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the-al-chemist · 1 year ago

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The Beginning of a Symphony - Chapter 37

A/N: Héloïse’s evening goes from bad to… well, I’ll let you find out.

Warnings: mild angst, hurt comfort, fluff, angry French.

May 1897

The sound of Héloïse’s footsteps on the marble floor echoed around the entrance hall as she strode through it at a pace that was not quite a run. As she turned the corner and reached the grand staircase, she stopped and sat on one of the steps, the heels of her hands pressed against her forehead.

She had always considered herself to be a rational person, one who did not allow her emotions to cloud her usually sound judgement. She could only think of one time she had allowed them to do so, and that had been the previous year, after her father had passed away, and that had been what had led to her having to come here in the first place. She would not allow herself to make that mistake again.

And yet, though reason told her that she had many friends still at the ball with whom she could enjoy the rest of the evening, she found herself unable to pick herself up off the staircase and return. Reason would dictate that one person in a room filled with hundreds should not be so very important to her, and yet it was. He was. For whatever reason, reason was now failing her, and her emotions were ruling in her heart and her head, both of which had tightened and begun to ache. A drop of clear liquid fell onto the material of her robes, and she realised that she had started to cry.

“Héloïse?”

A voice. Jim’s voice. Héloïse looked up, and saw that Jim Hexley was walking towards her.

“Héloïse, are you… You’re crying.”

Héloïse said nothing, but she rolled her eyes at the idiocy of Jim’s comment and rose to her feet. Having spent all evening wishing that he would come over and talk to her, she no longer wanted to speak with him at all. She turned and walked up the staircase away from him, but he followed her, asking questions to the back of her head.

“Are you alright? What is the matter? Why are you so upset?”

Already annoyed, Héloïse turned and snapped at him, “Casse-toi!”

Jim blinked, clearly confused. Héloïse exhaled and recommenced climbing the staircase, only to be stopped in her tracks on the top step by Jim taking hold of her wrist. She wrenched it free from his grip.

“Je t’ai dit de dégager, hein?”

“Er, I don’t… I’m not sure what that means,” said Jim, frowning deeply. “I just… Will you not tell me - in English, preferably - what is wrong?”

Héloïse glared at him. “You. You are wrong.”

“About what?”

“Everything. And nothing, also,” she told him. He still looked confused. “I wish for you to go.”

“I don’t want to leave you when you’re upset.”

“In this case I will to go. Good night, Jim.”

“Héloïse, wait!”

But Héloïse had heard enough. She took another step, and as she did, the staircase began to move away from the landing at the top. This time, when Jim reached for her arm, she did not move away, but instead allowed him to pull her back from what was now a sheer drop from the top of the staircase all the way down to the marble floor below. The pair of them stumbled, and crashed into the bannister at their side, which Héloïse held onto with her free hand as the staircase swung across the hall to meet a new landing. She was now facing the opposite direction to where she wanted to go, but she did not move in any direction; instead she remained with her hand on the bannister, and took one deep shaky breath. Jim’s hand on her arm was also trembling.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her.

“Physically, no.” Héloïse pursed her lips for a moment before adding, “Thank you.”

“You’re… De rien.”

Héloïse nodded curtly before looking at where the staircases now led, trying to work out the quickest route she could now take back to Ravenclaw tower. She could almost feel Jim watching her do so.

“Héloïse, please,” he said quietly. “Tell me what… I know that you are upset with me, and I… Well, I’d like to know what it is that I’ve done. Whatever it is, I am truly sorry.”

Héloïse shook her head. “You did not do anything.”

“Then why-”

“I was thinking that we are friends.”

“We are.”

“But you did not do anything, all evening. You did not speak to me, you did not dance with me, I do not think that you looked at me.”

“Oh,” Jim grimaced. “No. I suppose that… Yes, you’re right. I am sorry. I did not think that it would cause you so much distress.”

