#(Ink knows Dream is right but he is forgetful and also likes winding Dream up) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

midnightswithdearkatytspb · 3 years

Text

VelvetCardiganBucky’s Recommendations 2021: Week 12 & 13 | March 14th – March 27th

Welcome to weeks 12 & 13 of my recommendations, if you would like to be featured on a future list, I follow the hashtag #VelvetCardiganBucky, message me, tag me in your future works, or reblog this post and link to your story, one-shot, Masterlist, writing challenge, etc.

Be aware some if not most stories and writers on this list are meant to be consumed by an audience of those 18+. My blog is also an 18+ blog.

✨Page breaks are made @firefly-graphics✨

«Last Week

Week 14»

My Masterlist

My Fic Rec List of Mafia/Mob Bucky/Sebastian & Steve/Chris/Andy

Stuff I Posted This Week:

Steve + Bey = 4Ever » Steve Rogers and Bey carved places in each other’s hearts, that no one else could ever replace.

I Hear A Symphony » Bucky Barnes x Mutant!Reader — Reader plays an important song to her for Bucky.

—Formerly The Winter Soldier » “I’m no longer the winter soldier, my name is James Bucky Barnes & you're part of my effort to make amends.”

Lee Bodecker

(Mini) Series:

*Give In by @not-a-great-writer » soft!dark!Lee Bodecker x shy!Reader — She didn’t think she was anything special. So when the intimidating Sheriff takes an interest in her, she can’t help but feel a little unsettled. Her boring life is about to get a little interesting. | This story has to be one of my all time series I’ve ever read, and I know I will weep when it’s over. The chapters are decently sized, you have angst, fluff and smut. I couldn’t ask for more, it’s simply a masterpiece.

Deadbeat Pt. 9 by @the-witty-pen-name » Lee Bodecker x F!Reader — You work at the bar at the edge of town, the Sheriff is going through a divorce and needs to rent a room. | Cole thank you for feeding my current Lee Bodecker obsession after I watched The Devil All The Time, for the time. This story is good and I love soft!Lee, and one where no one dies. At least I hope no one dies...

SamBucky

One-Shots:

Loving You Is Cherry Pie by @river-soul » Sam Wilson x Reader x Bucky Barnes — When Sam Wilson, one of your regulars at the cafe finally asks you out, you’re ecstatic until he tells you he wants his friend to join. When you meet Bucky, you decide it might be worth your while after all. [Allusions to stalking, exhibitionism and explicit sex, 18+] | There is just not enough SamBuck stories out there and we have @river-soul to thank for feeding our love for the boys and giving us some good smut, especially to tide us over till Friday.

Nothing Good Happens After 2 AM by @callmeluna » Sam Wilson x Reader x Bucky Barnes — You are admittedly a handful when you’ve had a few drinks in you. Luckily, your partners Sam and Bucky are more than up for the challenge… maybe. | If you are looking for something to make you laugh, might I suggest reading this? The whole time as I read this I couldn’t get the huge smile off my face, it was that good.

Bucky Barnes

Drabbles:

Matching by @heli0s-writes » Bucky Barnes x Reader — Reader and Bucky are “matchy matchy,” with their belly button rings. | This is adorable as well as very funny.

One-Shots:

Smooth Criminal by @bestofbucky » Bucky Barnes x Reader — Based on a dream @velvetcardiganbucky had. You’re parents told you to never give rides to strangers, but when you notice Bucky Barnes trying to break into your car, you know some strangers aren’t so bad. | Jenny did my dream justice! I honestly couldn’t have asked for anything better.

Don’t Over Do It by @whisperlullaby » Bucky Barnes x Reader — Your boyfriend is an asshole. Bucky reminds you that you are perfect the way you are. | I can’t describe this anyway other than perfect, that I wish I had a Bucky like this there for me. Trust me you’ll love the ending.

Coming Home to You by @angrythingstarlight » Biker!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Your Biker boyfriend is finally home and he’s going to show you how much he missed you. With every inch he has. And you’re going to remember how much he loves you. | It’s not very often you read something that has an alternate ending and when you do you find yourself loving both endings. Both endings are hot, the smut is great, again who couldn’t love Biker!Bucky?

Won’t Let You Go by @kind-of-crazy-butthatsokay » Mob!Bucky Barnes x OFC!Kori — Kori met Bucky in one of his clubs, out to get shit-faced with a couple of friends to forget about her worries and maybe take home a guy to further rid herself of her numerous frustrations. Little did she know that the one-night stand with Bucky would turn into so much more than that. | Thank you so much for entering my writing challenge, it means so much. This one-shot is so good, it hit me right the feels and left me falling in love with Kori and Bucky.

Show Me How To Ride by @angrythingstarlight » Beefy Biker!Bucky Barnes x Reader — You’ve been keeping a secret from your biker boyfriend. He is going to get the information out of you one way or the other. | It’s hot and it makes you realize just how much you realize just how much you love Biker!Bucky.

Bubble Baths by @floatingpetals » Bucky Barnes x Reader (Modern AU) — Even your boyfriend Bucky, needs to wind down at the end of a stressful with a bubble bath, but he doesn’t want to do it alone. | Okay, so my summary of this sucks but let me just say this is fluffy and smutty all at once. I wish I had Bucky to take a bubbly bath with.

Bad Boy!Bucky Barnes x Shy!Reader by @gagmebucky — in which there’s nowhere to sit and bucky offers his lap—then, subsequently, his cock. (bad boy!bucky x shy!reader, dirty talk, exhibitionism and voyeurism, cockwarming, unprotected sex.) | *chugs water* yeah is it a little hot in here? I probably would have failed class if Bucky had been in my class along with Steve, I wouldn’t have known who to stare at, forget learning the material.

**Greater Good by @fuel-joy » Bucky Barnes x Reader — There is a cure for the zombie outbreak but is it worth the cost. | Grab your tissues, because you are going to need them. Thanks darling for entering my writing challenge and making me feel so many feels with this one.

(Mini) Series:

A Tender Heart ♥️ Pt. 2 by @river-soul » Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader — You’ve been sweet on Bucky since you started working at the compound six months ago. Normally quiet and mild mannered, an unexpired fight with a coworker brings Bucky into your orbit. [A/B/O dynamics, brief mention of bullying and fluff] | If anyone can pull at your heartstrings it’s @river-soul making the beginning of this series look so promising and I can’t wait to see where it goes.

Run To You 🪙 Pt. 10 🪙 Pt. 11 🪙 Pt. 12 by @bestofbucky » Mob!Bucky Barnes x Bodyguard!Reader — Mob boss Bucky Barnes hires you to be his bodyguard. | Jenny left me at the edge of my seat, making this such an amazing story, I always look forward to her updates, and so sad that there is only 1 chapter left.

Better than Working sequel to This by @angrythingstarlight » Beefy Biker!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Beefy Biker Bucky shows you all the benefits of working from home. In fact what he has for you is so much better than work. | Sometimes you just need to read something hot to lift your spirits, let this do that.

Stucky

One-Shots:

*Tell Me What You Want by @angrythingstarlight » Mafia!Steve Rogers x Reader; Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Reader — Your mob boyfriend, is none other than Steve Rogers and he is willing to get you whatever you wanted, all you have to do is ask. And be careful what you ask for because he’s going to give it to you over and over again. | This is so hot that I highly recommend not reading this anywhere out in public. The smut in this is just *chefs kiss*

(Mini) Series:

Miracle Pt. 2 🥀 Pt. 1 by @heavenhatesme » Soft!Dark!Bucky Barnes x Reader; Soft!Dark!Steve Rogers x Reader — When infertility threatens mankind with extinction and there hasn’t been a baby for almost 18 years, what happens when two certain super soldiers fall for the same woman and accidentally impregnate her? | It’s not tagged as dark, sorry to the writer I tagged it that please forgive me? But I just want to tell everyone heed the tags. I do look forward to reading what happens next. The smut in this is great!

Invisible Ink by @navybrat817 » Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader; Bucky Barnes x Reader x Steve Rogers — The owners of the Howling Commandos Tattoo Parlor want to make you their best girl. | I love the idea of tattoo’d Bucky and Steve, but that's because I have a weakness for tattoo’s. So this series is just right up my alley, and the start of it is so good that I know it’s good to be a great one!

Steve Rogers

Drabbles:

Chocolate Milk & Dino Nuggets by @nony-bear » Steve Rogers x Reader — Daddy Steve helps make his little girl feel better after a long week. DDLG THEMES | Had me wishing I had a Steve to make me Dino nuggets after a long day at work. It’s precious folks.

Prompt 4K Drabble Challenge by @sweeterthanthis » Steve Rogers x Reader — “Show me how deep you can take it.” | You’re going to need an ice cold bath after this one.

One-Shots:

A Cruel Tide by @writerwrites » Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader — A lost hero thinks she needs saving, but this divorcée’s needs were different, fleeting, and then full of attachment. Can they overcome the burdens on their shoulders and keep their word? | Sometimes you want to wrap the reader and Steve in a blanket and protect them while enjoying the smut. This gave me that and more.

Untitled Request by @navybrat817 » Steve Rogers x Reader — Sending Steve a naughty photo while he’s in a meeting leads to punishment that will remind you to never do it again, right? | Hi, I’m just going to drench myself in ice cold water. ✌🏻

(Mini) Series:

*Control Pt. 3 🔐 Pt. 1 🔐 Pt. 2 by @river-soul » dark!Steve Rogers x Reader — When a probationary agent asks you out on a date you learn Steve’s intentions for you have evolved. He doesn’t take kindly to someone touching what’s his. [Noncon, physical violence (biting), grooming behavior and explicit sex, 18+] | Definitely one of my favorite series to read on Tumblr so far, you know it’s dark, and the smut is great. I always look forward to the updates on this one.

*Lipstick and Crayons 🖍 Ch. 4 by @oneoftheprettynerds » Dark Mob!Steve Rogers x Reader — Steve can’t ever repay you for what you did. After meeting you, Steve believes his broken family is the missing piece in the puzzle of your own wrecked one. Indebting the crime lord to you has been the biggest mistake of your life, cause now you can’t get rid of him, no matter what. Loyalty and favours go a long way in the mob. | This story always gets my heart a racing and leaves you with questions as to what is going to happen next. I truly love it and Soft!Dad while being Angry!Mob boss Steve all at the same time, this story just has it all for me.

This Is My Unbecoming by @river-soul » Werewolf!Steve Rogers x Witch!Reader — When the Hydra pack graduates from turning humans to swell their ranks to kidnapping and murdering witches to consolidate power, Steve knows he needs to strike. He makes a deal with a powerful coven leader for a witch of his own in exchange for destroying the rogue pack. [Magical realism, biting, blood, slightly dubious consent and explicit sex, 18+] | Okay this is so good and I would like to thank the teenage mind of @river-soul for creating this! Like seriously thank you. I look forward to reading more!

It’s been a long, long time ☕️ Ch.1 by @mostly-marvel-musings » Steve Rogers x Reader — Steve Rogers – a man who has lost too much finds himself blending into the crowd in attempts to forget his past but revisits familiar places and spends days sketching his heart out. A rainy evening leads him to find shelter in your coffee shop. Is having meaningful conversations over endless cups of coffee with a stranger the key to unlocking a heart that’s lost the will to love? | The prologue tore my heart out, it truly did but the first chapter just puts the pieces back together. I really love this and I’m honestly looking forward to reading what happens next. I can’t thank you enough for entering my writing challenge!

*Not A Team Part: 1 by @shedobewritingalittle » Steve Rogers x Reader — The Reader tries to live a normal life, but her memories won’t leave her alone. Rhodey comes to visit the reader with a proposition. | There aren't a lot of stories out there that have walk on parts with Rhodey in it and I didn’t know how much I missed out on having him in stories till I read this. This was just so well written and the characterization of Rhodey was perfect, how Peyton got the emotions written across, it’s perfect. Read this and have some tissues on hand. I will always love it.

Andy Barber

One-Shots:

Closing Arguments by @river-soul » Andy Barber x Reader — Andy and you are going out for the first time since your daughter’s birth. Anxious about leaving her behind Andy does his best to make you feel better. [Fluff with explicit sex (f recieving), 18+] | So fluffy and sweet!

Keep the Heat by @ozarkthedog » Andy Barber x Reader — Andy fucks you in the coat. | Semi-Short and the smut is oh so good.

(Mini) Series:

Homebound 🏡 Ch. 1 by @fuel-joy » Dark!Andy Barber x Reader — You witness your neighbor kill his wife. You try to gather evidence all from the comfort of your home. | Prepare to be at the edge of your seat with this one, it’s just that good.

One Night by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor » Dark!Andy Barber x Reader — One night changes your entire life. | This is dark and exciting, with tons of angst in it. I love a real good dark!Andy fic and this is it.

Chris Evans

One-Shots:

Mirrors by @cherrychris » Chris Evans x Reader — “wanna know what i see? me owning you and this sweet little pussy” | Sometimes you read things that just blow your mind and this was one of those things.

*Work Party by @harrylovex » Chris Evans x Reader — you get drunk at a work party and chris looks after you… | This is really adorable and probably one of my favorite fluffy Chris Evans one-shots I’ve ever read.

Misc.

One-Shots:

An Act of Kindness by @stargazingfangirl18 » Jake Jensen x Female!Reader — A simple act of kindness seals your fate. | I would like to simply start of by saying that this was my first Jake Jensen fanfiction in years, or maybe my first one, and all I could was where have I been hiding from him? So good and glad I read this and so will you!

*Come Back Safe by @celestialbarnes » Sam Wilson x Reader — based on tfatws, you find out sam’s leaving for a mission, afraid to lose the man you love, you confront him, and he promises you to come back. | So fluffy you’ll want to cuddle it under a blanket fort and wish under a thousand starry night skies for it to come true.

(Mini) Series:

Fiery Friends Pt. 3 🔥 Pt. 4 by @wanderinglunarnights » Johnny Storm x OFC!Sophia Jones — Johnny invites his best friend Sophia to stay with him in his penthouse during quarantine. | I really like this story, because I find myself mentally rooting for Sophia and Johnny, also going you go girl. Looking forward to what is next for this duo.

Ensnared Pt. 2 🔗 Pt. 1 by @stargazingfangirl18 » Ransom Drysdale x Female!Reader; minor Robert Pronge (Mr. Freezy) x Reader — Robert preps you for the handoff to the smooth talking stranger who bought you, but before he lets you go, he wants to have a little fun first. | So good and hot. Honestly I look forward to hopefully finding out what happens between the reader and Ransom.

Made With Love by @ayybtch » Wanda Maximoff x f!Reader + Friends to Lovers — Wanda is an excellent cook but a terrible baker. A rough day leads her to the bakery in the Avengers compound where she meets you, the lead baker. After a dismal attempt at making chocolate chip cookies, you volunteer to help Wanda learn how to bake. Your friendship grows stronger with each successful recipe until the two of you stumble into something even sweeter than baked goods. | This story will constantly have you smiling, sure it’s only 3 chapters so far, but I started off reading it in a bad mood but by the 3rd chapter I was just so sappy and happy. I can’t wait for more!

Without Me by CuttingMyFingersOff » Legolas x OFC!Braigeth — Braigeth was an elf who has nothing but memories of Legolas to help her survive being imprisoned in the walls of Orthanc. That is, until she is able to escape and reunite with him. | I’ve been invested in this since my friend came forward to me with the idea for this story and now that it’s being written, I couldn’t be more excited to read it. I need more Lord of the Rings in my life if I’m being honest.

Forever and Ever More by @syntheticavenger » Dark Alpha!Ransom Drysdale x Omega!Reader — Ransom Drysdale may be Boston’s most eligible Alpha but he has his eyes set on you. With his inheritance hanging in the balance, he won’t take no for an answer, whether you like him or not. | Prepared to go on a Hawaiian EMOTIONAL roller coaster with this story, there are so many times in this story you find yourself picking your jaw up off the floor. I’ve linked you to chapter 9, which has all the previous chapters, listed.

Is A Shout Out To My...

@bluemusickid in celebration of 700 followers is hosting a Holi Celebration Writing Challenge, that is due April 30th, but extension can be given. Any Marvel or MCU characters can be used in addition to Chris Evans and his characters. The theme is Holi and its colors, for better explanation visit the link provided.

@whisperlullaby in celebration of 700 followers is hosting a 700 Followers Challenge, your entries will be due May 5th. The theme is kinks, no RPF, DDLG/MMLG, bathroom related , incest, or under age kinks. This is MCU characters, Sebastian Stan, and Chris Evans characters x OFC or Reader. For more information visit the link provided. Congrats Becca on the 700 followers you deserve it hun!

@stargazingfangirl18 in celebration of 5K followers is hosting a Soft Dark Writing Challenge, which is due May 31st. Don’t let the name fool you, your writing can be soft, dark, or soft!dark, or headcanons about any Chris character. 500 word minimum with no max, but new or be read as a stand alone piece. For more information visit the link provided and be sure to congratulate Siri on her 5K milestone!

@cloudystevie in celebration of 4K followers is hosting a Mob!AU Writing Challenge, that is due on May 30th. You can use Chris Evans and any of his characters he’s played before, as well as make it NSFW or SFW. To learn more about it please visit the link below. Also congratulations Jasmeen on the 4K followers! 💗

654 notes · View notes

elentiyawhitethorn · 2 years

Text

I Dare You to Love Me | Part Two

CW: language

Part One//1781 words

A choked sob forced its way out of Aelin’s throat as she ran, racing down the pavement with no destination in mind. She just ran, and ran, and ran, until she couldn’t hear Rowan calling after her, until she couldn’t recognize where she was, until there was nothing left.

Aelin bent over, sobbing in earnest now. Her hands covered her face as she trembled and cried.

A minute or two passed, then Aelin heard a beep. She righted herself and pulled out her phone, completely unsurprised to find a message from Rowan.

Unsurprised, but also unprepared.

The message read as such:

>>come back

Another ding left another message, then another, Aelin’s eyes still trained on the screen and the three dots, moving ceaselessly as Rowan typed.

>>im so sorry

>>i know you dont love me like i love you

>>just please come home

>>we can just forget about it

>>please

>>aelin im begging you

>>youre my best friend

Aelin spun around and hurled her phone as hard as she could.

The crack of her phone hitting a nearby tree wasn’t nearly satisfying enough, and she marched over and stomped on it. Then Aelin bent over and picked it up, eyed a trash can on the sidewalk, and dumped it inside.

Then Aelin started walking again. She didn’t look back.

—

“I’m in love with you.”

“I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you, I’m in love with you.”

The words echoed relentlessly in Aelin’s head, driving her near insanity. She didn’t think about what the words meant, or what they made her feel, she just repeated them over and over again.

Aelin’s shirt was flimsy and it was cold outside, but she only wrapped her arms around herself absentmindedly, nearly oblivious to the world around her. At least her jeans offered some form of protection from the bitter wind.

Aelin was most certainly lost at this point. She walked a lot, but she’d never gone this far, and in the near-darkness, prevented from pure ink only by the occasional streetlamp, her sense of direction was addled. Not that she much cared about finding her way home.

A shuddering breath falling from her lips, Aelin plumped down on the ground and leaned back against a tree. The toe of her shoe played with a crack in the sidewalk.

“Rowan loves me,” Aelin said aloud. “He loves me.”

Her voice was dull and apathetic. Void of emotion. Merely stating a fact.

Aelin allowed her thoughts to drift. Back to easier days. To when she and Rowan were younger and there was no love confession, no sex, no desire. Just two young teenagers playing together. Before that, even. Screaming to the skies together about the standardized history test their first year of high school. Hosting a tea party in the fourth grade at Aelin’s insistence. Forcing Rowan to dress up as a princess in kindergarten for Halloween.

There were so many good memories of the two of them as friends, and what right did Rowan have to try and make them something different? When they had worked so well as what they were before?

The rational voice inside of Aelin told her that things had been changing for a while, ever since she’d started ogling his muscles and having dreams about him doing no-so-innocent things to her. It told her that she was the one who’d kissed him per request of the dare, not a thought toward the consequences. She had initiated their activities in the pool. Rowan probably never would have said anything if not for her own lack of control.

But Aelin wasn’t feeling in the rational mood right now, and that voice was small next to the burning blood in her veins. Aelin wrapped her arms about her legs, in the smallest possible position on the grass as she allowed her emotions to take over.

She didn’t love Rowan. Not like that. He was her best friend, and he never should have screwed that up. He had such nerve, spilling his feelings with hardly a hint of worry on his face. How dare he assume she felt the same? How dare he make things so damaged, so irreparable between them?

Aelin breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. In, out. In, out.

She didn’t love Rowan. Because… well… she just didn’t. She couldn’t. There was no way.

Aelin bit her lip to hold in another sob.

She could already acknowledge she had a crush on Rowan. She’d know that for a while. But it was less wanting to date Rowan and more wanting to fuck Rowan—as she’d ended up doing. Aelin had never let herself consider that her recent attraction to him was anything more because of their friendship. Because she didn’t want to sacrifice that. But that wasn’t the only reason. Aelin simply didn’t want him like that.

Did she?

“Oh, gods,” Aelin moaned, tears sliding down harder, dropping onto her jeans, onto the grass.

And because of how much she loved Rowan—in some manner, at least—and how much she couldn’t afford to lose him, Aelin let herself consider what it would be like to love Rowan.

Just for a moment.

Images flashed through Aelin’s mind, so quickly she barely remembered each after it left. Aelin in his arms, tracing circles on his chest and smiling at all the little things he had to tease her about. Rowan pressing a gentle kiss to her neck as he zipped up her dress. Aelin laughing as she was spun around, the two of them dancing.

And damn it all to hell, it’s didn’t sound so bad.

—

Rowan’s eyes snapped open.

He scrambled into a sitting position as everything came rushing back to him and he realized he’d been falling asleep on Aelin’s couch. And the door was now opening.

“Rowan?” a soft voice called, and Rowan’s heart clenched. He cursed himself for being the reason her voice was so small, so unsure.

“Aelin?” he tried to reply, but his voice came out raspy and quiet.

She heard him anyway, coming into the living room and faltering as her eyes landed on him. “I didn’t know if you’d still be here.”

“I can go if you want me to,” Rowan rushed to say, finding his way to his feet.

Aelin shook her head. “No, I… don’t.”

Despite the tranquil tone, her eyes were red. Rowan stayed.

“You love me.”

It wasn’t a question, but Rowan nodded anyway, at a loss for words.

“How long?”

Rowan hesitated. As much as he wanted to take it all back, Aelin’s tone demanded honestly. He couldn’t bring himself to lie. “A few years now, but it’s been worse recently.”

She nodded serenely.

“I’m so sorry, Lin,” Rowan whispered. “I never should have said anything. I never should have let this happen. I’m so, so sorry.”

He had prepared a whole speech after she’d run out about how easy it would be to just pretend this had never happened, and how their friendship mattered more than anything else, and all the reasons he had to apologize. But it all failed him. Rowan’s mouth shut, waiting to see what Aelin had to say.

Her words were nothing near what he had expected. “I want to try it.”

“Try what?” Rowan’s voice came out strangled.

“This.” She gestured helplessly. “Being with you. I don’t love you. But I could. And it’s something that I…”

Rowan’s eyes widened. “You…”

Aelin laughed nervously. “Neither of us is doing a good job finishing our sentences, are we? Look, let’s sit down. I want to talk.”

Rowan nodded a bit mindlessly.

“It’s not just that I want to preserve our friendship; it’s more than that,” Aelin began once they were seated. “I may not have such strong feelings for you as you do for me, but there’s something. I’ve been pushing it all down because I didn’t want to lose you over some silly crush, but now that I know you want me, it’s easier to let myself want you. And I’m not ready for a lot, but I want to see how this goes. Slowly. Very slowly. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

Rowan couldn’t tell if his heart was beating twice the normal speed or not at all. Same thing with his brain—he was either thinking a thousand things at once or nothing, not a single thing except static. Something somewhere had short-circuited, and his ears were buzzing, and Aelin liked him, and…

“Rowan?”

He snapped back to reality. “Yes. Gods, yes, Aelin, I’ll try it.”

She smiled, and it was the kind of carefree smile he’d get only when she was truly happy. The kind of smile he always worked for, praying he’d get to see the room light up by her luminescence. And shit, was it stunning.

Aelin scooted closer to him and placed her slender fingers delicately on his shoulders. She leaned in slowly and gently pressed her lips against his. Rowan didn’t move his hands, only allowing himself to kiss her back softly, afraid of pushing her too far.

She leaned back, out of breath despite the short, featherlight kiss. “Say it again.”

Rowan knew what she meant. “I love you.”

Aelin smiled and leaned in, throwing her arms around Rowan. He hugged her back—then tensed. “Aelin, you’re freezing!”

She chuckled slightly. “Yeah, it’s kind of cold outside.”

Rowan, frowning at Aelin’s amusement, pulled back and grabbed a blanket from the side of the couch. He draped it over Aelin’s small stature and snuggled next to her gently, once again not wanting to test her limits but also concerned for her, her skin ice to the touch. Despite her lack of complaints, Aelin huddled under the blanket gratefully. She also hugged him once more, curling up beside him and drawing the blanket over both of them.

