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vldkeith · 2 years ago

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julance☀️🌊🚀 week four: birthday 🎂🎉 or blue paladin

a/n: HAPPY BIRTHDAY LANCE!! i love you so much and i've only grown to love you more over the years. i hope everybody had fun with this julance and enjoyed these fics! thank you, hbd lance my love <3

🖼 companion art by @vldlance 🥺

read on ao3 (leave a kudos even if u read it on tumblr please!)

💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙💙

On one offhanded afternoon, Keith had happened to glance at the Earth calendar Lance and Hunk insisted on keeping in the shared living space as a reminder of home. He’d examined it rather apathetically, trying to figure out what the date was on Earth more out of boredom than any real need to know. By his calculations, it was July 21st—oh, so, after July 4th… Keith had thought, mind already wandering away from the task.

It wasn’t until he’d reached the door to leave that he realized July 21st was only seven days before July 28th—A.K.A., his boyfriend’s birthday.

Shit.

He had a week.

Keith allowed himself one day to panic, one day to desperately try to come up with something to get Lance without help from anyone, and emerged the next morning with a crushed spirit and nothing to show for it. He’d never been very good at gifts—the first gift he’d gotten Shiro was a gift card to Lowes, for god’s sake—and this is his and Lance’s first event together as a couple, Keith’s first opportunity to prove that he can make his boyfriend happy with a thoughtful present.

And he couldn’t think of anything.

Despairing, Keith had resolved to consult the advice of the first person he saw (other than Lance, of course) that morning after he emerged from his room. Perhaps the fact that he then almost immediately ran head-long into Coran the second he stepped out of the doorway was a sign from god.

Or the devil. It depends on how things go right now.

“Keith, my boy!” Coran exclaims, hand raising instantly to fix his mildly-tousled hair from their collision. “You nearly scared the living daylights out of me! Watch where you’re going, eh?”

The way Coran says it is good-natured, but Keith still has the teenage impulse to roll his eyes and snark back that maybe Coran should also watch where he’s going, thank you very much. He tamps that down, though, because he has learned the hard way that antagonizing someone you need something from is never the best way to get what you want. “Sorry. Hey, can I ask you something, though?”

Coran raises an eyebrow, a glint in his eye that instantly makes Keith feel like a child seeking advice from a wise uncle, or perhaps a grandfather. Keith’s not sure Coran fits either of those bills. “Of course! What can I help you with?”

“Lance’s birthday is coming up…” Keith begins hesitantly, reluctant to admit he’s having so much difficulty with this, “…and I have no idea what to get him. Any ideas?”

Instantly, Coran’s eyes are shining, and a wide smile stretches across his face, crinkling his mustache. He throws his hands up and declares, “I’ve been waiting for you to ask, my boy! Yes, yes, I have the perfect idea! Come, come!”

Bemused and a little unsettled by the enthusiastic response, Keith allows Coran to lead him to the front of the castleship, where he begins to quickly fiddle with the holographic maps.

“I had an inkling that you would need a little help, you see,” Coran says as he does this, bustling around and making noises that sound like several pots and pans banging together, “so I took it upon myself to think up a truly fantastic, show-stopping gift idea ahead of time! Oh, ever since you and Lance sealed the ol’ smackaroo, I had a premonition, of sorts, that you would seek my counsel for this ever-important matter because, and I’m sorry to say this, Red Paladin, but you are not exactly the tip of the Quindylzic when it comes to emotional intelligence!”

Keith is still trying to figure out how offended he should be by Coran’s when suddenly, with a great whooshing sound, blue stars and planets snap into being around him, twinkling and hovering idly. Coran claps his hands, satisfied.

“Perfect! Now, Keith, let’s get you over here—”

Coran grips Keith’s shoulders and steers him to the completely opposite side of the room, planting him squarely in front of the floating holographs of the universe. Keith can’t help but feel a bit in awe of the whole thing, even though he’s seen it multiple times by now, and even though Coran seems to have no trouble in manhandling him without his consent.

“There we go. Now then!” Coran clasps his hands together excitedly, taking up position to his right and gazing toward the map. “Your gift to the Blue Paladin, my bumbling Whizzmawoll, is going to be his very own star.”

There is a beat of silence in which Coran beams at Keith and Keith becomes increasingly confused and agitated.

“Um…” Keith tries to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Well—we, uh, have something like that on Earth. I kind of feel like it’s not really…enough.”

The smile on Coran’s face wilts slightly. “Do you? I’m surprised, I—I must confess, I did not think Earth had reached far enough into space to deal in the star business.”

Keith shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know, you just contact NASA or the government or whatever, pick a star, and then get a piece of paper saying the star is yours. It’s not like you own it in any real way.”

“Ohhhhh!” Coran breathes out emphatically—and then, wide grin back on his face, continues, “I see!”

He throws an arm around Keith and winks. “Well, Emo Paladin of Fire,” he proclaims, voice infused with triumph, “I can safely assure you that, with my method, he will receive much more than a paltry piece of paper.”

Keith stares at the glass of his helmet, lit up to tell him that he’s arrived at the place he needs to be in order to purchase a star. Coran had spent a good 45 minutes detailing the grandness of owning a star, the status it confers upon the owner, the rich history of privatization and battles through which the industry finally emerged. It had been more than a little overwhelming, and Keith had wondered briefly if he’d even be allowed to step foot into such an extravagant place, convinced that star dealings must happen in opulent casinos and hotels meant for the superrich, plated in gold or Quintessence or whatever stood for value out in space like this.

The place Keith is standing in front of, though…God. There’s no way around it.

It looks like the fucking DMV.

A bland brown box-shaped building looms unimpressively in front of Keith, it’s double-doors thrown open enough so that Keith can get a view of the inside, which is lined with chairs facing toward a large desk counter where five aliens sit, conversing with customers. As Keith stands, frozen, trying to figure out if he’s made a wrong turn somewhere, an amplified voice calls out a series of garbled words Keith cannot understand, and an alien rises from the chair and makes its way slowly to the front.

Keith can already feel the itchy restlessness crawling up his skin. He hates the DMV. He hates anything that operates like the DMV. This…is his own personal form of hell.

After triple- and quadruple-checking that he’s got the right place (he does, and the thought makes him want to kill himself), Keith trudges morosely into the building, leaving Red outside and feeling massively stupid in his full Paladin getup.

He approaches the counter. The alien—a small gecko-like creature with pink scales and bulbous eyes—says something to him in a foreign language.

“Sorry—what?” Keith says helplessly. The alien sighs, rolls its eyes, and switches to English.

“What can I help you with today?” Its tone is monotonous and bland, as it’s liable to be after presumably hours dealing with the same mundane tasks. Keith hopes these employees are paid well.

“Um, I’d like to buy a…star? If I can?”

“Hmmm.” It looks him up and down, apparently unconvinced. “You’ll need proof of residence and identity. Can you provide that?”

Panic shoots through Keith. “I don’t—Well, no, because I don’t live anywhere,” he says, blinking.

The alien blinks back at him. “You don’t live anywhere,” it repeats, voice flat. “Well, then I’m afraid I can’t—”

“W-Wait!” Keith scrambles closer, leaning in nervously. He has to make this work. “I—I don’t live anywhere permanent, I live on—on a ship that, like, travels around the universe a lot. I can show you a picture of the ship? If you want?”

“A picture is not proper documentation, sir.”

He’s losing the alien, and fast—he needs to change tactic. “Look,” Keith lowers his voice anxiously, eyes darting around him, “I don’t live anywhere because I’m a Paladin of Voltron. You’ve heard of Voltron, right? Defender of the universe or whatever? That’s me. Or, partly me. Me and four other people. A-Anyway, we travel around and go where we’re needed, that’s why I don’t have an address. Or an identity. Okay?” Keith’s voice is a high-pitched whisper by the end of his explanation, and he knows he looks frantic and crazy. He can only hope that that makes him a little bit more believable.

The alien levels him with a critical, deadpan stare. “You expect me to believe a Paladin of Voltron just walked in here wanting to buy a star? Really?” Its voice is so convinced of Keith’s foolishness that Keith almost opens his mouth to apologize, before realizing that yes, that’s actually exactly what’s happening!

“…Yes?”

The two look at each other for a moment more, sizing each other up, before the alien sighs and, reaching to tear off a slip of paper from the machine next to it, mutters, “Frankly, I’m not paid enough for this. Here you go.”

Nearly sagging with relief, Keith receives the paper with gratitude. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, and escapes quickly to a seat before the alien can change its mind.

Keith spends nearly two hours that day in that stuffy, crowded, beige monstrosity of a building, but by the time he emerges—worn down and dragging his feet like he’s battled fifteen Galra soldiers at once—he’s armed with coordinates to a star and an elongated box clutched under his arm. He’s exhausted from the bureaucracy of it all, but he can’t deny the sense of glowing accomplishment he feels at having secured such a magical gift for Lance’s birthday.

That is, if this whole thing isn’t a scam. He’ll have to wait a few more days to find that out.

Nervousness buzzes through Keith’s body as he sits in Red’s cockpit waiting for Lance to arrive. It’s the day—July 28th, Lance’s birthday. So far, Keith’s felt pretty good about how it’s been celebrated; Hunk managed to get his hands on some Earth ingredients and was able to make, with minimal substitutions, a pretty skilled replica of Lance’s mom’s garlic knots. Well, Keith assumes it was a good replica, anyway; Lance nearly started crying when he bit into one, and had to leave the room for five minutes to collect himself.

Pidge and Allura teamed up to make Lance a small, stuffed Blue Lion, using Allura’s sewing skills and Pidge’s penchant for precision to make a damn-near perfect replica of the robot cat that somehow still retained the plushness associated with stuffed animals. Lance has insisted on carrying her around with him wherever he goes, like a child given a new toy on Christmas. It’s adorable. She’ll probably be coming with them on this trip, too.

Finally, Shiro presented Lance with a set of blue-topaz earrings that made Keith a little weak at the knees when Lance tried them on—something that Shiro had not missed, if his mischievous smirk was anything to go by. Lance had been overjoyed to receive them, rambling on about how nobody ever got him earrings and of course becoming besties with another gay man would be the perfect way to remedy that situation. He’d then put them carefully back into the box, claiming he wanted a whole day to enjoy them, that half a day didn’t fully appreciate their majesty the way he wanted to. The whole scene had had Keith smiling uncontrollably, because it had felt like his boyfriend and his dad were getting along, even though Shiro was more than that to both Keith and Lance. Still, it had warmed his heart.

Throughout the day, though, Lance had been making comments about Keith’s lack of a gift for him, betraying his impatience by turning to Keith expectantly after opening and cooing over every other gift. Keith had kept his mouth shut with playful feigned ignorance, and had told Lance simply to meet him in Red after dinner that night.

That time is now. And, on cue, Keith hears Lance’s footsteps approaching.

“Alright, Keith, you’ve made me wait long enough,” Lance declares before he’s even fully inside of Red. Keith turns to greet him as he steps into the cockpit, holding plushie Blue in his hands. “What’s my present? Tell me!”

Keith presses the button to close Red’s entrance. “I’m going to show you, actually. Just a little bit longer.” Keith reaches for the oblong box he’d gotten earlier that week, whisking it carefully off of Red’s controls. “But first…”

He hands it bashfully to Lance, keeping his eyes trained on his own hands as he does. Lance blinks, gazing at it with bemusement. Without much preamble, though, he pulls the lid off gently, revealing a glimmering necklace with a blue cord attached to a small, pink-and-gold glowing orb encasing a bright bundle of blue waviness made of fire and gasses. It blazes and rotates, a living piece of jewelry, reminding Keith of the sun in shape and planet Neptune in color.

Lance gazes at it with awe. “Woah. Keith, this is—” He turns his intense stare on Keith, instead. “This is beautiful. Thank you. I…” He coughs a little, and then laughs at himself. “I don’t know what to say.”

Keith’s heart swells with pride. “That’s not even the best part!” he replies eagerly, now twice as excited to get to the real thing. He turns around, then, not wanting to waist another moment—and pauses. “You should put it on,” he adds quickly, giving Lance a slight smile over his shoulder.

Lance, who had been staring reverently at the necklace still in its box, blinks as if coming out of a stupor. “Right!” Quickly, he slips the necklace over his head and allows it to settle across his throat. It looks enchanting on him.

Satisfied, Keith starts Red up and flies them into the vastness of space, barely able to contain his enthusiasm. He’d plugged the coordinates into Red’s system in advance, so the most he really has to do is keep them gliding along that path.

As they near their destination, Keith notices, Lance’s necklace lifts off of his body, floating into the air like a magical object aware that it is approaching its creator, unencumbered by something so trivial as gravity. Lance ooohsand ahhs at this, experimenting with it by trying to push it back down, and reveling in his failure to do so.

By the time Keith puts Red into standby mode, the necklace is hovering at the height of Lance’s mouth, though Keith has instructed Lance to turn away from all windows, lest the surprise be spoiled. Once he’s sure Red is stationary—he doesn’t need to confirm that they’re in the right place; he can see it, right in front of him, in all of its glory—he takes Lance’s hand and leads him to the pilot’s chair.

“Sit down.”

Lance obliges, and Keith makes himself comfy on Lance’s lap, an action that has Lance chuckling and sliding his arm around Keith’s waist, pulling him closer. “Can I open my eyes yet, pretty boy?” he asks suggestively, alerting Keith to the fact that maybe Lance thinks his present is of a bit of a different nature than it is.

Despite his blush, Keith snorts. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Lance opens his eyes and witnesses his star.

It is the blue ball of light, fire, and gas housed in his necklace, but thousands of times larger, taking up nearly the entire visage of the cockpit window with its magnificence. They’re far enough that it isn’t technically dangerous, but it still feels like being in the presence of a god, of something with far greater power than any human—even Paladins of Voltron—can ever hold. Blue fire spews from the constantly-moving ball of light, and it swirls amongst itself, radiating a luminescence so brilliant that Keith briefly considers shielding his eyes, but decides not to.

They both revel at the star, at the proximity of it, and Keith keeps an eye on Lance, waiting for him to put the pieces together. It is only when Lance notices his necklace floating pleasantly closer to the star, however, that he gets it.

“Wait a minute—” Lance begins, turning a wide-eyed gaze to Keith, “Is this—?”

“Yeah.” Keith nods, his smile lopsided and emotional. “All yours.”

Lance is silent for a moment, staring up at the star. It is reflected in his eyes, making their blue color all the more transfixing and bright.

“You got me a star?”

Keith is not entirely prepared for the genuine emotion in Lance’s voice, or the way he can see tears begin to prick at his eyes. He’s about to double back, ask if Lance is okay, when Lance suddenly buries his face in Keith’s neck, shaking with musical laughter.

“How am I going to outdo you for your birthday, Kogane? Holy crow,” he says after a moment, lifting his head and giving Keith a binding smile. “Screw you!”

“Please,” Keith scoffs, though he’s absolutely radiating pride and happiness. “I’d be happy if you let me suck your—”

“Oh my god!” Lance shoves his hand over Keith’s mouth, collapsing into more laughter. “Shut up! You’re so annoying!”

Keith’s chuckling joins Lance’s as he pries Lance’s hand away from his mouth. “Well, it’s true!”

Lance doesn’t deign that with a response, instead simply shaking his head and turning his attention back to the star in front of him, his star. “So,” he says after a moment, gesturing vaguely to his necklace, “this proves the star is mine, right? I basically have this…mini-star with me all the time?”

“Pretty much. It’ll float more the closer you are to the star. It’s kind of like a little piece of it that’s yours forever.”

“Wow.” Lance lets out a low whistle. “That’s way better than the pieces of paper they give you back on Earth.”

“Right?!” Keith nods emphatically. “Plus, like, we can actually see it out here, not just have a random blurry picture!”

Lance shakes his head, still smiling. “Earth is way behind the times, what’s new?”

They are quiet for a moment, lost in their respective thoughts as they gaze up at the star. When Lance breaks it, he’s quiet.

“Hey,” he murmurs, nuzzling against Keith’s throat, giving him goosebumps, “thank you. Seriously. This is—It’s maybe the best present I’ve ever gotten. Don’t tell anyone that, though.”

Keith laughs a little. “I won’t. Happy birthday, though. You deserve it, Lance.” He makes sure to look away when he adds, “You deserve it and more.”

“Keeeeeith,” Lance whines loudly, making Keith jump where he sits on top of him, “don’t make me cry again, I’ve already embarrassed myself once today!”

Keith rolls his eyes and swings a leg across Lance’s middle, resituating himself to be facing Lance instead of the large window. “Alright, alright, enough of being sentimental. I have another part of your gift, too.”

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Whatever could it be?” he asks playfully, hands settling on Keith’s hips.

“I’ll show you.”

The space between them closes, and the last thought Keith allows himself before giving in to the sensation of kissing Lance McClain, is Thank god, I finally got it right this time.

He’ll have to thank Coran with some Nunvil, later.

☕️ko-fi - please consider buying me a coffee if you enjoyed my work this month! thank you!

#klance #klance fanfiction #julance2022 #lance mcclain #voltron #voltron fanfiction #renfic

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hotwings0203 · 3 years ago

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Dead best husband dabi expects his wife to come home make him dinner and fuck his cock then spends the money she makes on beer

Tw:dubcon, misogyny, food play

It’s a tedious routine, almost like dreadful clockwork. You come home from your 9-5, take off your shoes, throw your keys on the counter, and not even before you make it into the kitchen is when his requests come out.

No, you say requests to keep yourself sane, but they’re actually thinly veiled commands.

“Where’s dinner? I’ve been waiting all day.”

“God, you look like a slut. Were they having an orgy at your work or somethin’? Is that what you were so busy doing all day? No wonder this place is a mess. Clean this shit up.”

“Hurry up, the lights broken. And you smell like shit, go wash-no, after you change the bulb.”

You have to look at your wedding photos frequently to remind yourself that he’s your husband, not some lowlife you picked up.

Except, every time you look at the pictures to evade his harsh insults and biting directions, it feels like the Dabi in your memorabilia sneers more and more rather than smiles.

It’s his permanent look, in fact, you’ve forgotten how it felt to feel a warmth in your heart when he smiled demurely at you. It’s hard to remember how his soft touch across your cheeks felt rather than the usual slap delivered to the sore skin.

When you walk in, he’s sprawled on the couch, a t.v remote in one hand and a beer in the other. He’s wearing a wife beater and shorts, absentmindedly scratching his balls when you utter a small “Hey hun.”

“Don’t you ‘hey hun’ me. Where the fuck were you? You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

You stop yourself from rolling your eyes and immediately make your way to the kitchen, with him leaping up from the couch and tailing behind you.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me, what, you ignoring me now?”

He grabs the back of your neck and slams you face-first into the fridge, preventing you from opening the door.

“Ow! No, I was just looking for a snack-“

“-shut up. You don’t get to eat until I do, you cow. Or are you forgetting how this marriage works?”

He crushes your neck and leans forward to take a whiff of your hair.

“God, is that cologne? You cheating on me now?”

“No Dabi, we had a company lunch and I was just talking to some friends. Maybe that’s what you’re smelling.”

He lets go of you and throws you towards the sink. “Good. You better not be. If I find out some douchebag’s been putting his hands all over you I’ll slit his balls and make you eat em’.”

You grimace and wordlessly start putting pots and pans together, ignoring the rumble in your stomach. You didn’t even get a chance to take your suit off, but you don’t dare exit the kitchen until he’s had his fill yet.

He’s just hangry. That’s all there is to it.

Your husband scratches his stomach and ambles back to the living room, belching obnoxiously and running his hands through his unruly hair.

Hours go by as you slave over the stove, making his favorite desserts and dishes as your fingers begun to progressively cramp, your legs begin to burn as you stand and finish up. With him in the living room it’s easy to taste your own food and get some meager meal in between breaks, but you stop yourself from gorging without him.

Knowing Dabi, he’d measure how many cups of food you started cooking with and subtract it from how much remained now.

Even though it was your money that bought this food.

You’re at the sink a while later cleaning spoons when he strolls in again, crossing his arms and leaning against the entrance of the kitchen. He watches you for a couple minutes, sighing and humming to yourself as you scrub vigorously.

He doesn’t take in the copious amount of dishes you made, he doesn’t compliment how spotless the place looks despite all the cooking that went down here, no. Dabi stares at the way your ass wiggles while you work, the way your body bends attractively over the running sink, your tits brushing against the countertop.

You yelp and drop a small plate when you feel hands encompass your waist. His body is pressed tightly against yours, his hips lightly humping you like an eager virgin does. The force of his weight against you pushed you forward and you have to quickly grab onto the sink spout to avoid falling face first into soggy sink food.

“Dinners almost done Dabi, I’ll be out with it in a bit.”

“Mmmh, I’m not interested in eating that kind of food right now.”

He rests his head on top of yours and you barely refrain from screaming. What the hell did that mean? Wasn’t he the one harping on you earlier for not cooking fast enough?

“God, you look like a perfect slutty housewife right now. ‘M gonna fuck you.” He mutters as he begins yanking your trousers off while bending you further on the sink.

Your hands brace on the wet banister as you let him take what he wants. Last time you refused, he shoved one of his beer bottle necks into your pussy and made you ride on it.

“Dabi-Dabi, the food.” You try to tell him to move the dishes being pushed around from him manhandling you up on the counter but he doesn’t listen.

One plate goes crashing onto the floor, your Alfredo sauce mixed with porcelain bits.

“Oops,” he says not so regretfully. When your panties are successfully ripped down, he lifts your waist and lugs you onto the countertop, your upper half plastered on the cool marble.

His patched hands snake their way up your shirt and push the fabric up along with your bra while his now naked hips start pushing against your bare cunt.

Your exposed tits are squished down and you hiss as your body envelopes the cold counter. You try to lift your head up but he pushes you head back down.

“Uh-uh, no moving ‘till I’m finished. This is what you get for dropping food on the ground. In fact-“

His eyes catch a hold of the mini cakes you whipped up, and a sly grin on his face erupts as he looks from them to your quivering hole.

“Why don’t you have a taste of it? One down, a couple more plates to go!” You cry out in frustration as his hand swipes across the bar and sends the cake dish flying onto the floor.

