s headstone is clear. There’s a small growth of lichen, but she’ll take care of that while she’s here. Otherwise, the polished black marble is flawless.

“Anyway...I guess there’s really not much else to report. Kinda stuck in a bit of a slog, I suppose. Same routine over and over. Classes change, but the routine doesn’t.” Shifting positions, she leans back on her palms, sighing. “There’s a few people I’ve seen in a couple of classes with me, but...haven’t really made any friends. Dad says I’d scare them away anyway cuz I spend so much time here.” Ryū can’t help a snicker. “I might’ve had my baby goth phase in high school, but it didn’t stick. I just...like dark clothes and hanging out with my dead mom! Nothing weird about that, right?”

The only answer is wind rustling through the cemetery trees.

Another sigh escapes her, seeming to get lost in thought. “...guess I kinda just fell into it all. The image, I mean. People were always calling me Ghost, so...it was easier to roll with it than fight it. Is that weird? Maybe not. Guess I just kinda adopted it. Maybe part of it’s still sticking, huh?”

Another thoughtful silence before she straightens, hauling herself to her feet and brushing leaves and grass from her clothes. “Well...I won’t bug you any more today. Though I’m not really looking forward to heading back to my dorm. It’s so cramped, and my roommate snores. Not to mention I have an essay to do when I get there. So maybe I’ll just...wander around a bit. Y’know...procrastinate.”

After clearing the lichen, Ryū says her goodbyes before heading further into the cemetery rather than back toward the gate.

It’s strange. She’s here so often, yet she’s never really taken the time to look at any other parts of the graveyard. Even back when she was embracing her spooky image in high school.

Better late than never, she supposes.

The further you go, the older the plots get...and eventually, entire family crypts start popping up. Ryū eyes them curiously, feeling an old itch start bubbling up to the surface. Maybe she’ll just...take some pictures. For old time’s sake. Surely nobody will mind, right?

Out comes her phone, subtly snapping photos of some of the more unique headstones. One bears an entire full-size weeping angel, arms outstretched to the sky in mourning.

“Wicked…!”

Okay maybe her goth phase isn’t as over as she likes to pretend it is.

Soon enough she’s losing herself in it, taking artsy pics of as much spooky splendor as she can manage. The cloudy Autumn day only adds to the atmosphere, she can’t help it!

And then she hits the motherlode.

Looming up out of the gloom is one of the crypts: its own stone building to inter members of a family. And this one is massive...let alone clearly old as old gets. A wrought iron gate blocks access to the interior, and no matter how she cranes her neck, Ryū can only see so far.

Backing up a few paces, she realizes there isn’t a family name carved anywhere in the stone. That’s a bit odd. Instead, a phrase is etched along the top of the threshold. Usually it’s something in Latin, but...this doesn’t look quite right.

Brow furrowing, Ryū reads it over a few times in her head. Maybe it is Latin and she’s just...really rusty. But her curiosity persists, and so she googles it.

...nothing really comes up.

Well, drat.

A sigh escapes her, tucking away her phone for the moment. Under her breath, she tries sounding it out, doing so slowly with the Latin pronunciation that she knows.

As soon as she finishes, a flash of cold washes over her, seemingly coming up from the crypt.

Every hair on her body stands on end, tensing as eyes fly wide.

...what the…?

Fog then begins to plume up the steps, curling around the gate. And as she stares, Ryū sees hands slowly reach to grip the bars. Then with an ear-splitting creak, it starts to swing open.

Oh this is not good...what did she do?! What, was that some kind of...incantation? That stuff isn’t real…! And why would it be carved into a crypt?!

A deep, raspy chuckle then sounds, and a shiver runs its way up her spine. Every part of her brain is screaming at her to run...but she can’t get her legs to move, locked into place as she trembles.

“Well well...been a while since anyone’s given those words a read. Was starting to wonder if anyone would ever bother…”

With a lurch, she manages to stumble back half a step, body feeling rigid and stubborn. “Who...who’s there…?”