“I’m sorry I ran out on you.”

Rowan’s concern softened to sympathy. “Don’t be. You had every right to.”

Aelin shook her head and opened her mouth to argue, but Rowan placed a finger over her lips. “Not now. We can bicker about it once you’ve returned to a normal body temperature.”

Aelin rolled her eyes, and he was grateful to see her signature snark still intact. “Fussy buzzard,” she muttered.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.”

Aelin’s lips twitched, and she only leaned into him more. Only a moment passed as Rowan gently rubbed her back until Aelin’s breathing slowed, and just like that, she was asleep.

And Rowan held her until morning, and through part of the afternoon, even after he himself fell asleep.

———

Tag List:

@aelin-bitch-queen

@evolving-dreamer

@feysand-loml

@flora-shadowshine

@gracie-rosee

@infernoqueen19

@julemmaes

@lemonade-coolattas

@live-the-fangirl-life

@midsizewitch

@morganofthewildfire

@nehemikkele

@realbookloverproblems

@rhysandswingspan

@rowaelinismyotp

@rowanaelinn

@sexy-dumpster-fire

@sleeping-and-books

@story-scribbler

@swankii-art-teacher

@the-lonelybarricade

@thenerdandfandoms

@yesdreamblog

#rowaelin #tog #i dare you to love me #my writing

109 notes · View notes

hansoulo · 3 years

Text

whisper scarcely breathing

part four of “Pillar of Salt”

Pairing: Boba Fett/Princess!Reader (she/her pronouns, no Y/N)

Warnings: NC-17, NSFW, explicit language, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff, hurt/comfort but without the hurt, bathing and/or being bathed, choking, female-receiving oral, loss of virginity, unprotected M/F intercourse

Word Count: 6.1k

Image Credit: (x) by @/365filmsbyauroranocte, not meant to be a representation of the reader

A/N: this one is for the boys with the boomin’ system 😩💦

༓ series masterlist ༓

The datapad that you’d left in the garden was thrust back into your possession one morning by the hurried hands of a maid. Truthfully, you had forgotten all about it. The mind, when faced with matters as pressing as the press of a mouth, tends to forget about inconsequential objects.

You’d never met the girl standing in front of you before, and she avoided your eyes while passing over the small screen. She seemed eager to be rid of it. You couldn’t say you blamed her. “‘S yours, miss. The bounty hunter said you’d lost it.”

Did he, now?

“Thank you,” you replied sincerely, careful not to let the datapad drop to the floor as you tucked it back into the deep brocade of your gown pockets. You didn’t have the wherewithal at first to ask her when he’d found it or found the time to return it. But you also didn’t have the common sense to keep your mouth shut. “Could I ask when he gave it to you?”

The servant ducked her head. “This morning, your Highness. I- I was in the loading bay when they left, think he was tryin’ to get a hold of you but didn’t have the time, told me- told me to keep quiet ‘bout it.” A bob of her throat signalled a nervous swallow. “Princess.”

Poor girl, you thought to yourself absentmindedly. Boba probably scared her half out of her wits.

“Really, I can’t thank you enough.” You touched a soft hand to the servant’s shoulder in an misguided attempt to soothe. She returned the action with a nervous smile, eyes still downcast and trying not to shy away.

You never realized how afraid they all were. Of you.

The realization made your tongue tangle in your throat, tripping over some lie about a fever and champagne-induced amnesia as explanation for your exchanges with a man so ill-acquainted.

Hopefully, the maid didn’t make a habit of gossip.

Hopefully, you stopped making a habit of Boba Fett.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

A chaincode, a datapad tracking number, and the rest of your life flashed in backlit neon. You silently cursed yourself for not putting an opening passcode on anything, including the datapad that you now held with slightly tremoring hands.

In your defense, it’s not like it held anything of interest. Mostly just holonovels and some pictures of things you found intriguing enough to want to paint or draw.

But now there was a thing of veritable interest stuffed into a new folder titled “Your Highness” and glowing in galactic basic.

BF-18378-3263827

You stared at the numbers until they morphed into a strong, stern-featured face, muddy in your imagination against the ink night invading your bedroom. Boba left his tracking number there for you. If you wanted to, you could use them to message him or comm him or leave a holoprojection message. Whenever you wanted. Right now, even.

When did he even find your datapad? Why he found it (and why he returned it with the aforementioned numerical contraband) was probably a more apt question.

There was quite a lot to think about. Best to take stock of the present moment, lest you lose your head and go completely mad. As if you hadn’t already.

The facts repeated themselves in a half-conscious mantra, screen slipping out of your hands and onto the pillow beside your head. Facts. Facts were good. What were the facts, again?

Boba Fett was arguably the most dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy.

Boba Fett was not much of a talker.

Boba Fett was a piss-poor dancer.

And Boba Fett was an unfairly good kisser.

The beginning three points held little negative sway, with the first adding much more appeal than it should, the second a welcome relief, and the third being… sort of endearing.

It was on the last point that your mind lingered the longest.

You didn’t even realize you’d copied numbers into the screen’s communications system until its microphone crackled to life.

One breath, two breaths, stuck in your sleep-thick throat. No words from either side yet. Did you get the tracking code wrong? Maybe. Maybe.

Maybe you were dreaming already, imagining the wind outside to be the quiet, husky inhale that sounded from the other end of the receiver.

“Not falling asleep are we, princess?”

Your eyes shot open. “No. No, I’m…” the words croaked themselves out as you fought down a yawn, “I’m awake.” His low chuckle. “I called you didn’t I?”

“That you did,” Boba assented. Quiet amusement colored his accent. “And you called because…”

“I wanted to,” you said simply, without room for teasing. You were too sleepy to be ashamed of admitting you sought out his company, as foolish as doing so was. No use in hiding what both parties knew to be true.

He let out a noise of soft approval and it rumbled a pleasant sunburst between your ears. “You seem to want a lot of things, don’t you?”

Makes me want… want…

Want what, Princess?

Want you.

You can have me.

The memory snaked a fever flush down your neck, over the still-tender skin and lightly mottled marks. Boba was remembering it just as well as you were. You knew he was.

It gave you a rush, a weird sort of power trip. Because as stupid as you felt doing this, wanting this, he wanted it too. Enough to let your hands thread through his hair and around his arms, then to the scar above his left brow and across his mouth. Enough to let you do it again at the risk of being caught. Enough to leave you his tracking number, like you were two teenagers trading love letters and not legal adults with judgement better enough to do otherwise.

You stayed on the comm for two hours, and only went to sleep because Boba threatened to cut your link off if you didn’t.

⫸———————————————— ⫷

It had been almost five standard months since the first time you’d spoken. Typed words continued to be exchanged under your covers, day after day, night after night. Sometimes you’d fall asleep talking, peppering him with questions about his ship and his job until your throat ached with the effort of keeping yourself awake. Sometimes you did more than talk.

He never fell asleep. Never seemed to sleep, period.

What a strange man. Strange, dangerous, interesting man.

You often missed each other by a hair’s breadth. Courtly flurry and galactic bounty hunting didn’t make much space for private conversation. Boba was still taciturn. You were still naive.

And yet…

You liked him. He listened when you talked about botany and painting, neither of which you imagined interested him. He was arrogant and cocky and insufferable sometimes, but he listened. He told you about his job and regaled your sheltered curiosity with lurid, gory details. He told you about his father.

And one day he somehow, miraculously, had a set of Nabooan watercolors left for you in the garden.

Biting down a juvenile grin with every new message, you watched the quiet ping! of the datapad.

Hello

are you busy?

In a way

how so

Had a brush with Hutt’s rancor

poor thing

Don’t get soft on me now

wasn’t talking about you

Very funny

I’m very, very sorry

Should be. The bastard nearly tore up my flight suit

… show me?

⫸———————————————— ⫷

BF-18378-3263827 HAS ATTACHED 3 FILES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

HOLOCALL DURATION: 02:45:35 HOURS

SAVE CALL RECORDING? PRESS YES/NO TO CONFIRM

Your damp hands tremored.

YES

⫸———————————————— ⫷

Six months, four days, and 20 hours. That’s how long it took for you to see Boba Fett again.

You’d started to think the entire ordeal was a mirage, an illusionary experience your brain conjured up for you as a one-time brush with what your life could have been. Who it could’ve been with.

But you did see him again. Foolhardy, reckless, and unplanned.

You didn’t listen to his explanation about having to leave in the morning, taking some third-rate bounty as an excuse to come back to Quas Killam for the first time in what seemed like ages—practically eons since his mouth had last been at your neck. He appeared on your bedroom balcony near midnight like an apparition, mounted by a still-burning jetpack that shut off with an arc of smoke.

You’d been sleeping, albeit fitfully, and woke the minute his knuckles rapped against the glass. You didn’t remember ever telling him where your bedchambers were, but given… everything… you couldn’t say you were surprised he knew. When he crouched down to shed the helmet, it made a soft thump on the plush carpet.

And then you kissed. And kissed. And kissed.

Boba’s fingertips dragged fire across your prickled skin with every pass. Whose breathing was whose didn’t matter. It was hard, heaving, and shared. Eyes closed, lips raw, every part of you dizzy. Dizzy.

The sneeze that left you was loud enough to knock his forehead against yours. Hard.

Feet stumbling until your legs hit the bedspread, you let your weakened knees carry you down into a sitting position atop the covers and tried to catch your breath. Boba only chuckled, seemingly unperturbed by the mild injury.

Of course your body had picked today to come down with a cold. And of course you’d forgotten to tell him.

In your defense (you seemed to do a lot of self-defending these days) you didn’t know Boba would be coming tonight. When you asked him a week ago—the last time you’d spoken—he’d said “soon.” Whatever “soon” meant, you hadn’t anticipated it being now. Your rumpled nightgown and deteriorating personal hygiene was evidence enough of that.

The day had passed in fitful naps, with you waving away all attempts at help until the servants who usually tittered about decided to give you a wide berth until tomorrow. They’d left the door locked and your curtains drawn, thank the gods.

“A hello would’ve been nice,” you mumbled. The lingering taste of him in your mouth mixed with the bitter medicine that you’d forced down a few hours ago.

Boba didn’t answer at first, only stalking forward with his silhouette glowing in light of the full moon. You brought your knees up to your chest to make room for him to stand in front of you. Every movement was bathed in slowness, in the reverence of caution and night-time silence.

His gloved hand brushed against your chin and tilted it upwards, thumb rubbing a small circle into your jawbone as he moved your face in one large grip. Left, inspecting a swollen mouth and puffy eyes, then right. Up to see the column of your exposed neck. Down to meet his bare, dark face.

He kissed you again, more gentle this time. “Hello.”

A soft whimper left your throat.

Oh, you hated it. Hated the way you sounded when he touched you, small and pathetic. Needy.

The balustrade doors were still open, and this fact was made known by a particularly biting gust of silver wind.

“You’re cold,” the man standing close to you noted with a deep downquirk of his mouth. Boba never had to conceal anything; his helmet did that for him. But when it was off, every thought flickered past his face in evening technicolor.

Your hands paused in their run up your arms to hold petulantly at your elbows, covered only by the thin fabric of your shift. Goosebumps rose against your neck with a new breeze and you fought down the urge to shiver. “M’not.”

“And stubborn.”

You glared at him, but it held no real venom.

“I appreciate the concern,” you sniffled again and your body trembled slightly. “But I’m the picture of health. I really have never been—” here you sneezed rather violently, crumbling any remaining sense of composure and making the final words thick with congestion, “—any better.” Boba hooked two strong arms underneath your knees and around your shoulders. “Wh- what are you doing?”

“C’mon,” Boba grunted and lifted you to his chest in one swift, easy motion. “Up.”

“I’m already up,” you grumbled, a headache you’d thought was all but gone now throbbing from the quick movement. Armor pressed to your cheek and you let yourself go pliant, curling up into Boba’s broad chest. He smelled nice. Like the outdoors. The real outdoors—not manufactured gardens or stone courtyards. No, dangerous things. Like deserts and leather and guns.

You queried him as he walked in long strides across the room. “Where are you taking me? Should have you—” another sneeze burned your airways, “—have you arrested for treason. A high crime or misdemeanor of some sort, kidnapping royalty...”

He only scoffed, shifting your slack body into his one-armed grip when he arrived at the entrance of your adjunct refresher. The door opened with a soft click. “You talk too much.”

Your head rolled back to face him, pressed so close already that the attempt made you cross-eyed. “And you,” a polished finger jabbed lightly at his chest plate, “are up to no good.”

You were only joking, but Boba didn’t deny it.

Green was your favorite color, even before you met him. It was the color of gardens. Of mint leaves. Of insects and jewels. Of him.

Gods, he was beautiful. Did he know that? Would he ever believe you if you told him? He was achingly, painfully, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The man set you down to your immediate protests. Funny how quick you seemed to change your mind. “Don’t whine,” he chided when you did just that, pushing you forward by the small of your back.

You walked into the refresher confused, that same confusion compounding when Boba strode over to the marble bathtub in room’s center with a surety that belayed the fact he’d never once stepped foot inside here. Were all bounty hunters this self-assured? Or was he just so full of bathroom bravado that your sprawling floor-plan didn’t faze him?

Whatever the case was, said bounty hunter was now crouched down on the tile floor and twisting the tub faucets until they sprayed out a gush of hot water, quickly filling the room with heady steam.

“Hot water helps.” A still-gloved hand dipped an inch into the filling tub and deemed it acceptable. “The steam’ll clear up those sneezes of yours. And the headache.”

“How did you know I-” your mouth opened and closed before you realized you didn’t do a great job of hiding your symptoms. Maker knows you looked a sight, all mussed and tired and sticky with cold sweat. He should make a run for it now, you half-joked to yourself. He’s only ever seen me stuffed into a corset and done up half to death.

He got up with a grunt and turned back towards you. Beskar and durasteel and tactical fabric suddenly made you feel, for the first time in your life, underdressed. “‘S not hard to tell, princess.”

“Oh,” was your only response as you pushed off the sink counter, fisting the fabric of your nightgown in an unconscious display of hesitancy.

Boba’s heavy boots made for the door.

It was probably just to leave you some semblance of privacy, but you panicked, not wanting to be left alone now that he was finally here. “Wait!” you burst out, reaching a palm onto his shoulder before he could exit. “Wait. Can— can you stay?” Of course he won’t stay, you dolt. He probably came to sleep with you, not babysit you. “Please?”

Both of his hands curled into themselves when he turned back to you, their leather squeaking in the tight flex. Then, they released limp by his sides. Each word was carefully measured, slow-simmering like a pot about to boil over. Like a trigger finger twitchy on a blaster. “If you want me to.”

You answered with a bobbing nod and a swallow. “I do.”

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba Fett had long since forgotten he was a man. Instead, he was armor. He was a code, a set of strict (albeit grey) morals, the steadfast honor he’d been imbibed with from the years with his father and then the years of tearing emptiness after.

Bounty hunters had no time for attachments. They couldn’t afford to humor every batting eyelash with more than a self-serving flirtation, and he’d had his fill of those already. He’d overflowed his cup ten times over with shallow pleasantries and quick release.

But those days were long-gone. Had been for years now. Now he was practically puritanical.

Had been, anyway.

He didn’t like thinking of himself as impulsive, wanting to leave the trait behind in his younger years but not being old enough to shake it off completely. But he wasn’t impulsive anymore. He wasn’t.

You were going to destroy him.

Low-ranking royalty on some Imperial-occupied factory planet; sheltered and pretty. You had the brightest eyes he had ever seen and a temperament that took no prisoners, and you were going to destroy him.

Boba thought you’d make him leave, but you didn’t. You wanted him to stay and told him so.

So he stayed. His armor was peeled off in your presence for the first time— carefully placed on a chair in your bedroom—and he walked back into the refresher to see you untying your flimsy nightdress like it’d done you a personal wrong.

When it dropped beside your feet, it took every ounce of self-control Boba possessed to stop himself from eating you whole.

He heard you kick it to the floor (his eyes had since been very determinedly fixed on a fascinating piece of groutwork near his left foot) before you stepped into the bath, sighing in a way that made breathing a work harder than it should’ve been.

His looking away wasn’t a request on your part, you didn’t seem to mind either way, but he didn’t trust himself to do otherwise. Not until the sounds of splashing had subsided somewhat, signalling your stilled motion. “Boba?”

Now there was permission to walk. Look down. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, left foot. Right foot, the clawfoot of the bathtub. He had reached his destination.

A wet hand tugged at his belt loops and he finally allowed himself to look, meeting the sight of you sitting bare in the clear-blue water with legs pulled up to your chest. The arm not touching him was roped around your calves. Your chin rested on the wide, curved lip of the tub.

If Boba had any self-respect, it had been snuffed out the first moment you opened your mouth, six months ago in that cavernous palace hallway with your failed attempt at bravado. It was haughty, short-lived, and adorable.

Maker, you were beautiful. Did you know that? Would you ever believe him if you told you? You were blindingly, effervescently, humanly beautiful. It hurt like needles.

The position of your chin forced your lips into a slight pout. As if you needed another weapon in your arsenal of ways to make him question his judgement. “Could you bring me the tray on the counter?”

Of course he could. He could bring you anything you liked. He would bring you a rancor, a dozen rancors, a fucking sarlaac if it meant you would smile all soft-like the way you just did when he answered yes.

Boba Fett, mercenary feared farther than he would ever live to travel and hunter too expensive for the Imperial payroll, was now a bath attendant. It was torturous in its sensual irony.

The tray was brought over in short order, cluttered with tiny vials of Maker-knows-what and bars of who-knows-how. Individually they probably all smelled nice, but crowded together the heavy scents only made his head spin. He set the tray down on the floor with a rattle and held up each mystery soap for your inspection. No. No. No. No, not that one. Gods, you were picky. No. No. Yes, please.

You were Miss Manners tonight apparently.

“It’s floating archidia,” you told him, mind running through an endless backlog of plant indexes as he handed over the soap. You sounded clearer now, less congested and more alert. Needed to drink water, though. “The flower that this is made with, I mean. Native to the planet Nubia, rumored to have euphoric properties.” You snorted and ran a thumbnail along the bar’s waxy edge, bringing up a curled pink piece. “Whatever that means.”

“Do you think it does?”

“Have euphoric properties?” you hummed, considering it for a moment. “Maybe. But maybe it’s just wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Boba parroted.

The meaning of words can change when they’re repeated. Neither of your minds were on flowers.

His jaw tensed when you reached your other hand to his forearm, baring the rest of your body to the dim orange of the refresher lights’ night settings. The water rippled, warm now instead of steaming, and your fingers curled around the scarred skin of his wrist. “Take off the gloves,” you echoed, your voice suddenly desperate and distant as you traced over pale leather seams. “Please.”

He had refused the first time simply to toy with you. You weren’t used to being told no, and it showed. But he let you take off his helmet in a moment of thoughtless self-indulgence, scratching the part of his subconscious that itched to be touched, stroked, held. Shedding the helmet in front of someone else didn’t really mean anything in an honorable sense—at least not to Boba. Nothing tied him to the habit except a desire to keep himself and his motivations unknown. It was easier that way. Less messy.

He acquiesced. "Since you asked so nicely."

Wrinkling your nose, you guided newly-bare palms to knead gently at your shoulder blades. The skin there was soft and warm, pliant under his sandpaper touch. "Keep mentioning it and I'll go back to being difficult."

The soap made foamy bubbles across your back, over your arms and the velvet slope of your hips. Fingertips ghosted through the space between your jaw and ear, where he remembered sucking in a soft bruise.

He liked being known by you.

⫸————————————————⫷

You clambered out the tub with all the grace of a baby krugga deer and about as much shame. Which is to say, none at all. The subsiding cold had left you tired, bones like jelly and mind sloshing its thoughts around with no real order. Boba was here. Had stayed. Was standing in front of you now, watching tiny water droplets trail down your feet and letting you balance on his arm to keep you from stumbling.

A towel was wrapped around your shoulders. The press of his hot mouth against your forehead followed close behind. “Go sit on the bed.”

For some reason, you didn’t mind listening to him this time. Chalk it up to moldable exhaustion, you thought. Definitely not the fact that his voice sounded especially nice tonight, or any number of other questionable reasons.

He was going to ruin you. Or you would ruin yourself. Any way it was construed, Boba would play a part.

Still only in a towel, you drank the stale tea that sat on your bedside table and watched in mild interest as the mercenary’s shadow emptied out tepid bathwater with the thick glugluglug of the drain. It washed down soap and all your shared secrets.

Was it wrong that you still wanted him? More, now that he’d done this for you? Now that it wasn’t just cruel kisses and groping hands? What sort of a person did that make you?

Your mind whispered it when Boba walked back towards you. Someone lonely.

He helped you slide a new chemise on when you asked him to, quick and steady over the thin linen ties. I bet you do that with all the girls, you’d teased. No, he answered simply. Just you.

He was going to ruin you.

“Do you have to go yet?” you asked quietly and climbed under the covers. They were green today. Life enjoyed coincidences like that.

Boba crouched down on the floor beside your lying figure and shook his head. A wide fingertip smoothed away the crease between your brows. He was doing lots of touching. You were not complaining. “Not ‘til morning.”

“You might as well then,” you mumbled and lifted up the embroidered blankets with a sleep-slack hand. “No one’ll bother us, I promise.” you answered the empty air, too heartsick to comprehend any possible insinuations and too tired to realize the fingers tracing your brow bone had paused. “I told them all not to come back until tomorrow.”

His shirt and pants were shed in an unceremonious pile. You were already half-asleep when he climbed into the other side of the bed, slotting his legs against yours like puzzle pieces. Two question marks curled into each other, his chest to your back and his lips brushing your head.

“Goodnight, princess.”

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dreaming about him.

He was the burning sun that every single one of your thoughts had orbited around for the last six months and now he was invading your subconscious, dream-talons taking the form of dark hands rubbing soft circles against you and then invading your open mouth.

In your dream, Boba touched you softly and not at all, a tease even in your self-serving imagination.

Then you woke up, and it wasn’t a dream anymore.

Two thick arms encircled your waist with a grip unyielding in their strength. They’d pulled you impossibly close, pressed up against his sleeping body until every ridge of his muscled stomach could be felt against your back. Something else was against your back.

Your head reeled in its effort to sludge through the fog of sleep and reach the reality of masculine hips. They shifted in an unintentional grind against your legs until you couldn’t bite back the gasp that bubbled out from your voicebox, the sound quiet, keening, and lost in the shuffled sounds of fabric. It was still dark out. The water-clock in the corner of your room read 01:25:02.

You hadn’t put on anything underneath the new chemise. Why bother, when he’d already seen everything? Your body had grown to be a thing for display, a clothes-hanger and object to be prodded by strangers, and you’d long since rid yourself of any precocious modesty.

But this was different.

When Boba touched you, it wasn’t to sew flowers in your hair or drape a sash over your chest. It was simply to touch. The thought made you light-headed with newfound embarrassment, wiggling in his grip until you turned to face his sleeping form.

All the heavy things he carried on his shoulders during the day were gone now. His bottom lip pillowed out when he slept and he looked younger, the perpetual downturn of his lips now settled below the black hair at his temples. You felt a sticky sort of fondness settle in your chest.

“Boba,” you whispered, two hands placing themselves on his tanned cheeks. They traced the divots of scars and premature lines with all the reverence of worshipfulness.

“Mmm,” his voice rumbled with eyes still closed. A warm mouth kissed the side of your palm.

“Boba,” you repeated, more desperate this time but not knowing what you were desperate for. The space between your legs already knew what it wanted, hot and pulsing with a familiar dampness. Traitor.

“What do you need?” The question wasn’t accusatory, nor annoyed at your waking him. It was known that he would give you whatever you liked. Eventually.

You. Just you.

“I don’t,” you huffed, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to your now overheated body as you squirmed, “I don’t know.” Lie.

“Think about it and tell me,” he whispered, eyes opening in their dark, heavy-lidded expectation. The moon and stars suspended outside offered light enough to see the smirk on his face. His skin was the color of burnt earth and of gods. Somewhere, far away in the canopy of carefully pruned trees, a single lark let out its warbled cry.

There was an old adage about being like a lamb to the slaughter. You’d never touched a lamb. Never seen a slaughter. But somehow, you knew it was true.

This lamb, dumb and tender-hearted, was willingly sacrificied.

"I...'' the word left you in the arc of your exhale, one whoosh of air that rattled your chest already wracked with fevered tremors. "I- want you to-"

"You want me to what, pretty thing?" His voice was low, dangerous. It made every part of you want him more. "Say it."

You weren't used to cursing. It was never tolerated and you barely ever heard it, but you'd learned enough to know what he wanted you to say. Which word he wanted to hear, and what it'd mean he would do.

"F-fuck. Me." you choked out, biting your lip to muffle the embarrassment of having to speak it out loud. The word was filthy and raw between your teeth. "Please?"

⫸————————————————⫷

You were dying. Possibly had already died. Were ascending up or barrelling down, you didn’t care as long as his wet mouth stayed between your legs and never, ever stopped.