He pays no heed to the defeating crash, just merely inspects his fingers that got some whipped cream on them while he smack the plate.

“A chef’s gotta taste her own cooking right? This cunt definitely looks hungry and oh so greedy right now too,” he pouts mockingly and traces his cream-covered fingers around your labia, roughly circling your clit and mixing the sweet food into the crevices of your pussy.

“P-please Dabi, don’t. We can do this after dinner, I’m so tired right now! I have to clean up this mess too!”

But no amount of pleading satiates the sadistic bastard. He just yanks your head back and shoves his fingers in your mouth when you open it in pain.

“Suck on ‘em real good, just like how you suck off your bosses. That’s how you get all this fuckin’ money right? You show a little ass, flash some tits, suck some old geezers off-and boom! You’ve got a nice house, and nice husband.” He leers at you as you choke on his slender digits.

Only when you feel like you’re about to vomit is when he yanks his hand out and wipes up another stray glob of frosting from the side of a testing plate. He doesn’t waste any time in working his fingers back inside you, a different hole this time however.

It feels so wrong with a massive creamy glob being pushed along your walls along with expert fingers that know your body inside out, but no matter how disgusting it is, he still finds your spongy area and begins stroking. The smooth filling glides up and down your g-spot as the pads of his fingers batter your sloppy pussy, and in no time you begin moaning.

“Oh Dabi, oh Dabi, fuck, please,-“

“Oh Dabi, oh Dabi,” he mocks cruelly, pinching your clit and squeezing your squished nipples as he pulls his fingers out right at the tip of your climax.

You try to turn around and plead for release but he doesn’t let you. Without missing a beat he takes his bricked up cock in hand and taps it on your ass before gliding in your weeping, cream covered pussy.

The moan you let out is so lewd that even a pornstar would be proud. You hate him, hate this marriage, hate the way he orders you around and looks down on you regardless of how you shower him with love and money.

But holy fuck, when his mushroom tip bangs against your womb like that and drags up and down your sensitive cavern you forget all the abuse.

Back and forth, up and down, sideways and forwards is the way you feel fucked. For someone who just sits on the couch all day you wonder how someone with such frame could fuck like a stallion, barely missing a beat.

“Hah, haaa fuck, you little whore, yeah, bring that ass back on Daddy, show him what you show those creepy fucks at work.” He pants and strikes your ass as you ricochet off his pelvis, his balls slapping your sticky labia.

You whine and try to wriggle out of his intrusion when he sneers the insult, but he merely cages you in between his arms and hunches over your bare body, pumping into you faster than before.

Your open jaw clacks as your tongue drops out in pleasure, his animalistic grunts and curses going straight into your ear and sending you over the edge.

He cums before you, groaning and dropping his dead weight over your suffocated body, not bothering to aid in your pathetic rubbing against his deflating dick.

“A little bit more, please Dabi? I’m so close honey-“

His fingers twitch next to you as he regains himself, exhaling through puffed up cheeks and yawning widely.

“Shut up. You don’t deserve to get off after the mess you made here.”

He peels his sweat-soaked body off of yours and tucks himself back into his pants, regarding the mess on the floor.

All your hard work, gone within a few minutes of ruthless fucking. Which you didn’t even get off to.

He fishes out a crumpled $10 from his musty shorts and throws it at your face like a cheap hooker would take.

“Here. Buy some Plan B and get me some beer. And you better not leave before serving me some fucking food, useless bitch.”

#scummy dabi #bnha #mha #dabi smut #mha smut #bnha smut #mha dabi #bnha dabi #dabi x reader #dabi #dabi imagine #dabi oneshot #scumbag dabi #tw:dubcon #tw:misogyny

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julek · 3 years ago

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my kingdom for a kiss (upon your shoulder)

read on ao3 | rated T | 6.2K | no warnings | for @asweetprologue <3

The sun shines soft in Toussaint.

Geralt can’t remember whether it’s always been like that — if the golden tint that falls over the city as gently as wind-blown petals is genuine or just a product of his imagination. Spring isn’t in full bloom yet, timid flowers peeking at him from the side of the road, proud birds carrying twigs and feathers to their newly-made nests, the tree branches still cold after the last snow.

They’re not far from the main square, their pace steady and unhurried since they set out to Beauclair in the morning. The midday commotion fills Geralt’s senses, spices and bread and frantic conversations making him shake his head in discomfort — busy cities always take a while to grow used to; thankfully, he never stays long.

Next to him, Jaskier sneezes.

“This weather, I tell you—” he starts, but gets immediately cut off by another dainty, kitten-like sneeze. He wipes his nose on his sleeve, then makes a face at it. “Be the death of me.”

Geralt rolls his eyes. “It’ll take more than pollen to take you, I fear.”

“It doesn’t stand a chance against me,” he says, and strikes a pose, like one of the heroes in the silly novels he insists on buying, but the puffy eyes and red nose dampens it a bit. He doesn’t seem deterred, though. “Besides, I wouldn’t let pollen, of all things, keep me from performing at tonight’s ball.”

Geralt hums, flicking a fly off Roach’s mane. They were in Spalla when Jaskier was approached by a passing servant and asked to partake in some baron Geralt couldn’t care enough to retain the name of’s early spring ball — naturally, Jaskier had jumped at the invitation, eager to be among the distinguished crowds that frequent such events, even more so after a long winter tucked away at Oxenfurt.

“By the way,” Jaskier says, picking an inexistent piece of lint off his doublet, aiming for casual even though he knows Geralt can hear the curious lilt to his voice, “will you be attending tonight?”

“I might not make it in time,” he says truthfully. He rubs his thumb over the contract he’s holding in his free hand, the sharp edges digging into his skin. “I will hunt this afternoon.”

Jaskier nods. “Well,” he says, his voice soft as he bumps his shoulder against Geralt’s. “You’re welcome there. I’ll vouch for you, you know.”

Geralt smiles at him solemnly — then bumps him back, laughing when the bard accidentally crashes into an old woman perusing the wares of a silver-tongued merchant.

“Geralt!” Jaskier says indignantly, smoothing out his doublet and shooting the woman a sideways glance that’s more annoyed than apologetic. “You can’t just push people.”

“Apologies,” Geralt says, not sounding sorry at all. “My balance seems to be off, lately. You know how it is.”

“With your old age, yes,” Jaskier says and pats his arm sympathetically. “I fear you’re showing signs of decay already.”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, yes.” Jaskier takes his arm and loops it through his, a steadying hand at his back. “Your gait is off— look, even Roach looks concerned for your wellbeing.”

Roach looks unfazed.

“And all the lines on your face!” Jaskier gasps in mock-horror. “My, Geralt, we should take you to a healer. Perhaps you’ve been cursed— There! Those dreadful frown lines you sport, old friend… Have you considered retirement? I hear there are great Witcher-friendly settlements in this area, and— hey!”

Geralt smirks as Jaskier rubs the side of his head where Geralt’s innocent and weary hand slapped it. He can see the worn-down sign of the inn he favors when they’re in the city a few steps ahead, can already taste the fresh ale on his mouth.

“Whoops,” he says, trying to school his features into something that isn’t a smug smile. “Seems I’m losing control of my limbs, too.”

The Rose and Thorn is as it has ever been. Clean wooden floorboards that creak as they walk in, the blossoming vine hanging over the kitchen door, the innkeeper’s old dog napping in a spot of sunlight pouring in through the window.

It’s good.

Geralt likes routine. He thrives on it. He likes familiar faces and comforting smells and the sound of pans and pots banging together as the cook murmurs a string of expletives that would be considered indecorous on a lady’s mouth. He likes knowing where he stands, likes the well-loved booths and the tankards that are cracked around the edges, the face of an unruly lion faded on the ceramic. He’s pleased with the way the innkeeper’s eyes crinkle with recognition as she nods at him and Jaskier, as she wordlessly takes his coin and points her head in direction of the room he always takes.

They move upstairs, Jaskier’s lutecase hitting the narrow walls as Geralt pushes the door open. The room is simple — two beds and a small table under the tall window, light pouring in through the thin linen curtains. He sets his bag on one of the beds — the closest to the door — and puts his sheathed swords next to it before allowing himself a moment to sit and wind down.

“I’d say lunch is in order, don’t you think?” Jaskier says after a while, even though his words are muffled by the pillow he’d thrown himself face-down onto and he doesn’t seem to be moving any time soon. “I’m aching for something other than apples and jerky, if I’m honest.”

Geralt’s stomach rumbles in agreement. “Too coarse for your fine palate, bard?” He teases.

“Never,” Jaskier says, lifting an accusatory finger at where he supposes Geralt is sitting. Then, because it isn’t as dramatic as it should’ve been, he rolls over, facing Geralt, his hair sticking up at odd places and his face flushed a pretty shade of pink. “I’m well used to all kinds of provisions, but the soul wishes for something a little bit more substantial every once in a while.”

“Hmm,” Geralt concedes. He laces up his left boot tighter than the right one and stands. “Let’s go, then, man of substance.”

Jaskier grins up at him, bright and easy, and leaps out of the bed so fast the wind gets knocked out of him.

Downstairs at the bar, there are steaming bowls of pottage being sent to the patrons that are starting to overflow the room, bread and cheese abundant at every table. It must have been a fruitful winter, Geralt reasons as he nods to the barmaid and gestures to the plates.

“Ale as well, Sir Witcher?” She says as she wipes her forehead, no trace of fear in her voice. She’s probably too busy for it.

“Two, please.”

He makes his way to the table where Jaskier’s already tearing a loaf of bread in two, tapping a rhythm with his fingers on the hard wood as he looks out the window at the passersby. There’s a neatly-made arrangement of wildflowers on the wall by his side, larkspur and thistle with a touch of baby’s breath, Geralt thinks.

“Here,” he says, passing the half-full tankard over to Jaskier and taking a sip of his own.

Jaskier hands him a piece of bread. “So, what are we slaying today?”

“The only thing you’ll be slaying today is your audience’s eardrums,” Geralt says, smirking at Jaskier’s huff of indignation. He takes a bite out of the bread. “There seems to be an archespore around the vineyards.”

“An— the—” Jaskier’s face does a complicated thing and Geralt wants to point out that he looks like a gaping trout before he says, “An archespore?! This mythical— magical— never before seen creature—”

“It’s been seen plenty of times,” Geralt points out.

“Not by me!” Jaskier thumps his fist on the table, defeated, and his ale sloshes dangerously. He wipes a hand down his face. “Ugh. And I can’t even fight you on it, because I’ve got, uh, what do they call it— Geralt, help me out here, what’s the word—”

“A compromise.”

Jaskier gags. “Yes. That. I shall honor my, uh, compromise to the arts and leave you alone and defenseless before such a legendary creature. Naught but two swords and the strength of” —he looks Geralt up and down appreciatively— “roughly twelve men built like bulls to keep yourself out of harm’s way.”

Geralt lifts his eyebrows, unimpressed, and leans back on his seat as a barmaid approaches them with a bowl in each hand. “Thank you,” he tells her, and digs in.

The stew is pleasantly hot and thick with spices and vegetables, the potatoes sweet and the meat tender, and he lets a pleased rumble escape his chest.

He doesn’t get to indulge in good meals very often — when he gets the opportunity to sit down at a proper table and have a proper plate placed in front of him, the food is usually sizable and filling, but never particularly appetizing. It’s mostly overcooked, tough meat — if he can afford it — and out-of-season vegetables that remind him of dried-out fields rather than a lavish banquet.

Jaskier is used to them, though. Or was — right before he was hit on the head with a chunk of stale bread and had the brilliant idea to trail after a Witcher, to trade comfortable beds and roasted pheasants for a hard bedroll spread on the forest floor and charred squirrel, at best. It still intrigues Geralt, watching Jaskier roll up his sleeves and dig into the pottage like it’s the finest meal he’s ever tasted, like it doesn’t pale in comparison to what he’ll be served tonight. Like he doesn’t see it — the immensity of the gap between Geralt’s world and his own.

There are moments of hesitation — moments when Geralt thinks Jaskier will wake up. When he thinks the bard will look around and shake his head in astonished confusion, and his blue eyes will widen comically like they do when he’s caught slipping treats to Roach, and he’ll see through the desperately-sewn seams of Geralt’s life. He’ll see that behind the so-called heroics and martyrdom there’s nothing more than a Witcher and a horse and a lonely road ahead.

But then, just when Geralt’s doubts start to creep into his hairline and show on his face, Jaskier will prove him wrong. Like now, as Jaskier lets his spoon fall into his empty bowl and leans back on his seat, sighing happily, nothing but contentment and warmth on his scent. As he watches through the window again, with a smile that dimples his cheek and sunlight crinkling his eyes.

Geralt feels something touch his leg. When he looks down, the innkeeper’s dog is resting his chin on Geralt’s thigh, his eyes big and pleading.

He picks up a hard bit of bread Jaskier had set aside earlier and carefully brings it up to the dog’s nose for inspection. After a few curious sniffs, the dog gently takes it out of Geralt’s hand, tail wagging excitedly. His fur is soft where Geralt smoothes it out with the flat of his palm, softer than Roach’s mane.

When he looks up, Jaskier’s eyes have abandoned the window, and he’s watching the two of them with a smile that’s half fond, half soft. Too tender.

Geralt’s never been looked at like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

It feels inadequate, and he pats the dog’s head to hide the almost imperceptible tremble of his hand. Jaskier’s smile reaches his eyes, and doesn’t waver.

It’s good.

The soft breeze wafting through the window as Geralt straps his swords to his back is tempting.

Jaskier yawns.

“You sure you don’t wanna get a nap in before you,” he yawns again, “go?”

He’s sprawled on his bed in a position that just can’t be comfortable, limbs long and bent at weird angles, pants unbuttoned and doublet resting on the back of a chair. His hair is ruffled and his cheeks are pink from the meal and the impending sleep that will follow.

“I’ve read, somewhere,” he continues, forcefully wrestling with the blankets that are firmly tucked into the bed, “ah, that napping increases, um— aha!” He wiggles under the covers. “It increases your strength, sharpens your” — a yawn — “mind, and whatnot.”

“Hmm.” Geralt adjusts his potion belt. “And how’s that worked out for you?”

Jaskier squints at him, managing to stay awake just to be annoyed. “See? You just continue proving my point! That,” he says, gesturing vaguely at Geralt with a half-covered hand, “would easily be fixed with one tiny nap!”

“Your naps are never tiny.”

“Well, no, because as a bard, I require more energy than a Witcher. Besides,” he says, closing his eyes, “I never seem to get enough sleep, you see, since I keep getting assaulted by this beast of a man who thinks dawn is already late.”

Geralt snorts and walks over to his bed. “Should put a contract out, then. A Witcher may come across it.”

Jaskier turns around, facing Geralt. “Oh, no, thank you. One Witcher is enough for me.” Geralt can hear the smile in his voice, though.

Checking he’s got everything he needs, and closing the open windows for good measure, Geralt turns to Jaskier. “I’m going. Stay here.”

This time, it’s Jaskier who has to snort. “Napping, remember?”

Geralt hums. “Don’t sleep through your performance,” he says, closing the door behind him, and the sounds of Jaskier tossing and turning while making indignant sounds makes him smirk.

The walk to the vineyard doesn’t take long. He passes the district alderman’s house on his way over, discusses the payment and whatever information he has to offer about the vineyard itself and the archespore sightings. The man’s face goes white when Geralt asks about any late violent crime.

The sun is still high in the sky when he gets to the heart of the vineyard, the earth uneven and freshly dug up. The victims’ bodies aren’t there anymore, he knows, but the archespore can’t be too far away from him. He draws out his sword and walks deeper into the field, watching the ripe grapevine sway with the wind.

There’s a vine in particular that calls his attention, thinner and bare, no grapes clinging to it. Just as he gets closer to it, it disappears under the ground. Geralt crouches and backs away, waiting to see it come back up — except when it does, it’s not just a lonely vine anymore.

The archespore stands tall and imposing, growling at Geralt as he signs Igni at it and aims for its trunk — he only gets one good blow before it buries itself under the earth. He waits again, looking for the green-brown color, and it shoots back up with renewed force, surrounding Geralt with acid-filled pods.

He casts a quick Quen and gets closer to it, choosing Aard this time as Igni causes it to relocate, and seizes the way it trembles minutely to get behind it and run his sword through its flesh. The creature growls, its jaw-shaped leaves curling around Geralt’s limbs. He struggles and manages to cast Igni at it, freeing himself as the plant relocates itself. When it sprouts back up, one of its pods blows up next to him, making him fall to the ground as the creature towers over him, its screeches deafening.

The archespore opens its forked mouth and screeches louder this time, acid shooting through its pores before Geralt can shield himself. The acid burns his skin where it reaches it, but the creature seems satisfied enough that it misses the opportunity to pin him to the ground. He reaches for his sword and lunges, casting Aard and tearing its leaves and damaging its thick stem.

This time, when it goes underground, Geralt has a feral smile on his face as he takes his Golden Oriole and upends it in his mouth. The venom stops burning for a second, and, when the archespore comes back up, its tendrils reaching for Geralt, he ducks and rolls, positioning himself behind it. The archespore screeches one final time as Geralt runs his sword from its head down to its core before it collapses to the ground, lifeless body still twitching. Geralt throws the severed head far enough that it won’t be able to reattach itself and slices up the remaining pods, their venom oozing sluggishly onto the torn-up ground.

He makes his way back to the city, the head of the archespore dripping slightly from its bag. The sun is setting, painting the walls golden against the pink sky, the shadows cast over the buildings helping the buzzing in his brain. He takes the less-traveled roads to avoid the commotion of the streets, but it seems the city is already mellowed out.

He thinks of Jaskier.

The first star of the night is twinkling against the pink-blue sky, the moon translucent. The baron’s residence is distant, surrounded by a stretch of the city’s walls, but Geralt imagines it’s close, close enough that Jaskier’s voice can carry through the night — that his soft melodies can reach them all.

He thinks of Jaskier, dressed up in his finest clothes that he had especially tailored — because I’ve filled out in the winter, Geralt! — drinking sweet wine from the vineyard he’s just left behind, mingling with the nobles and regaling them with honeyed tales of the Witcher’s heroism. The Witcher who is currently covered in muck and sticky with dried acid, carrying a severed head across the streets of Beauclair.

But Jaskier would disagree. He’d see a knight in shining armor, coming home triumphant after saving a family’s livelihood, the scars of the ferocious battle showing on his face. A defeated beast and a courageous warrior. A tale worth telling.

After dispatching the head and collecting his coin — what they’d agreed on, thankfully — Geralt heads back to the inn. The humming in his veins has simmered down, leaving behind a hint of exhaustion that clings to his bones and makes itself known. He calls for a bath, ignoring the innkeeper’s knowing look — she’s seen him trudge inside wearing worse.

Once he’s in his room, he takes his time unbuckling and sets his armor aside, a filthy pile that he’ll have to tend to eventually. After, he thinks, and sinks into the steaming tub. The room’s windows are open despite him closing them before leaving, tacit proof of Jaskier’s aversion for closed spaces and feeling oppressed, Witcher, and his distinct lack of self-preservation. Geralt’s chastised him enough about being easy prey, but there’s something in the way the bard moves that makes him want to protect, rather than prevent — he’d rather be the one to free Jaskier from his cage than be the one to lock him there in the first place. Not that Jaskier would ever let himself be locked away — he’s feisty enough on his own — but something about him screams freedom.

Geralt can’t take it away — wouldn’t ever want to. So he lets the cool air enter the room.

His bed is neatly made, pillows fluffed and sheets crisp. Next to it is Jaskier’s — somehow, pillows are on the floor and the sheets are turned inside out, twisted like a serpent around the blanket. His side of the room looks like it’s been a victim of a cruel whirlwind — clothes and accessories are strung about the room, picked up only to be frowned at and then put back down.

It’s tempting enough; to crawl under the covers and blow out the candles and get a half-decent night of sleep. Maybe get something to eat from the bar downstairs. Maybe drink some ale. But—

I’ll vouch for you, you know.

He knows.

It’s a beautiful night, in truth.

The ball is being hosted in the halfmoon-shaped garden, the cool spring breeze dancing around the guests as they dance themselves, carried away. Moonlight and candlelight alike wash over the cobblestone, a few delicate and intricate paper lanterns placed over a wooden railing casting gentle shadows on the whole scene. There are flowers all around — on tall vases in every corner and on the small centerpieces at every table, on the open hand of every statue and weaved into delicate crowns for everyone to wear.

It isn’t like anything Geralt’s seen before. He’s been to many balls — begrudgingly — but never one in which everyone carries themselves so freely, where raucous laughter is allowed if not mandatory, where not one person sits alone at their table, instead gathered around savoring the food, where there are chairs but no one sitting on them because they’re so busy prancing around the yard, marveling at the flowers and the outfits and the beauty of the night. Where everyone seems to be there because they want to be — because they belong.

He’s standing by a pillar, not hidden but not in plain sight, either. He tightens his jacket around himself, half to fend off the chill of the night air and half to hide the stain on the chemise underneath — a dangerous encounter with a drunk Jaskier and a goblet of wine. His leather band is on his wrist tonight, his silver hair tickling the spot behind his ear and catching on the high collar of his shirt. People are still coming in through the garden gates, the path to the grounds lit by small candles by each side of it, couples strolling hand-in-hand across the grounds and children running around, their flower crowns hanging off their heads.

There’s no music yet, just conversation carrying the night away. He can hear Jaskier’s heartbeat somewhere in the gardens, but hasn’t seen him yet — perhaps he’s encountered one of his old dalliances and is catching up, as he’s often done before.

Geralt moves to the balcony with the stone railing, the one looking out to the lake. The waves are calm tonight, gently rippling back and forth, shimmering under the stars. He leans his elbows on the railing, feeling very small as he looks down.

Heights used to scare him when he was a child. It’s one of the only things he can remember. His house sat on a small hill, and every night, after his mother went to sleep, he would tiptoe across the kitchen and open the window, and he would look down and feel terror beat inside his chest, gripping his heart like a vine.

Now, as he looks down, he can see the scrape of the stones jutting out of the earth, the clear beach beneath him. He can see the boats resting on the shore and the stars reflecting on the water. Looking down, he just feels at ease.