“You mean to tell me you read the invocation, and you don’t even know who you’re talking to? I should be offended. And here I was so relieved at finally getting a chance to stretch my legs! Hell gets so boring after a while…”

A figure then starts to emerge from the fog. And Ryū’s heart feels about ready to jump right out of her chest. Hell...this person’s from Hell? Then...doesn’t that mean -?

“I guess I can still manage an introduction. But...you first, hm? Only polite, since you rang.”

...is it wise to tell them that? “It...it’s Ryū. M-my name is...is Ryū.”

“Ryū…?” They seem to roll the word around in their mouth, as if tasting it. “Hm...I suppose that’ll do. And my name...is Obito.”

They take one last step, and Ryū beholds the demon in all their glory.

...it’s not an image she expects.

It’s not a gargoyle-like creature. No cloven hooves, no horns. It’s just a...a man? Wearing black slacks, shining black shoes, a violet button-down shirt, and a black vest. A hand wrapped in a fingerless glove adjusts a matching purple tie. Short dark hair, glowing red eyes, and...and…

Scars. All over the right side of his face. Some even peek up from under the loose collar of his shirt.

“Why is it everybody always stares, hm? Something on my face?”

Ryū forces herself to blink. “...I-I -?”

Ignoring her, the demon glances around. “...huh. Not where I expected to pop up. No one’s used this place in a long time. Being nosy, are we?”

“Wh-? N-no! I...I was just looking, and…?”

“And decided to recite the obviously-demonic carving on the wall?”

She sputters. Obviously demonic? How was she supposed to know?! “I-I didn’t know that’s what it was! I-I swear!”

Obito just rolls his eyes. “Uh huh. That’s what they all say.”

“Can’t you just, um...g-go back where you came from?”

“I’m afraid not, you see…” He starts sauntering toward her, her own legs attempting to retreat. “Demons, once called out of Hell, can only return once they have their contracted’s soul in their possession. It’s a system. And given that you called me...that means you.”

“I-I didn’t call you! It was an accident!”

“Yes, yes...you humans and your accidents.” He steps closer, Ryū finding herself with nowhere to run as her back finds a tree. Leaning in, Obito gives her a very unabashed once-over. “...hm…”

“W...what?”

“I think you’re lying.”

“Wh-? Why would I lie?!”

“Because I can smell it on you.”

“Smell what? I-I just took a shower this morning before I came to see Mom!”

Obito gives a roll of his eyes. “Oh, brother...so you don’t know…?”

“Know what?!”

“That you’re a witch.”

She freezes. “...I’m a...a what?”

“Oh come, now. Your appearance is telling enough. Tell me...did your mother look like you? All ghost-like…?”

Ryū feels the blood draining from her face. “...I…”

“Thought so.”

“I am not a witch! I just had a goth phase in high school! And the only reason I did was because everyone forced it on me!”

“And why do you think they did that?”

“Because I look like this!”

“And? You really think they couldn’t tell? It’s a subconscious thing, especially in this day and age. Very few people legitimately cry ‘witch’ nowadays. Most who do just get laughed at, but they’re out there. Or rather, you’re out there.”

Head shaking, Ryū rebuke, “Well...still! Witch or not, I did not call you here on purpose! So just...go back where you came from, and leave me alone!”

“I told you, I can’t do that. Not until I harvest that soul of yours. Or...mine, really. Semantics.”

She stares at him. “...so, I...I really am stuck with you…?”

“Until you utilize your contract, that’s exactly right. So hurry up and make your request so we can get this over with.”

“...and if I don’t?”

“Don’t what?”

“What if I don’t make a request? What if I just...ignore this so-called contract I didn’t agree to? Then what?”

Obito’s face goes slack. “...you can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, contracts have consequences the longer they go on. Consequences that are rather dire for mortals. Eventually you’d just be begging for me to end it, so there’s no real point in drawing things out.”

“I could...I could hire an exorcist!”

That earns an outright laugh. “Oh, you could. But it wouldn’t go well. We’re contracted. My suffering is your suffering. And vice versa.”

...well shit. She’s running out of ideas. Surely by now demons are rather used to all the ways humans try and wriggle their ways out of contracts. Ryū’s eyes flicker back and forth, trying to think of a solution.