Wide hands cupped at your skin and kneaded wherever they could reach, simultaneously rough and supplicating. Every pass of his tongue was enough to make you feel possessed. He was killing you.

“Good. Good girl.” he said against your swollen skin when your hips arced off the bed, your spine and toes stiffening for what seemed like an eternity during the damp lightning finish. It sounded like a growl, animalistic and vibrating. A burning, sweet hurt.

Some people call it “little death,” a lady’s maid once whispered underneath her hand in a giggle. “Little death?” you repeated incredulously. That seems a bit dramatic, don’t you think?

You understood now.

Boba didn’t let up, never once letting his touch waver even as you buckled and swayed, all sense lost and all sensation compacting. “Another,” he ordered. Your body listened, bending to his touch without complaint with eyes rolled back into your head.

You were dying.

⫸————————————————⫷

Boba let you lay against him in the downturn, rubbing mindless shapes into the bone of your wrists as you struggled to breathe. Your neck was cradled in one of his broad, bronze palms. It gave one tiny, imperceptible squeeze. An accident. A test.

You pawed at the hand resting heavy on your nape until it moved to leave completely, but was caught instead by your fingers and guided—slow and curious—to cup at your bared throat.

“Dirty,” the man noted in a dark rasp and rolled over to face you. There was a slight smirk in his voice, but that could’ve just been your imagination.

“I don’t see you...” your voice trailed off into a wheeze as Boba’s thick fingers pressed into the sides of your neck, “—see you complaining.”

He kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. An eternity was spent opening the seam of your mouth while he choked you softly, baring your pulsating soul with only your bedroom walls as witness to the present depravity. The air was filled with begging and grunting—simple noises that stuttered and left your sheets ruined.

You wanted more. You couldn’t help it.

His chuckle morphed into a groan when you reached down to touch him with widening eyes, squeezing him curiously after pulling down his boxers. “You’re a brave little thing,” Boba noted with a hint of greedy pride. “Never done this before, have you?”

Your own hands served as poor substitutes all these years. You shook your head no.

“D’you want to?”

Of course you did. This was the only thing you wanted. The only thing you would ever want, over and over until your body turned to dust under him. A million grains of fizzy, burning blaster powder. A million comets passing by a supernova.

You nodded and tucked your face into the space between Boba’s shoulder and neck, rolling onto your side and hooking a leg over his hip. Your chests met, damp with sweat as cool air flowed over bare skin. The covers had long since been pushed aside. “Safe,” you said in a heady moan over the shell of his ear. “Implant.”

Thank goodness for modern medicine.

⫸————————————————⫷

It hurt a little at first, but most of the discomfort melted away as he whispered to you, sweet and cloying praises alongside filthy things that you’d be hard-pressed to repeat in public. They wove together in an endless stream of baritone vowels, lapping over each other like ocean waves until everything was a gyrating, syrupy playback.

He let you move against him, mouth open and sloppy against your temple when you whined at the stretch. The hands at your back didn’t push. Only placated. “I know, I know,” Boba assured you with fingers rubbing sympathetic desire into your flesh. It would bruise, but you’d come to like the marks. Your hips bucked at their own accord when he pressed up against something tight, the friction burning a bright, numb spark. “Slow down,” he mumbled into your hair, “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Never in your life did you think this was how it would be. Your first kiss, more of a battle than it was a kiss, served as fuel for the expectations of your first time. Never in your life did you think he would be the one telling you to go slow.

It was for your sake, you knew that. But it was still surprising.

You huffed and bit the shell of his ear in childish revenge, blowing a puff of air where you knew it would tickle. Boba only growled and tightened his arms around your waist, rocking into you slow and deep. “Don’t tease,” he warned.

The new movements robbed you of the ability to speak until all you could do in response was lift your head from where it had rested on his shoulder, meeting impossibly dark eyes in lust-addled vision as a building pressure colored the entire world in shades of black, red, and green.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of propriety, you leaned forward, smiling like a woman deranged, and pressed a kiss to his nose.

Boba came undone the same minute you did. It was a rush of wet, rocking pleasure, spreading like thick webs of lighted fire from inside your blood and out to fill the room with quiet devotion. Panting, bursting, close, messy. You’d never felt so whole.

Your foreheads met and you went cross-eyed trying to look at him again. That’s all you wanted to do. Look at him. Uttered underneath his jaw, where the skin was smooth, was your finishing admission. “I love you.”

You didn’t say it to hear it repeated. It was just to give it a shape. Make it concrete. Said more to yourself than him, really.

But Boba did repeat it. Over and over and over. In the tangle of your arms. I love you. In the kiss to your breasts. I love you. In the towel brought between your legs. I love you. In the settled silence of new sleep. I love you, I love you, I love you.

⫸————————————————⫷

The watery light of dawn melted through heavy curtains and you awoke, body weighed down with lead and gold. Sweet soreness had made its home in your muscles and you were loath to get up, but the man you’d been using as a pillow had very rudely left his post.

“I have to go,” he said, already awake and standing sentry by your bed. You raised your head up from the pillows in groggy protest to meet his blurry figure. If you squinted, there were three of him standing there at once.

A shake of your head rid your vision of the doubles, leaving the lone man. He kissed you—quick and dirty, with tongue—and squeezed your exposed breast, prompting a low moan to tumble from your mouth before he slipped his blaster into the holster at his hip. It wasn’t even 6 in the morning and you were thoroughly debauched. What a scandal, you thought (not for the first time) with passing amusement. A bounty hunter and a princess.

Watching in a dim haze as Boba finished strapping on his amor, you tracked the reflection of the sun in the metal’s lazy movement.

He leaned over you. “I’ll be back soon.” Soon. What did soon mean? Another kiss, slow and careful on the bow of your mouth. One more on the slope of your forehead. For luck, you supposed. Whether it was for you or him didn’t matter much. “Promise.”

Slowly, as he climbed out onto your balcony and was gone with a flash of jetpack light, you wondered if it was a mirage; a dream, maybe. The entire night a hallucinatory haze, a figment of your overactive imagination and reckless romanticism.

But the towel left discarded on the floor and the pulsing ache between your legs was very, very real.

#boba fett x reader #boba fett/reader #boba fett fanfiction #boba fett x you #boba fett fic #boba fett oneshot #boba fett imagine

282 notes · View notes

lovestrucked-again · 4 years

Text

Render Your Heart | J.Jaehyun

(Jaehyun’s Tattoo Edit - @rrregan) Summary: Growing up beside your brother’s best friend forces you to keep your crush a secret. But who knew, the way you’d expose yourself was when you asked for help from a dropout high school student. When your lie of an excuse gets caught and your long time dream becomes a reality. Careful though, don’t get caught.

Genre: smuT Pairing: bad boy!Jaehyun x reader (ft Taeyong big bro) Word count: 5.8k

Warning: Jaehyun has tattoos (sleeves, chest), hard dom!Jaehyun, fingering, rough, orgasm denial, dirty talk, explicit content, wet and messy sex, begging, orgasm control, spanking, humiliation, praise, punishment, teasing, nipple play, cum licking/swallowing, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, marking, cock worship, blowjob, throat fucking, hair pulling, gagging (on cock), cum swallowing i think i said that, rough sex, cockwarming, belly bulge, thrill sex? risk of getting caught, safe systems because that is very important to have, also safe sex please this isn't something you should follow

a/n: Yeet. I drank 2L of water writing this. Also thank you @hyuckiesgf for helping me read thru this <3. _____

“Y/N?”

He slowly slides the paperwork off your lap, exposing your legs in the short skirt you’re wearing, the almost non-existent breeze from the fan now hitting your skin, leaving you feeling very naked. His arm swings across your shoulder, closing the gap between the two of you sitting side by side against the couch.

“Y-yes?” You stutter out, your head turning to see his hand resting so close to your face.

“So why don't you tell me what you really want?"

You gulp down the saliva forming in your throat as you watch his hand fall to your legs, the veins from his wrist bulging out as he gently squeezes your thigh for a response. “Hmm? What are you talking about?"

His left hand creeps up your skin, sliding up the inside of your thigh as he tip toes up your skin, tracing his fingers very softly, gliding closer to the hem of your skirt, “You want me to believe you called a high school drop out for help, on a university assignment?”

His hand climbs closer to the inside of your thigh, and the background noise coming from the TV is no longer audible to you. Your figure frozen suddenly, feeling all the tiny details of his touch, the texture of his fingertips, trailing along the inside of your thigh, going up and then back down, moving around in an eight pattern.

“Why’d you call me over?” He murmurs, his eyes focused on your parted lips, watching as they fall open slightly.

“I-I wait – hold on.” Your mind runs in a mess as you stutter out a random string of words in an attempt to think.

The hand on your thigh suddenly halts, no longer gently squeezing and fluttering along your skin. “I’m waiting?”

You realise the nerves from your stomach, from the touch in your thighs, from the dim lighting in the midnight timing, were all connected directly to your pussy. His touch, causing your pussy to self-lubricate and swell at its own volition, in strict disobedience to your control.

“It’s not what you think.” You mumble.

“Is it not?” He whispers, flipping himself to face you. His free arm flies to the back of the couch, using it to support his weight as he leans forward, keeping you encircled by his body. Your eyes glance over to the side, following the abstract shapes tracing up his forearm. The simple black tee rising higher up his arm, exposing his pale skin – mostly obscured by the smooth paintings in ink that wind up his biceps. “What are you staring at baby?”

Abruptly, your breath hitches, your pussy simultaneously releasing a gush of wetness at the nickname, the darkness of his eyes staring down at you. His fingers press against the damp spot in your panties as his breath goes to the crook of your neck. Your cry of alarm being quickly muffled as you bite down on your tongue in resistance. His breath tickles your neck and your hands clench onto the sheet of paper you’re holding, scrunching it up unknowingly.

“Should I stop?” Jaehyun removes his face away from your side, moving to face you, letting his gaze fall on your lips.

Your mind spins around in circles as the inner conflict begins. The two of you had always flirted but took nothing seriously, not wanting to mess up the relationship he had with your brother. Taeyong would also never approve of it, his own wish was for you to find a more responsible guy who didn't have so many bad influences. Which was also hypocritical considering his own nature.

Jaehyun watches as your eyes flutter shut, your body involuntarily moving up for a stronger presence of his touch. He follows along smirking, deciding to press a little harder as he finds your sensitive clit.

“Fu-ckkk” You draw out, your body sinking deeper into the couch.

He towers over you, his shoulders squared and blocking your view from anything behind him. His dark eyes sweep over you, his gaze trailing from where his finger presses, up to your naturally pink lips before he lets out a low, deep, exhale of desire.

“Can I continue?” He whispers, leaving a soft kiss at the corner of your jaw.

Your hand still holding onto the paperwork is now crushed, the sheet mushed into a ball as you dig your fingers into it. Your other hand leaves the couch, reaching out to his chest, flattening weakly against his muscles. “Jae- th-this, fuck, we ca-cant do this.”

“Why not?” He pauses for a few seconds, waiting for an answer, but nothing forms out of your mouth, only the lifting of your hips to meet his touch yet again.

His drawn back to your clit when you can’t respond, gently pinching at it through the fabric as you let out a stifled moan. Your palm weakens against his chest as your strength drains from your body, achieving nothing. You may as well try pushing a whole truck instead. Jaehyun wasn’t budging, his muscle and strength, his chest and shoulders, alarmingly hard. And truth be told, you weren’t trying to get him off.

You knew you were slipping, losing your grip on your rationality as you moan out again feeling his fingers tease your clit through the thin material of your underwear. As your body relaxes into the couch, your skirt slides up, revealing the little amount of skin left unseen, all the way to your panties. His weight is still barely on you but his leg wedges between your knees as he kisses closer to your parted mouth.

“What about my brother?” You stutter out, your eyes squeezed shut at the sudden contact.

Jaehyun’s lips brushes against yours, forming a smirk after hearing your words, “Taeyong? He won’t know,” he places a soft peck, “unless you tell him.”

It sounded safe right? Jaehyun wouldn't tell him and there’s no way you ever would. You nod along to your thoughts, but within the next second, Jaehyun is devouring your lips. His hand which previously laid against the couch, now cupping your cheek as his other hand continues to rub you through your panties.

Your arousal grows as you realise how screwed you were if Taeyong saw this, how you probably looked so helpless pinned underneath his best friend’s figure. Jaehyun continues, both stimulating you and checking the level of your arousal. The ripples of lewd, mind numbing pleasure racing through your body making you panic, as you constantly try to detect the sound of the shower in the background. Waiting for it to stop and for Taeyong to come trampling through the scene. Your pussy was oozing and throbbing, obeying his fingers and his crushing desire as you panicked for your life.

You had yearned for his touch and sensation and savagery, and he was giving it to you, just like you had imagined it, and you felt herself melting under his assault. Your cries diminishing and becoming more like beseeching moans as he slips his fingers under your panties, parting it to find your slit.

“Fuck your so wet for me.” He groans, pausing in between your frenzied kiss. There’s only the sound of your soft gasps for breaths against the wet kisses before you realise there’s no other noise.

“Jae the showers stopped.” You mumble against his lips, bringing both your hands to his chest, pushing him back only slightly.

“Then we should hurry, shouldn't we?” The frantic moan that escapes your lips are left to mean anything: fear, urgency, or imploring lust, desperate to relieve the tension in your lower stomach.

You begin to whine and whimper into his mouth, begging him to hurry before you’d be forced to stop in order to spare your life and what little dignity left you had in front of your brother, but Jaehyun continues to take his time.

“Jae-” Your rational mind tries to tell you that if he was going to keep this up, you might come, that you may lose all your self-respect to the combination of his touch, your helplessness and the thrilling shame of being so close to danger. What is he going to think of me? If he knew this rough treatment, this anxious feeling of being caught, can make me climax? What would he say?

However, the low groans coming from Jaehyun as he plays with you, teasing your entrance, was begging you to forget everything. The humiliation that was increasing seeming to connect directly to the spot between your legs as you felt your pussy spasm desperately, sucking on empty air, aching for something as he slides across the moisture.

As you move your body up, desperately for his finger to enter, Jaehyun stops moving, pulling back his face so you see his eyes clearly. “Stop grinding your hips at me,” he growls, “you’re going to make me cum.”

Your pussy clenches involuntarily at his words, releasing another gush of wetness. “Isn’t that the point?” you stutter, your body deflating a little against the couch, dropping your hips which were previously moving in line with his hand.

“Not right now.”

Before your able to ask what he means, his weight is off you, immediately leaving the couch in search for something. You stay seated, dazed in confusion as he picks up the scattered paperwork on the floor placing it neatly on the coffee table.

“Grab your jacket.” He tells you.

“Why?” you ask, your mind still in a muddled mess.

“We’re going out.”

As you hear the knob of the bathroom door handle fumble, you quickly bring down your skirt, hurriedly standing up and pretending to be busy. Taeyong walks out with a towel in his hand, his eyes glancing between the two of you as he ruffles his wet hair.

“Where are you guys going?” He asks, having heard the last spoken sentence.

Jaehyun throws on his beaten leather jacket, letting it hang loosely over his frame, “You never taught her how to change a flat tire?”

“U-uh no? Was I meant to?” Taeyong asks, confused at the sudden topic.

“Well now I have to.” Your eyes dart over to Jaehyun, meeting his gaze as he signals you to follow along.

“It’s cold and dark outside” Taeyong shrugs, clearly unbothered by whatever was going through his best friend’s mind, “but whatever, suit yourself.”

Jaehyun grabs you by your wrist as you trail along. The sudden change in temperature instantly hits you as you step out the front door. He doesn't say anything but you peek around his body which leads you, waiting for him to glance back at you and say something. But he doesn't.

“Where are we going?” you ask, having to jog slightly to keep up with his strides.

“To finish what we started,” he simply replies.

***

There’s no hesitation left as he unlocks the front door to his apartment - so conveniently located in the apartment building next to yours. His jacket is shrugged off before you’ve even had a chance to slip off your shoes, the front door slamming shut automatically by its weight. Your core flutters as you notice the sound of just your heavy breathing, trying to remain calm.

“Why are you acting so shy suddenly?”

You look over at him, removing your gaze from your feet to look over, gulping as you see he had also removed his shirt within the little time you had just entered, “I’m not.”

He chuckles at your confident reply, gesturing you to come over, “It’s not like this is your first time over.”

“Well it’s my first time coming over for something like this.”

“Like what?” He asks amusingly.

“You know what I mean.” You mutter, your feet dragging you closer to him so your standing just inches apart. He holds a smug expression on his face as you’re forced to look up at him to match his gaze.

“Mmmm I don't think I do,” he murmurs, bringing your hands around his neck, making you stand on your toes to reach comfortably around his height.

“Asshole,” you mumble, breaking his gaze. You stumble back a little as your hands leave his neck, realising how close you’re standing.

Jaehyun wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you steady, “Be careful.”

The pull closer towards him brings you face to face with his inked skin and your attention goes to the patterns in front of your eyes. Your eyes follow the delicate shapes and lines along his shoulder which start from around his collarbone, down to the centre of his chest where the tattoo meets to form a flower. You can’t help but imagine how he’d look if he was entirely covered, the gap between the inks being marked by you. What you’d do to suck on his skin and mark it yourself.

“You can touch them Y/N, they don’t hurt” he chuckles, watching your eyes waver.

You shut him up when the contact of your lips brush against his skin, softly sucking at the vines on his collar, then trailing your tongue towards the ink down the middle of his chest. You bring your attention back to the clear patches of skin around his collar, deciding it’d look better with some of your artistic touches.

“Fuck,” Jaehyun hisses as you teasingly graze along his flesh before biting at it softly. The hand around your waist tightens and you can feel his nails digging into your skin. His free hand slides up underneath your shirt, between your closed bodies. You nip and suck at the uninked patch, moving your head back every so often to see the dark colour forming a mark.

His hands leave their spots, deciding to remove your shirt and you help him, guiding the fabric over your head, exposing your bra, and then your naked midriff as you feel the pulse in your throat beating in a growing excitement.

"Mmm... Beautiful. Just fucking beautiful" he hums. You feel yourself blush, heat rising at his approval. It was insane to you, and without reason, but you desperately wanted to please him. "Baby, I could fuck you all night long and not get tired," He grabs at your breasts, going at them hungrily as he begins to kiss and pluck at your nipple with his lips through the sheer fabric of your bra.

“Please,” you mewl, weak from pleasure. His hands cup your breasts as he gently pushes you backwards, until your back hits a wall and he stands looming over you.

"Mmm..." he grabs your bra, pulling it up over your breasts, then attacks them with a vengeance, sucking, licking, squeezing one while he devours the other. His need and passion so intense, so overwhelming you can hardly breathe.

He lets go of your breast and his right hand goes back under your skirt, finding your soaked panties and pushing the crotch aside. He pushes his finger into you and you cry out, arching up against the wall as you try and support your weight. Your legs spreading eagerly as the sloppy sound of his fingers filled the room.

"Please," you whisper, "Please..." He fingers you till you feel yourself start to bear down the looming orgasm and then he stops suddenly.

You watch as his hand flies to his zipper, your breath hitching as you gaze at the bulge straining against the thin material of his jeans. He catches your gaze and decides to move slower. He moves with excruciating ministrations, his fingers gliding over the waistband as he undoes the first button before sliding the zipper down. Through lust hazed eyes you watch as Jaehyun strokes his cock, covered by the thin material of his boxers, the fabric stretched for release. Eventually, he kicks of his jeans, the more apparent tent now restrained only by a single layer.

“Eyes up princess,” He smirks, watching your eyes flicker back up to him. You reach down desperately, wanting to touch him. Jaehyun grabs your arm, pulling you back as he finally removes the last layer, letting his cock spring free, hard and angry, arching up in its full arousal, erect and proud. The moment you see his entire length you let out a low moan.

“I just want to touch it,” you whine, freeing yourself from his grasp.

“You can,” he pushes your shoulders down gently and you immediately sink to the floor in eager when you realise what he’s implying. “Show me what a hot little cock-sucker you are and get me good and hard, baby. Good and hard.” He takes a handful of your hair and pulls you closer, his other hand holding his dick up like a weapon, aimed directly at your mouth.

The sticky velvet head of his dick presses against your lips and you can smell him, the scent of soap and denim and male sexual musk. You lean forward at the sight just as his heavy cock slaps against your lips and you obediently open your mouth, taking him inside.

He exhales a grunt of excitement and you feel his hands in your hair, pushing your head down impatiently as he lifts his hips and thrusts himself into you. His cock slides into your mouth and fills you: hot, thick, and pulsing with life, and you hear him groan in animal pleasure as you sink down on his thick hardness.

Your lips suddenly turning wildly sensitive as he tugs at the strands in your hair, grabbing your head and fucking his cock into your mouth, pushing the fallen strands of hair out of your face so he can see you getting fucked.

"Fuck!" he moans. "Oh fuck!"

You continue sucking, slobbering, pushing your head onto him and pumping, pausing only to slurp up the streams of saliva that poured from your mouth and down his shaft. You can hear your own guttural moans and sounds of obsequious sucking, and when your neck starts to ache and your lips grow tired, you just hold your head and mouth still, letting him use you, letting him thrust his angry cock into your throat and making you choke and gag.

"You're going to make me cum, baby!" he moans.

As the words leave his lips, you suck harder, jaw no longer slack, wanting him to cum in your mouth. But he wasn't ready to give it to you yet. He digs both his hands into your hair, prying you off as his cock pops out your mouth, slimed with spit and twitching with pre-orgasmic spasms. Jaehyun quickly grabs his cock, squeezing his length to stop his immanent ejaculation as you cry out in frustration.

“What are you doing?” you whine as Jaehyun leans down, wiping the substance off your lips. You were desperate for his cum in your mouth, and he was denying you.

“Not yet.” As his head rolls back, you continue to stare, watching him squeeze and clench his dick and the watery pre-cum roll down the angry purple head. You pounce on it, reaching forward to scoop it up in desperate need with a single swipe of your tongue, savouring its flavour before swallowing thickly.

“Fuck Y/N!” He yells, painfully sensitive and reacting instinctively by shielding his cock and pushing you away gently.

You barely move, your hands quickly falling to your side to keep your balance. If he wasn't going to let you have his cock, you were going to satisfy your oral need another way. You watch as his breaths become heavy, his own attempt of calming himself down. Your eyes are still glued to his cock, wrapped tightly around his hand as your gaze travels up his length, noticing his balls hanging in attetion.

Immediately, you crawl forward, ducking your head to come up from below as you lick and kiss at the hanging bottom, your wet lips running over them.

“Shit!” he moans, his hand squeezing tighter against himself as he watches you in shock. You were shocked yourself but you were more concerned about your eager need growing in the pit of your stomach. You slurp and suck gently at his cum filled balls, grabbing his cock from his hand as he lets go. “You’re such a bad girl.”

But as you begin to pump up his shaft, Jaehyun pulls you up by your upper arms, lifting you off the floor and picking you up into his chest. For a moment your mind goes blank, suddenly forgetting where you are.

It’s not until you feel the soft fabric of the bed sheets under your skin that you realise you’re in a different room. The dim light shining through his open bedroom curtains on your left and the reflection of your body in the mirror on your right.

Your arms climb to your chest, covering yourself in instinct as you notice him staring. “What is it?” you whisper.

“Why are you hiding them?” he asks, crawling up to your face, his hands at the side of your head.

“Because.”

“because what?” he asks, his breath reaching your lips.

“Because I want to,” you sass back. You can feel his body leaning against your crossed arms and you fight the urge to move.

“So much attitude,” he chuckles, attacking you with kisses. His tongue glides through your lips, meeting yours and his hands find your shoulder, pushing down lightly to keep you still beneath him. Your palms go to his back as his chest meets yours, bringing his body down closer to you in the midst of your kiss.

Jaehyun’s tongue is questing and inquisitive; learning the corners of your mouth with practiced flair, drawing sensual noises from you. Sounds you didn't know were capable of leaving you. Tentatively, you reach your arm up around the solid anchor of his arm and your rewarded with a deep growl of pleasure from your partner.

All you had now was need, this basic elemental need, and you wanted him to take you and do things to you. You wanted him to take everything you had to give, because nothing seemed of any value unless he wanted it. Jaehyun notices your change quickly as you fight back for power, your hands gliding to his chest, pushing him. You flip him over, rising onto your knees so you’re now straddling his lap. He makes no effort to stop your strength but continues to pull you close with his lips, waiting for whatever you wanted to do next.

But you pull away from him, the constant thought that plagued your mind being asked, “What happens after this?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, confused.

You sit up properly, his hands resting at your hips to keep you steady. You hesitate before responding, deciding between your words, “Is this just for fun?”

There’s a moment of silence, his eyes showing the gentler side of his emotions, “Do you want it to be?”

You pause for a second, weighing your options. Of course you wanted it to be more, you had fallen for Jaehyun the moment you saw him, but you were sure he only saw you as his best friend’s younger sister, “No.”