“Why would you to think this?”

“Well, my sister said that… She said that I should do it. To vex you.”

Héloïse’s nostrils flared. “So, you were wanting to upset me.”

“No, no. I did not… It was not my intention to make you upset. I only… Er, never mind. It was a ludicrous idea.”

��I agree,” Héloïse said, still glaring. “Why is your sister wanting to vex me?”

“Because… She thought that it might make you… That you may regret your attending the ball with Henry and not me.”

“I am regretting my attending at all.”

“I can see that. I am sorry. I should not have ignored you. I should not have listened to Effy. It was just that… Well, I was upset that you did not agree to attend the ball with me.”

“This is not my fault. You were not asking me until after I said I would to go with Henry. If you wanted for me to go with you, then you should have asked sooner, no?”

“Yes. Perhaps that would have been better.”

“So?” Héloïse asked. “Why did you not ask before?”

“Because… Well, I… I do not know.” Jim closed his eyes. He looked as if he were in pain. “I have ruined everything.”

“Yes,” said Héloïse. “You have.”

They were both quiet for a few moments. Eventually, Jim seemed to realise that his hand still rested on her forearm. He removed it and cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “I think that I… It would probably be best if I return to my common room. I have spoiled enough of your evening. At least this way you can enjoy the rest of the ball.”

“I can to try.”

Jim inclined his head and walked down the stairs. He only made it a few steps before he stopped and turned back.

“Héloïse?”

“Jim?”

“I… If I had asked you sooner, would you have wanted to attend the ball with me?”

“Yes,” Héloïse told him. “I was wanting to go with you before you asked.”

Jim frowned. “So, why did you agree to go with Henry?”

“I was tired of waiting for you to ask.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “If I had known that I would have asked sooner.”

“Why did you not ask sooner?”

“I… Now I am not certain. I was worried that you might say no, or… or laugh at me, or think it impossible that you might…”

Héloïse stepped closer to him, her eyebrows furrowing deeply.

“That I might…”

“That you could ever think of me as anything other than a friend. That you may wish to be courted by… a buffoon.”

“I do not think that you are a buffoon.”

“You do not?”

“No.” Héloïse took another step. Her lips twitched slightly. “Although, tonight you are behaving like a buffoon.”

Jim laughed. “I do believe that you are right. I am sorry.”

“You have said this many times.”

“I mean it.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?” Jim asked,and Héloïse nodded. She was standing on the step above his now, with the extra height it gave her, she found that her eyes were level with his lips, which had started to curve. “I am… That is a relief. I thought that tonight… I had hoped it would go differently to this. And I know that you did as well. I am sorry.”

Héloïse laughed. “You can to stop saying this now.”

“I know. I will stop. I’m sorry.”

“You said it again.”

“I did. Sorry.”

“Stop!”

“Sorry, I…”

Before Jim could continue to apologise yet again, Héloïse rose onto the tips of her toes and pressed her lips to his. She lifted both her hands so that they came to rest against the sides of his face, a rosy warmth growing under her fingers as she kissed him. When she removed her hands from his cheeks, she saw that they had flushed pink, and his lips remained parted as she withdrew her own. He blinked wordlessly, and she smirked.

“Et alors, il arrête,” she murmured. She had spoken to herself, and Jim said nothing in response. It appeared that he was unable to say anything at all. Héloïse tilted her head to one side. “Jim?” She took one of his hands in her own and squeezed it gently. “Jim.”

“Héloïse,” Jim replied, his voice barely more than a whisper as he looked down at their linked hands. As he raised his eyes to meet hers, he smiled. It was small, but so genuine that it appeared almost blissful. Héloïse leaned towards him, and he tensed. “We are unchaperoned.”

“This is probably for the best, no?”

Jim let out a gentle laugh that softened him. As their lips meet once more, his fingers intertwined with Héloïse’s, the tips of them running over her knuckles. She had not noticed how soft his hands were before, nor how tall he was, nor-

“Ahem.”