All the while, looking amused, Obito watches her. He’s never actually met someone from a witch bloodline before. While they don’t all look like she does, that just makes her all the more unique. Part of him wonders what her skills would be. Are witch souls worth more than a regular human soul…? He’s not actually sure. But he’ll admit, it feels rather tantalizing compared to other humans he’s contracted with. Almost seems a shame to waste it.

“...you know, there is one way to circumvent this whole ordeal.”

He speaks without meaning to, her head shooting up.

“...and what would that be?”

“You could always become a demon yourself. It’s not easy, and technically you’d still be damned, but...you wouldn’t die.”

A stubborn scowl overtakes her face. “Not sure that’s much better.”

Shoulders shrug. “Just letting you know. Hell’s really not all that bad when you’re on Lucifer’s good side, you know.”

“...I’ll bear that in mind,” is her dry reply.

“You really should make up your mind. Time is ticking. And I’ve got other things I could be -”

“Hey!”

The pair of them turn, seeing another figure making its way toward them. Silvery, messy locks fall over a fair face, the bottom half obscured by a mask. There’s really not much remarkable about him...except for a glint of silver that jostles around his neck as he runs.

A cross.

Behind Ryū, Obito’s eyes narrow.

Reaching them, the newcomer holds an arm out between them, barring Ryū back. “I’ve been waiting for you to show your face again. Let her go!”

“This is none of your business, Kakashi. She summoned me.”

“I told you, it wasn’t on purpose!” Ryū insists from behind Kakashi’s arm.

“It’s too late! Intentional or not, what’s done is done. She has to forfeit her soul one way or another. I’m just doing what I’m meant to do.”

“Don’t you remember what it’s like to be human?” Kakashi barks in protest. “Why hurt them when you used to be one, Obito?”

Ryū’s eyes widen. He was human…?

Obito’s lip lifts in a sneer. “I was human. And that life was nothing but suffering. Poverty, loneliness, despair...and then a violent, painful end before I was even a man. Can you really blame me for letting that bitterness overcome me? Life wasn’t, isn’t fair, Kakashi. Humans suffer, and they cause suffering. They must reap what they sow.”

“And what has she done wrong, beyond being at the wrong place at the wrong time? Do you really want to damn an innocent just because you suffered in life? That won’t reverse what you went through. It will just make someone else suffer, too. Let her go.”

All the while, Ryū watches them both. It’s clear they knew each other before Obito became a demon. And if Obito is telling the truth, then...it seems to her that he had every reason to be persuaded into a role like this, given what he went through.

Suffering begets suffering, after all.

...then maybe…

“You can’t break this contract, Kakashi. You’re hardly strong enough to have any influence here. It doesn’t matter if she’s willing or not. It was a done deal as soon as she spoke the incantation. One way or another, I’ll -!”

“I know what I want.”

Both men turn to her, expressions equally surprised.

“Miss, no - you can’t go through with this! If you do, your soul will -!”

“You heard the lady, Kakashi.” Behind them, Obito gives a bone-chilling smirk. “She’s made up her mind. And about time. What’ll it be, then?”

Gently urging Kakashi’s arm aside, Ryū steps forward, studying the demon. “...so, in order for the contract to be fulfilled...you have to complete whatever task I give you...right?”

“That’s right.”

“No matter how long it takes?”

“Yes. But we demons are very efficient.”

“...and the task can be anything?”

“Well...there are a few exceptions. I can’t raise the dead, for example. Can’t make you immortal. But most things are on the table. Tell me your wish, and I’ll let you know.”

She can’t help a dry snort at the word ‘wish’. As if she sought this out. “...all right, then. What I want from you is...to protect me from all possible harm, within your ability, until I die naturally. Only once I’ve lived whatever life you can allow me to live can you have my soul. If you purposefully allow me to be killed to try to complete the contract early, then you’ll have failed, and the contract is null and void.”

As she speaks, Obito’s grin slowly falls to a neutral, and then surprised expression.

Behind her, Kakashi gives a humorless laugh. “...so, rather than a guardian angel...you’ve snagged yourself a guardian demon. Well that’s a first.”

Ryū doesn’t reply, still looking at Obito. “...so? Is that on the table…?”