Jaehyun smiles at you, bringing your fallen strands of hair behind your ear, “Then let’s work something out.”

You feel his body shift and your suddenly thrown to your side, landing softly on the bed with a thud. In the dark room, you can hear him shuffling before his hand reaches for your skirt, tugging them down in a swift movement along with your underwear. You let out a squeal in surprise but he ignores it.

He walks over to the side of his bed, patting his lap as you crawl over to his side. He guides you over, placing you over his knee, your bottom naked under his hand as you shiver in anticipation.

“I think you know what’s about to happen baby,” he murmurs, stroking the back of your thighs. You let out a choked mumble, your ass clenching as you wait for the sound. “Didn't I tell you no before? I told you not to keep throat fucking my cock but you continued,” he hums, “and do you know what happens to those who don't listen?”

“What?” you squeak

“They get punished.” He squeezes your ass gently, watching it fill his palm, “Here’s how this works, red for stop, yellow for slow down and green for I’m okay.” He pauses, waiting for your response, “did you hear me princess?”

“Y-yes,” you stutter out, heart beating rapidly as you laid vulnerably over his knee.

His gaze darkens, as you respond, his voice coming out almost two octaves lower, “Repeat it Y/N.”

“Red stop, yellow for slow and green for okay,” you automatically reply.

“If anything’s uncomfortable tell me okay?” Jaehyun coaxes with a gentle whisper.

He draws his hand back and you close your eyes for what’s coming. The slap of his hand on your ass amazingly loud in the room, the sharp sting and burn immediately felt. You yelp at the contact, clenching your ass for the next slap to come.

“Count them for me baby.” He purrs, pausing for you to answer.

You let out a shaky breath, “One.”

Another slap comes. You draw in a breath, mumbling out the tally “Two.”

“Count them properly or we start again baby,” he warns.

And another, “Three.”

“Four.” The heat starts to sink into your pussy, radiating through your body.

“F-ive.”

“Maybe you should have listened to me?” he hums in response – another harsh spank following his words.

“Six.” you whine out, crying in pain. As each slap continues, the arrogance you had from earlier drifts further away, the sting of his slaps sinking into your pussy and causing your muscles to clench and clit to throb.

“Your ass fits so perfectly around my hand.” He praises, rubbing the skin delicately after the seventh spank. He shuffles back against the bed, sliding you over with him.

He grabs you by the arms again, lifting you up easily over him and lowering you down between his parted legs. You stare at his stiff cock so close to your entrance and your eyes widen as you watch him move.

“Time to do some work princess,” he orders, hands tightening around your waist.

“You want me to ride you?” You ask, unable to hide the hint of power you could feel rising in your chest.

“Don’t take that fucking attitude with me,” he warns, his hands digging in the side of your skin, “Or we’ll continue our counting.”

You didn't fight him, desperate for something to fill you below. Jaehyun had handled you so easily, like a doll, lifting you up and holding you by the arms, kissing you, nuzzling his face into your breasts as you arranged yourself around him. At the slight contact your pussy makes with the velvety head of his cock, you moan, wiggling your hips back and forth to work the head of his cock between your folds.

He holds you up, not letting you sink down any closer until you groan in frustration.

“Jae just let me!” you scream, frustrated as you claw at his hands holding your body up.

He chuckles in response, beginning to lower you and you feel yourself stretch and spread around his invading length. Then, he lets go of your arms, gripping onto your ass instead as you whimper out in pain from the soreness of before. But that was the least on your mind, finally feeling in charge of fucking him and taking him inside. Every movement of your hips has you taking his cock deep into your pussy and Jaehyun grunts in delight, his hands pulling your body deeper around him.

“Fuck such a tight little princess.” He groans. His cock is huge, and hard, and it split you painfully, but the pain was just what you wanted, the perfect price for the pleasure you desired. He pulls your body towards him, his hands bringing you to his lips around your neck. Jaehyun took advantage of your busy mind, slowing the kiss down, drawing the moment out until you were leaning heavily against him, dizzy.

Your pussy was melting, your juices running down his shaft in an obscene display of need but you were loving it, the wicked sense of control you now had, doling out his pleasure as he moans and gasps simultaneously as you sink down on his cock.

However, when you’re only still half-ready, he begins to thrust up impatiently into you, burying his cock into your hilt and you break your kiss to sob. He was filling you, packing you with his length as you gasp, leaning your forehead against his, feeling so totally fucked and consumed by him.

"Sit up” he growls, " I want to see my cock going into you."

You groan at the dirtiness of his words but obey, pulling yourself up as you watch his eyes flick down to where you see yourself stretch in a tight ring around him.

“So perfectly made for me,” he grunts as you slide down. Jaehyun brings your breasts in his hands, finding your nipples and rolling them between his fingers slowly, pinching and increasing the pressure till you gasp, your pussy spasming around him involuntarily. Your vaginal muscles clench from the immense size, making its long journey in and out of his now conquered territory. “Keep going princess, show me how much you want me,” he growls.

You rise up again, feeling the sweet suck of his cock leaving you, then push back down against him, filling yourself up, grinding to rub your clit against his shaft. Jaehyun moans, sighs, and grunts with pleasure as you continue in a working rhythm, starving to feel his hot release into your pussy. His fingers still tugging at your nipples, bounced in his hands as he bounced on him. But your body grows exhausted soon after your first climax, unable to keep up the same pace as before.

“Fuck I c-cant,” your voice trails off, your thighs weakening as your legs were giving out in support.

Jaehyun doesn't miss his cue, his hand reaching for your ass and the other for your neck as he flips you over, you’re back hitting the sheets with a soft thud in the midst of everything.

“I got you baby.” He whispers, his cock still buried in your pussy as he nudges between your legs. He doesn't move, waiting for you to regain your breath as he gently holds your legs against the sheets, helping you calm down the tremoring of your muscles. “What colour?” he murmurs, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

“Greenish-yellow,” you mumble, “just give me a second.” Jaehyun hums in response, waiting patiently for your response as he holds still inside of you. He nuzzles against your hair. You take a few more moments, breathing deeply before you’re ready, “green.”

He takes no time in returning back to his movements. He pushes your knees up to your shoulders, fucking you hard, deep and with brutal passion. You grip onto the surrounding bed sheets, his full length of his cock sliding in and out of you faster and harder than you could’ve achieved by riding him.

Jaehyun buries his face into the arch of your throat, peppering kisses into your flesh as you gasp out for air with every thrust. His lips trail along the side of your collar before wrapping around the skin, lightly suckling at it. He tugs at the thin skin between his teeth and you feel the slight pang of pain as he bites down softly. Nevertheless, he continues – sucking and biting as many hickeys he can into your skin, gripping onto your opposite shoulder and tilting your head for further access to your neck.

“Your mine now, all mine,” he murmurs against your skin, “whose are you princess?”

“Yours,” you squeak, voice coming out at a higher pitch than usual.

You can feel the building tension, feeling his cock knocking against your hilt as you move, your stomach bulging with his length. You grasp at him, trying to reach for his bicep which holds your knees up, wanting to tell him you were close, but you couldn't move, couldn't say anything. You can only lie there with your mouth agape, eyes shut as he continues to dive in.

“Fuck I’m going to cum.” He groans. But you were already drowning in your own torrent of orgasm, crushed by the relentless fucking and his deep grunts. You feel his cock throb intensely inside you before it begins to spit hot waves of cum into you.

He continues to fuck you as you come, your pussy milking his cock as he shoots into you again and again, his face now buried against your breasts. He was still thrusting as you come down from your high, his member deflating but still insisting in sliding in and out on the slippery bed of your mixed juices. Slowly, you float back into reality, your body still uncontrollably spasms as the thick cloud of ecstasy still clouds your mind.

“Jae n-no more,” you whimper, feeling him retreat from your sensitive walls as the overstimulated pain and displeasure kick in. Jaehyun listens immediately, moving his weight from you so his hovering over your sweaty figure, your hair sticking to your forehead.

“No more baby,” he tells you, his hand skimming over your waist and then to your belly. He pushes down lightly and you feel a rush of cum leak out and trail down to your ass. He climbs off, panting still as he rolls over beside you, bringing in your exhausted figure to his chest. Your clammy skin and his comforting presence washes over you as he runs his large hands over your back soothingly, whispering loving words.

The ringtone of a phone from the bedroom floor snaps Jaehyun out of his trance, and when he tries to move you cling onto his arm. “Don’t go,” you whine.

“I’m just going to answer the phone,” he coos, “I’m not leaving.” He places a soft kiss on your forehead before climbing off the bed to search for the source of noise in the pile of your thrown off clothes.

The ringing finally stops and you watch as you make out the outline of Jaehyun’s shadow placing the phone against his ear.

“Hello?” Jaehyun doesn't say anything else for a while, just listening to the person on the other side of the call while he runs a hand through his hair. You throw your head back against the pillow and sink further into the scented bed sheets when you realise who the caller is, letting out a muffled groan. “We’re coming back now.” _____

Feedback always welcome!

#nct smut #nct imagines #jaehyun smut #nct jaehyun #NCT-WRITERS #nct127 jaehyun #jaehyun x reader #nct #kpop smut #smut #nct scenarios #nct fanfics #jung jaehyun #nct127 #jaehyun imagines #nct x reader

2K notes · View notes

dienamights · 3 years

Text

Ellipsism | K.Bakugou

Ellipsism: A sadness that you’ll never be able to know how history will turn out.

» Pairing: Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader.

» Word count: 1.9K

» Genre: Angst

» Summary: In a world where everyone is born with a unique tattoo on their ankle, and every time they fall in love with someone, their tattoo appears somewhere else on the body of the person they love. You come to the realization that it might not be as simple as that, and all your childhood dreams would come and bite you in the ass.

» Warning(s): ANGST, mentions of self-harm.

» Author’s notes: Listen, I don’t particularly like angst, but I love the way it hurts, y’know? Not sure if I want this to have a happy ending or not (in a second part) and honestly I’m leaning towards the latter, I love pain and I have no idea what would happen. Also, peep the “tattoo” in the header its relevant to the story ahaha

Thank you everyone for the support and love, it means the world to me that people enjoyed my Kacchan representation! Lemme give you smooches.

Big smooches to @tteokdoroki and @sightoru for making me feel good about hurting them🤧❤️

» Masterlist | Requests

The sun had awakened and was promptly emerging through the hazy sky. The cloudy layer created a gloomy blanket from the sun. You jolted awake, your neck aching from your sleeping position and you twisted your head side to side to relieve some of the pain, before reaching for your phone and holding the bright screen to your face to check the time. Alas, the screen was turned off without registering the time nor how long were you asleep for.

You lifted your eyes to see the grey out the window in front of you. With that fog, the trees and buildings never ended, they floated upwards, seemingly as endless as beanstalks. Reaching your head back, it met the wooden counter. You were in the kitchen, fell asleep on the floor and slumped against the counters, the empty bottle laying across from you a reminder of the event that transpired the previous night - maybe morning? You didn't really know.

You lazily extended your legs in front of you, eyeing your sock-clad feet and the tattoo that peaked from the clothing. Blooming lilacs that danced and branched out, the stem wrapping around your ankle oh so loosely, almost teasingly. Lilacs that represented happiness and tranquility, which you have never felt more far from.

Remembering the old days, the better days, you with your poofy dress, so blindingly pink it demanded everyone's attention, giggling with your friends that adorned similar attire to yours, showing each other the tattoos that hugged your ankles, in endless shapes and sizes, dreaming about who the lucky person you’ll share your tattoo with would be, who was lucky enough to capture your heart and claim it as their own, and offering theirs in return.

Bedtime stories were your favorite quality time with your mother, where you’d both forget about the story cradled in her hands and you’d spend your night tracing the few tattoos that scattered across her arms. Asking her how could she love so many people and have them love her in return before loving her husband - your father - the only person she was meant to be with, only to wait with bated breath for an answer you already heard so many times you probably memorized it by now. You’d be entranced at the way her eyes always softened, a light gleaming in them as she would explain to you, again and again, with no sign of ever getting bored, how she have never and would never regret the people she loved, because in some twisted way of the universe, it led her to the father of her beautiful child, that snuggled her in her princess bed.

Alas, asking her how you came to the world received a totally different reaction, and you refrained from asking her that again until later on in life.

Whenever your grandma visited, you’d run to hug her old and withered body, apologizing when she would howl about her aching back and dragging her to sit with the excuse to help her rest, but you both knew you wanted to hear stories, your teenage self was so ready to fall in love, so excited to have a piece of someone you adored with all your heart decorating your skin, inking it in the most beautiful forms of promise.

She always made her past lovers sound like prince charmings right out of a novel, the kind of guys with the power and confidence that seemed perfect in every way. The kind of guys schoolgirls woke up and went to school for in the morning. The kind of guys that hit women of all ages right between the eyes every time they were seen and stirred up their fantasies.

And by God, did you not realize that your grandmother wasn't spewing bullshit after all these years, because there he was, a storm in each step he took, fire in his knuckles erupting and seething with fierceness. He was an explosion of bare, raw, real mystery. A soft caress of the wind, warm sand, and pure silence. He was colors and textures and shapes and designs, all combined together in an artistic canvas that thrived for attention but wouldn't stoop to admitting it.

You remembered the day your lilacs embellished his shoulder, shyly peeking through his hero suit, claiming everyone’s attention on their petals as they swayed on his skin, the attention of the media as the shoulder of the hero, Dynamight, was showcased on social media, people envying whoever was able to capture the exploding hero’s heart.

As if he wasn’t capable of love, they didn't see what you saw, they will never have the privilege, because when he dropped the façade of the hero, he’d come home to you, knock on your apartment door and you’d flee to open it to him to lay your eyes on him, a tired laugh, sore muscles, a teasing glint in crimson eyes, golden hair tasseled after a sleepless night. He was secure embraces oozing with warmth. He was toughness and hardness, perfectly mixed in with trust and care.

It was at that day it happened, in the middle of the living room while the newsman was talking nonsense about the hero, the warmth wrapped around your wrist, gripping it like a vice with no intention of letting go; yes it burned, you remembered the sting, it just paled in comparison to the warmth in your chest, the warmth of the tears escaping your eyes as you held your wrist close to your chest, happily whispering about how this was what love felt like. You also recalled that it was at that exact moment the hero, your hero, walked into your apartment, dropping everything and running the small distance to your hunched body to grab at your wrist to inspect the damage he thought was done to it.

Only for his eyes to meet that one wretched inking he loathed all his life, the - meaningless doodles, he’d call them - that blemished his skin, he remembered the remarks, how no one would be able to share that blotch of his with him because who could ever love him? Who could ever endure him, with all of that ego and all of that anger? And as time passed, he believed it, he believed them, that he wasn’t worthy to be loved, that he was only meant to save, not be saved as well, not even from himself.

But there you were, there you fucking were, crying and laughing and struggling to breath as you repeated the words you’ve been dying to confess,

“I love you, Katsuki.”

Suddenly, that speckle that was always hidden under his socks brought him happiness, brought him love, and damn did he deserve it, because he fought for it, he endured hell for it, and there you were, wrapped around his arm and repeating those three words against his lips between heated kisses.

He was pleasure and lust. Rough groans and mutual needs. A burning touch. Your name hanging by his lips, breathless kisses and hair-tugging and hot flesh against hot flesh.

He was an illusion you thought it'll never materialize, and yet here he was.

Here he was, all highs and lows, smiles and frowns, softness and roughness, carefulness and danger. Here he was, a tiny spark of thunder, sparkling with passion, loyalty and dedication, protection, satisfaction, confidence and love.

Here he was…

Where was he?

The inking you used to spend hours admiring now haunts you, the design that used to whirl and twirl across your wrist as you hummed while tracing it now felt like shackles, squeezing so tight against you as you tried to break free. The black almost shrouded by the coats of metallic red that spilled from your attempts of escape. The dark crimson that matches his eyes, the eyes you know you won't forget, you know you don't want to forget, no matter how you’ll feel better if you do.

The girl staring right at you through the distorted reflection created by the dishwasher judged you, all mangled and blurry, yet the tear stains and numb eyes are hard to ignore, easily cutting through the deformed reflection.

You and the girl in front of you envied your friend, the aromantic that was never interested to fall in love, only possessing their own tattoo that graced their ankle, with no one else's accompanying it, sure it looked lonely on some days, but who were you to judge?

You remembered what they always told you, that it wasn't always the fairy tales your family fed you. They told you about their mother, who had an affair and fell in love, spending almost a year hiding the tattoo of her fling from her husband before being caught, they told you how their father was broken beyond repair, he who also was so drunk on the idea of falling in love and being loved in return, just like you were for all those years. They told you of the heart break that you might have to face when your partner’s inking is embedded into you, but not the other way around, how you had to decide whether to wait for your own personal design to mark its location onto them or leave, always being haunted by the part of them that you can't get rid of, no matter what you do.

They never told you about this kind of heartbreak though, the one where you’re both so in love, so happy, destined to be together forever, because what could possibly go wrong?

You never got the answer to that, you remembered asking him as he dragged his suitcase out of the apartment, the tears cascading down his face never answered you as he apologized again and again, mumbled how you deserved to be loved by someone that wasn’t him, babbled about him not deserving you. About how he won’t ever love someone besides you when he caught your eye scanning whatever was visible of his arms, in fear of finding out a piece of someone that wasn't yourself.

You finally got up, legs numb and steps wobbly from sitting on the floor for so long, you eyed the door, still unlocked after his leave a couple of hours ago - maybe more it's still unclear - no urge of yours strong enough to get you up to lock it again. You moved slowly, as if the shuffle of your feet is causing you pain, and in a way, it did, because you know when you reach the living room couch, there won't be the warm arms that engulfed you, because what else did you have other than the warmth you surrounded yourself with when you told him to hold you close to him?

That's right, nothing.

As you laid down on the couch and allowed yourself to be suffocated by the scent of caramel, you cursed at all the fantasies and dreams that clouded your mind day and night, you frowned and scrunched your nose at the scent that used to mean love and warmth, but now only burnt your nose and teared up your eyes.

A constant reminder, just like the defaced wrist you brought closer to inspect and hissing when the cold air bit at it. You recalled the lilacs and swore at them, the same lilacs that symbolized love and passion, but looking more withered and torn the more you looked at them.

Good, guess they know how I feel.

Borrowers (taglist):

if you want to be tagged with for any of my fics let me know ♡

#tw: self harm #this shit hurted #i know theres like one sentence of dialog in here #speed past that #I WANTED EMOTIONS #AND PAIN #katsuki angst #katsuki x you #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou angst #katsuki bakugou x you #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugou angst #bakugou x you #bakugou x reader #nami writes

196 notes · View notes

comfortwriting · 3 years

Text

Unbreak My Heart - F.W

Fred Weasley X Reader Part 2 of ‘Call Out My Name’, inspired by the song ‘Unbreak My Heart’ by Toni Braxton.

Part 1 , Part 3

About: Fred realises he has everything wrong. His heart aching for the reader after pushing her aside for someone else, he searches for her to apologise for what he’s done and to admit his true feelings for her.

Theme: Heartache, sadness, moving on, relationships, rumours.

Warnings: mentions of raw emotions, *incredibly light* smut, depression, body image issues and swearing.

Don't leave me in all this pain Don't leave me out in the rain Come back and bring back my smile Come and take these tears away I need your arms to hold me now The nights are so unkind Bring back those nights when I held you beside me

The first thirteen months without Fred were the worst. You couldn’t face visiting Weasleys Wizard Wheezes no matter how many times George asked in his letters which you ignored. You couldn’t go into Diagon Alley without hearing news about The Weasleys - more importantly, the news about Fred and his darling; they were now engaged.

You kept to your bedroom, crying to sleep every night, looking through all the pictures you had taken of and with Fred over the years that you were with him. Letters you had written to him laid scrunched up all over your floor like an author going mad over a sticky, confusing, part of the story - but that was exactly what this was.

Everywhere you went as you entered Diagon Alley, you were forced to listen to the news over and over again that the shop was a success. You wanted to congratulate George, but after ignoring him for so long you couldn’t bring yourself to pick up a pen to reach out to him.

Too afraid to let anyone in after the damage Fred inflicted on you, you didn’t bother meeting anyone new.

Plenty of people offered and even your sister tried to match you up with a friend of hers from work, but you declined and allowed Fred’s damage to take over you.

You only left the house for work which was torture enough as you worked with Percy at the Ministry. You ate one meal a day which was an apple on your lunch break. You didn’t dream of moving out despite your parents encouragement and you simply just collapsed in on yourself whilst your family constantly complained about Fred, swearing that you chose the wrong twin.

Although you hated Fred - or at least convinced yourself that you did - you still thought about him every single day, and at bedtime you would envision yourself back on his sofa in his arms underneath that scratchy patchwork blanket you shared many memories under.

Laying awake staring at the ceiling, you took a deep breath. It had been over a year. You couldn’t go on like this. You needed to claim your life back, one step at a time. Sitting up in your bed, you grabbed the last of your parchment and leaned it against an old book. Dipping your feather quill into your ink pot that rested beside your bed next to the framed picture of you and Fred, you wrote to George.

You began apologising for not replying and for not visiting the shop, explaining why, and asked how everything was going - you missed your friend and it became suffocating to ignore him reaching out.

Un-break my heart Say you'll love me again Undo this hurt you caused When you walked out the door And walked out of my life Un-cry these tears I cried so many nights Un-break my heart My heart

It had been another five months since you wrote your letter to George and you were still waiting for a reply. You told yourself that perhaps he got too busy with the shop or he just didn’t want to mend things after you ignored him for so long. Either way, you didn’t ponder on it, sprayed yourself with some perfume, and got ready to leave for your third date this week.

George wasn’t ignoring you on purpose. He truly was too busy with not just everything at the shop, but also helping Fred plan out this so-called wedding and engagement party that came out of nowhere. He planned to write back but time got the better of him, he knew you wouldn’t take it personally.

“Oh look at you!” your sister grinned, “Same guy?” she asked enthusiastically.

“No,” you shook your head and grabbed your coat, putting it on, “I don’t see the same guy twice if the spark isn’t there.”

Your sister smiled to herself and told you to have a good time. You enjoyed yourself temporarily until you remembered Fred Weasley and what he did. He was the reason why you decided against seeing the same person twice. If there was no chemistry during intimacy you moved on. Speed dating was the perfect temporary aid you needed at the moment.

And just like Fred and his fiancé, word got out about you and how desirable you were. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, you started looking after yourself and forced yourself into the limelight. Even if it didn’t result in finding your true love, you still wanted to have fun along the way.

Your parents went to The Leaky Cauldron, and just as they were leaving, they bumped into Molly and Arthur Weasley. Your parents flinched at first sight, but swallowed the anger they had towards their son Fred.

“Oh Mr and Mrs Y/LN! what a lovely surprise to see you!” Molly chirped up. George turned his head and stood up to greet your parents. Unlike Fred, they loved George.

“And you.” Your father replied, his voice monotone.

“We haven’t seen your daughter for ages. We missed her last summer, please ask her to come and see us. George misses her and it’s our Freddie's engagement party tonight!” Molly babbled on, pointing to George when she mentioned him and Fred.

Molly and Arthur loved you coming over to the burrow. They loved you even more seeing how happy you made their son. In their eyes you brought out the best in him. On the other hand, they weren’t keen on the girl Fred decided to marry, she was inconsiderate, selfish and didn’t know what hard work was - she was handed everything she ever wanted, the exact opposite to you.

Your fathers face flushed with frustration. Didn’t they know why you never came around anymore? Were they not aware that Fred was the reason she screamed and cried every night for over a year?

Your mother hesitated but decided against holding back. She liked the Weasley family, but she couldn’t allow Fred to get away with what he had done.

“Maybe you should ask your darling boy, Fred. Or maybe George will tell you, he’s the decent one of the two.”

Your mother said no more and stormed out of the packed pub, your father trailing behind nodding a goodbye to George. Molly and Arthur stood there speechless and looked over at George, demanding that he tells them what happened as soon as they arrive home when everyone has gone to bed.

Fred felt strange throughout the whole party. He didn’t feel happy like he thought he would - he hadn’t been feeling happy for the past five months. Something in his life just didn’t feel right and he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong -waking up next to his girlfriend made him feel sick and he realised how stupid he was thinking that getting engaged would make everything better.

Molly, Arthur and George sat at the dining table when everyone else was in bed. “George you better tell me what happened, now!” Molly hissed in a low whisper.

George spilled absolutely everything, from beginning to end. As much as he loved his twin, he didn’t shy away from any details even if they showed Fred for exactly who he was, and the awful things he did. Molly and Arthur were outraged at their child's behaviour. Molly had to restrain herself at the table whilst she sobbed into her hands.

Far away, you panted heavily as you came down from your high with your date. Unmounting him, you laid beside him in his bed. He took off his condom and breathlessly offered taking a shower with him. You accepted his offer knowing that you could go home straight after, you wouldn’t need to stress about hurrying in the morning to get to work on time.