The sound of children protesting catches his attention. When he looks back to the courtyard, he can see two small children — siblings, he presumes — looking at their mother with very exaggerated frowns on their tiny faces.

“You mustn’t use your sister’s dress as a cleaning rag, Petyr,” she says to the boy as she tries to wipe down the girl’s gown.

“But the floors here needed cleaning!” Petyr responds, petulant. “You told us things should be squeaky-clean.”

His mother is about to reply when suddenly a voice cuts in. “And your mother is right, of course,” says Jaskier, winking at her and meeting her smile of relief with one of his own. “But this is a party! You’re meant to have fun, you and your sister! Don’t you like to dance?”

Petyr and his sister shake their heads. “We don’t know how to,” she admits.

Jaskier’s grin is wide. “Well, then you must be born singers!” At that, the girl smiles.

“Mama says our singing sounds more like a dying wyvern’s last breath,” she says simply, and it makes Jaskier laugh, “but we like to sing anyway.”

“And you should! Singing is the way our soul gets to have a laugh,” he says knowingly, and slowly takes his lute out of his case. “I don’t suppose you know what this is?”

The children’s eyes light up. “A lute!”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s right!” He holds it out to them. “Here, try a strum.”

The children look at each other, then at the lute like it’s something precious. Geralt knows it is. “You go first, Fiona,” the boy whispers to his sister.

Fiona approaches the lute carefully, and holds out her little hand. Jaskier takes it on his own, then gently, very gently, he runs her hand through the strings. It’s a simple chord, and Jaskier’s holding the note, but Fiona looks blown away. “Wow,” she whispers. “It’s so… pretty.”

Geralt can see the way Jaskier’s mouth quirks up and his eyes go soft at the corners. It tugs at his heartstrings.

“Now,” Jaskier says, “Do you want to try, Petyr?”

The boy nods, coming forward. He knows what to do, having watched his sister, so he simply lifts his hand and strums. Jaskier’s changed the chord, a lower one now.

“Wonderful!” Jaskier exclaims, and applauds the both of them, making their cheeks flush. “Naturals, the both of you.”

Petyr’s hand is still on the lute, feeling the strings and reaching the pegs. “And what do these do?” He says just as he turns one of them, the string deflating slightly.

Geralt wants to laugh at Jaskier’s pained grimace as he tightens the string back as he explains to Petyr that he should leave those to the adults, but suddenly he feels a pool of warmth in his stomach, an ache in his chest he hasn’t felt before — as if all the spring’s air has been stolen from him.

He watches Jaskier play a silly little ditty for the children to dance with their very amused mother, and he can’t look away. Can’t stop staring at the way Jaskier’s eyes crinkle with joy and his face is full of laugh lines and his own flower crown threatens to fall down, small yellow petals gathering at his feet.

And the thing is — he knows Jaskier. He knows he’s kind, and thoughtful, and painfully honest. He knows he feels everyone’s pain as his own, everyone’s joy as his own.

Everyone’s love as his own.

He knows that he’ll play silly made-up songs for bored children just as he knows he’ll gather herbs for Geralt’s potions without being asked to, just as he’ll buy treats for Roach, just as he’ll carefully avoid the fork on the road to Blaviken.

He sees it, now — the way his face is lit up but not from candlelight but from within, because he’s so in love with the world that he can barely stand it.

And he’s seen him before — has watched his furrowed brow illuminated by wavering candles as he writes well past dusk, has seen the curl of his mouth and the freckles on his nose and the scar that goes through his left eyebrow and yet—

Yet it feels like he’s seeing him for the first time.

There’s a smudge of ink on Jaskier’s cheek. There always is. There always has been.

Geralt’s never wanted to wipe it off.

He wants to wipe it off, wants to tuck his hair back behind his ear and kiss the spot where his jaw meets his neck. He wants to hold him close to his chest tight enough that maybe he’ll crawl into his heart and never leave.

It should scare him. It should feel like standing at the top of a hill and looking down.

It doesn’t.

Jaskier walks into the stage, a space of elevated marble he supposes a statue had been resident of. It suits him, the small pedestal — the way the golden thread of his dark green doublet glitters when moonlight catches it makes something ethereal of him, the few fallen flowers of his crown tangled on his hair — now tousled and matted with sweat — making something beautiful of him.

“Yes, yes, I’ve returned with more!” He exclaims at the whistles and cheers from the crowd, who’ve undoubtedly fallen in love with his first set. “We’re changing things up a bit now— How would you feel about something softer for a change?”

People cheer again, and Jaskier’s face breaks into a blinding grin. “Perfect! Now,” he looks around, “I want you to find the people you love. Your spouse, your lover, your friend, your sister, your child— everyone and anyone your heart beats for.”

The crowd starts gathering around in different groups, and Geralt smiles at how mismatched they are — tiny children and their grandparents, groups of single maidens hugging each other tightly, couples tenderly embracing each other.

Jaskier’s smile is softer, this time. “There,” he whispers. “Because love is something to share— This song I’m sharing with you.”

And then he’s gone — all his stage-borne facade falls away as he starts to play. His fingers are plucking a gentle, easy melody, and he’s humming along. People start slowly swaying to the sound of his voice, their eyes bright and shiny with mirth and love. Then, very softly, his voice barely above a whisper, he sings,

“Wise men say

Only fools rush in

But I can’t help

Falling in love with you…”

It’s incredibly gentle, and Geralt feels drawn to it immediately. He watches as Jaskier sways with the music, eyes closed and brow furrowed, completely lost on it. There are buttercups on his hair and love in his mouth and Geralt suddenly wants to reach for him, put out his hand only for Jaskier to hold.

Jaskier opens his eyes as the last verse comes in. “Take my hand,” he sings, and he does a brave thing and looks into Geralt’s eyes. “Take my whole life, too.”

He would.

“For I can’t help,” he says with a smile, and looks out to the public. “Falling in love with you.”

The song ends, but Jaskier keeps playing the chord progression softly. The crowd isn’t there anymore — they’re all somewhere else, holding their beloved in tender arms and swaying to the tune of their love. As Jaskier’s playing slowly fades out, there is no applause, no enthusiastic cheering nor plea for an encore.

They all know.

Geralt’s looking out to the waves when Jaskier joins him by the railing.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Geralt turns to face him. “Hey,” he whispers back.

Jaskier’s smile is soft as he takes him in. “You came.”

“I did,” Geralt says, voice low. “Was told someone would be waiting for me.”

“And here I am.”

The waves crash against the rocks.

“That was a new one,” Geralt murmurs, looking at the scar on his knuckle. “The song.”

“It was,” Jaskier replies simply.

Geralt looks at him. “I liked it.” It’s no big compliment, but Jaskier seems to understand him all the same.

He always does.

“I’m glad,” he says. “I like it too.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, their shoulders almost touching. Jaskier’s cheek is still smudged with ink.

“You have…” Geralt says, gesturing to his own face, and Jaskier frowns at him. Geralt shakes his head. He licks his thumb and reaches, Jaskier’s skin soft as he swipes the ink away, his mouth slightly parted.

“There,” he whispers, but his hand doesn’t leave Jaskier’s cheek. “Do they really say it?”

Jaskier frowns, confused. Their shoulders are touching. “Who?”

Geralt reaches for Jaskier’s flower crown and looks at him, a silent request. Jaskier nods. Geralt takes it in his hands and gently tucks the loose stems back together, the way he’d seen girls do it in the town square. He doesn’t lose a single petal.

“The wise men,” he says, placing the crown on top of Jaskier’s head, where it belongs. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

Jaskier takes them in his. “It is foolish to rush in unprepared. You taught me that.”

“Am I wise, then?”

Jaskier laughs, shakes his head. “I never said that.”

Geralt doesn’t know what to say, so he stays quiet, watching Jaskier’s rings as they glint in the moonlight, watching Jaskier’s fingers as they play with his.

“I love you, you know,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at their joined hands.

“I know.”

“You’re my best friend.”

Geralt looks at him. “I know.”

He needs the weight of his swords strapped at his back. He wants to be brave.

He looks down.

“I love you,” he says. “I can’t help it.”

Jaskier smiles. “Well, now you’re just being mean— plagiarizing my song right in front of me.”

“Jask.” It sounds like a prayer. Geralt squeezes his hands, amber meeting cornflower blue. “You know what I mean, when I say—”

“I know what you mean,” Jaskier says. “I know.”

They drink each other in, and Geralt knows this is the first time they’re seeing each other. Gently, he places one hand on the small of Jaskier’s back, the other on his nape, and brings their foreheads together.

Jaskier’s hands find their way to Geralt’s waist. Nobody’s ever held him like that. With care. Like he’s something precious, something to be treasured.

His nose grazes Jaskier’s cheek and he whispers, “Can I kiss you?”

And Jaskier’s smiling when he says, “I wish you would.”

So he does. Soft lips against chapped ones, lute-calloused hands against scarred ones. Jaskier kisses him back tenderly, unhurried, and it’s honey-sweet like the wine he can taste on Jaskier’s mouth, like the love he can feel on his scent.

When they pull apart — only because they have to — Geralt circles Jaskier in his arms, pressing small kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, his nose, his forehead. It makes him laugh.

“Tickles,” he says, and there’s a smile in his voice. “Your beard.”

Geralt presses a final, lingering kiss to his mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers against his lips.

The party has carried on without them, as it is wont to do. There’s a harp player on the stage now, plucking a soft melody from its strings.

Jaskier’s eyes are bright when he looks up at him. It feels right, to be holding him like this, to drown in his warmth and press love into his hands like it’s all he can do — and it is. All he can do is watch into Jaskier’s eyes and try not to get lost in them and stop a smitten smile from curling on his lips.

He’s helpless, he knows. It doesn’t scare him anymore.

“Home?” Jaskier murmurs against his cheek.

The inn, he means. “Aren’t you playing?”

Jaskier’s mouth curls into a mischievous smile, one of Geralt’s favorites. “They’ll survive without me, I reckon.”

Geralt narrows his eyes. “Jaskier—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he protests, rolling his eyes. “We need the coin. Ugh— one would think the guy confessing his undying love—”

“Now, undying is—”

“His undying love for me would change things, would buy me some indulgence— not at all!” He buries his face in Geralt’s neck, letting out a long-suffering groan. “Why must you be so responsible all the time?”

There are many reasons. Looking at Jaskier’s flushed face and capricious frown, Geralt can’t remember any of them. “Go,” he says softly, nodding at the stage. “For me.”

Jaskier groans louder. “That,” he says, poking Geralt’s chest, “is a very unfair card to play.”

“And why’s that?”

Jaskier tangles their fingers together. “Because you know I would do anything for you.”

Geralt’s face softens. He knows. “Go. I’ll wait for you.”

Defeated, Jaskier looks at the stage, then at Geralt, pouting. “Won’t you at least kiss me farewell? I’ve a long journey ahead.”

It’s Geralt’s turn to roll his eyes — still, he reels Jaskier in and presses a chaste kiss to his lips.

“Great start!” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Now, like you mean it.”

“Insufferable,” Geralt murmurs, but he gives in. The kiss is deep and slow, and somehow full of promise. He can feel Jaskier sigh happily against his lips, his scent gone sweet and warm as Geralt’s hands find Jaskier’s sides.

They part, begrudgingly. Jaskier’s cheeks are deep pink and his flower crown sits askew on his head once again, so Geralt fixes it for him.

“We should get one for you,” the bard says, watching him.

“Hmm.” Geralt presses a final kiss to his lips. “Go.”

“I’m getting you one,” Jaskier says stubbornly, ignoring Geralt’s wish, and Geralt loves him too much. “Just wait here.”

He lets Jaskier go, and watches as he runs over to the stand where a young woman is weaving tulips and baby’s breath together into a crown. He watches as he excitedly gestures at it and cradles it in his tender hands, a look of genuine joy on his face. He watches as he turns around, his lips stretched into a too-wide grin as he waves at Geralt, pointing at the crown.

He watches as he walks toward him.

He waits for him to fit into his open arms. He waits for him to place the crown on top of his head and adjust it once, twice, before it’s deemed perfect. He waits for him to kiss his cheek and groan about having to return to his duty as entertainment for the evening.

He waits for him as he plays.

“I love you,” he tells him later, when they’re both tucked in bed and their fancy clothes have been folded and their legs are tangled together.

Jaskier grins. “Say it again.”

Geralt can’t hide the smile that curves his lips — he doesn’t want to. “I love you,” he says, and kisses his cheek. “I love you,” his forehead, “I love you,” his eyelids. “I love you,” his mouth.

He says it so much the words sound foreign in his mouth. He says it until they belong in his mouth again.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says after a while, candlelight framing the tenderness in his eyes. “It’s been good.”

Geralt smiles.

It has.

#mywriting #geraskier fanfic #geralt x jaskier #the witcher fanfic #geraskier fluff #jeff buckley lyrics my beloved

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bakubabes-tatakae · 4 years ago

Text

Request: Hello! Congrats on the 2k. Can I please have prompt 43 from choice 4 with Shoto for the 2k event? Thank you very much!

Hello nonny. 😊 Thank you so much. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything for Todoroki so I hope you like to. 🥺❤️

Pent Up Tension || {NSFW} Todoroki x Reader

Warnings: smut, unprotected sex, 18+ content, language, friends to lovers

Word Count: 1.7k

You saw the pro-hero running through all the chaos as you looked on. You couldn’t help but admire how your best friend looked so at ease out there despite the complete mess around him. He blasted villains with ease with a mixture of his flames and ice, perfectly intertwining with each other to make the most treacherous of attacks.

But that was Shoto Todoroki for you. Nothing less than perfection. That’s what he was raised to believe.

Another injured was wheeled up next to you, your eyes unable to be torn away from the scene before you. Another blast of fire made the temperature in the entire area rise, almost feeling like it was burning your skin.

The only thing that brought you out of your trance was the words of you co-worker. “Y/n! Earth to y/n. We have a patient!”

You shook your head as you came back to earth, instantly getting back to work. “Hand me that sterile spray and some gauze.” You reached a hand out as you smiled at the woman on the stretcher. “I need to clean your wound. But it doesn’t look too serious so this should only take a minute.”

Your small words seemed to put her at ease while you got to work, talking small glances up once in a while as you heard screams and praises by the people below.

When everything settled and the last injured was transported to the hospital after their initial field care he finally approached you, something he did after every battle that you were around for.

You had been lucky enough to be one of the only people in Shoto’s life that he had really let in.

You felt the warmth of his left hand on your shoulder and turned around, nearly jumping into his arms. “You did so awesome, Shoto!”

Shoto held you there, letting the hug linger a little longer than he should have. Cameras began to flash everywhere as they focused on the two of you. When he finally let you go he did something he had never done before. Whether it was the cameras or just his adrenaline from his fight, you were unsure, but you didn’t dislike it. A soft kiss was placed to your cheek and he slowly spoke as he walked toward the cameras. “I’ll be right back. Once I’m done with the press you and I can go grab dinner.”

You stood in place, barely able to move. You hand raised to your cheek, covering where he had just pressed his soft lips to your skin. A small smile spread across your cheeks despite the eyes you felt on yourself.

You heard the voice of your co-worker again, breaking you from your trance for the second time today. “Are you and Shoto a thing, Y/n?”

You turned around and raised your hand, waving them off. “No, we’re not. We’re just really good friends.”

The words almost hurt to say, especially after what had just happened, but you fought through it.

Your co-worker laughed and slowly walked away, ready to take off for the day while you stayed behind and watched him.

* * * * * *

Shoto smiled slightly as he reapproached you, wrapping his arm around your waist as he led you away from the remaining crowd of people. “How about we go back to my place and I cook you a nice dinner for your hard work out there today?”

You wanted to laugh at him. Shoto was never this sappy when it came to you. Your confusion was present on your face, but Shoto ignored it. “That sounds good.”

You looked down at your scrubs and realized that you were most definitely not dressed to be going anywhere. Shoto laughed and wrapped his arm around your shoulder, leading you toward his car that was parked in the distance. “Don’t worry about it Y/n. You can borrow some of my clothes and I’ll wash your scrubs before you head back home later.”

You were still unsure of how you had gotten lucky enough to have a best friend like him, but you smiled and agreed, watching as he opened the passenger side door of his car.

The drive to his place was silent as you both took in the scene of what had just happened. It was something that you wouldn’t ever get used to, but you had someone who was always there to help you through it.

As you entered his house you took in the familiarity of it all. He didn’t change it much, the most he might do is move something around the room, but Shoto had never been a huge fan of change.

You took a seat on the couch and waited for him to bring you some clothes, and once they were in your hand you headed to the bathroom to change for the night. You knew that Shoto wouldn’t object to you staying the night, it wouldn’t have been the first time that you did it. He often left you his bed and slept on the couch so that you wouldn’t have to drive home late at night.

As you changed you heard pots and pans banging around in the kitchen as Shoto got to work. You climbed into his clothes and took in the scent of him, it had still been lingering on his clothing even after they had been through the wash.

When you opened the bathroom door you could already smell the food beginning to cook, and seeing Shoto at the stove had you drooling where you stood. You hated how attracted to your best friend you were and you hated that you couldn’t ignore it.

Shoto turned to see you coming toward him. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “I’ll never be able to get used to seeing you in my clothes.” A chuckle filled the kitchen as you walked to the opposite counter and faced him, climbing up onto it and smiling.

Shoto walked toward you and your heart began to beat out of your chest. What was wrong with you? Why were you like this?

His hand slowly reached out and touched the string to his sweatshirt that you wore, tugging slightly to even it out with the other. But once he fixed it, he didn’t back away. You were unsure, but you had thought that he had gotten closer to you. His warm breath touched your cheek and you realized that you had been right.

It wasn’t like Shoto to give in to his urges, but something about seeing you in his clothes was driving him crazy.

His lips slowly approached your own, the temptation to lean forward and press yours to his was about to suffocate you.

With a sudden movement, Shoto pressed his lips to yours, letting them linger as you danced together. His hands grasped your hips and squeezed, pulling you forward on the counter, pressing you into his own.

When your lips parted, you both fought for breath. Shoto nervously exhaled and looked down at your lap. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know wh-”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him back to you, not letting him finish his sentence before letting your lips passionately hit him again.

As he pulled his head away you barely made out his words. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

You could barely control yourself before, but those words made you want to scream. “Then show me, Shoto.”

His hands grabbed at the bottom of the pair of boxers that he had given to you to wear and pushed them to the side. With haste, his hand slid up the leg, his fingers rubbing against your folds as he found your heat. As he leaned forward he felt the bulge in his pants growing with each passing second, growing painful as he ignored it.

You dropped your head back as bliss immediately began to flow through you, filling all your senses as you tried to keep yourself under control.

Shoto grabbed your chin with his free hand and pulled your face to him, staring with intent as he egged you on. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” He removed his hand and placed it in your hair, tugging slightly as he spoke more. “You have no idea how badly I’ve wanted to jump you, how long I’ve held it back.”

You grabbed at his belt and couldn’t undo it fast enough, pulling his pants down to expose his erection for you.

“Someone’s impatient.” He smirked as he watched your lustful eyes run down his body. “Better not keep you waiting.”

Shoto grasped his length and pushed the boxers you wore to the side again, lining himself up with your entrance and thrusting into you. As his cock filled you, you threw your head back again. His name left your lips as his hips continued to roll into yours. “F-fuck, Shoto.”

The more moans that came from you the quicker his pace became. His hair dropped into his face, covering his eyes as you slowly pushed it away so you could see him. Determination filled his face as he brought you closer to your orgasm.

The coil in your abdomen threatened to snap as he relentlessly rut his hips into you. He knew you were close so he moved his hand between your thighs, rubbing his fingers against your clit, the perfect mixture of pleasure as the coil inside you finally gave.

Your orgasm shattered the world around you as Shoto leaned forward against you and emptied himself out inside your cunt.

Shoto pressed his forehead to yours and smiled as he caught you staring back. “I’m so glad we finally did that.”

You chuckled and cupped his face into your hands. “I am too, Shoto.”

The sound of water boiling over the pot on the stove brought the two of you back to the real world and caused laughter to erupt from you. Shoto kissed the tip of your nose and smirked. “Maybe we should just order out?”

Taglist: @monic00l @strangeinternetwasteland @rowley-with-ackerman @chaoticsimptown @ellechanwrites @bonnisimpparker @impinthecloset @taliyahvermillion @maat-the-prescriptive

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drawlfoy · 4 years ago

Text

Wonders of Ohio P.10

masterlist request guidelines

pairing: draco x reader

request: no way

summary: american high school senior y/n y/l/n is in for a surprise when her british exchange student is a little...odd.

warnings (AYO please pay attention to these this time it’s not just swearing): swearing, underage drinking (no i do not condone this ig), beginning elements of smut but def not too explicit, i think you can consider it dubcon ?? if both people are drunk bc i don’t think you can actually consent if youre drunk (plz rest assured tho they are both 18 hehe)

a/n: “hey where did this come from” yeah so hey yall ive never written such an intense scene before but i’ve spent so much time w these characters that i decided i kind of had to. there’s no like...real sex in this and i don’t imagine that i’d describe it in this much detail if i ever decided to write it but um.. anyways. i hope y’all enjoy. thanks for suffering for this long ! i hope i’ve made it worth it

word count: 4k

music recs:

cloud 9 -- beach bunny

the adults are talking -- the strokes

anything from the strokes tbh

tags ! :) @gruffle1 @missmulti @cleopatera @hahaboop @accio-rogers @geeksareunique @eltanin-malfoy @war-sword @cams-lynn @itsivyberry @ayo-cowbelly @nerd-domland @yesnerdsblog @shizarianathania @evanstanfanatic @strawberriesonsummer @hariosborn @night-ving @straightzoinked @imintoodeeptostop @naiomimoonshard @jejegu @ophelia-enthusiast @alwaysbeanunknownfan @nearly-memories @litty-dumb @callieclearwater @malfoy-wife15 @charlenasaxen @belladaises @fiantomartell @writeandtranslate @erisdogwood @loveissupernatural @sycathorn-slush @big-galaxy-chaos

“Thank fucking god for the generator,” said Y/N as she flew around the kitchen, banging pots and pans together in her quest to make New Year’s Eve breakfast. Draco was sitting, unamused and completely silent, at the table. They’d been snowed in for a few days now with her parents nowhere near able to make it to the suburbs. For some reason, the entire city of Cincinnati had decided that the day before Christmas was the best time to schedule maintenance on literally every single one of their plows. “Can you imagine living here without heat? Or power? I’d die.”