Sighing curtly, Obito looks aside as if trying to think of some kind of loophole. But after a minute of silence, it’s clear he can’t recall any. “...I suppose it is.”

“And because you’ll be performing your contract, there won’t be any of those consequences you talked about?”

“...in all honesty, I can’t be sure. I’ve never had a contract quite like that. The longest I’ve had to wait was a week.” He looks her over. “...you really want a demon to be hovering over your shoulder for the rest of your life?”

“I figure that’s the best outcome I could ask for, all things considered” is her quiet reply. “...besides, something you said struck me a bit funny.”

“...and what was that?”

“That you were lonely.”

His face goes slack. “...you...can’t be serious.”

Even Kakashi has no rebuke for that.

“You’re extending your contract to the fullest possible extent because a demon implied that they were lonely…? You must be a special kind of naive, lady.”

She gives a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “You’re the one who implied it, not me. Not everyone is a jerk, you know.”

He scowls, but doesn’t have a retort. “...all right, then. We shake on it...and your request will be set. No changing your mind. Got it?”

“Obito, I can’t let you do this!”

“There’s no can’t, Kakashi,” Obito retorts. “You couldn’t stop me if you tried. Buzz around her like an annoying little fly if you want. There’s no saving her.”

Turning to the other human, Ryū gives a somber smile. “I’ll be okay.”

“But -?”

Before he can try to argue, Ryū reaches out, and takes Obito’s hand.

The same rush of cold eddies around them, and Ryū can’t help but flinch as her hair whips around her face. Leaves kick up, the trees creaking as they get caught in the ethereal wind.

Hands still locked, Obito sneaks his other arm around her back, pulling them chest to chest with their hands pressed between them. A smirk curls his lips, hovering several inches over her own. “...it’s done.”

“This isn’t over, Obito!” Kakashi insists.

The demon turns to him, expression bored. “Well, I suppose you might have time to build up some power before she kicks the bucket. But I won’t be letting a soul go that easily, Kakashi.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” the demonologist replies lowly.

“Run along, then. Go bury your nose into your books and find some holy relics. You’ll be racing against the clock for this one.”

Glowering, Kakashi turns on a heel and leaves them.

“Finally, a little privacy,” Obito then sighs, giving a stretch. “You think he’d give that demonologist bit a rest…”

“So...you two know each other?”

“In a manner of speaking. But let’s not get into that, now. You’ve got a life to get to.”

It’s then that Ryū hesitates. “So...other people can see you…?”

“Only if I want them to. And even then a very small handful could otherwise. You’d be one of them, actually. If you had a bit more training, you might even be able to see what I really look like.”

“...you mean this is a ruse?”

He smirks. “...yes and no. This is my human appearance. I died at thirteen, but as a demon I’ve kept aging. This is how I’d look if I’d lived. But it’s not what I truly am, now. Not fully.”

“So I won’t have to explain why someone is constantly following me, then.”

“Not unless I decide to show myself. Which, for my own convenience, I doubt I’ll do often, if at all. I’d like this whole experience to be as painless as possible, since you seem to have it in your mind we’re going to be buddies in the meantime. Just think of me as a voice in your head that only you can see.”

...well, this is going to take some getting used to. But at least for now she has time. And it seems that this Kakashi guy wants to try and break this contract. Maybe he’ll succeed. For now, however...she’ll just have to adapt.

“...all right then. Come on. We’re leaving.”

“And going…?”

“Back to my dorm. I have homework.”

“You’re a student?”

“Studying to be a nurse.” She starts walking, and Obito follows.

“Riveting.”

“You’re the one who asked.”

Yes, this is going to take a lot of getting used to.

This is...super random but I guess it works for the prompt xD I dunno anything about demonology or whatever, so this is...purely me winging it. Also any religious mentions are just for the sake of context. That’s another subject I know little to nothing about lol A human (well, kinda) and a demon stuck in each other’s company. Surely nothing is going to wrong in this situation, right? Riiiight. I’d...say more but it’s late and this weekend is gonna suuuck so I’m gonna go sleep. Thanks for reading!