Take back that sad word goodbye Bring back the joy to my life Don't leave me here with these tears Come and kiss this pain away I can't forget the day you left Time is so unkind And life is so cruel without you here beside me

Work at the ministry became more tolerable over the next six months. Percy smiled at you more often and you couldn’t understand why. You didn’t look into it and simply smiled back. You flourished even more within the same time - you had got into a relationship with the one night stand you shared a shower with. The curly haired bookshop assistant grew on you and you didn’t mind, he often made you laugh so hard you burst into tears.

Whilst you were finding yourself, running with the wind, Fred had fallen apart completely. He overheard George spilling his guts, and finally realised why everything felt so wrong, why he wasn’t happy. You were the missing piece. His guilt and mistakes were eating him alive. He broke off the engagement - to his parents delight - and vowed on finding you and making everything right. George felt relieved that he had his own room because Fred’s cries were enough to make anyone feel ill.

Fred slept with the Irish scarf he bought you from the world cup, and he kept the patchwork blanket on his bedroom, refusing to bring it back downstairs.

Memories flashed back to him, the two of you in the tent, “Oh Fred are you sure?” you asked him as he put the scarf around your neck.

He chuckled and kissed your head, “Anything for you, my love!”

Then memories from the sofa flooded in, hurting him even more.

“I’m so in love with you,” you moaned, cupping his face while he made love to you.

He shook his head and came to his senses, angry that he put such a lovely girl in the firing line.

“Percy, Y/N works with you doesn’t she? Can you tell her I need to see her.” He later begged.

Percy refused, “That would be an incredibly inappropriate thing to do in the work place!”

Fred wrote you letters, but you never got them. The family refused to lend him their owl and Fred couldn’t understand muggle post. Getting desperate, he would stay in Diagon Alley trying to see where you were lurking after work, asking strangers if they had seen you, showing them the only picture he had of you.

“It’s going to be perfect here!” Your mum smiled looking around your large half unpacked apartment, “When will he be moving in?” She winked.

You finally saved up enough money to move out and you were planning on asking your boyfriend to move in if things continued to run smoothly. You had got your furniture, all you needed were the items left in the big green box from your bedroom. “I’ll collect them next week.”

Feeling brave with your partner, arms linked, the two of you visited George’s shop. He had sent you a letter letting you know when Fred wasn’t working and you felt confident that you wouldn’t bump into him.

“I’m so proud of you!” You cheered for George, giving him a hug.

After paying for your bits and bobs you previously saw in the design stages, you walked out of the shop and bumped into someone. Looking up to apologise, you realised it was Fred. He stared at you - both of you mirroring each other looking like a deer caught in the headlights.

You shook yourself out of the immediate shock Fred was still stuck in.

“Sorry,” you muttered, walking away, your boyfriend asking what his problem was.

Un-break my heart Say you'll love me again Undo this hurt you caused When you walked out the door And walked out of my life Un-cry these tears I cried so many nights Un-break my heart

Another week went by and Fred was going stir crazy. Customers in his shop who knew you both were whispering about how happy you were now. Him and George argued when he discovered the letter between you two.

Fred rifled through the stacks of letters and found your parents address where you no longer lived. He got on his broom, not caring if muggles saw him, and landed on the roof. He crawled down to your window and gave it a tap with his wand with a soft “Alohomora”.

Expecting to find you asleep, he discovered only disappointment that your room laid bare and empty. The bedside table had nothing but a folded photo lying face down on it, the bin on the floor full of parchment balls.

He unfolded the photo and put a hand over his mouth, seeing you and him moving during your morning walks. He bent down and grabbed a ball from the bin, unravelling the parchment. He cried reading the letters you had written him but never sent. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted the green box on your bed and he went through it, more tears spilling down his face.

“I’ll just grab my box!” He heard you yell, walking upstairs.

Without giving him time to hide, you opened the door, revealing him standing in front of you. You held back a scream of shock and took a deep breath shaking your head, “Fred please - you can’t be here.”

Fred shook his head and cried, “I’m so sorry, for everything,” he made his way closer to you, “I got everything wrong, her, everything.”

Not wanting your parents to see him, you closed your bedroom door and locked it, your heart pounding. Tears fell from your eyes, the walls you put up against him crashing down, your hate for him melting away and your love for him surging inside.

“Why are you here?” you questioned him through your cries.

Fred walked over to you slowly not wanting to scare you off. This was the closest you had been to him since you bumped into him at the shop. The young man you fell in love with wrapped his arms around you, tangling his hands in your hair. You stayed still with your hands by your side.

“I’m in love with you.” Fred choked out between sobs. He pulled away and gently put your hands in his, your tear filled eyes getting lost in his.

“Fred- I can’t!” you shook your head crying, feeling weak at the words he said and the ones you replied with.

“Please,” Fred begged getting onto his knees, staring up at you, “please let me make things right.”

Don't leave me in all this pain Don't leave me out in the rain Bring back the nights when I held you beside me

“I think you look stunning,” Fred complimented you, soot spread out all over your nose.

You chuckled and sneaked a kiss on his lips, only to hear a loud thud on the desk in front of you.

“One weeks’ detention for the two of you,” Professor Snape snarled, “and fifty points will be deducted from your house.”

Un-break my heart Say you'll love me again Undo this hurt you caused When you walked out the door And walked out of my life Un-cry these tears I cried so many, many nights Oh, un-break my

“What do you mean you’re taking her instead of me!” you freaked out, throwing your earrings at the mirror.

“It’s just a bloody Yule Ball. Y/N. It doesn’t mean anything.” Fred argued.

“Well it does to me!” you argued back, “I’m guessing I was just your back up plan if she said no.”

Un-break my heart, oh baby Come back and say you love me Un-break my heart, sweet darlin' Without you I just can't go on

Fred held you in his arms, the two of you watching the muggle horror movie in amazement. You nuzzled your head into his neck, planting kisses on it softly. Fred let out a soft shaky moan, his hand making its way up your thigh. “We’ll need to be quiet,” he whispered, pulling your underwear off.

Can't go on (Say that you love me, say that you love me) (Tell me you love me, un-break my) (Say that you love me, say that you love me) (Tell me you love me, un-break my)

You stared at Fred, still trying to process what he said. You pursed your lips and stayed quiet getting lost in your thoughts. Fred noticed you were in shock and lost for words. He pulled out the scarf from his coat pocket and walked over to you, wrapping it around you.

You stared up at him, getting lost in those gorgeous eyes that you missed so much. You looked down at his lips and kissed him impulsively.

He kissed back.

#fred weasley #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter #imagines #oneshots #HP #Weasley #weasley x reader #fred weasley x you #george weasley

334 notes · View notes

xmyshya · 3 years

Text

Shoved it: chapter I - Grind

summary: You don’t like skaters. They’re unruly, misbehaved and rude. But this one encounter just might change your view. genre: fluff warnings: tooth-rotting fluff (seriously, make a dentist appointment), slow burn, mutual pining betas: @vanille–kiss as always I'm eternally grateful to you, I love you lots a/n: Written for ANILYSIUM (former HQHQ) Server Collab with the prompt “Meet Ugly”. Check the event’s masterlist here! series navi: masterlist | next wc: 1.4k

Books. You love everything about them - the scent of the ink, the feeling and texture of paper under the pads of your fingers, the sound of pages being turned, the way how 26 letters bloom as a whole new world in your mind.

It’s a beautiful spring day, one that carries the warmth of sunshine and scent of freshly revived greenery in the air. Birds are chirping sweet love songs, you’re wearing your favourite flowy dress, gentle breeze makes the short stray strands that slipped from your bun tickle your nape.

On a day like this, it’s extra hard not to bury your nose in the tome you carry around these days. Technically, you know you should pay attention to your surroundings, especially when you’re walking and not sitting on the bench, but it’s just getting to the good part, where the thief prince is about to steal a kiss (and a heart) of the princess and -

Huh?

It’s a beautiful spring day, the sun is finally out, no sight of rain clouds, no school today, absolute freedom. Which is why Suna Rintarou is rushing to the park, using his worn skateboard for the first time this year. He surely hopes he hasn’t gotten rusty with the break, but damn does it feel good.

The wind is ruffling his bangs that stick out from underneath his beanie, and it makes him want to go faster, faster, and maybe, just maybe, he might be able to fly. Or at least jump really well. So he pushes again and again, despite moving at a decent speed already.

There are stairs nearby, and Rin feels today is the day he beats his record at how far he can land. He’s approaching it fast, the top is right there, he can see it, so he pops the board and then shoves it, his ankle at a perfect angle, and shit, if it ain’t the perfect pop shuvit, and fuck, he’s middle air and knows he’s gonna fuck it up.

Because at the bottom, right where he predicts he’ll land, there’s you. A cute girl, with her hair and dress flowing with the wind, eyes trained on a book in her hands, and she doesn’t even see him.

Which is why he crashes with you, having enough mind clarity to push his board in another direction and cover the back of your head with his hand, before he falls on top of you on the pavement. You blink at him with a confusion clear in your gaze, almost as if you don’t know where you are. He smirks at you lazily, and in his most seductive voice lets out a,

“Hi.”

You still look at him with those huge doe eyes, like a little lost lamb, and he would love to sink his teeth in your flesh like a big bad fox. The boy opts for helping you up, instead. He can do that other thing some other time. As you shake off the dirt from your dress, he opens his mouth to say something more, but he’s met with

“What the hell?! That was dangerous! You could have hurt somebody! Have you thought about it? This is a public place, you… you… you punk!”

He’s staring at you dumbfounded, surprised at your sudden outburst. Definitely not what he expected after protecting you from the impact, and definitely not after presenting you his best smirk, the one that has every girl swooning. Suna shakes off his haze when you reach the top of the stairs, and mumbles at the sudden realisation.

“But… I’m not a punk?”

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

You’re running. Your feet hurt, lungs burn, and you don’t really see where you are or where you’re headed, but it’s better than getting caught by palace watchmen. The hand around your wrist has a tight grip, as you’re dragged through narrow dark alleys. Suddenly, the man in front pulls you behind a corner, his arm wrapped around your waist, both your chests heaving against each other.

“Are you okay, Princess?” He asks, voice still a little breathy from the exercise, and you nod. “I think the guards are gone now.”

“Are you the Prince of the Thieves?” His smirk grows wide in the shadows.

“I did steal you from the palace, did I not?” His face is coming dangerously close, olive eyes boring into yours. “If you’re not careful, I might steal your heart as well.”

His breath is fanning over your lips as he whispers the last sentence, you part your mouth…

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Shit.

Wait, why did the Prince have the face of that punk?

***

Luckily the bus you take to school isn’t crowded. You squeezed yourself into a window seat with earphones completely sealing you off from the surroundings. Hopefully upbeat music will be enough of the distraction from the weird dream. Hopefully.

Relaxed, you close your eyes and sing along in your mind, tapping the rhythm on your thigh. You let your mind wander, as you imagine yourself dancing to the song, feeling the endorphins pump through your veins.

Until an image of those greyish-yellow eyes glinting in the darkness flash in your head.

Well, shit.

***

If there was any hope of relief from being haunted by that intense gaze at school, it’s gone now. As a top student you were always focused on lessons, always ready with an answer for any question; but today it’s completely the opposite.

First, you somehow managed to forget a basic algebraic formula. While solving a problem on the board. The class was shocked, the teacher was not impressed, you were embarrassed… Still feeling the heat of shame hours later.

Then you completely spaced out, forcing the English teacher to repeat your name over and over, telling you to continue reading a text. And you didn’t even know which part you should continue from.

After that came chemistry, and you nearly blew up the lab after messing up the proportions of ingredients. Why were you so affected by some punk you didn’t even know? Why were you seeing those damn eyes everywhere? Even in the cafeteria, at the table across from yours, that boy also has those eyes.

Wait, no. Oh no.

You’re staring at him unabashedly, silently praying to be wrong, waiting for something, anything, to prove that it’s not the person from the park. It doesn’t come, but the heavens curse you instead.

In a slow motion you observe how his eyes meet yours, and as if it wasn’t bad enough, he smirks. You make off the cafeteria so quickly, that you nearly trip over your own two feet. Seriously, what did you even do to deserve this punishment?

It’s Monday again, and Suna would rather stay at home and sleep. But he has to show up to class, so he reluctantly crawls out of the bed, throws on his uniform, and after brushing his teeth leaves the house. It’s such a drag, honestly. Nothing interesting ever happens.

Rintarou nearly dozes off on the bus, the steady hum of the engine and gentle rocking serving as a lullaby. But he can’t sleep, he can’t miss the stop and be late again. So he forces himself to watch the monotonous scenery on the other side of the window.

As predicted, the day goes by slowly. There’s nothing amusing about listening to those old peoples’ rambling on subjects nobody even cares for. Like hell he’s gonna need inorganic chemistry or classical Japanese. So Rin is sitting at his desk, chin in the palm, thinking how it’s a waste of perfectly fine weather for skating.

Finally, the lunch break comes and he drags his feet behind Miya twins to the cafeteria. It’s not his favourite place, it’s crowded and loud, but his buddies fighting over food makes it worth the hassle. They’re doing this right now, Osamu trying to steal his brother’s onigiri, while Atsumu attempts to poke the other boy’s hands with chopsticks.

Suddenly Rin feels somebody’s intense gaze. It’s not like he’s not used to it, girls usually stare at them lovingly, but this feels different. Curious, he glances in the direction he thinks it comes from and sees… you; barely aware of the smirk curling his lips. But then you run off, probably flushed. That must be it, right?

Suna feels like he hit a jackpot.

#haikyuu x reader #suna x reader #suna rintarou x reader #suna fluff #suna rintarou fluff #haikyuu fluff #haikyuu x y/n #suna x y/n #suna rintarou x y/n #hq x reader #hq x y/n #hq fluff #anilysium server collab #shoved;it #mysh.whitedwarf.[hq]

82 notes · View notes

macbetha · 3 years

Text

below the cut, you'll find an interest check chapter for quatervois, a nancy drew pc fic. it's francy and also my idea of my absolute dream game. please let me know what you think and enjoy!

+++

After Ned breaks up with her and she loses her father, Nancy struggles to find her old vigor for detective work. While on vacation in London with Bess and George, Nancy accepts the urgent invitation to return Blackmoor Manor. Her English getaway quickly turns into an investigation once Nancy realizes the true reason Nigel Mookergee asked her back to the moors. Finding Deirdre Shannon at the manor under the same pretense only sets Nancy’s nerves further on edge. It isn’t until the Hardy Boys show up in Blackmoor that Nancy gets a glimpse of who she once was. With a manor full of suspects and a glass heart cracked open, Nancy is determined to find the truth.

Dear Ned,

How are you? It’s been a while. I’ve always started off my letters telling you about my latest case, but I’m not on one right now. I’m sure that’s hard to believe. Bess and George have whisked me away to London. I’m sure you would love it here. This is the first time I’ve seen Bess and George since I sold the house in River Heights. I stayed with Kyler and Matt in Ireland for a while. I needed a change of scenery. Their daughter just turned two. I’m somewhat jealous I’m happy for them. Anyways, I miss you I hope you’re doing well. I’m sure New York is lovely at Christmas time. I hope Stephanie is I wish Stephanie well How is Stephanie? I hope Stephanie is doing all right. I appreciated the card Stephanie sent when dad passed away. Warm regards, Merry Christmas, Love Nancy

She stares down at the letter as if the red ink were her own blood. It feels just as wounding, seeing her emotions made physical in the words on the paper. Only when a tear splatters on the page does she break free from her trance to the past. Nancy is the only person in her hotel suite, yet she works to rid the evidence like one of her own suspects. She pulls her feet up in the desk chair and crosses her ankles, holding the arch of her right foot – it recently became the victim of her latest culprit. Nancy’s foot got caught under the getaway car’s tire, and she is lucky to even be able to walk after the event. Months later, it’s stiff as hell with the most intense cramps she’s ever endured. Heart racing to forget the night it happened, she focuses on the snowfall out the window – counting little sparkles of snowflakes, though the world blurs when she squints. The doctor thought her failing sight as well as the daily headaches were on account of being hit in the head so many times.

She busies herself with choosing a postcard to send Hannah and Nancy selects one with a cat dressed up as a royal guard. The cuteness puts a smile on her face, however small – she hopes it’ll do the same for Hannah, but there is no telling. Nancy had the gut-feeling Hannah was lying about recognizing her the last time Nancy visited the nursing home. Torment swirls like wind to fallen leaves. She doesn’t have Hannah or Togo to come home to. Togo passed just before Nancy’s thirty-second birthday, and Carson fell ill soon after that. Nancy looks to her hotel bed where Mr. Woogle Woggle sits tucked between two pillows. It seems he is the only one that hasn’t left her. A knock on her hotel door reminds her that is simply not true. Nancy rights herself, fixing her posture to the stance of someone passionate, and she opens the door. Bess and George greet her with blazing smiles; Nancy gives silent thanks for their presence in her life. She would still be in Scotland with Kyler and Matt, had Bess and George not insisted to take her on a vacation. Nancy imagines that their insistence was due to them wanting to keep Nancy from spending Christmas alone on the road again like last year. “Nancy,” Bess stresses. “You’re never going to guess who we ran into in the lobby!” Horror strikes dull and loud in her ears. Surely, it’s not Ned. Please, don’t let it be Ned. George says, “Give you a hint: they were involved in one of your cases.” Nancy’s despair leaves her throat tight. She glances down the hallway, preparing to yank Bess and George into her room and dial her Cathedral contact to get them set up in witness protection.

“That didn’t narrow it down at all, George,” Bess says with a roll of her eyes. “Nancy’s been on hundreds of cases.” Nancy’s strain creeps into her one word: “Who?” Bess and George beam. “Maya Nguyn!” ++

Nancy follows Bess and George to the elevator in a hurried stupor. No thoughts can she conjure as she steps free from the elevator walls which seem to close in on her; Nancy marches into the lobby and notices a woman in the crowd of tourists. She stands with her back to Nancy, her hair drawn up in a bun, and her chin is lifted high with no time for games. Maya turns around and her bright red mouth stretches into a smile. “Nancy!” “Maya,” Nancy huffs in disbelief. She tenses in Maya’s sudden embrace before all but falling into it. This is something good I did; Nancy cherishes with shut eyes. This is someone I helped. When Maya pulls back, Nancy says, “What are you doing all the way out here? You said in your last letter, you were still in Washington.” “My house is technically there,” Maya nods. “But I get to work on the road more these days.” Her brows crease over a sympathetic smile. “Bess and George tell me you’re kind of in the same boat.” Nancy shrugs, struggling to hold Maya’s concerned gaze. “It’s just easier,” Nancy lies. Maya seems to see right through it, but she doesn’t speak on it. Nancy will have to thank her later. George says, “Maya offered us free tickets to a play she’s reviewing tonight and get this – it’s at the Globe Theater!” “Remind me what’s so special about a globe theater,” Bess sighs, checking her nails. “Not ‘a’, Bess, the.” George shakes her head. “The Globe Theater – well, technically it’s a reconstruction of the first one, but it’s where Shakespeare wrote his plays.” “It’s the opening night of a new play,” Maya explains. “And Nancy, you’ll never guess who the star is.” Nancy cannot take anymore guessing games. “Brady Armstrong.” Maya blinks. “Well – yes, actually.” Nancy frowns. “Wait, really?” “Yes,” Maya laughs. “I’ll be conducting an interview with him after the show if you want to go backstage and chew him out for all the stunts he pulled back in the day.” A spark of vigor heightens Nancy’s senses. That doesn’t sound bad at all. Still – “Are you sure we won’t be a distraction or –” “Nancy.” Maya’s hand falls on her shoulder. “You saved my life. You’re the furthest thing from a distraction.” Gratitude floods her before Nancy nods. “All right, then.” +++ The walk to the Globe would be depressive what with the sky being the color of a soaked napkin, but the Christmas decorations lift everyone’s spirits. Nancy limps by a shop playing Christmas oldies through the open door and she is borne back to her father listening to records over cocoa on Christmas morning. She tries to push the memory from her mind, then she thinks of building snowmen with Ned and having snowball fights that turned into the sweetest kisses she’s ever received. The music won’t stop. There are three Christmas trees in the display window and their flashing lights strike pain behind Nancy’s eyes. She pants through a sensory overload before someone squeezes her hand. Maya smiles in understanding as Bess and George walk obliviously in front of them. “It’s hard,” Maya says. “This life on the road. You pick up a few habits.” Nancy squeezes her hand in thanks before tucking her own in her peacoat’s pocket. “I want to enjoy this,” she admits quietly. “But I think the holidays are always hard.” Maya nods. “It won’t be this way forever, Nancy,” she promises. “I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” Cross your fingers, there’s a story behind this door! Nancy swallows around the lump of panic in her throat. She plasters on a smile. +++ The theater is packed with noise and touching and all-around boisterous patrons. They find their seats in the crowd and Nancy doesn’t watch where she’s going – she must keep her eyes on the open ceiling to remember how to breathe. She sits down at the end of the group and Maya passes out programs. Quatervois, the title reads. Bess says, “What does that mean?” “It means you’re at a crossroads,” Maya says. “A turning point.” “Sounds a little dramatic,” George grumbles. Nancy traces the swooping lines of the title with

her thumb, repeating the process until the lights go down. The masked chorus emerges from the shadows and gives a synopsis: Down from Olympus a great hero emerges, Mighty in his strength and courage! A choice he must make Shall he ignore fate? Will he choose love, Or follow his destiny there-of? When Brady saunters on stage in an impossibly short silk chiton, it’s an out-of-body experience for Nancy. He still hasn’t grown his ponytail back, so Simone could very well be in the audience right now. Nancy rubs her aching temple at the thought. Brady begins his journey as the character Diogenes, a demigod that was supposedly – according to the play’s plot – written out of ancient Greek mythos. Diogenes must defeat those who want to leave him forgotten in history, lest he admit that he can’t win this fight and live his life like everyone else. Nancy assumes the play’s ending too soon. She imagines this will be a droll experience written only to paint Brady as a glorious hero that can conquer anything – but she is quickly surprised. Brady is stabbed in the final act and addresses the audience in a wail: And so my story ends a breath too early, No time to even be weary! The moon shall pass over my corpse, And the sun will beat down on my ashes with no remorse. Today, I have failed my quartervois Alone, forgotten, and lost. When the curtain falls, Nancy’s mouth is parted in disbelief as a tear burns down her cheek. They don’t receive a proper goodbye with Maya since the rest of the crowd is bustling toward the exit. She does have time to say that Brady is producing a new television series and will be scouting some locations further into Essex; Maya will be following the film crew there for test shoots. She embraces each girl individually and holds Nancy for a beat longer, whispering, “You’ll call if you need to talk?” “Of course,” Nancy says by impulse. “Same to you.” +++ Nancy is proud of herself for going out, but when she closes the door to her hotel suite, her back thunks against the wall and she must take deep breaths for several minutes. She decides to treat herself to a bubble bath even though it’s nearly midnight. She rolls her hair up into a bun and looks at it in the mirror, how haphazard and messy hers is in comparison to Maya. Nancy isn’t jealous – but she can’t help but notice when people are thriving. She wants to figure out how to do it herself and hasn’t found the cure yet. The bath is claw-footed and deep. Nancy sinks into the steaming water before goosebumps rise on her arms, and her freckled skin blushes in the heat. The water does wonders for her foot. She eases her head back on the lip of the tub and nears a light doze when her cell phone rings. It rests atop a stack of towels by the tub. Nancy wipes her damp hand off before looking to the screen. Frank Hardy. Nancy answers and taps the speaker button to relax back in the tub. “Hey.” “Hi, Nance,” Frank says, his voice a familiar balm after such a stressful time. “What’s going on?” “Things aren’t too different from last week’s call,” Nancy smiles. “But I’m on vacation with Bess and George.” “Oh wow! That’s awesome. I hope it’s been fun.” Nancy’s glazed eyes blink. “Yeah,” she rasps. “It’s nice.” She clears her throat, searching for her old enthusiasm. “But what about you? How’s Joe?” “Same as usual, a pain in my ass.” Nancy chuckles before a distinctive lift raises Frank’s voice. “We’re actually getting ready to get on a plane for a case – but I wanted to make sure everything’s good with you.” Nancy’s hand closes in a fist on her raised knee. “Gosh, it’s been so long since I’ve been on a case.” “Not really. You just took a few months off to stay with Kyler, right?” “Yeah, but that’s the longest I’ve ever gone without a case since I started.” “I’d give you ours if I could,” Frank says. “Really not looking forward to such a long plane ride. Oh, they’re calling for our gate – but do you want me call you when I land?” Gratefulness is a warm glow in her heart. “No, that’s okay – but

thank you. Be safe on your trip and tell Joe I said hi.” “Can do.” Frank pauses. “I – tell Bess and George I said hi.” “Can do,” Nancy repeats. She chews her lip. “See you soon?” She feels foolish for saying something when Frank is headed to a case. While the weekly phone calls have kept Nancy sane, it would be even better to see the Hardy Boys. “I’ll make it happen,” Frank promises. “See you, Nance.” After they hang up, Nancy struggles to get out of the tub with her swollen foot. She gets into a pair of sweats and wraps up some ice in a washcloth, then holds it against her foot. Nancy mulls over her conversation with Frank, wondering how much of her poor mood could be due to not solving a mystery. With a deep yawn, she tosses the soaked washcloth in the wastebasket, not able to walk to the bathroom to put it in the sink. She cuddles up to her teddy bear and flicks the lamp off when her phone rocks to life on the nightstand. Bewildered, Nancy turns the lamp back on to look at the screen. The number is unknown; she sees her hand tremble around the phone. She lets the call go to voicemail before the phone vibrates to life once again. Bracing herself, Nancy answers. “Hello?” “Yes, hello – I’m trying to reach a one Nancy Drew?” The voice is British and eerily familiar, like Nancy heard it in a dream. “This is she.” “Splendid! Oh, you wouldn’t believe the trouble I’ve gone to in order to find your number.” “Sorry? Who is this?” “Why, Nigel Mookergee. We met at –” “Blackmoor,” Nancy whispers. “Nigel, hi. What’s going on?” “I’m afraid the manner of my call is not a jovial one,” he says. “How should I explain this? Well, I suppose from the start. You see –” He sighs. “Don’t tell anyone I’m speaking of this, but the Penvellyns have fallen into a bit of… financial trouble.” Nancy says, “’Financial trouble’?” “It’s certainly not my business to spread, but yes. It’s not that they are a poor family by any means, but one diplomat’s salary is not enough to keep up a castle.” Nancy sits up, grabbing a pen and notepad from her bedside table. She jots as Nigel continues. “The Penvellyns began to host historical tours at the manor – much to Mrs. Drake’s dismay, I might add. Jane wishes to expand the business to the paranormal side of things, and I don’t quite agree with the idea myself, but she insists it’s just what the manor needs.” Nancy finishes scrawling and says, “So, you’re working for the Penvellyns now?” “Yes. I’m afraid there’s been some situations – inconsequential events, if you will – that need a glance over.” Nancy arches a brow. “You mean an investigation.” “Ah, such a serious word. I simply want to make sure we are fully prepared to expand the business.” Nancy’s eyes narrow. “Right. When would you need me there?” “As soon as possible -” Nigel catches himself. “I mean, at your earliest convenience.” Nancy glances over her notes, running her hand over the page filled by red ink. She closes her eyes against the sight and says, “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

thank you so much for reading! please let me know what you think and stay safe. and please consider following me here and on twitter! xoxo

#nancy drew #nd #nancy drew pc #nd pc #CUR #clue crew #blackmoor manor #curse of blackmoor manor #francy #frank hardy #nancy drew fanfiction

21 notes · View notes

gryffindors-weasley · 3 years

Text

Relighting A Flame

Ron Weasley x Reader

Summary: A routine day at work resurfaces unexpected feelings when you encounter the very person responsible for them.