Draco hummed in response. A glance over confirmed that he was deep in thought, a scarlet colored letter clutched firmly in his hand (hello, Nathaniel Hawthorne). Jealousy curdled inside of her as her thoughts turned to a dark place--it was Pansy, that Pansy Parkinson.

Knowing her intuition, she was probably his grandmother or something. Why else would she have written so many letters?

After she finished plating all of the pancakes, she allowed herself to sneak a peek at the envelope.

Astoria Greengrass

She frowned. Astoria? She’d never seen that name before.

“What is this?” asked Draco as he picked up his fork to poke at the pancake on his plate.

Y/N’s jaw dropped. “Have you never had a pancake before?”

“A pancake?” He gave his plate a stern look. “It looks...like a soggy pastry.”

“Fuck you, I made that,” responded Y/N. “Try it with butter and maple syrup. And then tell me it’s a soggy pastry.”

She took out her fork and knife, demonstrating very clearly what she meant as she spread butter over the top of her pancake. She’d learned that Draco was too proud to ask what she meant when she introduced him to American/muggle foods--the last time he tried to deduce something himself, he ended up pouring ketchup over the top of his hamburger bun instead of actually putting it on the patty.

A sense of satisfaction flowed into her as she saw him follow suit, spreading the warmed butter and dipping a cut piece in syrup. He raised it to his lips, taking a delicate bite.

“Americans really have this for breakfast?”

“Yeah…is something wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s just…” He grimaced. “This isn’t breakfast. This is dessert food.”

“God, your life must be so sad back home,” said Y/N. “What does your family make you eat--just straight unbuttered bread under the guise of it being a real breakfast food? Do they let you dip it in your unsweetened, weak tea if you’re good?”

He scoffed. “You have no idea how I live back at home.”

“And, judging from this conversation, I don’t have any desire to know any more.”

They ate in silence for the next few minutes. Y/N smiled when she saw Draco reach for a second pancake.

“Two desserts? Draco, I know it’s New Year’s, but don’t get too off the hinges,” she teased.

He rolled his eyes, but she could tell her was fighting back a smile. “Speaking of which, how do you celebrate New Year’s?”

Draco looked up and met her eyes. “Sorry?”

“How do you celebrate tonight? With your family or your friends, or your...whatever.” The cold reality of the fact that she did not really know if he was dating someone back home set in.

“Oh, I don’t usually. It’s not really a big thing in the magical community,” he mused, unaware of her sudden panic.

“Well,” she said. “I always celebrate New Year’s with my friends. I didn’t tell you this sooner because I didn’t think that you were going to be here, but I’m kind of hosting a party here tonight. With anyone who can walk here.”

“Oh.” He took a sip of his tea. “Will it be like the Halloween party at Sylvia’s?”

“What do you mean?” She smiled. “Do you mean, will there be drinking?”

He shrugged in response, avoiding eye contact.

“There definitely can be,” she continued, her smile widening. “Last year we played this dumb drinking game over this card game--if you lost, you took a shot. It was fun. We could do that again.”

She settled down to eat, digging into two of the pancakes. They were really good--she wasn’t Gordon Ramsay by any means, but she did breakfast food pretty well. But at the mention of her friends, a realization hit her. “Oh. Draco?”

He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes.

“Um, can I tell you something?”

He dipped his head in recognition while Y/N cleared her throat.

“So, um, I forgot about this,” she began, “but while you were gone, I kind of had to scramble to figure out what to tell everyone about why we were avoiding each other before you left. And why you left so suddenly and why I didn’t know.”

He was still watching her in curious silence.

“So, I really didn’t want to slip up or say anything about...you.” Y/N paused to take a sip of her tea, deciding to not try to look at Draco again. “So I decided to tell Sylvia and Lizzy that I told you my feelings for you and you didn’t return them.”

A clang startled her enough to look up. Draco was staring, completely frozen. His fork had fallen into the syrup on his plate, handle and all.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

“I mean, oh, fuck. Um.” She smiled at him, hoping it was going to distract from her audible stumble. “Obviously, I made it all up. I mean, both sides! But what’s important is that they bought it, and now they’re probably going to give you a little shit for not liking me ‘back’. So I’m sorry about that.”

“Made it all up, huh?” His voice had a surprisingly teasing lilt.

“Yes, that is in fact what I said,” she responded, hoping that her cheeks weren’t as red as they felt hot.

“Is it really now?”

“Draco!”

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll be back. I need a new fork.”

“Just wipe off the handle of the one you have now--Draco, why are you getting up? Stop!”

To her disappointment, none of her friends were able to show. Sylvia and Lizzy made a concerted effort to try and convince their family to let them brave the walk, but once another flurry started up outside, it was hopeless. Her face turned pink whenever she thought about the fact that she hadn’t even needed to tell Draco the thing that made her slip up in the first place.

Y/N, disappointed but not surprised, told Draco that she still wanted to celebrate, even if it was just with him. He’d snorted at this--asking her why she made it seem like such a burden--but once she produced a yellow glass bottle and a deck of cards and told him she bet that she was going to beat his sorry ass, he caved.

She started with a heavy lead, but once Draco learned the rules and strategies of the slightly convoluted Go Fish game, he proved to be a worthy match. They played until around 11:45 when the bottle was about 3/4 full and Y/N was feeling the pleasant warmth of being slightly intoxicated. Once she noticed the time, she threw her cards on the table.

“Let’s watch the ball drop,” Y/N said with no further explanation, even when Draco looked to her for one. She grabbed the bottle and his hand, pulling him up the stairs to her room. The remote control for her TV was a struggle to find--it was all the way tucked back in her nightstand drawer--but thankfully the channel was already set.

“You forgot the cups,” Draco said, staring down at the opened bottle held in his hand.

“You can get them if you want,” she managed.

“You should! You forgot them.”

“Too far,” she whined, flopping to lean back on her pillows while Draco followed suit. His hair smelled like peppermint. Without much more thought, she moved close enough that their shoulders were touching. He didn’t move away--instead, he lifted the bottle to his lips and took a drink directly.

“Your New Year’s traditions are weird as fuck,” he murmured as he watched Savannah Guthrie on the screen. He didn’t have to speak very loud for her to hear him, and it seemed like he knew this.

“Oh, you haven’t even heard it all yet,” said Y/N. “We’ve got a tradition to kiss someone going into the New Year. New Year’s kiss, I guess. I’m sure you can imagine the kind of drama that creates.”

“What d’you mean?”

“You don’t have to be dating to kiss someone, sometimes people just...do it. As friends.” Y/N reached over to the bottle and took a swig herself, feeling the warmth trickle down her throat.

“Take it easy,” he tutted, pulling the bottle away from her before taking another drink himself.

“Hey! Says you!”

“Because I can actually hold my liquor well,” he teased, giving her a shove.

“The fuck are you talking about?”

“You just kept getting worse and worse at whatever that game was,” he told her matter-of-factly.

“Give it here,” she said, reaching across his chest to where he was holding the bottle, out and above his head. She hoped he couldn’t tell how much this side of him filled her with glee. “That’s not fair!”

“Not fair, huh?” He raised an eyebrow and met her eyes as he held it up even further into the air. His voice was startlingly low. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

Before she could muster up a response, the TV began playing the audio for the New Year’s Countdown.

10!

Y/N wasn’t sure if she was supposed to answer--or if he was just...flirting?

He managed to set the bottle on her nightstand without taking his eyes off of her.

The hand she had used to reach across him with was now pressed into his side of the bed, supporting her as she hovered over him.

Without moving any part of her body, she dared to glance at his parted lips.

Maybe telling him about the kiss tradition was a stupid idea.

His hand, warm and soft, reached up to brush a piece of hair away from her cheekbone.

His fingers lingered on the outline of her jaw.

He was kissing her before the cheers from the TV even had the chance to bounce around the room, both hands cupping her face and pulling her in so desperately that it took her breath away.

Her hands found his shoulders, then the back of his neck, and then, eventually his hair. It was just as soft as she imagined it to be. They started out innocently enough--closed mouth kisses and only their hands touching each other above the shoulders--but once she tugged on his hair (mostly by accident) something...shifted.

Suddenly he was on top of her, and suddenly her leg was wrapped around him as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss. It occurred to her that this was no longer just a New Year’s kiss. He tasted of lemon and sugar--and was notably better at what he was doing than any of the people she’d kissed before. Or maybe it was the alcohol clouding her judgement. Regardless, she liked whatever was going on. His hands had drifted from her face to her neck to her hair to her shoulder, gently tracing the outline of her bra strap. She brushed her hand down his chest, pulling gently at the collar on his shirt. Only when his leg pressed up into her and her breath hitched did she realize the weight of their situation.

The way he pulled away to hover over her signaled that he’d had the same revelation, his eyes wide as he stared down at her. “Um…”

“Yeah?” Dread crept into her despite the pleasant haze she was in.

He swallowed, hard. “I can’t believe I did that.”

Draco was on the other side of the bed in seconds, wringing his hands and keeping his eyes fixed on her floor. “Oh, my god, I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I’m drunk and I’m not thinking straight. I’m so sorry.”

“Is something wrong?” She didn’t know if he wanted her to touch him, but she wanted so badly to place a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Did you not want...it?”

He scoffed and turned his gaze up to the ceiling. “I had too much to drink. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Y/N felt the blood drain from her face as she fell back on the bed.

That’s all it was. A drunken mistake.

Tears pricked at her eyes as she surveyed her options. Despite the fact that she was drunk off her ass, she knew she couldn’t just tell him to leave without making her feelings clear. She never explicitly told him that she wanted him and it wasn’t like she moaned his name or anything--thank god--but what other option did she have? She didn’t want to cry in front of him, and if he stayed in her room any longer he would without a doubt witness her alcohol induced cry fest.

NBC finally switched to ads, and Y/N granted herself permission to mourn the fact that Flo from Progressive would forever be ruined for her.

It was dark enough for her to quickly reach up and wipe her eyes undetected, granting her enough confidence to sit up and look at him directly. “You don’t get to just...kiss me like that. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” he said. His hands were clasped tightly together and rested on his nose. “Fuck. Of course I know.”

“But you can tell me you meant it to be just as friends,” she told him, hoping he couldn’t see how hard she was fighting back a new wave of tears.

“As friends,” he repeated, his tone flat.

“As friends,” she said.

“I don’t think either of us are daft enough to believe that.”

Her stomach twisted. “What do you mean?”

“Maybe things are different in America, but I don’t see you doing that sort of thing with Lizzy.”

“We can forget about this. It’s fine. I know you regret it.”

He exhaled, his breath long and shaky. “I didn’t stop because I regretted it.”

“Then why did you?”

“Because…”

“Is it because I’m a muggle?” His silence was everything she needed for an answer. “Okay. I had a feeling.”

“Y/N, it’s not like...I don’t know how to explain it.” He still wouldn’t make eye contact with her. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“About this!” he said, dramatically gesturing to her. “About everything!”

“I don’t understand.” The tears began pricking in the corners of her eyes again despite her best efforts.

Draco finally looked at her. She was shocked by how genuinely distressed he looked--the last time he looked at her like this, she’d been laying on the ground outside of the antique sore. “I don’t expect you to.”

His tone was low, careful. He was holding back.

“Can you just tell me how you feel about me, then? Just so I know?”

“It’s not that--” He stopped himself, sucking in another breath before he continued. “I shouldn’t. It’s not right of me.” He groaned, flopping onto his back and covering his face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Hey,” Y/N said, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder. “I meant it when I said that we could just forget about it. We’re friends, Draco. Just friends. I know you didn’t mean it. Let’s just pretend this never happened, ok?”

He was quiet for a bit before responding. “Did you...want me to kiss you? Did I make you uncomfortable?”

“Uncomfortable?”

“As in, did you want me to stop?”

“Oh.” Y/N cracked her knuckles. “You didn’t violate me if you’re asking to gauge how guilty you should be.”

“I’m glad to hear that, but that’s not why I’m asking.”

“Okay,” she said simply. He was still laying in her bed, and she hated the fact that her bed was going to smell like him until she washed everything.

“So?” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t answer.”

“We’re friends, Draco.” She sent him a weak smile as she repeated her previous sentiment. “I trust you, so you didn’t make me uncomfortable.”

She was aware of the fact that her sentence didn’t exactly track, but she wasn’t particularly concerned with the literary quality of her speech.

“That still doesn’t answer my other question.”

“I…” She felt her throat dry up. “I want--I wanted you to kiss me. I’ve wanted you to kiss me for a while now.”

At this, he finally sat up and looked her in the eyes. She thought she could see the briefest glint of relief pass over his face before he managed to rein it back to a neutral expression.

“Did you want to kiss me?”

“I was the one who kissed you, not the other way around, yeah?”

“That still doesn’t answer my question,” she snipped, hoping he caught on to her mocking. She’d missed sparring with him.

“Yes, I kissed you because I wanted to, not for some weird ulterior motive,” he responded, rolling his eyes despite the fact that his cheeks were clearly very pink, even in her dimly lit room. “Though I agree it’s best if we just stayed friends.”

“Yeah.” She felt her face fall, but she managed to catch it before she looked too devastated. “It’s all water under the bridge. Now we know not to drink together again.”

“That too.” He shifted, clearing his throat before making eye contact with her again with an uncharacteristically soft expression. “But the damage is already done, I suppose?”

“I suppose,” she echoed. “You wanted to kiss me? Actually?”

“Should we really talk about this? After what we just said about staying friends?”

“We’re going to feel regret tomorrow morning no matter what we do now, “ said Y/N. “Might as well.”

He smiled one of his rare smiles--the ones where his eyes went all soft and he dipped his head to hide it. “Yes. I really do. Want to kiss you, that is.”

“I really want you to kiss me,” she blurted out before slapping her hand over her mouth in shock. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

His smile morphed into more of a smirk as he crept closer, his hand resting on top of her knee. “So can I do it again?”

“Draco…” She sighed.

“The damage is already done,” he repeated as he reached his hand up to brush a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers dragging down her neck. The smug look that formed on his face after she drew a quick breath in confirmed that he knew what he was doing, that fucker. “You said it yourself--we’re just friends.”

“I’m going to hate myself in the morning if I say yes.”

Draco’s hand drifted over her jaw, his thumb pausing to trace over her bottom lip. “You can hate me instead.”

This time, it didn’t surprise her so much when he leaned in. He was notably less desperate, taking time to draw breaths in between kisses and lacing his fingers through hers, squeezing. Once he seemed satisfied, he lifted her chin and brushed the hair away from her neck, kissing down from her jaw to her collarbone. She shivered, and he drew her closer by wrapping his arms around her until she was sitting on his lap.

“Wow, you’re such a good friend, Draco,” she managed to joke. She could feel the smirk that formed on his lips as it passed over her clavicle.

“Shut up.” His teeth grazed over her delicate skin before he sucked, eliciting a gasp from her. She could feel him smile again.

His hands teased the bottom hemline of her sweater, his fingers tangling in the fabric but not moving it. She sucked in a breath, feeling his hands ghost over her skin.

“Are you okay with…”

“Yes!” The answer came out much quicker than she would’ve liked, but the grin on Draco’s face made it completely worth the momentary embarrassment as he helped her out of the thick cable-knit sweater. “Now is your chance to dote on me and tell me how beautiful I am. As a friend, of course.”

“You stole the words right out of my mouth,” he said. He looked like he was positively glowing as she smiled and leaned in to kiss him, slow and deep. His hands found her back and hesitated over her bra clasp.

Before he had a chance to do anything, Y/N started fiddling with the buttons on his white shirt, successfully undoing the first two before she noticed that Draco had frozen completely.

“Is something wrong?”

“Kind of,” he said. “Maybe...not now, okay?”

“I had a feeling that was too much,” she admitted, reaching for her top before realizing he’d tossed it across her bedroom floor and suddenly feeling very exposed.

“It’s not that…” he said, trailing off. “I just...should probably tell you some things before my shirt comes off. And I don’t think tonight is the best time for that.”

“Oh.” Y/N tried to make herself look like she understood whatever he was on about. “Yeah, of course. Oh! Is it about that tattoo you tried to gaslight me into believing didn’t exist?”

“Y/N!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t gaslight you!”

“Here you go again,” she huffed. “I rest my case.”

“And I am not getting into that now,” he said. “I didn’t want to talk about it for very good reason.”

She reached up to his shoulders, dragging her fingertips over his collarbones and watching as he gazed up at her. “That’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The corners of his lips turned up at this, and she took the opportunity to press a chaste kiss on the edge of his mouth. “I think we should go to sleep. We have enough material to regret for tomorrow at this point. Any more and I think we’ll be getting greedy, so--”

Draco cut her off with one last kiss, his fingers splayed out across her back, pulling her impossibly close before finally releasing her.

“Agreed.” He let out a sigh before sliding her off him and standing up to grab her runaway sweater. “Do you want to sleep in this? Or do you want me to get you something else from your dresser while I’m up?”

“Um…” She was frozen at the prospect of him watching her change clothes. “Probably something else. Top left drawer--just pick whatever.”

He sifted through her piles of random T-shirts before settling on one with the UChicago logo and tossing it to her.

Y/N pulled it over her head, grateful for the fact that he wasn’t staring at her with only a black lace bra that barely did its job.

“So, uh, I think I should probably go then,” he said.

She fought the urge to ask him to stay. “Yeah, that’d be best.”

His mouth opened like he was about to say something, but he closed it and frowned. “So I guess this is goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Draco,” she replied. “I’ll look forward to agonizing over this in the morning.”

Once the sounds of his footsteps heading down the hall faded, she finally allowed herself to flop back onto her now Draco-scented sheets.

What the fuck just happened.

final a/n: hellooooooo ! it finally happened! i hope this didn’t seem rushed or unnatural to you guys but like. it’s been over 30k words and i thought you guys deserved something. yes i am going to be leaning into the whole “we’re just friends” trope while definitely not being just friends. yes i am going to drag astoria into this i’m excited i hope yall enjoyed

#draco x reader #draco malfoy x reader #draco imagine #draco malfoy imagine #draco x you #draco malfoy x you #draco #draco malfoy #draco fic #draco fanfiction #draco x y/n #draco malfoy x y/n #draco x oc #draco malfoy x oc

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lovenona · 3 years ago

Note

"Nah," Baji says under his breath. He's watching you as you whined and complained, as you weakly pull at him, his clothes, his hand, his cock. When you were like this, submissive and desperate for whatever he could offer, Baji feels inclined to play with you for a bit longer; enjoying your half-assed begs and your feeble attempts to get him working. Even if your eyes held the promise of murder if he wouldn't give you relief, he doesn't do anything.

"You know, you never really told me why you were so fucking distracted with Mitsuya tonight," he mumbles lowly as he fucks his hand a bit faster, ignoring your whines. Saying a name that's not yours while he's fucking himself leaves a bitter taste in his tongue. "But look who's fucking with who now, huh." Baji smirks as you glare at him, "Have some shame, Adele. Where'd all that big talk go?"

Maybe he's being horrible, a bit meaner than he usually is. Baji knows you're not playing around anymore, feels it in your impatience as you reach for him, as you try to rub his hard length to rile him up. But he can't help but hold back a little. He's possessive, a feral man with a need to stake his claim. And the only way for him to simmer down his jealousy without fucking you out in the open is to listen to you beg for him, listen to how much you need him, how only he can provide you this. And then, he'll fuck you hard and rough to make sure you never forget that nobody could fuck you better than he does.

When you call his name once more, a softer this time, a small and frustrated keisuke that leaves your lips, exactly the way he loves, he gives in. Just a little. "I'm still pissed, you know." Baji trails worshiping kisses on your body. He starts with your stomach, placing feather like kisses and kitten licks as he works his way up. He feels your hands pull on the fabric of his jacket, trying to push them off of his shoulders, desperatly searching and wanting to explore the expanse of his skin, to feel his muscles underneath your palm. He rubs the tip of his cock on your entrance and rests a palm on your stomach to hold you back from thrusting. So close.

But not yet.

"Come on, Adele," He whispers against your ear as he lets himself go and reaches for your hand, guiding them to your dripping self, "Finish yourself. I know you can give me one. You owe me an apology, don't you think?" He moves your fingers, spreading your lips and rubbing your clit, "I'll talk you through it. How'd you want my cock in there, huh? Go on, show me."

– baji

[BANGING POTS AND PANS TOGETHER]

have some shame, adele. where'd all that big talk go?

i'd consider murdering him, maybe, if i wasn’t so infuriatingly head over heels. where’d all that big talk go? where do you think? it went out the window with the rest of my sanity the moment baji crossed through my apartment doorway. where’d all that big talk go? it evaporated into the air along with the rest of my big fucking ego until i became nothing if not pliant for him.

and of course there’s shame in it, in the way i’ll fold like a sheet of paper the second baji asks me to. but i can’t help it and i can’t stop it and so i swallow my pride with the blissful thought that baji must really be whipped if he’s this riled up.

(and i'm pleased with it, with his insatiable need for possession, the way i always am.)

keisuke works like a charm. i am reborn again beneath gentle lips and dainty teeth, beneath the warmth of his breath and the featherlight sensation of his hair as it trails from my stomach to my chest to my neck. it tickles, almost, caressing my cheeks like a blanket as his mouth settles at my ear.

you owe me an apology, don't you think? i'd love to say sure but the fact of the matter is i can hardly think at all, not when his hands and my hands are drawing clumsy circles on my clit because and i'm hot and flushed all over because it’s utterly shameful and still not enough.

maybe i talked to mitsuya about his wardrobe for too long. and maybe i laughed at his joke when i should have been laughing at baji’s. but it’s too late now and i got what i asked for and now i live with it.

and i can’t say no to baji, not anymore, not when his tongue is at my ear and he’s everywhere. so i do what he says with a tender ok, fine, flushed, tears at the corner of my eyes, and pretend there’s no shame in it. it’s hardly a chore to press a few fingers into my own weeping cunt and fuck myself, slowly at first, as if my life depends on it. it’s hardly a chore to toy with my clit like he was and search for the movement that will give me release.

but none of it matters, anyway, because my fingers will never reach where his do, will never hit every sweet spot with the same perfect dexterity and ease. there’s a string of whimpers escaping my lips but it’s not enough, it can’t be enough, and i dance near the edge without being able to fall over it.

keisuke, keisuke. it’s the only word i know and it is both a prayer and a question that i beg of him, even if i don’t know exactly what i want from him anymore.