#obiryū october #abyssaldespair #uchiha obito #suigin ryū #hatake kakashi #ghost among the ghosts [ au ]

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detectivejigsawpines · 4 years

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Twinpathy (Pain)

Based on the lovely work of Artsymeeshee and RenConnor; little snippets of life indicating that even when they were apart (physically or emotionally), the boys were still connected without realizing.

The night he was banished from his home and told not to come back without a fortune, Stanley Pines went down to the beach with a can of gasoline that he “liberated” from a nearby station and his trusty lighter, and he set the almost-completed Stan O’War on fire.

There was no way he could take it with him, and he sure as h_ll wasn’t leaving it for that traitor to use.

Besides, it wasn’t like there was anyone who would care.

It took hours for the flames to finish consuming it; he stood there the whole time, hands clenched in trembling fists at his sides, and forced himself to watch no matter how much it hurt. He barely even flinched when he got hit by stray sparks that burned his skin and made his damp eyes sting, as he watched all his dreams literally go up in smoke.

By the time it was reduced to dying embers it was almost dawn; Stan walked away to his car and curled up in the back seat, feeling more alone than he had in his entire life.

********

Ford barely slept.

For some reason he was just too hot; even if he kicked off all the blankets and sheets, he felt like he was burning up.

Even if he hadn’t been experiencing an odd temperature problem, there was no way he could sleep with the cocktail of rage, betrayal, uncertainty and not-very-well-suppressed guilt brewing in his skull.

His room had never felt so empty before, or been so quiet during the night.

Parts of his skin were actually stinging a little; if he was having a fever, it was like nothing he’d ever had before. Not even cold water seemed to help much, but somehow he couldn’t work up the will to wake up his parents. Not after they’d-

He shoved the thought away.

It wasn’t until dawn that the heat rushing through his system finally died down a little, but even then Ford couldn’t relax enough to sleep. He went to school looking and feeling like hell, and passed it in a dull haze.

A week later, when he went to the beach (he hadn’t meant to go near the boat, he’d told himself that he wouldn’t, that there was no reason to go near it, but somehow his footsteps took him there anyways), all he found was an enormous chunk of ash.

And his gut churned with that cocktail again, as he realized his brother really wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

****************

Stan was beginning to realize that making that deal with Archer had been a mistake.

Namely because he was chained up and dangling by his ankles in a slaughterhouse, and one of Archer’s goons was approaching him with a cleaver in one hand and a meat hook in the other, and it wasn’t because he was planning on giving him a fancy haircut.

“It’s nothing personal, Pinowski,” Archer said solemnly, staring down at him. “I like your moxie; really I do. But it’s bad business if I don’t make an example of you to anyone else with dumb ideas.”

“Yikes,” Stan grunted, face red from all the blood rushing to it, “you always talk like you’re Edward G. Robinson or something?”

Archer smiled thinly, and nodded to the guy who looked a little too enthusiastic about his grisly task.

By now, though, Stan had managed to put the paperclip he’d been using as a substitute cufflink to good use, and when the thug got close he swung his fist, with the chain wrapped around it. It hurt, but it was worth it to knock him into Archer, sending them both to the floor like ninepins. Frantically Stanley began wriggling like a worm on a hook, trying to reach his ankles before they could get up. Instead he found himself sliding backwards, his body thudding into one of the dead cattle dangling behind him like one of those stupid balls on strings that you can smack two together and the ones at the other end will move-Newton’s cradle, that’s what Ford had said it was called. Ugh, of all the times for him to be remembering his brother-

He barely managed to dodge the cleaver, which was swung with a vengeance at his neck, and almost on reflex his arms flew up, catching the thug’s other wrist. Despite his efforts, the hook pressed stubbornly forward, catching into the flesh of his stomach and digging in. On the bright side, it brought the thug close enough for Stan to pound an unexpected fist into his gut.

Eventually, of course, Stan managed to get away. But not without a somewhat-gaping hole in his stomach, and a need to run quickly before the police and the fire department showed up at the slaughterhouse to find out what the heck was going on. Together, these were not the most pleasant combination in the world.