Requested by @snitches-at-dawn : “can i get a ron fluff about bumping into him in diagon alley after years of having broken up”

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: mentions of death, grieving, break ups, angst, fluff

A/N: This will be part one of two! Thank you for the request, Liz!

(not my gif, credits to the maker)

It was a busy day, a long shift ahead of you at Amanuensis Quills. Students, both new and experienced, had swarmed the old cobblestone walkways of Diagon Alley. The bustling commotion filtered in with no intentions of stopping any time soon; it was always the busiest time of year for obvious reasons. You had your work cut out for you with a seemingly endless amount of quills to stock up for the new school year, an equally daunting amount of ink to shelve as well. To make matters worse, you had been left to run the shop by yourself for the day.

Fortunately for you, quills hadn’t been on the top of the list of priorities for most students and their parents, it certainly was never on yours. They’d much prefer to get their brooms in preparation for quidditch and even more excitingly a wand carry with them through their years of magical endeavors. That was always your favorite part.

It was a nice place to work, one with a welcoming familiarity that was very much appreciated. A job outside of the wizarding word didn’t seem quite like a good fit for you, so this was your best option. You were happy though, Flourish and Blotts was right down the walkway for you to stop in on your lunch breaks. They always had something new to appeal to your taste in literature and that was enough to give you something to look forward to each day. It was a cozy place to be in with its winding pathways and perfectly imperfect buildings, and the lanterns dotting along every one had only added to its warmth.

For the most part, you were as happy as you could be given the circumstances of your personal life. You had been accepted into the best training program to become a healer at St. Mungo’s, something you’d always wanted and now it was finally coming together. The training was rather rigorous as one would expect, but you’d always had Madame Pomfrey to help you along when you attended Hogwarts. It felt as though you had a stable footing in your education and you were right where you wanted to be.

You had your own apartment not far away, furnished exactly how you could dream of and maybe even better than you imagined. It was quaint and it was warm and it was yours. No pesky neighbors and you were free to use however much magic you’d like given everyone around there had been witches and wizards. You couldn’t ask for anything better than what you have, though maybe you could think of a few things.

It was a fairly good life to live after the wizarding war, one that was more fortunate than you could have thought to have. Though the burdens of such a historic event still weighed heavy on your heart if thought on for too long.

The small brass bell on the countertop had rung out behind you once to signal a new customer, effectively pulling you from your thoughts and grabbing your attention. It was a perfect and much needed break from the task you’d been working on for the better part of two hours, and it was one you accepted without an ounce of hesitation. You set down the cardboard box in your hands, turning to greet the person who had been responsible for ringing it. Though in that moment, it seemed as though the words had been taken from you completely and pushed out of your mind. Familiar blue eyes had met your own, eyes that had always been obstructed by strands of near unruly red hair. They belonged to someone you hadn’t seen in the better part of six years.

Your mouth hung slightly agape, your heart stilling in your chest and your surroundings fading around you.

“Hey,” Ron managed, fighting a smile because he wasn’t entirely sure if it had been appropriate in that very moment.

You swallow thickly as you try to collect yourself in your flustered state, though the heat blossoming in your cheeks doesn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Seconds of silence had ticked by unforgivingly, each one more agonizing than the last and you quickly began to realize you needed to say something soon or it’d just get worse.

“Hey.”

That was all you could manage, just one single word. But to be fair, how does one broach talking to someone they so desperately longed to see, someone that held so much meaning yet felt so far away?

He scratched the back of his neck as the quiet tension became increasingly more apparent, averting his gaze from you momentarily before the tips of his ears burned any hotter. It was as if he’d just met you, as if the years of endeavors at Hogwarts and countless late night kisses hadn’t ever existed. He felt ridiculous for being so timid around you, for you were not a stranger and you never will be.

“How...is there something I can help you with?”

Your question seemed to have baffled him, and he found himself scrambling to think of just what shop he had even been in currently. The mere sound of your voice had him forgetting all else and he hadn’t realized just how much he longed to hear it. Truthfully he’d been there for you; he’d plucked up the courage to do so after hearing this was where you’d been. George had told him after he had bumped into you on your way to work one morning. Of course he would tell his brother, he’d missed you too after all. But not as much as Ron had, and he would never tell you that.

Your patient but expectant look had pulled him from his daze, his cheeks flushing a pale scarlet as he stood a little straighter and smoothed his loosened tie. His grip on the strap of his bag had tightened as he cleared his throat.

“Y–Yeah…could I get a package of quills?”

The words tumbled out so pathetically as he stammered them, humiliation seeping into every fiber of his being. He knew this was a bad idea, to come and see you. He debated it for months and though maybe it’d be okay. But it was clear you didn’t want to see him; at least that’s what he’d been thinking.

You nod with a soft smile and disappear around a corner momentarily, leaving him to stand in his own regret and offering you an opportunity to release the jittery sigh you’d been holding. Every word you said had been one you over analyzed, and you felt maybe you had been too dismissive, too short with him. Maybe you had come off as though he was the very last person you wanted to see, when in reality he was the first. He’d been the first for years now and you felt you had yourself to blame for that.

Stuffing your feelings down, you reach up on your toes and snag a fresh box from its slightly dusty shelf, taking a breath before willing yourself to go back. He’s standing right where you left him, his gaze so focused on you that he looked away in an instant to pretend it’d just been coincidence. He was always so blatantly obvious. However, it was something you came to be grateful for when your arm snags the corner of the counter, sending the delicate quills flying from their box and fluttering to the ground. The tiny metallic clangs against the floor in the quiet shop were a deafening reminder of your clumsy blunder, and your cheeks burned fiercely when he had looked at you once more.

“I’m sorry, Ron,” You rush with a soft laugh, internally scolding yourself for acting so foolishly in front of him. You’d known him since you were twelve after all, so it shouldn’t have been so difficult.

Your hands shook as you gathered the soft feathers and you tried not to focus on the way you felt him staring. If you had, you just might make another mistake. He was too busy reveling at the sound of his name falling from your lips for the first time in what felt like forever, something he’d thought about more times than he could count. He was too busy dealing with the emotions cascading over him to care about your inherent clumsiness, for you’d always been that way.

You stood to your feet once everything was as it should be, your hair falling ungracefully in your face at the sudden action, and set the box down in front of him. He’d resorted to looking over every inch of the place in that moment in hopes it’d make you forget he’d been gawking.

“I’m sorry,” you say once more, much more meek than you had anticipated it to be.

“It’s okay, lo—” he cut himself short, nearly falling into old habits. He couldn’t call you that anymore. “It’s okay.”

You nod with a soft laugh, looking in his eyes for the first time since he had come in, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“What ever could you be doing with thirty quills?” You ask curiously, anything to stave off the tension, though you also wanted to know. Your smile had been returned at your teasing question.

“I’m a professor,” he says, breathing out a nervous laugh of his own. “I’ve uh…I’ve taken over for Lupin. It’s my first year teaching on my own.”

Your eyes widen a fraction at his explanation and you smile a bit brighter at him from your spot across the counter.

“That’s wonderful, Ron!” You exclaim, your hand reaching out to grab his arm in excited habit. Realization was quick to hit you, and it felt as though sparks of electricity had mingled between you, the contact leaving flushed skin in its wake. You quickly recoil your hand, the heat traveling from your cheeks down to your neck. “You’ve…you’ve always wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. Ever since Umbridge had taken over for a bit.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, nodding his head in agreement. “That was quite awful.”

The familiar silence was soon to settle over you again, his eyes meeting yours. You’d love to know just what he was thinking, though you were uncertain if your heart could take it if you knew. What you did know was that it was a near impossible feat to look away from him, however, no matter how much you told yourself to. But a rather annoyed throat clearing had sounded and you peered just over his shoulder at the source. A growing line had formed behind him and he reluctantly spared a glance too, dread pooling in his stomach.

“I guess this is goodbye,” you say, offering a small smile.

“I guess it is,” he laughs softly, digging around in his pocket for money. He paid in exchange for his quills, trying not to think about the way your fingertips brushed against his. Or the way he wasn’t quite ready to leave just yet.

“It was nice seeing you again, Ron.”

He looks up at you, a bittersweet smile on his lips as he nodded. “You too, Y/n.”

He brought himself to look away after several moments no matter how much he didn’t want to, but the series of huffs over his shoulder were hard to ignore. He turned around and walked past the very apparent line of customers giving him a sideways glance for holding them up. You watched after him for a moment until he left, disappearing around the corner and out of view as your smile fades. You found yourself rather disappointed at the brief interaction, you wanted more time and your heart squeezed in your chest at the thought. But your attention is quickly stolen by the next customer in line.

—

The rest of the day had gone by quite differently, and the weather had clouded up seemingly to reflect your mood. Every day had been routine; you wake up, you come to work, you go home, and you do it again the next day. Any bit of heartache is easily shoved down and forgotten should there be any that boil over. It’s not everyday that the very love of your life, your best friend, comes in and singlehandedly resurfaces every one of those feelings you fought to keep at bay. The good and the bad.

The brief interaction set back six years of progress you’d made with yourself, six years of trying to live a life without him in it. That small window of time had taken that progress and diminished it to nothing. You missed him, so much so you found yourself looking out of the display windows at the front of the store all day in hopes he’d come back. You missed him and you didn’t want to, you wanted to revert back to the time you didn’t feel as though seeing him completed your day. Now you had seen him, you had talked to him, you had looked in his eyes. You’d been happy to see him and sad all the same. Now the cycle would begin again.

It had been Ron’s decision to take a break from your relationship, just under a year after the war. He had been too overcome with grief over the loss of his brother that he’d withdrawn himself from you, from everyone really. It wasn’t unlike him, and you couldn’t blame him for it either. He loved his family very dearly, and he fought fiercely to protect them. You can’t say you hadn’t expected him to respond this way, you were quite sure you would too and you had been to an extent. But not like Ron. For that, he didn’t feel as though it was fair for you, he didn’t want you to feel responsible for mending his broken pieces. He didn’t want you to feel as though you’d been ignored. You deserved better in his eyes, someone who didn’t feel like a mere shell of the person they once were. Someone who didn’t sulk around and confine himself to his room.

So he broke up with you, regretfully at that. But he couldn’t and wouldn’t forgive himself if he allowed you to feel unloved or unwanted. Because that—that would never be true.

You’d like to think that you handled it very well when he told you, it was a reason that was more than justified. There was no animosity, there were no hard feelings or resentment, not even a little. But that didn’t stop the hurt that settled deep within you. It was a feeling you felt somewhat selfish for but it remained nonetheless. It stayed and it only got worse with each day that passed, with each unanswered letter, with each visit to the Burrow to check up on him only for him to avoid your gaze and tell you softly that he was fine. It was nothing personal, yet it very much felt like it.

In time, you’d wrote to him less and less. Your visits to the beloved family home became few and far between until they had stopped altogether. It wasn’t because you didn’t care, you don’t believe you could ever stop caring for him and his family. But that very feeling was what had been hurting you the most. And any wall you had built has since crumbled unceremoniously to the ground with the days events.

With a sigh, you stacked the last of the shipment of quills and fresh ink onto their respective shelves, brushing the dust on your hands off on your jeans. The chaos of the day had finally ceased now that the sign on the door was flipped to ‘closed’, a quiet settling over the shop. You loved the week before the new school year and hated it all the same; it was endearing to see excited new students frequent Diagon Alley for the first time like you had done years ago. But the frenzy of flustered customers that almost seemed never ending was very much something you could do without.

You gave the room a once over, each package neatly organized, the floor swept and the empty shelves dusted. Perhaps you went above and beyond to distract yourself and keep from going home to simmer in your thoughts, but the darkening clouds had urged you to reconsider. You didn’t have anything particularly exciting to do that evening save for reading the book you’d bought earlier that morning. Though you didn’t think you could concentrate on the story at this point. You were tired and you were replaying it over in your mind.

Reluctantly, you switched off each lamp that dotted around the small shop, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you step outside with a soft sigh. The smell of the rain had immediately hit you, and it was a breath of fresh air compared to the smell of cardboard and ink. Pulling down the shutter over the window on the door you close it and lock it behind you, stuffing the tarnished set of keys in your pocket.

It was significantly less busy at this hour but you made it all of three steps before spotting the ever familiar head of red hair, your heart skipping a beat once more. Your brows furrow as you look up at him, nearly bumping right into him as your head tilts to the side in curiosity.

“What are you doing here?” You ask softly, hoping it hadn’t sounded too expressive of how you’d been feeling.

Ron’s cheeks flush again as he laughs, fidgeting before you as his box of quills sat tucked under his arm. “I was…I was just visiting George,” he says, pointing in the general direction of his brothers shop just down the way from you. “That’s all.”

He could have kicked himself for stumbling over his own words, you had to have thought he sounded ridiculous. He really had gone to see George as he had very frequently, but that had been no less than two hours ago. You nod your head.

“Oh,” you say quietly, offering a small smile in response. “I see.”

He hums, and you look at the rain drops splashing against the cobblestone one after another. You wanted to apparate away, to shut out the world and be in the comfort of your own home so you could unpack the day. And yet you wanted to stay, no matter how much your heart ached upon seeing him you still enjoyed his presence and felt miserable when it was gone.

“I should be going home now,” you say, risking a final glance. He appeared as though he was about to say something before you had beat him to it, and you turned away from him to head to your apartment.

“Y/n wait,” he calls after you, effectively stopping you in your tracks. You look over your shoulder, turning around fully once you see the look on his face. Your brow raises as you await his words, watching as he struggles to find them for a few passing moments. “Would you…would you want to have tea on Thursday?”

Your breath hitches as you stand there, your heart beginning to pound in your chest. The rhythmic beat rang loudly in your ears, so much so that it had to have been heard over the rain. You were quite sure the rise and fall of your chest had been painfully obvious, not to mention the heat in your cheeks that was rapidly trickling down your neck. The numerous thoughts swirled around in your mind in a whirlpool in that moment; it should have been an easy decision, an immediate yes. But the wall you built wasn’t completely destroyed, and the reluctance to get your hopes up for something good was clouding your judgement.

You knew you looked like a fish out of water as you stood before him and each wordless second that passed you by hadn’t been helping your cause. Ron was beginning to worry he overstepped, but he hadn’t said anything either.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” you manage, exhaling a shaky breath before timidly meeting his gaze.

The look on his face is enough to make your heart burst in your chest but you bite the inside of your cheek, your eyes bouncing between his. He swallows thickly at the soft statement, nodding his head as he looks away from you. You mimic his actions and the grip on your bag tightens as you will away the tears that fought to spill.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, nodding as if to convince himself that he believed you. “Yeah you’re probably right.”

His laugh is soft and humorless, more so to cover up the fact that his heart had dropped down to his stomach. Or the fact that he was embarrassed. He didn’t want to accept this kind of fate, he didn’t want to accept that you felt it best to be apart, even if you didn’t really. He hadn’t expected you to run into his arms, but he didn’t want you to leave.

You nod and clear your throat, the rumble of thunder providing you with an excuse to go your separate ways. With all the hesitation in the world, you lift your hand and give a half wave, unable to trust your own voice with a proper goodbye. You look at him once more, his gaze so full of what could only be longing that you couldn’t bear it.

Spinning on your heel, you try and make your leave again despite your heart cracking and the soft sigh behind you. He couldn’t see you like that. It felt wrong to leave, for the life of you, you couldn’t give yourself even a half decent reasoning for it other than to protect yourself from any more hurt. Spending the last six years without him paled in comparison to this.

“I miss you.”

You still completely at the shaky declaration, and it felt as though the breath had been stolen from your lungs. The words were gentle and you almost convinced yourself you hadn’t heard him correctly. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you peer over your shoulder. He stood there with hope, a feeling that could get him in a great deal of trouble but he can’t bring himself to care about the repercussions right now.

“What?”

His tongue swipes over his lips as he takes a deep breath, willing himself to keep talking. “You’re my best friend, and I miss you. Okay?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so aggressive and forward, but he felt he needed to say it before he didn’t have the chance to. He didn’t expect you to take him back, he didn’t even expect you to give him the time of day. But if there was one thing he could say, that would be it and he took full advantage. It was something he wanted to tell you for far too long. He watched the myriad of emotions wash over you as you face him wholly, and he braces himself for your response.

Your reasoning for leaving seemed to falter and break apart the more time that went by, the more he looked at you like that. The look that was reserved for you, though you were always unaware of that fact and Ron was far too bashful to admit it. Anyone and everyone knew that look had always just been for you. He wasn’t known for being discreet with his feelings.

One tea couldn’t hurt, it wouldn’t break you, right? Surely it would have been better than spending your day at home. His words made your heart flutter, and he spoke them with the utmost of sincerity. It would only be self sabotage to reject this offer.

“Thursday you said?”

He felt so overcome with relief that he’d laughed softly, clearing his throat to try and rid himself of the lump forming there. He almost felt as if he’d conjured up the thought, but the soft smile you were biting back was confirmation enough.

“Yeah,” he nods, his rain dampened hair flopping over his eyes. “Thursday.”

“Okay,” you say, looking up at him. Your heart was still beating wildly, the rain pelting over you softly. “And Ron?”

His brows raise as he holds your gaze. You were reluctant to say it and make yourself vulnerable again. You gulp and think better of it.

“I’ll—I’ll see you then.”

—

Tags: @vogueweasley @theweasleysredhair @loony-loopy-lupinn @lupinsclassroom @amourtentiaa @hahee154hq

#ron weasley #ron weasley headcanon #ron weasley one shot #ron weasley fanfiction #ron weasley x reader #ron weasley x you #ron weasley fluff #ron weasley angst #ron weasley fic #ron weasly imagine #ron weasley series

111 notes · View notes

superhero--imagines · 3 years

Text

Etsy Store Here l Ko-Fi l Commission Info I Instagram I Zine

A/N: Soooo this started as like, a general headcanon list, but it's probably going to be a series, maybe 1-5 more parts IDK

* I’ll say it now, and I’ll say it again -

* This is the only boy who truly deserves and appreciates all that you offer as a writer

* 100% meets you through his job

* He’s a manga editor, but he’s always loitering around the literature department hoping he might get shifted over there in the next performance evaluation

* Plus it doesn’t hurt that he’s made some friends here

* Anyway he’s hanging around, chatting with some of the team members and you walk by

* It’s not like, instant attraction or anything

* Don’t get it twisted, he thinks you’re cute- anyone with eyes could see that

* It’s something gentler than attraction

* It sort of like, feeling a gentle gust of wind on a warm day

* Like his soul just sighed and thought

* “oh so this is what you were waiting for”

* He watches you disappear into one of the conference rooms before turning to his colleagues

* “Who is that?”

* “Them? They’re the new writer the boss scouted a while back”

* Akaashi nods like it’s nothing, but every so often his gaze lingers back to where he saw you disappear into that netting room

* Tbh he’s got the most tact probably

* 100% overthinks it, coming up with the most elaborate schemes you can imagine

* “Maybe if I wait around near the bathroom at exactly 9:30 I can “fake” run into them”

* For a second considers stalking you, like just a split second, to find the most favorable opportunity

* But immediately banishes the thought

* He probably ends up running into you on accident at the convenience store or something

* “You work at the publishing company right?” You say, and he can feel his face get hot

* “Yeah”

* Damn. He could only get one word out.

* But it doesn’t seem to deter you, because you smile wide

* “I feel like I’ve seen you around a lot at the office,” you say and stick your hand out introducing yourself

* Akaashi’s panicking

* Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.

* HE GETS TO TOUCH YOUR HAND

* “I’m Akaashi Keiji” he responds

* Damn. Only three words. That makes a grand total of four

* No way you’re going to remember him with just four words

* “I work in the manga editorial division”

* Alright now it’s up to 11, that should be good-

* Oh crap

* Why’d he say that??

* You’re a serious writer in the literature division.

* You probably think it’s lame that he edits manga

* He’s about to say something to cover it up when you grab his hand in both of yours and look at him with star-studded eyes

* “Are you the Akaashi-san that edits “Girl’s World”?”

* He, in fact, is that same editor

* Things roll pretty smooth after that

* Even if you’re not a huge manga fan, that manga totally gets to you

* It’s a coming of age story with drama added in, but all the drama is relevant to issues teenagers face today

* It’s suuuuuper good, and the artwork is pretty

* You buy every issue and keep it in your house

* But you’ve been kicking yourself because last week you missed an event at a local store selling signed copies

* Now every time you look at your bookshelf you get depressed

* You feel awkward asking, especially since he’s probably got better things to do than do a rookie writer a favor

* But Akaashi doesn’t let you feel awkward for too long

* “It’s no big deal, I’ll see if I can have it for you the next time you stop by”

* “Thank you so much!”

* You exchange numbers and as you’re walking home you feel a little jittery

* When was the last time you exchanged numbers with a boy?

* You’re not blind, Akaashi’s pretty handsome too, the first time you saw him at the office you thought

* “Wow, so beautiful men can exist in any industry huh?”

* But even though he was so handsome- it didn’t feel nerve-wracking to talk to him like it would have someone else

* It almost felt...

* Comforting

* Like you were talking to an old friend

* “It would be nice if we could be friends for real,” you think, instead of this imaginary relationship you’ve dreamed up in your mind

* Of course life gets busy and you forget all about the fact that you met Akaashi or that he promised you a signed copy of that manga

* You’ve just gotten out of a rather bleak meeting with your editor

* You look at the manuscript in your hand, it’s basically torn up with red ink

* Did you do anything right? You think as you look through the notes

* Another sigh rips out of you- you’ve definitely got your work cut out for you if you’re going to meet this deadline

* You’re contemplating just starting over and completely rewriting it when you see a pair of shiny shoes enter your view

* You look up to see Akaashi with his eyebrows threaded together

* “Everything okay?”

* You don’t answer, instead you just hold out your “bleeding red” manuscript

* “Ah, I remember hearing Nanami-San saying you had your work cut out for you”

* Oh great, so everyone knows you suck

* Akaashi watches you sigh again, and takes a seat beside you in the lounge area

* Honestly, Akaashi thinks you’re really talented, so he doesn’t get why a few comments have gotten you feeling so down

* Truth be told, he actually got to read your manuscript too-

* Nanami was showing off a pretty cool passage of yours

* It was pretty good, some of your best work yet, he really liked it

* But he can also see where the editing comments are coming from

* The flow was off in some places, and there needed to be more subtext for clarity

* “Don’t get discouraged, you know the last issue of “Girl’s World” had to be re-written five times?”