“i can’t,” i say, closing my eyes, but i do not stop, will not stop, not until my hands fall off from the strain of it. i'm arching into him like it will answer my problems, like mere proximity will cure me. “please, keisuke.”

#'SHOW ME'#BITCHSKEJEISLFSJA #WHY IS MEAN SO HOT BYE #FEJESMFEGSHJGKM #PASSING OUT #PASSING AWAY #SEE U LATER #GTG #baji.anon

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prurientpuddlejumper · 4 years ago

Text

A Lipless Face That I Want to Marry, Ch. 10

<- Chapter 9 | Chapter 11 ->

Summary: Can things ever be fixed between you and Frederick?

4,109 words

As you turned to leave, the door opened suddenly and struck you on the rump, nearly sending you sprawling on the hard laminated floor.

“Oh! Excuse me,” said the startled nurse, who, upon seeing who you were, greeted you loudly and deliberately by name. “Here to see Frederick?” she asked, holding the door wide open for you while klaxons blared up and down the corridors of your mind and your anxiety banged pots and pans together.

It didn’t matter what you answered at that point. Frederick was staring straight at you.

The nurse patiently held the door until you nodded politely and entered. Then she let it shut behind you, and you and Frederick were alone.

The room was silent except for the hum and beep of machinery. The air between you was still, but felt laced with invisible barbed wire, as if crossing the distance to his bedside was a treacherous task to be undertaken with extreme caution, and not just a handful of feet you could close in two strides. You scuffed your heel against the floor and cleared your throat. Neither of you wanted to speak first.

“Hi.”

“It is good to see you,” Frederick said, following your stiff tone.

“Is it?” you replied too quickly, too much frustration slipping into your voice by accident. Your heart skipped several beats at the thought that it might be true—that he was glad to see you. The possibility gave you hope. “It’s good to see you, too,” you said.

“I doubt that,” he said dryly. “I am hardly a sight for sore eyes.”

Your lips pressed together, unable to believe he had the nerve to be self-deprecating as you came to extend an olive branch, when the entire fight was about his appearance! “Shut up. Idiot.” The snap to your tone was undercut by a low waver in its pitch.

“A pleasure to hear the delicate birdsong of your voice.”

“Asshole.” Your shoulders shook with laughter at the familiar banter: his words dripping with playful condescension, but without the cutting edge of cruelty that had seeped into them recently. He was so charming when he was like this. You wanted him to be yours again—to be exchanging little barbs with him forever. Talking to him felt so familiar, but standing in front of the door with a field of invisible wires between you and the bed, unsure if this would be the last time, the heaving of your shoulders broke into a sob. You wiped your eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed.

His eyes watched you with unwavering focus, though it was difficult to tell what emotion he was feeling.

“So, what’s this?” You risked a step closer to nod at the new material fitted tightly over his head and hands. It hadn’t been there when you last saw him, but you managed to hide the sting in your voice that you were out of the loop with his treatment, and asked with genuine curiosity.

“Pressure garments,” he answered just as factually. “To reduce scarring. Now that my skin has healed enough to tolerate wearing them, I have been instructed not to remove them longer than an hour per day.” His eyes rolled in annoyance. “I shall be looking into more fashionable alternatives as soon as possible, of course. I feel as though I am wearing a gimp suit made of women’s shapewear.”

You bit back another laugh, because that was exactly what it looked like he was wearing, and if you laughed again, you would definitely break down crying.

“I see you started physical therapy...” Your small-talk was growing strained. The distance between your bodies too wide. “...since I’ve been gone.”

He flinched at the word “gone,” as if you’d simply been away on vacation and not coarsely thrown out and told not to come back. All the anger he’d stuffed down like a knot in his diaphragm had long since loosened and been replaced by guilt, and the realization of his own failure.

“I… have missed you,” he said slowly, his longing for you overtaking his stubborn pride. His already-exhausted arm reached out to you, as far it physically could. It was pitifully narrow and trembling with the effort of extending. His arms used to be surprisingly thick and strong for a priggish man his size, but after nearly two months of laying in the same position and being metabolized by his own body as it healed itself, they were skeletal. And your heart lurched at the sight.

It no longer mattered if the distance was trapped with barbed wire or planted with hidden minefields. Your thin façade of indifference crumbled, and you threw yourself at the side of his bed, head falling onto the mattress under his gesturing hand just as tears began to flow. His arm sagged, drained of energy, to rest in your hair.

“I missed… you too… dummy...” you choked out between sobs. “Why did you… why did you….” You couldn’t manage to form the question around the lump in your throat, losing yourself in shaking. His gloved fingers moved in your hair, almost stroking it, though the movements were too weak and stilted. But he was trying, and you knew he was trying, and that made it feel better than any time he’d ever stroked your hair before.

His fingers paused their motion, and you wondered if he was about to confirm your fears and tell you to leave again. That he missed you, but it really was over.

His chest rose and fell with a deep, preparatory breath. Then he whispered, slow and hoarse, “I should never have pushed you away. I was afraid you would never speak to me again.” He glanced surreptitiously at your finger. His eyesight was blurry and poor at close distance, especially with tears swimming in his vision, but he did not see a trace of the gold band he told you to pawn.

Peeling your wet face off the sheets, you gently grasped his hand in both of yours and pressed your lips to his fingers. “No, I should never have left like that. I’m sorry I took so long to come back. What you’re going through… it’s normal to be angry. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I never said I was sorry,” he said, teeth clicking together in a slight underbite, as if he were trying to press his lips into a bored slant. You stopped kissing his hand and narrowed your eyes at him. He looked a bit shocked at his own mouth’s behavior when all he wanted to do was be overwhelmed by your forgiveness, his watery eyes widening in fear of your reaction. The next terrified, but genuine, words out of him were, “I am. I am sorry.”

“You could have called me.”

“I know.”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” you cocked your head with a half-smiling expression lost somewhere between pleased with how well you understood his quirks and annoyed. An hour ago, you would have said annoyed. Right now, you were leaning toward the former.

“Then you were mistaken. I did call. You did not answer,” said shortly, flipping the blame to you.

“When?”

“A moment ago.”

“Really?” You groaned, pulling your phone out of your pocket and showing him the black screen. “It’s off. Hospital rules.”

A huff of laughter hissed through his teeth. He was about to give up all hope of reconciliation when you did not answer his call, but it was because you were here. It was incredible how quickly a day could turn around. “Pam told me not to read into it going to voicemail...”

Pam. That nurse. You must have made a very obvious face, and Frederick must have seen it as broad as daylight, because a creeping smirk pulled at his cheeks, making his permanent grimace even wider, his eyes narrowed deviously.

“Are you jealous?”

“No!”

“You ought to be,” he insinuated. “She was wonderful after my ordeal with Abel Gideon. I tried to tempt her to come work for me, know you. But she is a stubborn woman. She likes helping people, and apparently a hospital incarcerating the criminally insane does not qualify. She has been... shall we say, supportive, since you abandoned me.”

“It isn’t fair to rub salt in my wounds when I can’t punish you for your insolence,” you grumbled, gently grasping his hand in both of yours and pressing your lips to his fingers. His brow darted upward under the mask with keen interest at the prospect of punishment.

The flirtation was mainly performative—he was far from well enough for any kind of sexual performance, and even the idea of it, at this point, made his gut squirm uncomfortably—but he enjoyed the playful innuendo. The bit of swagger and pretend-confidence. It set you at ease and put on a smile on your lips that he adored.

This was another part of your relationship that had been missing while Frederick was recovering. The sinful little promises in a glance, a dare in the tone of your voice. Things had been considerably less romantic lately, but suddenly it was like he was seeing everything as it used to be, all of the wonderful, exciting, sensual moments he had callously given up. He had shattered that old life. This moment of nostalgia that would soon be over. And suddenly, his flirtatious brow sank back to its usual place, and he became sullen and still.

“I wish that… I could take it all back. That we could return to the way we were before.”

You hesitated. This would be when you would normally have squeezed his hand or crawled into bed beside him, but you still were not sure how much physical contact he could take, and you desperately did not want to hurt him. You risked leaning so your upper body was resting halfway on the bed, and you could cuddle as close as you could without really touching. You looked him deeply in the eye, hoping, with a pinprick of pain, that he would not turn sour and accuse you of staring again.

“I know things will be different now, but you’re getting better. It’s hard to see the progress because you’re here every day, but I’ve been gone two weeks, and all of a sudden your skin is healed enough to wear this… this Spanx ski mask, and you’re doing PT. Things won’t be the same, but they’ll be good again soon.”

“Between us,” he pressed the meaning you had not taken. “Things between us cannot simply return to normal. What are we to one another now? Ex-fiancés? I wish it were possible to go back to before I ended our relationship.” His voice was thick and mournful, eyes cast low, like he was giving a eulogy.

“Why can’t we?”

Frederick was taken aback by that. It was so obvious, anyone who had not been raised by wolves like you apparently had should understand it implicitly. “One cannot break off an engagement and simply take it back.”

“Why?”

“Because!” he cried, as if that in itself was an explanation. “I have failed you, hurt you. Proven my lack of commitment. One may glue a shattered glass back into the approximate shape of a glass, but it will always have sharp edges and missing pieces. It will leak. Its surface will be marred with cracks. When one has shattered a glass, it is easier to throw it away.”

“That is the saddest thing I have ever heard, Frederick. And you have clearly never heard of kintsugi,” you said. Frederick looked confused, and you briefly considered telling him to just fucking google it when he could hold a smartphone again, but just sighed and quickly explained, “It’s the Japanese philosophy of repairing pottery with gold so it becomes more beautiful and precious the more it’s damaged. It’s an overused cliché for recovery, but it’s way better than your morbid fucking glass—and need I remind you we are not dishware.”

Frederick stared, unable to come up with words for once in his life. You sat up. The hard plastic chair—your old frenemy—had been pushed out of the way in the corner of the room. You dragged it to the side of the bed so you could sit and hold Frederick’s elastic-gloved hand, and get out of the awkward crouch you had been in.

Soft and uncertain, afraid of the answer, you gathered the courage to ask, “Do you want me to be here? Do I just make things worse?”

“You are all that makes my days bearable,” he croaked. “If your presence worsens my mood, it is only in seeing your brightness dimmed on my account. But I am selfish. I would gladly drag you down only to have you by my side as I drown.”

“Then you do want to take it back? The breakup?” you asked, head swimming with hope. “You want to un-break up.”

“I do, but—”

“Good! So do I. It’s done,” you said, laughing through tears. “That’s all there is to it.”

A tear fell from Frederick’s green eye, and another pooled dangerously close to spilling on the lower lid of the sightless blue one. “It cannot be that easy.” It could not be so easy getting the love of his life back. His head trembled side to side, and you could tell he was about to protest.

“We are not fragile dishware.” You squeezed his hand gently. “We can decide to be whole again, and it will happen. I don’t care if there are supposed to be rules—if I’m supposed to feel betrayed and never trust you again. I don’t care. I am of the opinion that you should do whatever you feel like doing, and all I want is to live in your house, and steal your snacks. I want to sleep beside you every night, in our bed, and argue with you over stupid little things every day. I want you to push my buttons and rile me up, and help me relax and make me try new things. I want to make you feel safe. And I want to fuck you senseless. So if I want to, and you want to, then why don’t we?”

Frederick’s breaths were coming out erratically, and it was all you could do not to scoop him up in a full-body hug. “You will also have to stand my bitterness and abuse,” he added cynically. “You left that out.”

“No,” you leaned in close to the bump of his ear under the tight fabric. “Another great thing about not being pottery is that we can change when something isn’t working. We’re going to find some better way for you to cope than taking it out on me, because that sucks.” You leaned back with a satisfied grin, “But I don’t mind if you’re a pain in the ass sometimes—that’s the man I fell in love with. I love you, Frederick. Just love me, too, and it will be alright.”

“Just like that?” he asked, a challenge his tone, despite the hoarseness of held-back tears in his timbre.

“Just like that.”

“Should I not be in the proverbial dog house?”

“Frederick, you’re already in the literal hospital; no point making you sleep on the figurative couch.”

“The couch would be a marked improvement,” he admitted.

“Well, not just like that,” you said, sitting up from the side of the bed and putting your weight back in the chair. “There is one thing to do before we can be engaged again.” You dabbed the corners of your eyes and sniffed deeply to clear any remaining nasal drip. Frederick watched you anxiously as you reached into your bag to grab something. You pulled out a small, square, black velvet box and opened it, displaying its contents. Inside was a gold ring matching yours, but more ornate, with a few more diamond embellishments, and attached to a gold chain.

“What is this?” Frederick whispered.

“The ring. The one the EMTs had to cut off of you. I took it to the jeweler and had it soldered back together. It’s on a chain so you can wear it until your hands are healed enough.” His heart fluttered as you dropped to one knee beside the bed and held the box aloft. “Frederick Chilton, will you marry me?”

He welled with emotion, and for a few moments—long enough for your knee on the hard floor to begin to pinch—the only sounds he could make were hitched breathing as he fought not to cry. “Damn you!” he cursed through wet eyes, “Asking that when I cannot kiss you or hold you to me...”

“Your answer?”

“And what if I never walk again? What if this is life, forever?”

“Then I love you, and I want to be with you.”

“It is not enough!” he shouted, practically snarling with vicious intent, but not toward you. Wood burns because it has the proper stuff in it, and a man becomes famous because he has the proper stuff in him. You do not have the proper stuff, Frederick. He remembered Hannibal’s words to him the day before the Dragon burned him. It was so easy for Dr. Lecter to strike surgically at the deepest and oldest wounds. Now he was even less than he was that day.

“You are enough, Frederick,” your soft voice insisted, still holding up the ring and looking at him like your heart might break. “You’ve always been enough. You always will be. Please, marry me?”

“I am not an idiot,” he grumbled, light shining softly in his eyes. “Of course I will marry you.”

The truth was, he was still conflicted. As you smiled and wept and clasped the delicate gold chain around his neck, putting your own back on your finger, he thought of so many reasons he was unhealthy for you, so many things he should tell you. But he was selfish, and being with you felt good. It felt like breathing when he’d been deprived of oxygen. And pushing you away had been selfish, too. Maybe you were right, and the only thing that mattered was that he loved you. Because he did. He loved you more than he had ever loved anything.

“I need to touch you,” he whined, desperation in his voice, his arms shifting by helpless inches. “Please touch me?”

“Where can I touch you? How do you want to be touched?” You looked to him for guidance, and he explained the few painful spots with more severe or recent scars. Everywhere else was still tender, but healed enough to tolerate pressure and light caresses.

“I cannot do much in return,” he lamented, “but you may put your arms around me if it pleases you.” With some embarrassment, which would have reddened his cheeks if they were not already red with inflammation and hidden, besides, he added, “… I would… enjoy that.”

You complied readily, with a contented sigh, uttering soft praise and oaths of love as you crawled into the small bed with as much of your body as you could squeeze in beside him. It was a tight fit, but Frederick had fewer wires and tubes coming out of him than before, and every little jostle no longer caused him agonizing pain. His body felt so warm pressed close against yours, and the warmth spread out through your chest, multiplying itself like embers hopping from one dry leaf to the next, soothing every muscle until they were melting off your bones. You wrapped your arm around him and gave him a gentle squeeze, relishing the happy little moan it elicited as Frederick melted into you.

The air in the room was still and quiet except for the hum of machinery. But it was a comfortable, sleepy sort of quiet this time, laced with steady breathing and barely-audible whines as you cuddled into him.

“It’s amazing to be able to touch you again,” you whispered, smoothing your palm up and down his side.

He hummed in agreement, eyes closed. But he frowned at a thought that plagued him even through his dreamy happiness at having you beside him again. “I want more,” he growled, pleading to a higher power. “I am too impatient to wait a year to do such simple things as holding you. Walking.” Frederick’s body trembled. “Touching my skin without it burning is progress worthy of celebration?” he spat in frustration, then took in a long breath and held it to calm down. “My anger is not directed at you, dear. Sorry.”

“I know,” you breathed, tightening your grip around him, and releasing quickly when he gave a sharp hiss. “I hate it, too. I hate waiting,” you commiserated. Your hand skimmed over his chest, careful of the places he had warned you to avoid. It killed you needing to be so cautious when you wanted to climb on top of him and ride him hard into oblivion. But that would be a long way off. So you celebrated every little victory. Each new thing he could do that he couldn’t yesterday.

You kissed down his bandaged side and over his arm. Between his new compression glove and the bandages encasing his elbow, there was a bare patch of exposed skin. It was discolored, still reddened, and scarred, but looked intact. You pressed a kiss to it, warm beneath your lips. He shuddered, and exhaled slowly.

“Can you feel that?” you asked.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I have missed this.”

You wished there was more exposed skin for you to kiss. You glanced at his face. His mouth was uncovered. His mangled lip stubs gave a ghastly impression over his pearly white teeth, though you would never admit to him that you thought so. However gruesome they looked, the only reason you hadn’t kissed them yet was that they were badly injured where they’d been bitten off. It had not been a clean cut in any sense, the uneven tearing and bruising an impediment to the recovery of the wound’s edge. But if his face was fitted with this compression mask, then his mouth must have been healed enough. As you inspected the jagged flesh, you concluded that it was as sound as the skin on his arm.

A strange look came over Frederick, cagey and watery-eyed, and you knew he was holding in the urge to snap at you for staring, terrified of pushing you away again.

“Can I kiss you?” you whispered, lowering your mouth close enough to breathe his air, but waiting for his approval. His pupils blew wide with longing, eyes darting over your lips, and his tongue ran along the inside of his teeth.

“Is that a joke?” he let out a huff of cynical laughter. “You do not need to prove your devotion with these… displays of willingness to do the revolting.”

“It’s not a joke! I want to kiss you.”

“God, you are serious. That paraphilia of yours,” he tutted, teasing you. The sides of his eyes tilted, and he fixed you with a sober, sincere gaze—the deepest he had let you look into his eyes, for fear of being this close to his face, since being maimed. The green one was still that perfect, warm crystalline color of the crest of a wave curling toward Assateague Island. The blinded eye was a pure blue now, as if he had the North Atlantic in one eye and a Caribbean beach in the other. But you couldn’t blame him for not finding the beauty in his injuries, especially when they were still sore. “No,” he said. “I am not ready for that.”

“OK,” you nodded.

His eyes caressed your face lovingly, since he could not do it with his hands. “I would like it if you held me more,” he suggested, voice thick with his desire to feel you. Just not on his mouth. You kissed his wrist once more, slowly, savoring the feel of his skin on your lips, then settled yourself beside him again. You lowered your head onto his shoulder, careful not to put too much weight down, and draped an arm over his chest. Fredrick let out a vulnerable whine as he relaxed, and it nearly burst your heart.

One day, you would kiss him again. One day, you would have everything back. But it would be one day at a time. For now, this—laying beside him in his cramped hospital bed, nearly dozing—was enough.

This was plenty.

• ● • ━━━━━─ ••●•• ─━━━━━ • ● •

Tags: @beccabarba / @caked-crusader / @itsjustmyfantasyroom / @thatesqcrush / @dianilaws / @permanentlydizzy / @mrsrafaelbarba / @da-po / @madamsnape921

#frederick chilton #Frederick Chilton x reader #Hannibal #Raúl Esparza #dr. frederick chilton #my writing

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abloomntime · 3 years ago

Text

A Bloom In Time Ch23 Poppy’s Day Out

"Last stop Express Town. Thank you for choosing PenCo Metro for all your space travels. We at PenCo value your time as customers and hope to see your lovely faces again soon. And hope you enjoyed your space traveling experiences with us." The few penguins that were on the metro along with Poppy, Cookie, and the girls excited the space train as it sat still in the giant tower like structure funnel that would take it back upwards to the moon. Passing a few other penguins and maybe an owl or two heading back towards it. "Attention boarding passengers. The Evening Express back to the moon will leaving within fifthteen minutes. Please be sure to have your luggage in hand when you board."

"Does he always have to say the same thing every time we use it?," Mu asked earning a slight frown from Cookie.

"That's his JOB. It's what he's supposed to do. Don't complain about him doing his job correctly."

Whelp. Here they were. Down on the planet finally and had real dirt under her feet.....Or sand. Really, REALLY hot sand. Blue eyes gazed around her at the scorching desert surroundings and the decently sized town of owls walking around. It looked as if she just walked into a western movie and stopped. There must've been at least a hundred and twenty different buildings if she was estimating it good enough from their spot on the hill. It was a decent sized town all right. Not too big. Not too small. But absolutely hot with the afternoon sun beating down on them and such. One gigantic building stood in the dead center of the town and it had a decent sized parking lot too. She was certainly more at ease and comforted at least. Express Town certainly looked more her time than the flashy neon lights of Moon City that's for sure. Smiling she followed along Cookie as the girls ran ahead of them a few feet giggling and playfully shoving at one another kicking up sand.

"This place looks pretty rustic," Poppy commented smiling. From the hill she could also see a set of train tracks leading into and away from the town and beside that was a train station. Everything just looked as it was in a western like town in her day. Not that she's ever been to one, but she did have relitives who did.

Cookie nodded in front of her watching the girls with a smile. "That there big building is the Dead Bird Studios. Most of the owls who live here work there or in the small shops around town. You see Conductor may be a little.....loud but he loves supportin' local shops here. He gets all his costumes from the famous clothing store nearby, and his coffee from Jukebox Cafe'. They have a delicious bird seed chocolate cappuccino...If you don't mind birdseed that is. My own little resturaunt is right across the street from the studios. I always wanted one, and thanks to the directors' generosity I finally did."

".....I think I actually saw one of this Mr. Grooves's picture shows now that I think about it." Her memory went to two night before while cleaning the attic and kitchen. She still couldn't sleep after a while and stayed up a bit watching something she couldn't remember fully on the television the girls left on.