********

Far away at a second-rate college, Ford nearly fell out of his desk with a gasp of agony, clutching at his stomach.

At once Fiddleford was at his side, asking frantically what was the matter.

“I-I dunno-something hurts-”

“Have y’got yer appendix removed?”

“No-never had to.”

“C’mon, let’s get ya to the doctor. Maybe it became inflamed or somethin’.” Fiddleford pulled his friend to his feet and slung his free arm over his shoulder, shepherding him out the door.

Surprisingly, the doctor found nothing wrong with his appendix. Nothing seemed to be wrong period, except for the unexplained throbbing sensation. Eventually he just gave Ford some painkillers and sent him back to the dorm to get some rest. Ford speculated on the possibility of it being pain for an injury that he hadn’t received yet or something else supernatural like that, and gulped down some of the medicine with water so he could get back to work.

(Far away, in a remote field where he’d managed to hide his car until the heat died down, Stan felt the burning ache in his clumsily-stitched gut miraculously recede a little, even though he hadn’t managed to steal painkillers yet. Maybe life was giving him a break from being its chew toy for a while.)

****************

It had been a long week, and the coming one wasn’t looking any better due to impending finals.

Ford couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept instead of either studying or drinking copious amounts of coffee. Of course, sleep was a terrible waste of time that he avoided whenever possible anyway, but he had to admit that sometimes it was a necessary evil. If nothing else, because it helped get rid of throbbing headaches like the one filling his skull right now. But dang it, this was important! The sooner he graduated, the sooner he could get into the important research he wanted to study. And he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he got anything but the best possible grades.

Rubbing his gritty eyes under his glasses, Ford made some fresh coffee and forced himself to focus on his notes.

********

It was the worst hangover Stan could remember having in years. He slumped back against the brick wall behind him, eyes closed, wishing he was dead.

...Which happened more often than he wanted to admit, even without hangovers. But at least this time he had a semi-decent excuse.

He didn’t even think he’d drunk that much; certainly not enough to make his skull feel like rocks were rolling around inside it and banging together. Geez, it felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.

With a groan, he finally got up, grabbing the hat containing the few coins a few people had dropped in it (he was sure close to making those millions now, ha ha ha), and staggered to his car, collapsing in the back seat. To his relief, he managed to fall into a dreamless sleep fairly quickly.

(Ford began, after a few hours, to feel strangely refreshed; he chalked it up to his body adjusting to an alternative sleep schedule and double-checked his term paper.)

****************

As Stan got older, he noticed that his body would develop odd aches and pains, especially in his joints, and sometimes he would wake up feeling utterly exhausted, like he’d been boxing in his sleep. It wasn’t too surprising, since he hadn’t exactly had a peaceful lifestyle in his youth and he was probably paying for it now. He just learned to deal with it all when he got up in the morning, and focused on the important things: fleecing the hides off customers, and trying to figure out that stupid portal.

Nothing else mattered.

********

Ford didn’t have many opportunities to wash properly while traveling through the multiverse, what with constantly hopping dimensions and fighting for his life here and there, but if he’d had a chance to look at his right shoulder, he would have seen that for weeks after he first arrived the skin was bright red, like he’d gotten a bad sunburn. Of course, this being Ford he might have just dismissed it as an allergic reaction to something in his clothes or whatever.

****************

The Stan O’War II needed fresh supplies. Again.

The Pineses went their separate ways in the busy port marketplace-Ford to pick up scientific gear, and Stan to get food and fishing tackle.

Ford was just fishing his wallet out of his pocket (and really missing the dimensions where currency had been rendered unnecessary), when he gasped and doubled over against the counter, clutching a hand to his cheek.

“Sir?” the shopkeeper asked, looking at him with concern, “Are you alright?”

He managed to nod and straighten up, handing him the cash. “Yes, I’m fine, sorry. Just...a muscle spasm or something.”

That...was odd, even by my standards, he thought as he gathered up his things and headed for the boat. It was almost like someone had up and punched him (and believe me, by now he knew what that felt like).

Stanley was not back yet, so Ford was about to make himself busy putting things away, when the sensation came again, except it was in his ribs.

And this time, he had an odd feeling that it had something to do with his twin.