* Your eyes are as wide as saucers and he laughs

* “It’s true, Fushiguro- Kun nearly strangled me by the end of it, but it was his best issue yet so he couldn’t”

* You nod, digesting the information and Akaashi feels pretty good, looks like he pulled you out of your slump

* “The author of “Girl’s World” is a man?”

* Oh crap.

* It’s not exactly a secret, everyone in the department knows that “wonder egg” is actually Megumi Fushiguro

* But Fushiguro is pretty sensitive about that kind of thing, so only a handful of people outside the department know about it.

* “Let’s just keep this a secret between you and me okay?” He says with a grin, and you feel your face grow warm

* You would quite literally help him bury a body if he asked

* “Here, consider it a thank you for keeping my secret,” he says rummaging through his bag, pulling out a can of coffee and a glossy book

* “It’s not a signed copy of “Girl’s World” but maybe you’ll like it,” he says with a soft smile, patting you on the head

* “Don’t get discouraged okay?”

* You feel butterflies in your stomach even after he’s gone, looking at the cold can of iced coffee and a shiny copy of a next month’s manga issue

* And oddly enough, they bring a smile to your face

* Akaashi sighs, looking into his bag to see another can of green tea and a signed copy of “Girl’s World”

* He grabbed the reference book by accident, but thought maybe that’s what you need right now

* But the coffee-

* Well that’s just cowardice really

* He bought two cans when he saw you this morning but decided against it when he saw how down you were

* And though maybe now wasn’t the best time to ask you to come to drink coffee with him on an impromptu half date

* “Half of love and relationships is timing after all “ he sighs, a hand threading through his hair.

* The other half is feelings

* And with the way you’re both feeling butterflies

* I promise you’ve got tons of those

#haikyuu imagine #haikyu x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#akaashi headcanons #akaashi scenarios #akaashi keji x reader #akaashi fanfiction #akaashi keiji imagine #akaashi keiji x you #superhero—imagines

26 notes · View notes

hottestthingalive · 4 years

Text

a storm in your eyes (lightning and dark skies)

It is then, with Virgil curled up against him, wet hair soaking Logan’s neck and the smell of hot chocolate in the air, that Logan realizes he loves a thunderstorm in human form.

His best friend.

Oh, god, Logan is in love with his best friend. And also his roommate. And also his favorite person in the whole of the universe.

(He’s pretty sure that if Virgil could hear his thoughts, and if, y’know, Virgil wasn’t the person in question, he’d roll his eyes and say, “Oh my god, they were roommates.” The idea nearly makes him laugh.)

–

Notes: Thank you so much to @snek-snacc, @smileyzs, @confused-sunflower, @xaimelarks, and all my other followers for putting up with me ranting about this story, and helping me edit. Y’all are the best!

Edit: After publishing this, I got this AMAZING piece of art from @ent-is-undecisive / @birdsongisland! Go check them out, because they’re insanely talented, and looking at this piece makes me so so so happy!

Two sequels also exist for this now!

waffles and wedding vows (promises and proof)

songs and stars and silence (of loving you)

Hope you enjoy!

Relationships: Romantic Analogical, background romantic Royaliceit, background romantic Intrusleep/rem^2, platonic drlamper

Words: 6885

Ao3

–

Logan Sanders falls in love with a thunderstorm.

Well, not a thunderstorm, exactly. As far as Logan knows (and he knows quite a lot), a tempest, no matter how powerful, cannot take the form of a human.

Still, the first time the boy with a hurricane’s eyes enters Mugnificent (the coffee shop Logan very reluctantly works at), he swears the smell of ozone fills the air.

His name is Virgil Foley, and he sweeps into Logan’s life like a summer storm, filling it with wind and chaos and unmatched wild beauty.

The first time they meet, it is 5:26 in the morning, and he’s considering revolt. Yes, he needs this job to supplement his scholarship, but being up this early is awful enough to warrant mutiny. Besides, customers are few this early in the day, and thus the tip jar is woefully empty.

The door opens with a ding

(there is a smell like lightning)

and in walks a person with dark hair tied in a bun under a black beanie, rummaging around in their backpack. Their bag is covered in pins, and Logan notes a rainbow one near the center.

“Hey,” they say, and he meets eyes the color of stormclouds, a grey bordering on purple and blue simultaneously. “Can I just get a small coffee, please? Black is fine.”

“Yeah,” Logan nods. “Name?”

They glance around the empty Mugnificent with a raised eyebrow, but reply with “Virgil,” anyways.

“Nice to meet you, Virgil,” says Logan, and he’s not normally one for small talk, but he also is sleep-deprived, and too tired to have any sort of filter. “I’m Logan.”

Virgil relaxes, and they hold out a hand for him to shake. “Nice to meet you, too. I use he/him pronouns, by the way.”

“Ah, yes,” Logan nods, returning the handshake. “He/him for me, as well, thank you.”

Virgil pays and waits by the counter as Logan goes to prepare the coffee, scrolling through his phone. There is a comfortable silence as he makes the drink, which Logan spends mentally cursing out Roman, his coworker who was supposed to arrive for work thirty minutes ago. “Here,” he says finally, holding out the cup for Virgil to take.

“Thanks.” Virgil is wearing fingerless gloves, and his nails are painted a bright purple. They shine in the fluorescent lighting. “Have a nice day, Logan.”

“You too,” he replies, and it seems too little. Logan doesn’t believe in magic, or gods, or destiny, but as he watches Virgil turn, about to walk out the door, something twangs in his chest. Despite himself, Logan opens his mouth, searching for something to say, anything that will make him stay.

He blinks, about to speak, and Virgil is gone.

A few minutes later, it begins to rain.

–

The second time he meets Virgil, it is in his psych class.

Logan has always liked psychology. It’s fascinating how the human brain works, he thinks, and even if he isn’t always so good at understanding emotions, he’s quite good at the science behind them. His appreciation for said science is the only reason he signs up for the class at all, when it has practically nothing to do with his astrophysics major.

He’s just about forgotten about the boy with eyes of a storm by the time he sits down for the first psychology class of the semester, pulling his computer and textbooks out of his own bag, and setting them before him. Logan cracks the knuckles on each hand individually, a nervous habit he’s had since he was in high school. He’s done his best to break it, but he supposes, as annoying as it is, it’s better than some of the alternatives.

Case in point, the boy from Mugnificent, who walks into the room nervously tapping his thigh while chewing at his lip. There’s a split in it, one that shines a bright red against the chapped surface, and Logan wants to wince just looking at it.

His eyes flash with recognition as he spots Logan in one of the back rows, and he pauses. “Logan, right? From the coffee place.”

“And you’re Virgil,” Logan smiles, and okay, maybe he hadn’t forgotten Virgil so much as attempted to forget him.

“Can I sit there?” he asks, nodding to the seat beside Logan.

It turns out Virgil is smart, and funny, and just a little bit snarky, and a English major minoring in psychology. He’s got all kinds of nervous habits, chewing on his lip and tapping out rhythms known only to him and drawing on every available surface, and Logan often notices a tendril of ink wrapping around one of his fingers from under his gloves.

They become fast friends, him and Virgil, bonding over a love for space and science and poetry. He starts coming to Mugnificent for coffee more often, and Roman teases Logan incessantly about it.

“You’re finally making friends!” he pretends to sob, throwing his arms around him, and he has to shove Roman away, rolling his eyes. Virgil is stifling a laugh behind one gloved hand, and Logan mouths “Traitor,” at him, though he isn’t really mad at all.

They fall into patterns -- psych and history and statistics together, always seated side by side, sometimes accompanied by Roman or Patton or Remus or Janus or any one of their expanding circle of friends. The two of them buy each other coffee, edit essays, go out for junk food (that Logan complains about but secretly loves) with their friends.

Virgil begs to paint Logan’s nails one night as they watch documentaries together in Patton and Virgil’s dorm room. His tongue sticks out of his mouth slightly as he focuses on the tiny white dots he’s adding, and Logan ends up loving the night sky that graces his fingers. In return, Logan styles Virgil’s long hair into a crown of braids.

“Your Majesty,” he bows as he leads Virgil to the mirror.

“If I’m royalty now, I demand a feast to celebrate,” Virgil grins, admiring his hair. “Sir Logan, this calls for pizza!”

“All the junk food you consume is going to kill you one day,” Logan sighs, but he’s already dialing their favorite pizza place.

They eat dinner seated on the floor, holding paper plates and drinking soda as they watch Cosmos. Patton returns to the dorm a few minutes later, accompanied by Janus and Roman both, and snags some of the pizza for himself – luckily, they’d thought to order extra, as soon Remus, Remy, and Emile all show up, too, crowding into the dorm room and around Logan’s laptop. The documentary is switched to Big Hero 6, Virgil showing off his hair and Logan his nails as the others admire them. Soon Virgil is breaking out his nail polish again, painting delicate puppies on Patton’s fingers, and Logan is teaching Roman how to do the same hairstyle on Emile’s curls.

It’s a Saturday night, so they feel comfortable all crashing in Patton and Virgil’s room, squeezing far too many young adults into one small space. Emile giggles that it reminds them of sleepovers they went to when they were in elementary school, and Remus points out that they ought to play Truth or Dare with a manic grin. Virgil quickly puts a stop to that, however, distracting Remus with conspiracy theories and carving marshmallows to look like Lovecraftian monsters, and Logan wants to laugh because Virgil is very much a mom friend, despite his protests to the contrary. Still, as he sips hot cocoa with a marshmallow Cthulhu staring up at him from the mug, he has to admit it was a good idea. They all get into the fun, carving marshmallows with whatever cutlery Patton and Virgil have in their room, and eventually Monster Mallows will become a tradition for all of their friend group.

When he falls asleep that night, lying on the floor in the blanket fort Patton and Roman had insisted on building, he dreams of rain and lightning, across dark skies that resemble Virgil’s eyes.

–

Logan realizes Virgil is his best friend in the middle of winter, when he shows up at Mugnificent at the end of his shift, ordering two coffees and taking them as Logan gets ready to leave. “Sorry, Roman,” Virgil says, though he doesn’t look sorry at all as he hands Logan one of the drinks and reaches out to hold his other hand. “C’mon, L, we’ve got to hurry if we’re going to get there in time.”

“Where are we going?” Logan raises an eyebrow, throwing on his coat and waving goodbye to Roman (who is saying something dramatic about a grievous betrayal) as he sips at the coffee. It’s perfect, his order exactly.

“Look!” Virgil grins as they leave the coffee shop, and it’s snowing, white flakes falling around them and coating the ground. Some of the cars nearby are already covered in it. “C’mon, we’ve got to get to the park.”

“Wait, why?” he asks. “Virgil, this looks rather like the makings of a blizzard. We should probably go back to our dorms so we can prepare if we get snowed in.”

“I know it’s a snowstorm,” Virgil rolls his eyes, and his stormy eyes are bluer than Logan’s ever seen them, shining with excitement. “Now, let’s go!”

Logan should probably argue more, but he’s laughing as he gets pulled along, the two half-running towards the park.

They slow down at the top of a hill already lightly coated with snow, and Virgil reaches into his bag to pull out a picnic blanket. “No,” Logan protests, but he’s cackling as Virgil yells “Snow picnic!” and spreads it over the snow.

“This is going to turn into a blizzard,” he manages to say, stifling his giggles. “We are going to be buried alive because you wanted to have a picnic in a snowstorm.”

“Oh, shush,” Virgil grins, flopping down onto the blanket and digging into his bag again to retrieve two bagels wrapped in tinfoil. “Drink your coffee and watch the snow with me, Logan Sanders.”

The bagel he hands Logan has Crofters jam instead of cream cheese spread across it, still warm from toasting, and Logan could kiss Virgil if they weren’t very platonic…

Well, it feels like they are a whole lot more than friends, at this point. There’s something about their relationship that feels different from the ones Logan has with their other companions, be it Remus or Emile, Patton or Janus, Roman or Remy.

Are they best friends?

He asks, and Virgil merely grins and says “I hope so.”

It’s amazing, lying there as they watch the sky, munching on bagels and sipping at their coffee and pointing out oddly shaped clouds. Virgil is practically covered in snowflakes by the time they have to leave, the wind picking up too much to stay, and Logan is no better. Still, he thinks it was worth it, even when he gets a cold and has to spend the weekend curled up in blankets, sneezing and coughing as he works on his essay for his cosmology class. Virgil gets a cold, too, and they end up on the phone together as they work, Virgil blasting music on his end and Logan parroting his roommate’s consistent reminders to take medicine, and drink some water!

Emile seems to think it’s cute, for some reason, and they tell Logan to say hi to Virgil for them, a smile playing on their lips that he’s too sick to interpret.

–

Logan has a crush on a boy in their shared statistics class by March, the one who sits three rows in front of him and two seats to the right, who has green hair and a cheerful grin. Virgil listens patiently about it whenever Logan brings it up, and when they have to pair up for a final project, he pushes him towards his crush, joining Remus instead.

He finds out his crush already has a romantic partner in a strictly monogamous relationship when they’re nearly done with the project, and Virgil shows up to Logan’s dorm room with ice cream and his laptop that night, pulling aside Emile as he comes in and whispering something to him. Emile leaves shortly after, and the two of them are alone.

“What did you tell Emile?” Logan asks later, when they’re sitting on his bed and watching trashy teenage romcoms, because, according to Virgil, “This way, you won’t associate any good movies with this.”

“Well, Patton invited him for a ‘sleepover,’” Virgil says, eating directly from the carton of chocolate ice cream, gaze shifting from the screen to Logan. “Did the moment he saw your text on the groupchat.”

Logan had texted that his crush has a partner when Roman had begun teasing him about it on said chat. Looking back, it may not have been the best of decisions, but all he wants to do right now is curl into the comforter and watch bad movies, while simultaneously eating unholy amounts of ice cream.

“It’s not a big deal,” he protests, pulling the blankets closer around him.

“Listen, L, you’re sad ‘cause the boy you like… well, you know. Anyways, you being sad is a big deal, at least to us.” Virgil isn’t wearing his normal clothes, only a pair of pajama pants and a sweatshirt (Logan knows he ran over in his nightwear, which makes him feel worse), so he can see the ink covering his hands, smudged in places.

“Why do you draw on yourself so much?” He leans over to look at the patterns of spirals winding their way up Virgil’s arms, tracing them with one finger. “That much ink can’t be good for your skin, pretty as it is, Vee.”

Virgil bats his hand away, blushing behind his curtains of dark hair, and Logan laughs. “It’s just a nervous habit, okay?” he exclaims, and Logan pokes his cheek, cooing.

“Aw, lookit you,” he smiles, and even though Logan’s heart hurts from what happened with his crush, he doesn’t think he would trade anything for his friendship with Virgil Foley. “So cute.”

“I’m not cute,” Virgil grumbles, pressing play on the computer. “Watch the shitty movie and shush, nerd.”

He gets over the boy from statistics eventually, and gets an A on the project, which Roman insists they celebrate with breakfast at Logan’s favorite diner on campus. (Logan’s pretty sure Roman just feels guilty about teasing him about it, but he goes anyways, pulling his friend aside later to tell him it’s fine.)

��

They return from summer vacation changed. Janus, Patton, and Roman are dating now, for one thing, and it’s disgustingly sappy. Emile comes out as asexual and aromantic a few days after they get back, and Logan helps them hang flags in their dorm room when they arrive a week later. Remy has switched majors, from biology to culinary classes, and Remus tells them excitedly that he’s managed to start a rather popular horror comic online. (Logan reads it, and learns Remus is quite adept at art, writing, and scaring the crap out of him. He never looks at door knobs the same way again.) Virgil, meanwhile, has started wearing far less baggy clothes and more makeup – in other words, people around campus start realizing that Virgil is actually hot, and not just a relatively cute bundle of sweatshirts.

Logan kind of feels weird about it. He knows how aesthetically pleasing Virgil is, of course – they’ve spent enough time together for him to have figured that out – but… well, Logan had realized while he was away how much he’d missed Virgil, even more so than his other friends. He tells himself it is because of how close they are, and ignores the ugly anger in his chest when people flirt with Virgil, or how his heart pounds and face flushes when they curl up to watch movies these days.

As for him, well, he’s dyed his hair a dark blue, a color so dark it’s almost black. Roman marvels over it, asking how he managed to not damage his hair in the process, and Logan doesn’t feel like telling him that he had meant to do a brighter shade, but hadn’t realized how hard it would be to get proper color without bleaching his normal dark hair. He does end up telling Virgil later, though, when Remy and Patton drag them and the rest of their friends to a party.

For the record, Logan tended to avoid such events. He didn’t see the point, firstly – he’d never been a fan of crowds, especially not ones where everyone was drunk off their asses, and he generally had too much work to do to bother with parties. Secondly, he simply didn’t care enough to look nice for such a thing, or to go at all. Logan would much rather spend time with his friends if he had to be up in the middle of the night, whether haunting the 24/7 diner a few miles off campus or playing stupid games in the woods or making fun of Disney movies while throwing popcorn at the screen and shushing each other so they didn’t get noise complaints.

But then there were Patton and Remy, social creatures who liked seeing other people and didn’t mind getting wasted to do so. Roman and Janus typically followed Patton wherever he went, so they were a given, and Remus had developed a raging crush on Remy by then, so he’d probably have tagged along even if Remy hadn’t grabbed his hand and said “You’ll come, right, Ree?” with a grin.

Well, Remus was lost to them after that, and that left Emile, Logan, and Virgil alone.

Which would have been fine! Except then Virgil had got dragged in by Patton (a difficulty of being his roommate, according to Logan’s best friend, was that Patton was very, very persuasive when he wanted to be) and Virgil had begged Logan to come for “Introvert solidarity, L! Introvert solidarity!”

Then Emile had sighed, said something about being the only responsible one, and appointed themself designated driver. So Logan didn’t even have that excuse to pull himself and Virgil out of it early.

He finds himself on a couch in someone’s house, sitting besides Virgil. Janus tells him that it is owned by someone who goes to their college but lives nearby, a summer home belonging to their parents or something. Janus says ze aren’t sure who the actual host is, and ze run off to go find Roman or Patton before Logan can ask why all of them are attending a party hosted by someone they don’t know.

Virgil has obviously already had something to drink, or he’s insanely sleep-deprived, as he has started playing with Logan’s hair. Logan’s willing to bet on the former (although knowing Virgil, he can’t be sure – he has an awful sleep schedule) especially since he’s never known the other to be so touchy, even when tired.

“How’d you get it like this?” Virgil asks, running his fingers through Logan’s curls. He’s perched on top of the couch, and though he would normally be concerned that Virgil might fall, Logan is just glad he doesn’t have to bend over so his friend can examine his hair.

He tells Virgil, and can’t help but smile as he laughs, perhaps a little more than the story warrants. They sit there in peace for a few minutes, Virgil humming along with any song he recognizes and Logan scanning the room for any of their friends.

“Your hair is so pretty,” Virgil eventually says, and Logan is surprised he can hear him at all over the noise of the music and other people. He slides down from the couch to sit beside him, reaching up to poke Logan’s cheek. “You’re pretty. You know that, right? You’re real, real pretty.”

“Aw,” Logan grins, hoping the dim lights and Virgil’s addled brain will hide his red cheeks. “What is it you say? Oh, right; you think I’m warm.”

“No, dummy, I think you’re hot,” Virgil sighs. “Get it right.”

“Why, thank you.”

“‘Course. You’re my best friend, Logan Sanders.”

“Same,” he replies, dodging Virgil’s attempt to flick him as he scans the room. “Have you seen Remy or Remus around recently?”

“Oh, they’ve been making out in that closet over there,” Virgil says offhandedly, pointing, and Logan nearly chokes. “You didn’t know? They’re so obvious, Remy’s been whining about it to me for weeks. ‘Oh, Virgil, I’m doomed to be alone forever!’ ‘Oh, Virgil, Remus is so hot, and I’m going to whine about it to you for hours!’ ‘Oh, Virgil, I have a crush on a trash rat man and I won’t stop talking about it ever!’”

“Did Remy actually call Remus a ‘trash rat man’?” he snickers, turning to look at Virgil, who is wringing his hands in mock despair as he imitates Remy.

“No,” Virgil pouts. “Wish he had. Remus would love that.”

“He would,” Logan agrees, rolling his eyes fondly. “Hey, do you want to leave?”

“Why, Logan Perfect-Hair Sanders, are you asking me to ditch a party with you?” he laughs.

“That isn’t my middle name and you know it.” Logan shoots off a text to Emile, standing and turning to grab Virgil’s hand, pulling him upright. “But sure. Will you, Virgil Emo-Nightmare Foley, ditch this absurd party with me?”

“Logan, I thought you’d never ask,” Virgil smirks. “Let’s bounce!”

They get lucky – Logan hasn’t had anything to drink, and due to how large their group is, Virgil had had to drive over Patton, Janus, Roman, and himself earlier. Virgil hands him the keys to the car, and Logan drives them to the nearby McDonalds, where they order fries and milkshakes. “Let’s go somewhere high,” Virgil says when they return to the car, grinning, and Logan obliges, driving them to his favorite stargazing spot near campus, partway up a mountain in a parking lot for an old playground.

Soon, he finds himself sitting on the hood of Virgil’s car, dipping his fries in a chocolate shake as the two of them stare up at the stars and the moon, pointing out constellations. “Look,” giggles Virgil, his head on Logan’s shoulder as he traces lines between stars. “It’s the glasses one!”

“There is no ‘glasses’ constellation, Virgil,” he points out, but the path his friend is etching into the sky does look rather like a pair of glasses.

“Well, there is now,” replies the other. “It’s your constellation! You deserve one, y’know, ‘cause you’re pretty, and smart, and nice, and funny, and you’re just the best, Lo, okay?”

“How much did you have to drink, exactly?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow, and his friend punches him in the arm, lightly. “Ow!”

“I’m telling the truth,” Virgil rolls his eyes, pulling the blankets they’d retrieved from the trunk closer around the two of them. “You deserve a constellation. You deserve the universe.”

“Well, now we have to find you a constellation, too,” he muses, ignoring the heat in his cheeks (he seems to be blushing quite a lot lately, talking to Virgil) as he searches the sky. It takes a few minutes, and Virgil is half-asleep on his shoulder by the time he makes his choice, but finally Logan says “I found it.”

“Well, lemme see,” Virgil mumbles, opening his eyes.

He traces lines between a series of stars. “It’s a cloud,” he explains, “and a lightning bolt. Because you’re a thunderstorm, V.”

“Isn’t that a bad thing?” He’s biting his lip, suddenly subdued, and Logan feels a surge of guilt, because no one should ever make Virgil look like that, anxious and hurt and scared all at once.

“No,” he answers, fiercely enough that Virgil jumps slightly. “You’re wild, and chaotic, and occasionally a bit destructive, but you also make people feel alive. You bring rain to help things live, you bring the sound of a storm and the beauty of lightning, you simultaneously wake me up and help me sleep. You are beautiful, and inspiring, and so amazingly you, and the best friend I could ever ask for.”

“...And I thought I was the English major,” Virgil says quietly, and his face is bright red. “You have no right to be better at words than me, Sanders.”

“Well, Foley, I’m the astrophysics major, and you’re the one who started making constellations, so turnabout’s fair play,” Logan replies, and Virgil lets out a laugh at that.

Later, when the fries and milkshakes are both gone, they get back into the car and drive back to their dorms. For Logan’s birthday that year, a month or so later, Virgil presents him with a painting of the glasses constellation. He’d commissioned Remus, he explains, staring at his feet, and Logan tells him he loves it. For Virgil’s birthday, he gets a similar art piece from Roman, of the stars making a storm, and Virgil pulls him into a tight hug.

For now, though, the two of them simply sit and gaze into space.

–

Logan goes on a few dates with someone he meets at the coffee shop, named Andy. They become boyfriends. Virgil teases him about it whenever he brings it up, and eventually he stops talking about his partner to his best friend. The two of them start to pull apart, their friendship strained.

When Logan and Andy separate, Virgil is dating a girl he’s only met a few times, who shares Virgil’s English classes and wears colorful barrettes to hold back her curls.

He hadn’t even known Virgil liked her.

–

College passes by quickly. They graduate, and Logan tumbles into a job at a rather prestigious observatory. He lives in a small apartment in the city nearby, buys coffee from the Starbucks across the street every morning, settles into a routine.

Gradually, they all start to fall out of touch. It sucks, but things have been off between Virgil and him ever since Logan had dated Andy Michaels, and at the moment Logan sees his ex-boyfriend more than his ex-best friend. Their relationship had ended amicably, but still – he misses Virgil Foley, more than he’d ever like to admit.

A year or so later, Logan receives the invitation to Remy and Remus’ wedding.

It is in the fall, and Logan isn’t surprised in the least that they plan to have it in a forest, if only because he knows that the odds of Remus wanting the guests to jump into leap piles with him are absurdly high. At least they’re at an actual wedding site, so they can be inside if needed – Logan half expected, when he found out they’d gotten engaged, for them to drag a bunch of guests to a Starbucks for the event.