"Oh really? Well Mr. Grooves certainly has a more flashier taste than Conductor but his are just as nice if you ask me," Cookie replied unbiased before looking over her shoulder at her. "The first place we'll stop by is Hawk's Eye Pawn shop."

".....Pawn shop?"

"It's kinda like a trading post. You trade things there for pons or bye somethin' they have on the store shelves."

Oh. So a trading post. She knew what those were alright, had one on the edge of the town she lived in. Where she got most of her furniture and goods actually. Following Cookie, they all went into the town of owls. And she got a good look at everyday life in a town of owls and birds. As soon they stepped foot in there she could see that everything was made a little taller thank goodness, she didn't feel like crawling through any more doorways and tunnels feeling awkward and big and clumsy. Funnily enough most of the houses they passed seemed to be nothing more than homes, if the stores didn't have open signs or display cases in their windows, she would've thought all of these were just more homes for these owls. And speaking of the owls, most were just walking around minding their own business, walking in or out of buildings, and Poppy even saw a few elderly owls in the comfy seats of rocking chairs on shady porches watching the world go by. The girls giggled and ran past them in a game of tag with Bow reaching her hand out trying to catch Hattie or Mu. And some of the old birds smiled at the energetic children. Poppy would admit they were definately a cute bunch as well. Still following the cat, Poppy lifted her arm up to wipe at her long bangs and forehead. It sure was hot, not surprising since it was a desert, but she hoped they'd get to this 'pawn shop' soon. And hoped it was cooler inside. The girls never got too far from them as they ran around kicking up dust and sand in their game as Poppy switched between watching them and looking around fanning herself. Where did they all get that energy? It was too hot to play in her opinion, and the weight of the gold in her apron was starting to hurt her neck and shoulders a bit. That was soon all solved when Cookie turned in front of an all brown wooden building and started up the steps leading into it. Of course Poppy and the girls following behind and running in. A small bell above the door rang out as the door was opened and Poppy sighed at the wave of cool air hitting them as they waltzed in. But was surprised at the stuff she saw. Calm guitar music played from a small radio in the corner as an owl held his head in his wing looking boredly at them from the desk, to his right was a register. All around the place was cluttered items jammed everywhere. From beds, to pots and pans lining the walls, to random objects she'd never seen before.

With a sigh the owl spoke. "Welcome to Hawk's Eye Pawn Shop, where we have a hawk's eye view for priceless and useful objects. Feel free to ask if you need any help.....or not, " he said in a flat tone. Giving Poppy the feeling of slight annoyance in her as she raised a brow. Luckily Cookie stepped in before anyone else could as the girls ran around looking at things like normal children their age did. Walking right up to the desk as the owl followed along lazily with his eyes as he stared at Cookie before rolling his eyes. "Hello, Ma'am. How may I assist you this fine evening?"

"Glad you asked." Cookie pointed over at Poppy. "My friend here has a lot of gold she'd like to trade in today."

"..Gold?" Immediately the owl's interest peeked as he chuckled and finally smiled at them, "Oh w-well this IS a surprise! Please come, come! You've come to the right place, Miss." He gestured for Poppy to come over and reluctantly she did as the owl rubbed his hands-....uh..Wings together and smiled widely at her. "Just allow me to measure it a-and we can get you your pons, Ma'am."

"Uh...Ok." She reached down to the larger pocket of the two and pulled out the heavy gold cheese wheel, it must've been fifteen pounds at least. She set it with a small thump on the table and the owl hooted in surprise at the large item she placed down. Blinking and gawking in surprise at the large thing. ....Which was followed by the trophy, and the potion bottle out of her large pocket. And then the Mafia statue, pencil, candle, gear, and cheese slice. The owl gawking at all the things laid out before him in pure gold glory. "There ya go. That's the lot of it."

The owl sputtered blinking at them all....Before reaching up to pull out a small magnifying device out of his breast pocket and picked up the golden candle. "T-T-This is!...INCREDIBLE!! I've never seen such fine craftsmanship in my life! AND IN PURE GOLD!! It's unmistakable! Pure. Solid. Twenty four carrot GOLD!!" He could almost FEEL the heat radiating off the candle, it almost looked like it could've been real at one point. He looked back at Poppy unbelieving. "W-Where did you ever aquire such beautiful items?!"

"Oh...I- Uh..." She had to think fast. She wasn't about to tell some stranger some magic alien potion turned these things into gold by some king roach. They'd think she was crazy. So why not tell the truth but a different truth. "My g-great granddaddy on my mama's side was a blacksmith. He worked with metal's all the time." Which was true. Her Great Granddaddy Silver Copper-field on her mother's side was a blacksmith.

"But we found them in the attic," Bow innocently chimed in tilting her head confused.

Mild panick flashed on Poppy's face. "Uh...W-Well people find all sorts of old things in their attics all t-the time!"

Which was another truth. But the owl seemed too enchanted by the items he rolled over his his hold to care about her nervous tone at all. "Well he must've been a fine crafter in his day. I've NEVER seen such beauty." He snapped up to her suddenly slamming his hands on the counter and leaning over making her jump in surprise and lean back. "I MUST have them! Won't you part with them! It'll make me the talk of the town for once besides those ratty directors!! I'll be the only bird in the world to have them!!"

Now Poppy could sense pretty well when some one was gonna fight being raised around a bunch of rowdy country folk that often fought over land and territory. And BOY! The way the two little girls and Cookie bristled at the comment the owl made sure did look like they were about to argue, but that was NOT what she came here to do. She wanted to get out and have a relaxing day seeing this new place, so thinking quickly she got between them and the owl smiling more than a greedy pirate. "Deal. But on the condition ya give me what I'm owed for it all, and the promise ya won't say a word about where ya got it from." She didn't need someone asking around in case.

He quickly agreed grabbed the gold one by one. "Oh I promise. I very, very promise. Hmhmhmhmhm!! Not one word out of me. After all I don't want anyone else to have one but me."

Poppy sighed and watched as with great difficulty the owl man just gathered up all the gold in his arms teetering and wobbling about as he went towards the left side of the counter. They all watched as he wobbled his way towards a large scale against the wall that reminded Poppy of the large scale the local banker used to have to measure her pons in whenever she went to put her savings in the bank, only much bigger. A few large clanging noises rang out as he dumped the gold into it and watched as the red arrow of the scale tipped until it measured-

"F-F-Fifty two pounds!," the owl gawked at the scales before giving a thoughtful look. "Let's see. Minus tax on gold fifty two equals up too about....." His eyes widened and he suddenly let out a hoot gripping the feathers on his head. "F-F-Five thousand pons!!"

"Oh....Do you not have that m-many pons?"

"Uh..." The owl nervously looked between her and the statues. "N-No. J-Just a little over half of it. B-B-BUT I-I C-CAN OFFER A TRADE!!" He quickly pointed around the cluttered place, as if nervous to lose the precious gold he so desperately wanted. "I-I can pay half and trade for the other! W-Whatcha say?"

Poppy stopped for a minute. Looking around the cluttered place with a raised brow, and gazing over everything slowly. That wasn't a bad idea actually. Since she could use some knew things once she gets settled on her own again and didn't need anymore help. And getting stuff for free? Now they were talking! Maybe this was the universe paying her back for all her troubles and hard work finally! Smiling she happily agreed to the deal much to the Owl's delight and he quickly scrambled about to grab all the pons he needed for the trade from a giant vault in the back and they began searching. Well, the girls found lots of little knickknacks like small toys and for Bow a large sunhat with a pretty blue bow on it and how could Poppy say no to that? Well, the red head wasn't going for any random fancy stuff like antique clocks or any other fancy thing right now. But considering $2600) was a lot of pons to trade for, she could spare them to choose a bunch of things for themselves. But looking among some used exercize bikes she found a few things she was really looking forward to see again. What else but some good old fashioned farming tools? A rake, gardon hoe, pitchfork, shovel combo! She hit the giant jackpot!! Smiling as she dragged the old things out of the dusty corner and examined them. They looked to be in good condition. Rusty and dusty, but a mighty fine condition if ya asked her.

"Uh. Ma'am, are you sure you want those?," the owl said leaning back over the counter staring, "T-Those are antique farming tools that were just dumped in the corner. No one would want them.

"I sure do!," She said smiling back at his confused face, "They're just what I needed.

"Well...Y-Yes, t-t-they're in great condition for three hundred year old tools. That's why they're here, they could run in the thousands. Are you sure you want to waste your time with them?"

"Yep!" She Heaved all of them over one of her shoulders with a smile. "I got a plan for these babies. You just keep counting the pons."

"Ok. If that's what you want. It'll be nice to get them out at least," he mumbled to himself ducking back behind the counter.

Continuing looking around a little bit, Poppy managed to find a gold club bag along with her search and stuck her new tools into it, slinging it over herself and able to carry about her new beauties easier. Turns out those tools and the old antique stove Cookie kept looking at. Poppy saw the way she kept longingly staring at it every few minutes of looking around and gladly said she'd take that for her friend here. Cookie insisted she didn't have to but Poppy's mind was already made up anyways, as stated she didn't need that much pons leftover to trade back here again anyways. And she deserved it for all the kindness she had shown Poppy a complete and utter stranger. Well it turns out the knick knacks Hattie stuffed in her hat, (just random things like a few teddy bears, jewelry, a grappling hook, and anything else a girl like her would enjoy) combined with the old stove and it's set, along with those old tools were just enough to cover the other half but she did have to fork over another 100 pons to cover the extra 100 pons the tax came out to be. The bag she was handed wasn't really big, about maybe a small decent sized pumpkin and weighed about as much as a large house cat did. And that went into her large apron pocket for safe keeping while slipping the gold back of farming tools over her. She still had $2,500 to spend. And that was quite a lot of pons especially. Luckily the things weren't as expensive as made out to be. But that did leave another question, what were they supposed to do now? Luckily Cookie had a fantastic idea after seeing the way the uh....tacky dress Poppy was wearing and had the idea for them to stop by the local clothing store much to the children's protest about how boring it was going to be. So they once again found themselves leaving the greedy owl to fond over his new prized possesions and left back out into the hot sun. Resuming their routine of Poppy following behind Cookie as she lead them down the street to wards the far side of the town as the kids ran around again chasing one another. The only difference was Bow was using one hand to keep that giant sun hat on her head now as she went around running after the first two. Poppy still couldn't figure out how Hattie kept all those things in her hat. Alien magic?

"You'll adore this lil shoppe," Cookie happily told her giving a bright grin, "They're real experts at fancy sewing. You see they make most of the costumes for the studio and the directors' movies."

"It sounds like this whole town thrives on that place huh?," Poppy stated giving a look around the old buildings and many owls walking by.

"Oh, this town has been here for quite a long time with the studios," Cookie corrected, "It's only until recently that business really thrived for lacol birds. In the less hotter winter seasons, people come from all over to get a glimpse at the two kooky canaries running those studios. Means Conductor gets some extra business running his train too, he likes to say more budget for his movies come from it."

"Wow. Really?" So this place was some kind of famous spot because of this Mr. Grooves and Conductor, whoever they might be. From what she's heard of them so far, they seemed really nice supporting local business and bringing in so many customers. And she had no reason to not trust Cookie so far. A smile graced her face when he spotted the girls run a little ways ahead of them and caught an earful of their giggles. That was until one fell over. It was just a small rock hidden in the sand that she didn't see, but that didn't stop Bow from tripping over it and faceplanting the sand, knocking up some sand in her crash. Poppy and Cookie both gave a small gasp of surprise and Poppy instantly ran over to her, metal tools clanking together on her back. Hattie and Mu had stopped hearing the thump in the sand from behind them at Bow's faceplant and watched as the curly haired girl pushed herself up. Bow laid there unmoving for a few seconds but by the time Poppy got over there to kneel next to her, she had pushed herself up crying a bit with her eyes shut and spitting out more sand from her mouth. Sun hat falling off her head as she did. Two hands grabbed her and turned her around to face the worried face of the red head as she looked her over. "What happened? Are you alright, Sweetheart?"

"My eyes burn!," Bow cried reaching her balled fists up to wipe at her face but was stopped by Poppy pulling them away.

She sighed. "Well don't rub them, you probably just got some dirt in your eyes needin' ta be flushed out." Looking around she spotted an outside water pump fountain like the one her old home hand and without another thought picked up the tiny girl and stood back up. Bow still crying at the stinging and wrapping herself around Poppy's shoulder as she walked. "Oh hush now. All you need is to rinse it out with a lil water and you'll be right as rain!" She carried Bow over to the small pump across the street and pried her off to set the small gal down in front of the Nozzle. "Now I'm going to pump some water out, and I want you to start rinsing out those eyes and mouth of yers. Ok?" Bow sniffed still crying small tears down her face and Poppy grabbed a hold of the pump handle. Pushing n pulling it up and down to summon the water underneath. A garbling sound came from the pipe's inside and with a pop sound, cold water burst out from the pipe and sprayed the small child in the face. Bow jumped in surprise at the sudden cold water on her but sputtered and swiped at her face and the stream of water hitting her. After a few more seconds of it, Poppy stopped and allowed the strong stream to trickle slowly before stopping completely. She watched as Bow turned her cheek the other way and spat out a mouthful of water, coughing and wiping at her face. Now all soaking wet. She rubbed at her eyes for a moment before blinking her eyes open and looking up with red eyes. There we go. Now that she could see, her eyes would be irritated for a lil bit, but it wouldn't be worse than just someone suffering from a bit of hay fever. "There we go. All better."

....Bow sniffed and blinked. Wiping one eye with her hand and looking down at herself, her other hand grabbing her white jacket. "Now I'm all soaked and cold."

"Uh...Yeah." Poppy rubbed her head. "Kinda figured the sun would dry ya out, but I guess I can buy ya a new dress while we're at this here clothin' store.''

"...*sniff* Really?"

"Absolutely." Walking back over, Poppy bent down and repicked Bow up into her arms letting the little girl grab onto her. "We'll get ya a nice pretty dress that'll make you look like a darlin' lil princess!...Well more of a princess than you are already."

Bow smiled again sniffing and Poppy smiled at her...But paused when she heard someone else awing at them from behind and when she turned around there was a pair of old birds on a shady porch right behind them. The old birds were smiling at them from their rocking chairs like what they were seeing was the most precious thing in the world. "It's so nice to see such a responsible and caring young mother these days," one of them spoke smiling widely, "Your daughter looks like a darling little one."

......Poppy blinked. "Mother? Who me?" She pointed at herself with her free hand before shaking her head. "O-Oh! No, no! I'm not her mother! I'm just watching her for someone I know!"

"Oh, that's too bad. You would make a lovely mother for the dear."

Poppy chuckled nervously but Bow seemed to be looking at her with a strange look. "My...Mother?"

Giving a small thanks Poppy quickly excused herself from the watching eyes of the old birds and back over to Cookie who was waiting for them with the other two children. Wiping dust from the pretty sunhat and looking up at the soaked child in her arms. "Well. I can see we'll be needing to take care of that while we're in there too."

Poppy gave another nervous chuckle but grabbed the sun hat, handing it back to Bow who gladly plopped it back onto her head. Well, guess they weren't going to wait on getting this lil gal some dry clothing. Following Cookie the rest of the way there, they all came across possibly the girliest lookin' store Poppy had ever seen. It was all painted pink and white and had flowers in window pots. Well seeing those cute lil things made her smile at least, she always loved flowers. Above a sign was nailed above the door reading Mrs. Talon's Fabric Shoppe. Guess they were going in when Cookie walked right on up without a second thought so naturally Poppy and the children followed suit. A bell above the door rang like before and thank PECK it was another building big enough she didn't have to crawl through to get there. Upon entering it was the same pink and white themed as the outside. Along the walls was shelves upon shelves of fabric, balls of yarn and threads of all colors, sewing machines for sail along with smaller kits, and anything else one would need for making clothes. Such as buttons, sequins, patches, and books of patterns or techniques. Poppy noticed there was also a giant pink curtain in the back and next to that was a rack of already made dresses with a sign that said 'discount bin half off'. In the very front of the store was a white counter, and a lady owl wearing a floral dress with glasses that made her eyes look too big for her face, but unlike the first owl this cashier welcomed them all with a smile and friendly voice.

"Good Evening, Customers! Welcome to Mrs. Talons! Here we tailor to creatures large and small," she replied in a high pitched tone, "How may I-...I-I..." Her impossibly large eyes went wide seeing the crew of five girls waltz in as Poppy closed the door shut with her foot. "I-....I DON'T BELEIVE IT!!" She suddenly squealed startling the red head woman into almost dropping Bow and blinking at the pig like squeal before the owl lady leaned over the counter looking at Cookie. "I DON'T PECKING BELIEVE IT!! THE COOKING CAT IS IN MY BOSS'S STORE!! M-Ma'am I'm your b-biggest fans! My owlets love your deep fried worm and rice recipe!" Cookie didn't even seem fazed as she chuckled and waved. Making the more owl all the more nervous at having the cat celebity in her store. "H-How may I help you, Ms. Cat?"

"Please. Call me Cookie." Cookie pointed at Poppy still holding Bow in her arms. "We got a youngin' who's in need of some dry clothes and a fashion emergency if I say so myself."

The owl looked up at the two humans adjusting her glasses and frowning at Bow's soaked clothes and the absolutely ghastly amount of tacky lace and fake rubies studded to the collar of Poppy's dark blue dress. Not a good mix, it looked like she was a desperate rich lady trying to play the part of princess. "Oh...I certainly see why. Well, unfortunately with my boss away currently working on a large order for Mr. Grooves, I can't offer anything except for the designs left out from last year's tourism season." She gestured a wing over towards the bargain bin and Cookie slightly frowned at the limited suppy.

"Are you sure you can't make one?"

The owl shook her head. "Sorry, Ma'am. For you I would in a heartbeat, but I'm just the cashier. I ring people out and offer assistance if the customer has questions. The only tailors are my boss and her assistant and they're already away on a giant order call. But if you're interested we do provide everything you need to sew yourself."

"That won't be needed," Poppy cut in slowly lowering Bow to the ground and standing back up and walking to the bargain rack, "I ain't the kind of picky prissy gal a lot of folks I knew was." Walking up right to the rack she skimmed through the options of dresses available and to be honest most were plain day to day dresses without any patterns, but that suited her just fine. She wasn't real picky when it came to clothing as long as it fit ok and it didn't look like the ghastly thing she was wearing so she just grabbed a few random dresses off the bargain pile that was the same size she was wearing. A plain all pink and green one. One that was all white with purple flowers all over it. Another green one with a picture of a kitty cat in the middle of it. And just a purple one with some kind of black vine pattern. Looking back up, she noticed Cookie writing on a piece of paper as the owl excitedly watched, and she gave another small squeal when Cookie handed whatever it was over to her. How strange. Two of the girls were boredly bouncing some yarn balls...Where was- She got her answer when Bow pushed past her and reached up to rummage of her own accord, after a moment pulling out the only thing they seemed to have in a child's size. A bright orange dress with a single daisy on it's front. Her cringe made Poppy chuckle a bit and reach down to pat her head. "Hey. May not be the most pretty, but it's just til we get back an' then you can wear anything ya want. Alright?"

She didn't look happy but relented. "Fine."

"That's my girl!" She gave bow a smile as the little girl blinked and gave Poppy a confused look as she walked to the counter dresses in her arms.

"Your girl?"

Well, the clothes were bought. Which equaled up to about fourty six pons for all of the dresses including Bow's which she changed into behind the curtain. She was dry now but she didn't look like it stomping out and staring at her clothes in disgust. Well with two more bags in hand, one for her new dresses and one for Bow's, they excited the store and the girls were glad to not be coped up in there anymore except for Bow who followed the first two with crossed arms as the adults followed out.

"Come back anytime! Thank you for your purchase!," the cashier called out behind them and Cookie waved back.

"Ya seem to be well known, Huh?," Poppy asked the cat and Cookie shrugged.

"Lots of folks enjoy my work. Who am I to complain?"

"Touche." Poppy sucked in a deep breath and looked out into the world around them with a smile. "Man it's good to see ground that ain't littered with ghosts! But I wish it wasn't so hot!"

"Well this is a desert." Cookie smiled at Hattie chasing Mu around the two using Bow in the middle as a barrier from each other. "But they don't seem to have a problem with playin' anyhwere."

Poppy shrugged. "Doesn't surprise me with what I've seen. But I am surprised they aren't thirsty."

Cookie turned to her. "Why? Are you?"

"Well. A lil bit. When's the next ride back to the moon again?"

"Uh...Well I believe it's just a lil bit past noon, ya'll have to wait for the night train at ten o' clock."

Poppy snapped her head to her with a surprised face. "Wha- THAT LATE?"

"Well it IS the night train for a reason Sugar. But tell ya what, I'll treat ya'll to some real good food at the Jukebox cafe while ya wait." She started stepping towards somewhere else and Poppy slowly followed after.

"Oh no. You don't have to. It's alright."

"And let you eat nothing but a cheese wheel and apples?," Cookie shook her head, "Oh no, no. That wouldn't do at all."

"Ain't there a market or tradin' post with food in these here parts?," Poppy asked back making Cookie chuckle nervously.

"Well....Yes. B-But since everyone in town are actually birds, they don't really sell food catering to humans or many other species except for coffee and what's served in the cafe's since those places get to see more of a diversity especially when tourism comes a callin'. Otherwise it's bird seed, worms, insects, some fruit, and anything else birds eat. Most of what else they get is ordered from the city a couple miles away or mafia town. "

"Oh great. Guess it's cheese and apples for supper tonight then." Her stomach growled and she placed a hand to it shyly making Cookie chuckle.

"Don't worry. I'll send ya'll home with some left overs from mah kitchen set at the-...." Poppy suddenly stopped mid step body completely frozen as if she was paused in the middle of a movie and Poppy almost stepped on her tail stopping just in time. Cookie suddenly grabbed her fuzzy cheeks with a frown. "Oh no!"

"What's wrong?"

"I left my handbag at my set in the studios! My bird passport and wallet's in there, it let's me get free supplies from the cafe with the reward points."

"So...That means?"

"We're going to have to make a pit stop at the studios before anyone eats."