It defied all the logic his mind prided so highly, but then again, things like the M Dimension and leprecorns defied logic and they still existed, so he just tucked his gun into its holster and hurried back onto shore.

The throbbing in his side became almost a pulse; like a dark version of “Hot and Cold,” it grew stronger as he turned certain directions, leading him to a remote corner of town with a big white van parked nearby-never a good sign.

An even worse sign was the group of men trying to force Stanley into the truck.

To be fair, Stanley appeared to be handling it reasonably well-several of them were lying on the ground, clutching themselves in various areas and groaning, while the ones still standing were sporting a lovely assortment of black eyes and bloody lips, among other injuries. And while he was suffering some wear and tear himself, Stan was still weaving back and forth, using his feet and hands and fingers in ways that were not strictly fighting fair, but were doing the more important job of defending himself and not allowing them to move him any closer to the van.

And then one of them pulled a knife out of his belt.

Ford didn’t think twice.

There was a loud fizzing sound, a brief agonized squeal, and then the smell of charred flesh filled the air.

The group of thugs froze, and turned to see Ford marching towards them, outstretched gun still with a puff of smoke at the end just like in the movies.

“What the bleep-” one of them began to ask.

“Leave. Now.”

None of the six men left standing needed to be told again.

To Ford’s slight relief, Stan looked surprised at his vicious conduct, but not appalled by it. He just shook himself, adjusted his glasses and made his way over to his twin, “accidentally” stepping on a few of the people he’d brought down.

“Good timing,” he said. “Sorry, I kind of lost the stuff.”

“That doesn’t matter; we’ll get it in another port. Come on.”

“Just a sec.” Stan turned back to the thugs lying on the ground, and began rifling through their pockets.

Ford rolled his eyes, but trained his gun on any of them who looked like they might be thinking about moving.

Once they were back on the boat, Stan happily counted their newly-acquired wealth, and began calculating how much they would need to use to restock their lost supplies. Ford put away his gun and then busied himself with setting up what he’d managed to acquire.

“Who were those men?” he finally asked.

Stan shrugged. “They said their boss wanted to see me, but I can’t remember who he is. Probably just another in a long list of people I p_ssed off once upon a time.” Then he added, “Thanks, by the way.” He still didn’t seem bothered by what his brother had done.

Ford gave him a small nod. Then he said, “You’d better let me take a look at your ribs.”

Stan blinked. “How did you know they’re hurt?”

It was Ford’s turn to blink. “I-it’s how I found you. I...it sounds crazy, but I felt it.”

“...You felt my pain.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.” Ford gestured for him to take his coat off; Stan sighed, but complied and perched on the edge of the table, hiking up his shirt. His entire left side was almost a completely solid bruise, with a few scratches where one of the thugs must have been wearing a ring or something.

“Pretty sure nothing’s broken,” he said. “It’s just gonna hurt like h_ll for a while.”

Ford tested the sore places anyway to verify this for himself, as gently as he could get away with, before getting some disinfectant and bandages for the scratches.

He was almost done, when Stanley suddenly reached his hand over and flicked him hard on the ear.

“Ouch!” Ford squawked, ducking his head away. “What was that for?!”

“I wanted to see if it worked both ways,” Stan said in a ‘duh’ tone. He tilted his head, probably waiting for his ear to start hurting too.

“I don’t think it works like that,” the older twin scolded, rubbing his head.

“How d’you know?”

“I’m just guessing, okay? Now hold still.”

“Bossy, bossy.”

Just then Ford’s eyes fell on a long, pale scar going down the right side of Stan’s stomach.

“What’s that?”

Stanley glanced at it, and after a long moment he managed to pull some of the memory together, prompted by the sight of the injury. “I...I think I got that a long time ago when...when some guy tried to kill me with a meat hook.”

Ford was nursing a memory of his own, of having sudden unexpected pain but the doctor not seeing anything wrong.

Interesting...

#twinstinct #twinpathy #artsymeeshee #renconnor #Gravity Falls #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #stan pines #ford pines #sea grunks #angst #angst with a happy ending #homeless stan #portal ford #slices of life

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