What does surprise Logan is the fact that Remus has apparently sent it early, because Logan is going to be one of the wedding party attendants.

He calls Remus and Remy that night, certain they’ve mixed up things, but Remy simply laughs. “Logan, you’re still one of our best friends,” he says. “Come on, please?”

“Besides,” Remus adds, “Virge will be one too, and Patton and Roman and Jan and Emile! You can’t break up the team!”

He ends up agreeing, and no matter how much Remy teases him about it later, it was not just to see Virgil again.

The wedding rolls around. Logan has managed to avoid speaking to Virgil for more than a friendly greeting and a bit of small talk through all the preparations the two of them had had to attend, but the they both arrive early on the day of, and Logan doesn’t know anybody else, and, well, he does miss Virgil.

“Hey,” he says. Virgil is nearly as tall as him in the heels he’s wearing (Logan had managed to opt out of them, convincing Remus to let him wear flats with his dress), and his green dress offsets his stormy eyes perfectly. Logan doesn’t think he looks nearly as good in the color, but he’d decided not to argue with Remy’s puppy-dog eyes. Besides, he much prefers the dress to the suits Emile and Patton had opted for.

“Hi, Logan,” Virgil replies. The tension in the air is palpable, and Logan hates it. “How’ve you been lately?”

“I’m good,” he answers.

“Oh, good,” nods Virgil. He’s gnawing at his lip again, and Logan can see the split in it even through the lipstick. “Me too.”

“I miss you,” Logan says suddenly, because he does. “You were my best friend, and I hate not being close, because you are one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

“...I miss you too.” He smooths his dress, looking out the window at the trees, and then laughs. “I’m surprised they didn’t have their wedding in a Starbucks, honestly.”

Logan can’t help but chuckle at that, especially when he spots Remy breezing past them, a coffee cup in hand and makeup only half-done, frantically trying to catch his little brothers and sister, whom he and Remus had appointed flower children. “I thought the same thing,” he admits.

It’s easy for the two of them to talk, after that, sharing jokes and telling stories and talking about their new lives. Logan feels oddly happy when he learns Virgil is single, and when he mentions how he’s looking for a roommate and Virgil remarks that he is too, it feels as natural as breathing to ask where he’s currently living. Finding out they live in the same city makes Logan feel strangely elated.

“Help!” Remus exclaims, skidding to a stop in front of them, collapsing into Virgil’s arms and only barely being caught. “I’ve lost my husband-to-be!”

“Alright, please calm down,” Logan says, exchanging exasperated looks with Virgil, who pulls Remus back to his feet. “Have you actually lost Remy, or are you just being overly dramatic?”

“He has been stolen from me,” Remus whines. “We were kissing, and then he was dragged away by my evil brother!”

“By any chance, was he dragged away to prepare for your wedding? The event we’re attending, so you two can get married? The one that most guests are expected to arrive for in fifteen minutes?” Virgil crosses his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed.

Remus’ eyes widen. “Fifteen minutes?” he asks, checking Logan’s watch, and groans. “Oh, drumsticks. Drumsticks torn right off a chicken. Bloody chicken legs everywhere.”

He darts off, and Logan and Virgil sigh simultaneously.

“We should go help, shouldn’t we?” Virgil asks, and Logan nods reluctantly. “Well, it was great to talk to you.”

“It was pleasant to speak with you, as well,” he agrees.

As he turns to go find Patton, Virgil grabs his arm. “Hey, L, save me a dance, okay?”

They do indeed dance together that night, after they watch Remy and Remus get married among the colorful leaves, and talk, and laugh, and by the end of the wedding they are good friends again.

Virgil and Logan move in together by the end of November.

–

They become surprisingly domestic, the two of them, moving into their large apartment that is close to both Logan’s job at the observatory and Virgil’s work at a publishing company. He’s not surprised Virgil has become an editor (he was always the best at it, when they exchanged essays to review), but he is rather impressed when he notes some of the books in Virgil’s room have his full name on the cover. “I write poetry, mostly,” he explains when Logan asks. “It’s… I used to use it like therapy, I guess, and I got some of it published. I’m not famous or anything.”

“That’s amazing,” Logan says sincerely.

The poetry becomes important, later, but then, it is simply something for Logan to admire, another flash of beautiful lightning in Virgil’s storm.

Saturdays become movie nights, and they order junk food and make popcorn and watch documentaries or horror movies or cartoons together. Occasionally, some of their friends will join them, and every so often, all eight of them cram into Logan and Virgil’s living room. Despite his love for the others, however, Logan’s favorite nights are usually the ones when the two of them are alone, when they curl up together on the couch and make fun of trashy films or contribute their own knowledge to documentaries or sing along quietly to Disney. It is peaceful and lovely and utterly perfect.

Logan doesn’t mean to fall in love with Virgil. It sneaks up on him, mornings of coffee for him and tea for Virgil and memes shared over breakfast, afternoons texting each other with reminders to get groceries and news from the office, nights of cooking together and dancing to the radio.

One day, when both of them have work off, Virgil pulls him out of bed, waits impatiently while Logan gets dressed, and drags him outside into a storm. They walk through the park together, enjoying the rain on their skin, both of them jumping into puddles and belting the title number of Singing in the Rain and getting utterly soaked.

They return home for cocoa, each taking a warm shower and then sitting together on the couch to watch old movies with small white krakens bobbing in their cups. It is then, with Virgil curled up against him, wet hair soaking Logan’s neck and the smell of hot chocolate in the air, that Logan realizes he loves a thunderstorm in human form.

His best friend.

Oh, god, Logan is in love with his best friend. And also his roommate. And also his favorite person in the whole of the universe.

Logan tries to get over his crush (and there’s no other word for it, as juvenile as it sounds). He really does. But it’s so hard, now that he knows it exists, especially when he has to see Virgil every single day. And he can’t just cut himself off, or leave their apartment, because that might ruin their friendship, and that’s the whole reason he’s trying to escape his feelings, because he loves being Virgil’s friend more than anything.

So he exists in this inbetween state, thrashing in the eyewall of a storm, so close to safety and danger simultaneously, trapped in chaos and uncertainty.

Logan isn’t quite sure whether he really wants to return to the eye, blissful quiet and the peace of oblivion, or if he can at all. But he thinks entering the storm itself, the danger of telling Virgil how he feels, the potential for a life with him, is equally impossible.

Eventually he decides that it is best to just ignore his rebellious feelings. It works, sort of – Virgil doesn’t seem to notice anything different, and Logan gets to keep his best friend. Still, every moment together is tinged with a sort of bittersweet sadness, the dancing in the kitchen and cuddling on the couch and meals together a harsh reminder that they are just friends.

He’s not sure exactly how his other friends figure it out, but they do, judging from how Remy and Janus tell him exasperatedly that he really ought to say something to Virgil, how Patton and Roman tell him how cute they would be together, how Remus does his best to shove Logan towards Virgil at any opportunity, how Emile tells him pointedly that repressing his feelings isn’t exactly healthy. Logan does decide that he’ll confess… eventually.

The problem with eventually, however, is how ambiguous it is. The others have realized as much, evidently, but they don’t force Logan to say something, or tell Virgil themselves, and he appreciates that.

It is a Saturday when eventually finally comes, a peaceful movie night interrupted by a phone call with Roman’s name flashing on the screen. He holds up a finger over his lips as he accepts the call, grimacing apologetically to Virgil as he steps into his own room. “What do you want?” he asks exasperatedly when he picks it up, and winces as the other line fills with noise.

“Logan, have you read Virgil’s latest book?” Roman practically screams, and in the background Logan can hear Patton squealing with excitement as Janus shushes them both.

He frowns, closing the door to his bedroom. “I wasn’t aware he’d been working on one.” Normally, Logan knows whenever Virgil is working on another collection of his poetry – he’s often the first person Virgil hands it to for editing.

“Get on your computer this instant, Pocket Protector,” says Roman, and Logan can hear his grin.

A quick search confirms it; a new book of poetry, just released by Virgil Foley. The revelation is almost painful (does Virgil not trust him anymore? Not like him?) until Janus’ voice comes over the line, hir voice sarcastic and concerned altogether.

“Way to go, love, he’s definitely not overthinking this,” ze sigh. “Logan, listen to me. I need you to go look at some of the reviews for the book, okay? Actually, no, if you can find a sample online, go read that.”

He’s operating in a haze, a robot in human flesh, and what do robots do but obey orders?

Logan barely understands what he’s reading at first, lines of poetry in the sample flashing past him. He checks the reviews, words of praise and admiration flowing through his mind, and it takes a second before he understands any of it.

Clicking back to the online sample, he starts to recognize the story being told. It is a tale of late nights and hot drinks in the morning, of pining and fear of destroying a friendship older than love.

It is Logan’s story, told through another’s words, a voice speaking of a scholar of the stars, of glasses and storms, of hugs and hand-holding and a cute barista, a boy in psych class, a friendship repaired at another’s wedding, of admiration and hope and love. A love for someone seen not as a storm, but as stars, as the universe in human flesh.

Virgil is in love.

Virgil is in love with Logan.

“I’ll call you back,” he hears himself say, and drops his phone on his bed in his haste to get back to the living room.

“Logan?” Virgil’s voice pierce the haze of his thoughts, his eyes

(a storm, wild beauty)

shining with concern, and he sits up from where he’s lying on the couch. “You okay? What happened?”

There are many things he wants to say, questions and explanations and promises, but in the end, all he says is “Can I kiss you?”

“What?” He doesn’t expect Virgil to look quite so flustered, but then again, Logan did just storm into the room, looking desperate and probably a tad deranged, and ask to kiss his best friend.

“Roman told me about the new book,” Logan says first, and Virgil’s eyes widen even further, and he can sense the incoming apology, but he isn’t done, not yet. He begins to crack his knuckles, a habit he’d thought he’d finally lost, full to the brim with nervous energy. “I’ve read some of it, and as far as I can tell, you are romantically attracted to me. Which is good, because I also harbor such feelings for you, and have for about a year now. So. Can I kiss you?”

“Isn’t it ‘May I kiss you’?” Virgil grins, playing off his feelings with humor, as always. Logan opens his mouth to apologize as his world comes crashing down, because oh, he’s messed up, oh no, but then his best friend’s expression softens, and he whispers “Of course, Logan Sanders.”

“Thank you, Virgil Foley,” he says, and abandons the eyewall for the storm.

They don’t watch any more movies that night. The two of them kiss, and talk, and kiss some more, and Virgil grabs his author’s edition of the new book from his room, and they read it together on the couch.

The next morning, they sit with their coffee and tea and talk some more, about labels and boundaries and dreams. Their friends come over for movies the next Saturday, and Virgil and Logan hold hands as they tell them they are dating.

(Roman choking on the popcorn in his excitement almost makes up for the money Logan spots being exchanged between Emile, Remus, and Patton.)

Eventually, Virgil’s latest book will gain fame, and they will end up with quite a bit of money between the two of them, especially after Logan gets a promotion. Eventually, they will move to a larger house, one a bit outside the city, one where they will have two cats and a dog and a son named Thomas. Eventually, they will get married in the spring, and when it starts to rain as they say their vows, the two of them just laugh.

But that is eventually. In the now, Logan Sanders is in love. In the now, Virgil Foley is in love.

They are glasses and hoodies, poetry written and spoken, dancing in the kitchen and cuddles on the couch.

They are thunderstorms, and they are stars.

475 notes · View notes

kettlequills · 3 years

Text

C3: waking dreams: master of fate

On A03 here. tw for grief/mourning, mentioned child death, and mild hallucinations. also miraak is high. you guys get to meet soskro and mirdein!

“Easy now,” the healer, Soskro, murmured, “Easy. Your body has had quite the shock.”

“Hmm,” another voice came, gravelly, rough with ash. “Just patch me up. I need to get back to guarding the temple doors. I don’t trust that those troublemakers have gone.”

Flame-soft light greeted Miraak’s eyes. It rippled warm orange over the curtains that had been pulled around his bed. A bed? It was warm against his body and held him like an embrace, like Mora had decided to dangle him over the ink-dark seas long enough that Miraak’s body heat started to warm the perpetually tepid rubberiness of his tentacles. There were no beds in Apocrypha, nor curtains, and vague notions of some distant past-dream warred with what Miraak knew – the only fabric was the ragged tatters of the seeker’s cloaks. A similar papery colour, these cloaks that wrapped around the world, but they had dried out, and there were no stains.

The healer and the patient were shadow puppets against the light, their bodies licked with slow-moving, peaceful tentacles that swayed back and forth like the sigh of the waves on the shore. Like the remote figures of lurkers, small as a scale on his gauntlet from the vantage point of his high tower, the bubbles they blew in the ink as they idled.

Miraak’s face itched, but gently, as if it was far away. His ear ached a little, as if he’d been laying on it for a very long time. His mask felt odd on one side, soft instead of hard, and the eyeslits were wider, he thought. All the added peripheral vision made him feel dizzy.

He wanted to close them, but he could not figure out how. Instead, he watched the flutter of the curtains in the soft breeze and felt the salt from the distant sea in his throat. The world seemed to inch past in honey-thick grains, each second languid, lugubrious, elongated as an endless rest among the murmuring pages wrapped in tame dragonwings. He did not need sleep, did not ever fully slip into the dark comfort of Vaermina’s realm, but it was… meditative, in a sense, to leave only one ear open for threats, and simply lie quietly for a time.

Sahrotaar was the best to sleep on if Mora did not have him within his curling knot of oil-dark tendrils, even though Sahrotaar was always a placid room temperature. Its scales were smooth and soft, circular, made for slipping like a knife between the skin of the water, and its finned wings would curl round Miraak with the most care, like he was a sea-pearl in the heart of a clam. The bones in Sahrotaar’s wings still jabbed him, and Sahrotaar would insist on sliding its big snout into the pocket of space it had made between its wings and its body, filling it all with the subtle reek of old fish and ink, but it was better than nesting among the ripped pages of books.

Miraak wondered where Sahrotaar was.

“Mirdein, you have a spear hole in your leg the size of a drake,” Soskro said with the firmness of an argument often repeated, “You’ll sit here til I tell you.”

Mirdein grunted. “Yes, muthsera.”

Miraak breathed on his own now, without the tube down his throat and blurry white mask-faces manning bellows to manually pump his lungs for him. The huffing of the bellows had marked his days in and out of silence, and though something had always felt faintly wrong, Miraak could sense the presence of another close by – one of his dragons, surely, keeping watch against the lurkers – that occasionally pressed into him with tender magics that made his muscles unknot and his body loose and limp. Reassuringly, it still hurt, and the insistent feeling of violation and vulnerability was soothing in its familiarity. Perhaps Mora was feeding him again, or taking from him, and that was why Soskro was there, solid as never before when they’d met in dreams, spoonfeeding him potions that left his mind dreamy.

Soskro had seemed proud when Miraak could breathe all by himself. He focused on it, sucking air into himself until he felt buoyant as a balloon, ready to drift away. Fly, all by himself, in windless Apocrypha, with no dragonwings to hold him up.

“Don’t be smart with me, wife.”

The gentle tones of Restoration magic chimed like the ringing of bells to call the priests to evensongs, and Miraak floated in the sense-memory and wondered vaguely if anyone would be mad if he didn’t go, because he didn’t think he had a mouth anymore, and he thought that was good for singing. He had eyes, more eye than he was used to – had there always been so much to see, to the left of him? – but dim memory told him that he didn’t need to see. Mora would be there, to see for him, see in him, see to him, and his voice oily-smooth would tell him what he needed to do.

The curtains were glowing faintly. He wondered if they were supposed to. It looked like dragonfire caught in glass, like the scales of a fire-drake steaming where it lay in the snow. Dragon eyes and dragon names slipped foglike through his memory, and though he tried to shape the words of forgiveness for forgetting the name of the beast whose hide watched him through the curtains, his tongue was busy holding in all his air.

“I need you alive,” Soskro continued, “not dead on the end of some Skaal blade.”

“It was just a training accident,” said Mirdein, dismissively. “Sulis got too close. Nothing serious.”

“Serious enough for you to be stabbed! Since when did training get so violent?” Soskro’s voice was loud. Miraak thought he might sing to calm the tensions so no one would get bitten or eaten, but there was no space around all the air in him.

“Tensions are rising, Soskro! No one likes being sealed in the temple and you know there’s been accusations-“

His vision was going grey at the edges. Miraak released all his breath in a wheezing exhale. The voices went quiet. He mourned them. Mora so rarely put on different voices to catch Miraak out anymore and send him hurtling down book-strewn paths chasing echoes of memories. It had been one of the games they played. Mora had laughed at it, but Miraak did not remember laughing.

He did not remember most things, these days.

“Is he awake?” Mirdein asked, eventually, and Soskro sighed.

“Higher than a netch in a skooma-barrel, but yes, I think so. He’s staying awake most of the time now, can’t get much out of him but nonsense and odd words, but I think he’s more or less lucid. Taking him off the illusions helped.”

The shadow puppets moved, and then the curtains parted like a wound. Furrowed brows like the iron trellises of Apocrypha’s bridges stared down at him, then a broad-shouldered shape nudged into the curtained off section where Miraak nested. Another shape on its heels, merging together and apart, then Soskro appeared like magic and pushed Mirdein into a chair.

“Serjo.” The voice of Mirdein was back, but closer now. Rough, and warm, like the scratch of Kruziikrel’s sleepy mumbles when Miraak stole a moment of rest on his flame-hot throat. There was a bandage wrapped around her thigh at Miraak’s eye-level, a bloody spot the size of a coin already soaking through. Mirdein was a big woman, big enough to make the chair creak when she leaned forward to get a good look at him.

Some impression that something was wrong tickled him, and his face began to itch unbearably. He tried to lift his hand to scratch it, but his arm was tied to his side, his hand immobilised in a thick swathe of bandages. While Miraak puzzled that out, Soskro leant into his vision and smiled at him.

Red, red eyes, like Laataazin’s blood over his hands, these elves had. He thought they were elves. Soskro’s left hand was golden, and clicked and whirred softly when moved, and Miraak knew that it felt cold and hard, like things that touched his face were supposed to. He did not move away when Soskro’s thin metal fingers touched his cheek.

“Here, Lord,” said Soskro, and then lightly draped a gentle kerchief of silk over his face. The itching soothed immediately, and Miraak sighed against the coolness on his skin. It was the wrong weight – he did not know how he knew, but he knew it was wrong – but it felt more right than before. More right than Mirdein looking at him.

Mirdein exhaled slowly. There was a weight in the shadow of her shape through the silk, a slump of tired shoulders.

“Have faith,” said Soskro, quietly, “He will recover when he recovers. We will hold out.”

“I am patient,” said Mirdein, dourly, but then her voice softened. “I – and my men – will keep you safe, serjo. Do not fear for my loyalty.”

“Geh, aam-hi,” Miraak heard himself say, as if through a very long tunnel. Yes, you serve me. The world shivered in response, and for a brief moment, he thought he heard the lonely cry of a dragon. Soskro’s soft intake of breath was one of awe.

Mora’s tentacles kissed Miraak’s nose on the inside of the silk kerchief, pulsed dizzyingly in his vision when Mirdein spoke again, firm as bedrock, “As you say, serjo.”

---

Frea clung to a jutting rock not far from the Tree Stone and squinted through the blinding snowfall. She had been crouched in the lee of the rock for some time now and her furs were dusted with snow, until she looked like nothing so much as a sleeping wolf taking refuge from the bitter winds.

Once, the animals had lived in the old ruin beyond the boneyard, wolfcubs whelping in the ancient rooms and birds nesting in the crumbling walls. There had been people, there had always been people in the temple, but only three or four at most, wary of outsiders but content to leave the Skaal well enough alone. As the Skaal had been happy to leave them; the cult of the Traitor could have their dusty ruin hidden behind the heaped skeletons of dragons fused together by time and the interminable movements of ice, no Skaal wanted to go near that wretched place. If the All-Maker did not move to kill them, it was certainly no business of the Skaal.

Of them all, only Frea had ever ventured inside. With the Last Dragonborn at her side, they’d carved a path through the temple with might and strength, to uncover the truth behind the disappearance of Frea’s people. The Traitor’s mind-snare was broken at the Tree Stone and the Skaal freed the night Laataazin had returned to read Herma Mora’s dark Book and confront Miraak – but the animals still had not returned to the temple, and Frea wanted to know why.

Frea pressed a far-seer to her eye and peered through it, hoping to catch a glimpse of swishing robes or patched armour along the top steps. Be they brigands, mostly, and honourless thieves, the cult of Miraak had grown hugely during the domination of the Stones. Yet, there was no sign of them, not even fat-bellied wolves slinking to their dens, or vultures drawn to the fresh carrion. Skorn had once cautioned the Skaal to stay away from the cultists and their dark magics, but Skorn was dead now to Herma Mora, and the burden of nurturing the Skaal’s spiritual connection to their land – and defending it – was Frea’s to shoulder.

And so Frea watched, and Frea waited, and the temple remained quiet.

Better that silence than the one in her father’s hall. The village was alive again, if weary and battered from months of gruelling work without their minds, and everyone felt Skorn’s loss deeply as their own wound. Their eyes were sunken when they looked at Frea for guidance, their hands thin and chapped with rough work when they touched her forehead, and though their hearts still were steady, Frea felt their grief and pain both as a stab of guilt to her own. Skorn would have served the Skaal better, but Frea did not know how to fix their nightmares for them or the days they had slaved that had been stolen from them, and though she could make tinctures for the rasping cough Oslaf had developed since a winter night at the Tree Stone she could not bring back the child that had died that night beside him, whose frozen body was found there still clutching his father’s leg.

Frea burned at the injustice of it. There was no guidance she could find meditating with the chants her father had taught her, well-worn as river stones in her mouth, no peace in trying to discern the will of the All-Maker in the dead that slept beneath the icy ground, but there was the fire of hatred in her heart, and that warmed her as she lay in the snow. Vengeance and safety in the knowledge that the temple was watched, and whatever scourge remained within unable to steal like shadows in the night to rob the minds of her people, she could bring the Skaal, if nothing else.

She dropped the far-seer to root in her belt for a pouch of cold-staying berries, her mitts awkward on the ties. Bags and bags of these she’d gone through travelling with Laataazin Dragonborn, whose southern blood chilled easily, and whose joints were worn with age and battle. It felt almost wrong to eat them by herself now, the tartness breaking on her tongue like a memory. But Frea was a practical person, and sentiment would not stop her freezing to death.

A shadow swept over the snow, and Frea blinked. A bird – perhaps, but no bird was so large – she fumbled with the far-seer, and jammed it to her eye just as the dragon passed over the temple of Miraak.

It was a frost one, it had to be, to fly so high, so fast, through the snow that Frea had not even heard the thunder of its wings. Laataazin had told her there were many different types of dragons, that they each favoured elements but it was best to assume all could flame and frost. Frea had seen them fight a dragon once, gripping her weapon tightly as she guarded the idle mage Neloth at Nchardak. Her heart had been in her throat as Laataazin taunted the great beast, evading its snarling and snapping jaws as it crowed slavishly about its master Miraak, and finally sent it to howling retreat with a final, bone-shattering blow to its leg.

The dragon circled over the temple, its head ducked like it was hunting for prey. It held something in its claws, she thought, for its right leg was oddly extended, not tucked close against its spiney body like the left. Unless – was this the same creature that Laataazin had chased off at Nchardak? It could not be. Had it returned to search the remains of the temple for its master?

Suddenly, from the temple another dragon rose on flapping wings, interrupting the lazy flight of the Nchardak dragon. This one was easier to see against the snow, the colour of a burnished ruby, and it spat fire a ship-length in front of it that the Nchardak dragon had to hastily dodge or risk charring. The two dragons circled each other, exchanging snapping forays too quickly for Frea to keep up with through her far-seer. They did not breathe flame or frost at each other, or clash fully, but instead danced around each other in the way Frea had seen wolves of the same pack play-fight – if a thousand times more deadly.

They tussled there in the sky for a while, but after a certain development that Frea could not spot from her position huddled in the snow some agreement was evidently reached, and the Nchardak dragon tucked its wings and dove into the darkness of the temple, presumably to land. As if flushed out like a hen from the sudden appearance of a fox, a third dragon, jade-green all over, rocketed out from the temple walls with a bitter screech. It was a horrible noise, and Frea’s far-seer tumbled from her hand as she hunched to protect her ears.

The screech cut off, suddenly, and through streaming eyes Frea squinted to see the two dragons left in the sky descending together, their blurry shapes quickly swallowed by the snow. Three dragons, solitary beasts one and all, roosting together in the temple, and one of them Frea knew had been loyal to Miraak once.

Tucking the far-seer back into her pocket, Frea rose stiffly, but cautiously, and crept away from the hollow she had made. She kept low until she reached the wooded line of the trees, then straightened, casting a last, perturbed look over her shoulder. Farani Strong-Voice would want to hear of this.

#inkwrites #my fic waking dreams: master of fate #miraak #frea #tes #skyrim #elder scrolls

9 notes · View notes