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staylovehearts · 5 years ago

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A Tree in a Forest

Lee Minho x Reader

Word Count ~ 3.7 k

Summary: Sometimes you can’t see the tree from the woods.

Tags: childhood friends, friends to lovers, slight angst, but also really cheesy, weird tree metaphors but I promise it’s romantic, or at least I hope it is

"Let go of me, the people are starting to look."

With a pout, you let go of Minho's elbow that you have been holding onto. Actually, you had meant to hook arms, walk arm in arm like an old couple. Or close friends who are goofing around together. But Minho keeps his arm pressed tightly to his side and you have done your best to wriggle at least three fingers in between. But now he's looking at you with this kind of irritated glance. He's even stopped walking. The only thing that's missing is for him to place his other hand on his hip and use his height to tower over you to make you feel like you are a kid being scolded.

"Since when do you care about people looking at you? You love attention. Besides, you always get super clingy with your friends, why do you never let me be close to you?" You cross your arms in front of your chest while speaking. Half because you are not sure what to do with your hand now that you had to remove your fingers from Minho's elbow. You really don't understand why he is always making such a fuss about it. There is nothing wrong with friends holding hands or hooking arms or any of that. Everyone is doing it. And Minho and you have been friends for quite a while now. Actually, you basically grew up together. He lives down the street, when you were younger you used to sit in the sandbox of the playground around the corner, defending the castles you built together from all the other kids trying to get a chance of playing there as well until your parents pulled you out and scolded you. But the next day you'd do it again. You two have been in cahoots for all of your youth. Exploring the forests and fields around town, building secret hideouts in the woods and coming home with scrapped knees. You went to school together. Have even been in the same classes for most of it. Minho and you have always been close. And he used to not mind being touchy-feely with you. But somehow things have changed sometime during high school. Before that, you always used to walk to and from school together. Him waiting up in the morning, standing on your porch and greeting your mother before joking about how you are always making him late. He stopped. Had to go earlier because of clubs and stuff. He also stopped walking home with you. Meeting with friends or staying later for dance practice. It's fine. You do have other friends as well. It's just how things go. But still... something about the distance he's been putting up makes you upset. And the harder he tries to slip away, the more you want to get close to him again.

"It's different when they do it. They are not annoying and clingy like you. Besides, you can't even compare that. With you it's a whole different story", Minho finally answers your question. It feels like you have been staring each other down in the middle of this crowded shopping mall for at least half a minute.

"Different how?", you ask. "How am I different?"

Minho rolls his eyes at you, as if you are stupid for even asking such a question, but he's also not really providing you with an answer. In fact, he seems to be stalling for time. The stance of his body shifts. The angry posture had given him a confident, overpowering look, but now he's unsure. You can read him pretty well most of the time, so it's easy for you to tell that he'd rather not start arguing with you right now.

"You're just... you", he finally mutters. It's so vague that it could mean anything and nothing.

"What's that even supposed to mean?", you demand, but Minho is running away from the question. Literally. He has started walking again before you could even get into complaining properly. You try your best to catch up with him again, for a moment you consider reaching for his arm again. Just to tease him. But then you stop yourself halfway there and just settle for walking next to him.

"Well, either way, let's go eat something. I'm starving"

"Hey darling, you back already? I thought you were out with Minho?", your mother greets when you walk inside. She's standing in the kitchen, messing around in maybe three different pots and pans at the same time. The air is warm and filled with the smell of different spices and other ingredients.

"He had... a thing later. I think. He didn't really give me the specifics, just told me that he had to leave early. So I'm home already."

Your mother turns around to look at you over her shoulder, not even putting down her spatula or stepping away from the stove. But she gives you this kind of concerned mother look.

"That's odd", she just says, before completely turning back around to stir some vegetables in a pan. Something about the way she says it gives you a feeling that she is implying more than she is saying. But you're mother has always been like that. Giving you that know it all mothery attitude and yet refusing to really talk wisdom until you finally give in and come to her to ask what she means by that. But you're not really in the mood for talking right now.

"Do you want me to set the table?", you ask instead. Without even turning around your mother replies: "Yes, please. You're lucky I made a little extra. I wanted to leave it on the stovetop so you could eat it later when you get here. But now that you're here already you might as well eat with the family."

"Yeah, I'll get right to it."

And that's that. But you have a feeling this conversation is only postponed.

to Dumbass Catboy: sooooo what do you wanna do for movie night this weekend? i'll take care of snax if you bring the dvd, or do you wanna do netflix?? [sent: 17:35; seen 5 minutes ago]

You stare at your phone in anticipation. Movie night is a staple for you and Minho. When you were younger you used to do when every weekend. But as school progressed and homework started piling up you started reducing the frequency. Every second week and then once a month. But it's a date circled in your calender. Marked with a bright red pen. And you make sure to send him reminders about it at least a week in advance. Minho and you have never skipped a movie night. Not even that one time you came down with a really bad stomach bug. You did switch to watching the movie together over a skype conversation though. Because your mother told you not to leave the house. Not that you had felt like that. You still clearly remember how you paused the movie in the middle of a scene, stood up straight and declared "I'm going to puke my guts out" before rushing out of your room and into the bathroom. You remember Minho laughing and teasing and calling your gross when you stumbled back into your room, face pale but cheeks glowing red, hair messy and sweaty bangs sticking to your forehead. But you continued watching the movie once you had settled yourself back into bed. Movie night has never been skipped.

[Dumbass Catboy is typing]

The three dots move, stop, disappear, show up again. Then, finally, after what seems like hours of waiting – well, just about one hour actually – there is finally an answer. But you sure don't like what you are seeing.

Dumbass Catboy: sry, can't make it, got other plans [sent: 18:27]

He's ditching your movie night? Not even telling you what for? No excuse. Just other plans? What other plans could be more important than watching movies with your bestie? It's a tradition. A ritual. You've been doing movie nights for years. And he's just ditching you? Not even an excuse. You throw your phone across the room, not even bothering with a reply. This is stupid. Outrageous. This is... actually so hurtful.

What happened?

Do people just drift apart like that? Is that just how it goes? Friends come and go and life goes on. But if that's just how it goes then why does it hurt so much? Is it normal that it stings so much, that it makes your chest feel so tight that you almost can't breathe anymore? Hands shaking, all of you shaking, shivering, struggling for air, choking out sobs, tears stinging in your eyes?

Why does it hurt so much?

Just then you hear a gentle knock on your door. You try to quickly clean the tears that have by now welled over and dripped from your chin onto the mattress away with your sleeve. Won't fix the puffy eyes, but the light is dimmed, so maybe it's alright.

"Come in", you croak. Voice hoarse and strangled. Damn. The door opens slowly and your mother comes inside, carrying a basket of freshly washed and folded laundry that she puts down. Usually, she'd leave right after that, but this time she stops in the doorframe to look at you. You try your hardest to avoid her gaze.

"Are you alright?", she asks and that's really all it takes for you to break down completely.

"I think Minho hates me now", you choke out between strangled sobs.

"Oh, darling", your mother hurries over to sit down next to you without hesitation. Gently she places a hand on your shoulder and you curl yourself into her side like you used to do as a child, hiding from strangers at family gatherings and the such. She gently pets your hair while she waits for your sobbing and shaking to calm down again before she begins her interrogation.

"Did you two have a fight?", she finally asks, after you have wiped your face with your sleeves a couple of times and sat up straight again. You shake your head because you still don't trust your voice to be stable, But your mother waits patiently for you to explain more. So you finally give in.

"He cancelled movie night. Didn't even give me a reason. He just said that he has other plans. And he's been so weird and distant lately. Like he doesn't want to spend time anymore and when we're out together he always makes me walk like an arm's length away from him. And when I ask him about it he's so weird. He won't even explain himself. I just don't understand why he's being like this now? I thought we were friends. But it's all changing now and I don't know what to do. I don't want to lose him. I l-", you interrupt yourself there, but the knowing glance your mother is giving you is telling you that she was just waiting for that emotional outburst. I love him so much is what you meant to say. You didn't even realise you meant it until now.

"You know, boys can be really stupid sometimes. I'm sure he doesn't hate you. Maybe he just needs space to figure something out. I know you two have always been close, but things change when you get older. That's just how it is. You can't stay in your little sandcastle forever."

"But what if I don't want things to change?"

"Oh, darling, no one wants for things to change. But the world just keeps turning, and either you learn to deal with change or you get left behind. It's cruel, but life can be like that sometimes."

"Hey, sorry about last weekend, I was... busy."

You recognise the voice from behind without turning to look. You don't. You allow him to catch up to you but you don't slow down.

"It's okay", you say. Snappy. Short words. Fired like bullets out of your mouth. You don't turn, but you notice him flinch a little out of the corner of your eye. Minho's lips have always formed into a sort of natural pout, but it becomes even more prominent when he is actually upset about something. Such full lips. So soft, so plush.

"Maybe we could make up for it?", he offers. He's walking fast to keep up with you. Maybe you did add a little more speed to your step. You're basically powerwalking down the street. What is he even doing here? Did he have to be out just now when you wanted to go to the store?

"Maybe", you say. And with that, you're basically done with the conversation. But Minho doesn't seem to be willing to let you go so easily.

"Are you also going to the store? Want me to help you carry that?" He points to the bag around your wrist. Your mother gave it to you even though you insisted you'd be able to carry the few things she wanted without any help.

"It's empty. I think I can handle that myself", you explain. Still not even bothering to look at your friend. Can you even call him that right now? Friend feels like such a loaded word. Maybe he stopped being your friend when he started moving into crush territory. You wonder what territory you are in from his perspective right now? Maybe you're nothing. And being nothing only really hurts when you used to be something.

"Don't you wanna try grabbing me today?", he asks, still not able or willing to read the mood.

"Thought you didn't want me to."

"Yeah, but since when has me telling you what to do ever stopped you from getting your will either way, remember when we-"

"Hey, I'm sorry, but I got this kinda important errand to run", you cut him off in the middle of a sentence. You're not in the mood for childhood memories and sharing stories that you have told each other a dozen times already.

"Sure, maybe we can talk..."

You're out of reach before he can get that later out.

Dumbass Catboy: hey [sent: 22:34]

Dumbass Catboy: i was wondering if we could talk [sent: 22:35]

Dumbass Catboy: look, I know I kinda fucked up and I'm really sorry [sent: 22:36]

Dumbass Catboy: please, I know you are getting these, can you just talk to me please? [sent: 22:47]

You look at your phone, not quite sure what to do. You thought getting some distance yourself would make it easier to deal with your newly realised feelings. But it seems that now, that you have slipped away to finally grant Minho the space he has been demanding he doesn't want it anymore. Suddenly he wants to be close. Texting you, asking to hang out, showing up out of nowhere when you are walking down the street to come up and talk to you. Yesterday he tried to wrap an arm around your shoulder and you just bolted. It hurts. Wanting but not being wanted. Then trying to get the distance. Suddenly being wanted again. But if you cave in now, will he turn cold again?

to Dumbass Catboy: talk then [sent: 22:50; seen just now]

Okay, maybe you're being a little bit unreasonable. A little bit bitchy. But this is basically your first real heartbreak. He's your first real love. It makes sense to be upset, right?

Dumbass Catboi: I thought we could maybe talk in person? [sent: 22:52]

Dumbass Catboi: meet me at our secret place in ten? If that's alright [sent: 22:53]

You glance at the clock on your nightstand. As if the glowing red numbers would give you another time than that displayed on the phone in your hand. It's almost 11 pm.

You grab a coat and head out.

Minho is standing leaned against the trunk of an old oak, the light of his phone making his phone glow a ghastly pale white in the dark of the forest. He raises his head when he hears you step on a twig that snaps under your boots. The light draws weird shadows on his face and for maybe the first time in ages you are unable to tell what he is thinking. His face seems contorted by the light hitting it and you can't read him at all.

You stop roughly an arm's length away from him and wait for him to greet you. Or start explaining why he called you out here in the middle of the night. For him to say anything.

"You know isn't it weird that we are able to find this place so easily even though it's just some random spot in a forest that we made out to be our place ages ago? Like, there is nothing actually special about this tree, we just made it out to be special", Minho finally says after a moment of silence. It's not really what you expected. Well, not that you really expected anything out of this conversation. But you sure didn't think he would go on a rant about trees. But it suits him, talking some weird nonsense instead of getting to the point.

"So you called me out here in the middle of the night to talk about trees?"

"Yes, but also not really", Minho answers. "See, what I'm trying to get at is that you are like that tree. When you look around in a forest there are so many trees everywhere, you could hardly make out a single one. And they all kind of look the same. But once you stop and pick a single tree to be that special tree to you, it begins to stick out. And you start noticing all the weird little details. Like how the moss grows in weird shapes on it and how it leans a little bit to the side. And suddenly that one tree is just not some random tree in a forest. And you don't really notice it at first. It seems to be just that tree that you have picked out as a meeting spot. But when you stop to think about it, you realise that that tree has always been there. This tree saw us grow up. We climbed it when we were kids, we had picnics here and we talked for hours every night in summer. Even though it just looks like one of many trees, this tree is special to me. You are special to me."

Minho's little rant leaves you lost for words and you need a moment to comprehend that between all the talk about trees he just made something like a confession. But still, it's too unclear. To vague to actually tell what he is trying to say. He has put his phone away before he started talking. Now the weird shadows are replaced with pale moonlight painting his features soft, Making his sharp and angular jaw look almost smooth, yet the skin is shining like polished marble. And his lips, oh god his lips, have they always been this tempting?

"That's a really weird metaphor", you finally manage to whisper. There is no reason to lower your voice, but you can't get yourself to speak up. You feel like you are trapped in a giant bubble and once you move to fast or speak too loud it'll burst and this whole little moment of perfect honesty will be gone.

"I guess it is. But you know that saying? Not seeing the wood from the trees or something like that. I think this is like the opposite way around. I haven't been able to see that one tree that is special to me because of all the other ones around it. You know, hide a tree, use a forest. Is that a thing that people say? Ugh, sorry, I'm rambling." Minho reaches out. Hand on your shoulder. Pulls you closer. And arm's length is still just enough distance to reach out and touch someone if you want to. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that I really like you. I've liked you for a long time. And I've been scared of these feelings. So I thought if I just push you away I'd be able to move on. But then, when I really felt like I lost you, I couldn't take it. So I decided that it's better to lose you with at least trying to tell you how I feel than letting you go and never telling you. And now here I am. I like you. I really do. And I want to be with you. And I'm sorry that I have been such an idiot about it."

"You really have been an idiot", you mumble. You're standing closer to him now. Toes almost touching, his hand on your shoulder, yours uselessly hanging down next to your body. You reach out, wrap them around his neck, close the remaining bit of distance. Inhale. Everything about his body is so familiar. And yet it isn't. He smells the same, feels the same. But the bit of height difference hits different now. The way his heart is beating rapidly in his chest. This is new. These feelings are new and yet they are old. This tree is special and still, it is one of many. One that you picked. One that you made special. Because you saw it and you didn't let it go. Just like that little boy down the street who you first met when he was trying to pet a stray cat and you laughed when he started crying after it scratched him. But when he turned to look at you with tears in his big brown eyes, you rushed over to comfort him. And you never let him go again. Because he's special. To you he's special.

"I like you too", you finally return the confession. It feels like it took you both forever to get here. Then again, there is still so much time left. So many days to spend together, so many movie nights to be had. So much to do, it feels like no amount of time will ever be enough. Then again, maybe this moment alone is enough already. For now. And for Forever.

#stray kids #stray kids writing #stray kids scenario #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #lee minho x reader #lee minho fluff #lee minho scenario #lee know x reader #lee know fluff #lee know fanfic #lee know #lee minho

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cheetahkat1 · 4 years ago

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A Wish Our Hearts Make: A Cinderella Inspired Fairytale

"Please let me go to the ball!" Sofia pleaded with her step-mother, clasping her hands hopefully.

"No! You will never be anything more to me but a filthy village girl!" Her stepmother, Lady Nettle, coldly uttered.

"Do you really think the Sorcerer Prince would ever let someone like you go to the ball?" Sofia's stepsister, Amber, tittered.

"You good for nothing servant!" Sofia's other stepsister, Hildegard smirked. "That dress of yours is certainly fit for one."

The stepsisters began tearing Sofia's beloved dress that was her mother's. Flinging the bits of pink fabric onto the floor, the evil stepsisters mocked and jeered at Sofia. "Sudsfia! Sudsfia!" They chanted the usual cruel nickname they gave her because she was often found scrubbing the many pots and pans that her step-family forced her to wash.

"Sudsfia!" The harsh voices rang loudly inside Sofia's mind, as she now stood on the steps of the Enchancian palace. Shaking her head from the painful memory that was only an hour ago, Sofia was determined to honor her mother's passing by going to the very ball that mother always promised to take her to. Sofia's stepfamily almost succeeded in crushing her dreams, but now her dream was about to come true.

"I made it, mom." She softly whispered, her blue eyes glistening with tears. It would not have been possible without some help. Sofia's fairy godmother, Fauna, and her beloved animal friends helped her get here. The kind fairy transformed Sofia's pet rabbit and songbirds to be the coach driver and footmen. Squirrels became horses, and the coach itself was made out of a watermelon. It all seemed so unreal, and Sofia would have been overjoyed with just that, but then her fairy godmother did the greatest transformation of all. Changing Sofia's tattered dress to a beautiful lavender gown. The top ruffled gracefully around the young women's neck, small translucent butterflies and flowers accentuating it. The soft fabric fit perfectly around her waist, flowing out like a waterfall all the way down to her ankles. Small glass slippers adorned her feet with a butterfly accessory on each. When Sofia first saw herself in a reflection, she could hardly believe how different she looked. It was not just the dress, but a look of joy that she had not felt in a long time.

Sofia also remembered her fairy godmother's warning. The enchantment would wear off at the final stroke of midnight, and then everything would turn back to the way it was. "That's more than enough time," Sofia whispered to herself. Inhaling deeply, she trotted up the steps to enter through the castle doors.

The dancing was in full swing when she entered the ballroom. Sofia kept a sharp eye out for her stepmother and sisters, although she knew her fairy godmother said that she would not be recognized by them. Swaying softly to the music, The young woman's paranoia gave way to delight at all the sights around her. Swept away with the castle's beauty and ball's splendor, Sofia hardly noticed the mesmerizing stares that followed her.

"Who is she?" Voices flew all around the room, as the cheerful, auburn-haired beauty gracefully glided past everyone.

All of a sudden, a gloved hand reached out to grasp her shoulder. Whirling around, Sofia came face to face with a handsome gentleman. He was tall, slender, and dressed in a rich plum and black tailcoat. His black hair melted into greyish bangs on his pale forehead but was his eyes that caught Sofia's attention the most. They were of a golden brown hue, and they burned with a sense of urgency.

"Please save me by accepting this next dance." He pleaded. His tone was neither harsh nor kind, but desperate. Peering behind his shoulder, Sofia saw a trail of young women, and to her chagrin, her two stepsisters charging towards them.

"Um, sure-" Sofia hardly let the words out of her mouth before the strange man whisked her out to the dance floor.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the man seemed to calm down once the disappointed flock of females disbanded, giving Sofia dagger eyes. Luckily, the enchantment that her fairy godmother gave must have worked for her stepsisters did not seem to notice her real identity.

"Ow!" Sofia let out a small yelp as the man's boot stepped on her glass slipper.

"I'm sorry, I am not the most proficient dancer," He cringed. "I actually loathe waltzing, but I just had to get away from those insipid girls."

"I understand," Sofia smiled. "And I'm glad to help. Why are they after you? With how they're acting, it's like you're the Sorcerer Prince or something!"

"W-well, erm," The man sheepishly cleared his throat.

Sofia suddenly blanched, quickly and awkwardly curtseying since the prince had not let go of their dancing position. "Y-your Prince Cedric? I am so sorry I did not know-"

"Oh, please. There's no need." Cedric smiled amusedly. "I find myself quite indebted to you, Miss?"

"I'm Sofia."

"Lady Sofia," Cedric repeated. "Thank you for saving me."

"Oh, I'm not a lady." Sofia shyly looked away from his earnest eyes. "I mean, I am, but not by title."

"I see. Are you a duchess? No, you act and look like a princess?"

"I am neither," Sofia giggled, a faint blush spreading across her cheeks.

Cedric frowned, "You prefer to remain a mystery, then?"

Sofia decidedly nodded her head. This evening was already magical, and she did not want to spoil it by telling the Sorcerer Prince of Enchancia that she was just a pathetic villager.

"Alright, I won't ask about your background anymore."

With that promise, the couple continued whirling around the dance floor through the next few dances as they conversed on other subjects. They quickly became at ease with one another, finding they had a love of reading and drinking tea. Sofia was mesmerized by the prince's studies in magic and sorcery and kept on asking question after question.

Cedric knitted his brows together. "You know, I usually bore all the princesses father introduces me to when I start to talk about this sort of thing."

"Oh, I find it amazing!" The young woman grinned. "You must be really talented!"

Now it was Cedric's turn to blush at the lovely woman's words. Halting suddenly, he looked directly into her ocean-blue eyes. "I have been working on this one spell I think you may like. May I show you out in the gardens?" Curious, Sofia nodded her head, and both left to go outside into the royal gardens.

"Won't you be missed?" Sofia asked as Cedric led her by the hand past the more crowded area of the gardens.

"Probably, but I don't care. Balls are just a big waste of time in my mind." Cedric scowled, "My parents keep trying to marry me off, but I don't like any of the women. All they want is my crown, and I wish they would care to actually get to know me."

"I'm sorry," Sofia pursed her lips. "If it's any consolation, my parents met here at the Royal Jubilee ball," She smiled fondly.

"Really?" Cedric glanced down at her in surprise. "Maybe there is some hope for me then. Are your parents here escorting you?"

"No, they both passed away." Sofia chewed her bottom lip.

"Oh," Cedric's eyes saddened in surprise. "I am so sorry. You have gone through a lot."

Sofia shook her head. "There are many out there who are worse off than I. I am grateful to have a roof over my head and the wisdom my parents gave me to get by in life."

"And what wisdom is that?"

"To always show kindness to all and to have courage in doing what is right."

Cedric listened intently to Sofia. She was a mystery, yet she was genuine, and unlike any other woman he had ever met. There was a serene humility and unwavering optimism in her that was refreshing and beautiful to behold. "Your parents were quite wise." He murmured softly. "Oh, we're here." Stopping at a quiet area of the garden, with a golden fountain in the center, Cedric grabbed both of her palms, gently lifting them towards her face. "Cover your eyes." He said and Sofia obeyed.

Withdrawing his wand from his sleeve, Cedric chanted, "Mohit Flora, Pyrozata!" Tucking his wand back, he said, "Now you can open them."

Sofia gasped at the sight before her. Rose petals floated down from the sky above her, and soft lights like a hundred fireflies twinkled around the petals. "How lovely!" She murmured as tears began to swim in her eyes.

"Oh dear," Cedric said anxiously when he saw a tear trickle down her cheek. "I did not mean to make you cry-"

Suddenly Sofia wrapped her arms around him, embracing the prince in a warm embrace. "Thank you, Prince Cedric." She whispered. Cedric smiled brightly and reciprocated the hug. They both remained in their position, watching the magical display together for what seemed like hours.

"Sofia." Cedric finally spoke up, turning to face her. "Tonight, for the first time in my life, I actually had fun. That is all thanks to you. I know we don't know each other very well, but you are the kindest woman I have ever met, and if you are willing..." The prince paused to clear his throat, and Sofia saw a rising flush creep onto his cheeks. "I would love to see you again?" He raised her hand to his lips, tenderly kissing it.

Sofia opened her mouth to answer when all of a sudden, the clock tower on the castle struck midnight. "Oh!" She let out a surprised and disappointed yelp. She had forgotten all about the time, and she had to get back to the coach before the last stroke of midnight fell. "I have to go!" Sofia lifted up the billowing skirts of her gown but before she ran off, she quickly reached up to kiss Cedric's cheek. "This was the best night of my life, thank you!" With that, she sprinted off towards the castle.

Prince Cedric stood in shock, lightly touching his right cheek where she had kissed him. "Was that a yes or no?" He said before shaking his head out of the stupor. "Wait, come back!" Cedric called, running after her.

Weaving in and out of crowds, Sofia sprinted through the ballroom, nearly bumping into her stepmother. The third chime of midnight rang loudly as she raced down the palace steps. Tripping over her heels, Sofia almost stumbled but caught herself, limping the rest of the way towards her carriage.

Her rabbit driver, Clover, urged her to hurry and once she was safely inside, he yanked the reigns of the squirrel- horses. They shot off in the dark just as Cedric ran down the palace steps.

"Waaiiiit!" He yelled. Realizing it was too late and that Sofia was long gone, Pince Cedric sighed. A small clunk from beneath him caught his attention. Glancing down, he saw a glass slipper. Sofia's glass slipper. Lifting it off the ground, the Sorcerer Prince smiled hopefully. No matter what, he was going to find the beautiful maiden who captured his heart and who was missing her shoe.

#cedfiaweek2020 #💓 Thanks for another great submission!#fairytale prompt #sofia the fandom #writings #submission

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3starsquinn · 4 years ago

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Ranche for Lyfe || Blanche & Orion

Location: Coffee Plus

Parties @3starsquinn & @harlowhaunted

Summary: Rio and Blanche Are In LOVE :/ (Or alternatively: *Drunk Meri voice* waIT - raaaAAAAAAANCHE)

Content: Drug Manipulation TW

“-- think we got a good pastel blue thing going on, don’t you think?” Blanche said to Rio, this time talking about their hair. Like with the pink, the blue had faded to a pale, pastel like color that Blanche was doing her damnedest to keep from turning green. So far, it was working, but she spent maybe a little too much on hair care products for it to be healthy. At least it was easier to focus on hair drama than actual drama with Athena, Ariana, and Winston. She would have already ripped straight into Athena if she hadn’t known that stirring the pot would make Rio even more stressed out. Blanche felt bad enough that Rio seemed to be stressed about her own actions, even if he didn’t need to be. Or … well. Blanche glanced down at her arm as she pulled the door to Coffee Plus open, holding it for Rio. Maybe he should worry sometimes. She glanced in at the new Barista that was working the counter - the other one, she read in the paper, had died a month and a half ago. “I know you hate coffee, but you have to at least try this dumb frappe-thing I get when I want sugar and caffeine. It’s so good.”

Orion found himself twirling his hair at Blanche’s mention of it. The blue had kept pretty well, not counting the dark brown roots that had begun growing in towards the center of his hair. It seemed stupid, worrying about what his hair might look like considering everything else going on. But he was beginning to think that Blanche had the right idea. She knew how to get his mind off of things. To distract him from the things that would otherwise take up all the room in his brain. “Yeah. I kinda dig the faded look actually.” He admitted, just barely catching a glimpse of the color from the edges of his hair that he could see. He hoped that it had faded as nicely as Blanche’s had. Rio glanced at the menu, not sure why he even tried to pick out something he may drink. Rio had been here plenty of times, some may say too many times he didn’t drink coffee and the place was called Coffee Plus. There were about two things on the menu that he actually drank. Hot Chocolate and bottled Water. And yet every time he came in he found himself perusing the menu as if something else would jump out to him. At the end, he caved in and just went with the hot chocolate, scrunching his nose at the idea of trying whatever Blanche had ordered. “If our friendship is at stake, I’ll try a drink of yours.” He sighed, slinking over to find a table for them to sit at, resigned to his fate.

“I think the faded look is ‘in’ now. Or something. I see it on pinterest all the time,” Blanche said, shrugging slightly. Her own blonde roots would start to show soon, and she’d have to figure out what to do about them then. But that was a later problem. Most things were going to be a later problem rather than a current problem. Rio needed… Well, Blanche was the last person to figure out what someone in emotional distress needed, but whatever Rio needed it wasn’t more stress. It wasn’t monsters or ghosts or demons (oh my!) or anything else. “It tastes like chocolate… and coffee. But you’ll love it, I promise,” She stepped forward to order after Rio, while he went to grab the table. “I’ll grab your drink too!”

“Blanche.” The barista remembered her name, which was probably a statement at how often she was here. He was some young kid, probably 18 or 19. He smiled brightly at her. He was always so smiley at her, much more than he was at Rio, but she just assumed it was because he saw her way more than he saw Rio, since his aversion to coffee and the fact that sometimes she came once before work and then again afterwards too. “What’ll it be?”

“Large Mocha Frappe, please.”

“Whipped cream?”

“.... Extra whip cream please.” Blanche said, sheepishly pushing her hair out of her face.

“Oh, of course. A staple.” He went to start making both her and Rio’s drink, absentmindedly chatting with her as he always did. Asking her what she was doing next Friday, saying her hair looked cool, all that kind of thing. Blanche was just happy for the friendly small talk, and before long, Blanche grabbed the drinks, and thanked Brad.

“Wait, try it first -”

Blanche didn’t hear him mumble, before she went back to the table, placing Rio’s hot chocolate in front of him and sliding her drink in front of him. “Try the drink Rio! It’s really good!”

Orion had chosen a spot near a window, and sat with his back pressed against the glass, eyeing Blanche as she talked with the barista. Was it just Rio or was that totally flirting with her? And was it just Rio or did Blanche look totally clueless to this fact? Rio knew he wasn’t exactly an expert at this stuff but like, this was totally obvious right? Had Rio and Winston been this obvious prior to them getting together? If so, yikes. “So…. that barista….” Rio began when Blanche took the seat across from him and dropped the hot chocolate on the table. “He uh, seems nice.” Yeah this totally wasn’t his strong suit. Rio narrowed his eyes at the drink that Blanche was trying to pass off to him. He wasn’t hopeful that he would like it, but he figured he should at least give the thing a taste. He took the couple gingerly, as if the thing was filled with poison and slowly raised it to his mouth, taking a sip just big enough to get the full taste. It wasn’t awful at first. The chocolate smell helped hide the evil flavors underneath. But it only took a moment for Rio to curl his nose, passing the drink back off and making fake gagging noises, “Ew. Gross. It’s so bitter. Even chocolate can’t save it.” Rio kept his tongue out to avoid the flavors and took a long drink of his hot chocolate, ignoring how hot it was. Maybe it would burn off his taste buds.

“What about the barista?” Blanche said, cluelessly. It wasn’t that Blanche didn’t realize that Brad had been flirting with her -- except that was exactly what had happened. She wasn’t used to it. Like when Adam had asked her out on that “””outing””” so long ago. “Oh, yeah, Brad’s nice I guess. He’s new - I, uh, think the other one that was here all the time had some kind of health thing.” And died. She winced slightly, giving a shrug as she left that last bit unspoken. Blanche watched hopefully as he took a decent sized swig of her drink… and cursed in tandem as something fell from behind the barista’s counter, loud pots and pans banging. “Really? You didn’t like it? Shit!” Blanche groaned, leaning forward on her elbows. “Here, give it here -” she reached across the table, and took a sip looking at him. “It tastes fine to me. Damn - I wonder if I should try a milkshake next.”

“The barista has a thing for you.” Orion answered as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. As if Rio had any right to acknowledge this fact as if he was some expert in the field of relationships. Of all the things Rio studied, this was the absolute last thing that he should be trusted making assumptions for. For all he knew, Brad could be asexual, or married or something. But it certainly seemed pretty obvious. And Rio decided that he didn’t like Brad very much. It was a realization that came out of nowhere, as Rio had no feelings for or against him prior. Rio glanced over at the counter after a loud noise and spotted Brad ducking behind it. Weirdo. “Well of course you like it. Because you like coffee.” Rio leaned forward too, checking the time on his phone before taking another sip of his own drink. He would need to get over to work before too much longer, but was glad that he was able to meet up with Blanche prior to this. The more he thought about it, the more he realized how much he loved being around her. She was funny. A good friend. Incredibly pretty. Pretty? Something weird buzzed in the back of his head for a moment but quickly dissipated. Blanche was pretty. Super pretty. The blue hair looked incredible on her, but then again so had the pink and the blonde. She just carried herself with such unapologetic boldness that people couldn’t help but be attracted to her. It was annoying. Rio didn’t want her to be attracted to other people.

“The barista has a what now?” Blanche asked. There was some bemoaning behind the counter that Blanche was no longer paying attention too. Suddenly, she realized that Rio looked really … good. Not that Rio hadn’t before, but suddenly blanche felt a little nervous. Her cheeks growing hot, tinted with a light pink as she tried to figure out the onslaught of feelings she was feeling. He was so kind - Rio was the kind of man that would do anything for someone - to do anything to save someone. He hadn’t judged her for what happened with Bea, and he was always there for her when she did something stupid. And Rio was right, that dark-root hair look did look really good on him. “I don’t like Brad,” Blanche blurted out. “I like you!” Wait, what? Suddenly, Blanche was feeling very jealous of Winston. Stupid Winston. “A lot.” There was a swear behind the counter, but Blanche only had eyes for Rio, not Brad. What the hell was happening here? Something in the back of her head told her that something wasn’t quite right, but she didn’t care, she just hoped Rio felt the same.

There was so much confusion. A weird pit in Orion’s stomach as he tried to process what was going on. Because it didn’t feel right. But then again… when did love ever feel completely right? Suddenly things way too clear. It had always been Blanche, right? That night at the bar, driving home together. Blanche was the first person that Rio felt comfortable telling everything about his life too. That had to count for something. Plus, wasn’t it fate that brought them together at that bar? And again in the acting class? Around every corner, there was a reminder that Blanche was right there. She had to be the one. There was a small twinge of guilt that sunk within Rio. But what about Winston? They would have to understand right? Winston wanted what was best for Rio, and no matter how Rio thought he felt about them ten minutes ago or whatever, it couldn’t compare to how he felt about Blanche. How he must have felt about Blanche all along. “I don’t like Brad either.” Rio admitted, still thinking about his stupid his face looked when it brightened up when Blanche walked into the coffee shop. “I’ve never felt this way about anybody else before. I don’t- I think I’m in love with you.”

Blanche was confused. She was really confused. But she was also in love so it was probably fine. Right? That’s how it worked? In movies and shit. Probably shouldn’t think too hard about it. There was continued cursing from behind the counter from stupid fucking Brad - ew, Brad, she had never noticed what a foul mouth he had. Rio never swore that much! God, how long had she been in love with Rio and how had she only just noticed two minutes ago! Wow. Wow. Oh wow. More strange confusion and bright happiness filled her when Rio told her that he was in love with her. Yes! This is weird! But yes! “I’m a little confused, but I think I’m in love with you!” Blanche exclaimed. This was perfect. Blanche stood up. “Here, c’mon, let’s go for a walk before you go to work. I can’t stand listening to Brad over there.”

#wickedswriting #c: blanche #chatzy: blanche #chatzy #ranche 4 lyfe #I was crying laughing this entire short chatzy #drug manipulation tw

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fieryanmitsu · 4 years ago

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The Heart-Pounding Sunrise Trek of Bonding | A3! | “Take the Stage” Fanzine

I am very honoured to announce that I am one of the contributors for the recently released A3! Take the Stage Fanzine! It was such a great experience working with so many talented artists and writers! Everyone's pieces turned out AMAZING, and I would highly recommend to check out the full zine! The fanzine can be downloaded for free here!

And, now that the zine has dropped, I'm able to share my piece with you all here! This story is based on the "Campfire Bonds" event and stars Muku and Citron as the focal characters!

Please enjoy~!

THE HEART-POUNDING SUNRISE TREK OF BONDING

THEME: “Campfire Bonds” event

CHARACTERS: Muku Sakisaka, Citron, Sakuya Sakuma, Masumi Usui, Tsuzuru Minagi, Itaru Chigasaki, Tenma Sumeragi, Yuki Rurikawa, Misumi Ikaruga, Kazunari Miyoshi & Izumi Tachibana

My fanfic masterpost: Here

AO3: Link in my Blog Menu

Muku stared intensely at his phone as he checked for the umpteenth time that he had set his alarm properly. Seeing that the numbers really did read ‘3:00am’, he locked his phone and placed it beside his pillow.

“Ugh. I swear I can still taste the tabasco in my mouth even though I brushed my teeth,” Tenma groaned as he entered the tent.

“Did anyone get a normal chocolate for the s’mores?” asked Kazunari, looking up from his phone.

“Izumi liked hers!” Misumi chimed in.

“That’s just because she’s a crazy Currian! No one would normally like a curry-flavoured chocolate,” Yuki snapped back.

“Anyway, everyone’s here, right? I’m gonna turn off the lights,” Tenma announced. “We have to get up early tomorrow, so we should sleep now.”

A flurry of mumbled goodnights flew around the tent as their leader turned off the lamp. Before long, the air was filled with the sounds of heavy breathing and light snoring.

However, sleep continued to elude Muku as he stared fretfully at the ceiling of the tent—his brain whirring with his anxieties. Though the Summer Troupe’s first two plays had gone well, deep down, Muku felt that he had barely squeaked by with his performances. He knew that he was still the weakest link, and was terrified of dragging everyone else down.

Just once, Muku wished he could give back to the ones who continually helped him so much. But, he didn’t even have any special skills—like Yuki or Kazunari—that he could put to use for the Summer Troupe or the Mankai Company.

So, when Izumi had first announced this training camp, Muku had immediately volunteered to be one of the organizers, even though he had never taken on such a role before. At the time, it had seemed like the perfect opportunity to prove himself and be helpful to the others. Surely, even someone as untalented as him could manage to do this much.

Inspired by a scene out of a shoujo manga, Muku had manically researched to formulate a grand plan. First, they would strengthen their bonds as they hiked side-by-side through bountiful nature. Then, they would share a heart-racing special moment together as the rising sun etched its image into their memories. Plus, with the fresh mountain air, he was sure they would get more mileage out of their vocal exercises.

However, when they had gathered to discuss the itinerary, his excitement had quickly been extinguished when his plan had been met with unenthusiastic faces. Some of the Company members hadn’t seemed interested in witnessing the sunrise, and many others had groaned about the early start time.

After the meeting, Citron had clapped him on the shoulders, looked him in the eyes with a mysterious, all-knowing smile and said: “Do not worry, Muku! Your idea is most wonderful! Everyone will be super duper happy when they see the sun grating them! I will make sure of it—trust me!”

Though his brain continued to worry and fret, Muku clung to the words and reassuring grin that the Zahran man had given him that day and allowed the darkness to finally lull him to sleep…

The next morning, with much struggle—along with Citron banging some pots and pans together—the two organizers managed to wake up their fellow troupe members and line them up outside of their tents. Though, they may as well have still been laying in their sleeping bags. Masumi was draped on top of Tsuzuru’s back, fast asleep. Itaru was crouched on the ground, muttering to himself with a half-dead expression on his face. Even the ever-chipper Kazunari had his chin propped on Misumi’s shoulder, both of them nodding off despite being on their feet.

Citron came to stand beside Muku and nudged him gently. With a gulp, the pink-haired boy mustered all of his courage and stood up as straight and tall as he could manage.

“G-Good morning, everyone! Thanks for waking up so early to join us for the first item on our itinerary today: the ‘Heart-Pounding Sunrise Trek of Bonding!’” Muku announced. “I know that it’s silly to want to follow someone who’s more annoying than the itchiest bite from a mosquito that arrived earlier than the usual mosquito season—”

“Muku, literally no one said that,” Yuki interrupted with a sigh. “Just lead the way.”

“O-Oh right! S-Sorry!” Muku responded, snapping out of his rant. “P-please follow me and watch your step!”

As Muku led the way to the forest trail, with the others shuffling groggily behind him, he couldn’t help but cringe as he heard someone yawn loudly and another person let out a groan.

“Ugh, this sucks…”

“Masumi, stop it! The Director wouldn’t be happy to hear you say that,” Sakuya protested in a hushed tone. “Look! She’s enjoying herself, so you should copy her.”

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all… Muku thought to himself, worrying at his bottom lip.

“Muku, why don’t you tell everyone about the path?” Citron suddenly said from behind him. “Did you not do lots of the research?”

“Really, Mukkun?” Kazunari asked, perking up and looking more awake than earlier.

“O-Oh, yes! Apparently, this path dates back to the Sengoku era. Monks used it as part of a pilgrimage route and this campsite actually used to be an aesthetic training ground,” Muku explained.

“That’s actually really cool,” Tsuzuru remarked. “Who knew that there was so much history in a place like this!”

“Ah! That signpost there marks the quarter-way point! We can take a quick rest here!” Muku explained, noticing that they had lost a few members.

“I-I can’t go on…” Itaru wheezed as he finally caught up to the others several minutes later.

“C’mon Itaru, we’re almost there! You can do it!” Izumi chirped encouragingly, passing the salaryman a bottle of water.

“It’s okay, Itaru! You will soon have your senses delighted by a surprise up ahead! Tell them about it, Muku,” Citron implored.

“Y-Yes! Ummm… Just down this path is a beautiful waterfall that the monks used as part of their training,” Muku responded, taking the older man’s cue. “I… I actually purposely picked this path because it would take us by the waterfall. Legend says that, if you make a wish there, your deepest desires will come true! So, I thought that you would really like to see that, Itaru! Maybe it’ll help with your next gacha pull in your games!!”

“Seriously? Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.”

Muku felt his heart flutter as the others started chattering excitedly about what wishes they would make. With this renewed vigour, their group continued on their hike, making a stop at the wish-granting waterfall on the way.

Then, almost an hour after they had left their campsite, Muku spotted the sign marking their final destination.

“We’re here, everyone!”

There was a collective sigh of relief as the members of the Mankai Company cleared the last steps and planted their feet on the plateau. However, their mutters quickly died in their throats as they came face-to-face with the view before them. A forest of trees spread out endlessly ahead, surrounded on both sides by jagged cliffs. The sun peeked above the horizon of the valley and the sky was dyed a gorgeous blend of soft oranges, pinks and straggling blues.

“Amazing!” Sakuya breathed softly. “This is beautiful, Muku!”

“Beautiful doesn’t even begin to describe it!!” Kazunari added, immediately taking out his phone.

“You did good, Muku. Here’s a triangle!” Misumi said with a smile, handing the pink-haired boy a smooth and shiny triangular-shaped rock.

“Yeah… It made waking up worth it,” Masumi murmured, showing a rare smile.

“This was great, Muku. Thanks for planning this for us,” Tenma said, punching him lightly in the arm.

“Yeah, seriously! I’m so glad that someone was able to plan a normal activity for this training camp. Unlike a certain someone’s crazy ‘Russian Roulette S’mores’ idea,” Tsuzuru said with a sigh, throwing a baleful glare at Citron.

“Oh, Tsuzuru! You wound me! I put so much thought into making an unforgiveable event for everyone!”

“I think you mean ‘unforgettable’,” Itaru piped in.

“Look here, it’s not ‘Russian Roulette’ if all of the options are weird!” Tsuzuru exclaimed in exasperation.

“No kidding! I can’t believe I had to eat that awful wasabi chocolate because of you! I thought my mouth was on fire!” Yuki added, jabbing a finger into Citron’s chest angrily. “You’re lucky this sunrise made up for that atrocious game!”

As Citron dramatically crumpled to the ground from Yuki’s attack, a hand clutched over his heart, he turned his head towards Muku and shot him a wink.

At that moment, Muku felt a rush of warmth surge out of his chest and envelope the rest of his body. As he suppressed the tears prickling behind his eyes, Muku thought that he could now truly understand the meaning behind all of those times his shojo manga had compared someone’s smile to the brightness of the sun.

Writing this story was such a fun challenge for me! I had to work with a word count restriction, but I also wanted to make sure I somehow included every other character from the event — so it was definitely a juggling act, haha! It was also my first time writing about both Muku and Citron, so that was a new challenge in itself. Especially since I wanted to make sure I did two of my favourite characters justice!! In the end, I'm really happy I had the opportunity to write this and am so thankful that I was able to be part of this zine! Again, do check out the full zine if you have a chance!|

As always, thank you for reading and feel free to leave a comment if you have any thoughts!! Any reblogs are always appreciated!!

-Anmitsu

#a3!#act! addict! actors!#a3! act! addict! actors!#muku sakisaka #a3! citron #act addict actors #a3! game #a3! actor training game #sakisaka muku #a3! muku #citron #anmitsu writes #a3! take the stage fanzine

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