The sound of a throat being cleared cut into the moment, and Héloïse and Jim sprung apart as if burned. They both looked around to see who had caught them. Héloïse frowned. No one was there.

Confused, she looked to Jim, but his eyes were fixed on a point on the wall of the grand staircase, his face redder than she had ever seen it before. Following the line of his gaze, she quickly understood the reason for his embarrassment, and felt the blood start to rise in her own cheeks.

On the wall facing the staircase, several gold frames had become filled with the portraits of more than a dozen witches and wizards, three leprechauns, and one single ring-tailed lemur. Every single one of the portraits had their eyes on her and Jim, their faces displaying several different expressions, from nostalgic affection to stern disapproval to outright disgust. One of the portraits tutted loudly.

“Young people these days. Absolutely no sense of decorum.”

Héloïse turned to Jim. “What is decorum?”

“By Jove, she doesn’t even know the meaning of the word.” The portrait sighed. “I despair for future generations.”

“Perhaps we should to go back to the Great Hall,” Héloïse said to Jim. “I would very much like to dance with you tonight, if you are still wishing to attend the Ball with me.”

Jim took his eyes away from the wall of still muttering portraits and nodded.

“Héloïse,” he said, taking her by the hand, “I wish for nothing else.”

Together, they descended the rest of the steps and walked back to the Great Hall, where the music was still playing and the ceiling bright with a million stars that tonight seemed to shine just for them.

#the beginning of a symphony #heloise perrault #jim hexley #harry potter hogwarts legacy

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tennessoui · 2 years ago

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Miss Kit, if you’re still taking prompts. How about “You love me, right?” for AU where Mafia boss Anakin corrupts Obi-Wan.

hi hi hi!!! so this was a bit weird to write because the au in question is really like 1-2 posts (i know there's an original but i can only find the follow up) which means it was a lot of building!!! which was cool but also that means this is actually 2.5k rip

anyway this is an au where basically young detective obi-wan is sent undercover to infiltrate mob boss anakin's criminal organization and he's successful but he falls in love with anakin in the classic 'got too deep and can't get out' thing. at least anakin loves him and loves corrupting him. (this is dark--duh--and age reversal, so obi-wan is 23 and anakin is 39.)

sorta a reverse pbatmb but not because i think there are really fascinating differences between the stories but it is a dark mob boss story with flipped mob bosses, so it's a LITTLE reverse pbatmb lol

anyway

(2.4k)

It isn’t surprising that Anakin is waiting for him, not really. He’d probably had him tailed to the police station and back again. He might even have told his man to kill Obi-Wan should he not exit the building within fifteen minutes.

After all, letting Obi-Wan run away once was about proving a point. Twice just looks bad.

So he’s not surprised that upon stepping into the lobby of Anakin’s restaurant, his elbow is caught by one of the men. “Vader wants ya,” Ahsoka tells him. She sounds grim.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Obi-Wan replies. Maybe it’s because he feels—free. Maybe it’s because he feels confused and like he’s swallowed a ball of lead that transformed itself into a hornet’s nest upon contact with his stomach. He shrugs Ahsoka’s hand off. “I know where to go.”

Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, but she does sneer. She didn’t like him much before she found out he was a rat. She especially didn’t like him after he ran that first time, no matter that at the time he’d thought he was running for his life. She probably didn’t think his life was worth the trouble he’d caused.

They’re both lucky Vader thinks differently.

“Watch your step,” she tells him like it’s a threat, at the base of the grand staircase that leads to the second floor. Ostensibly, there’s more dining up there for anyone in want of a table at a hot, fancy, popular restaurant with countless awards. Realistically, Obi-Wan knows that the second floor of the restaurant is where Anakin conducts his business.

His other business.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replies, pausing on the third step to look down. It’s the events of the past twenty-four hours that make his tongue loosen in a way that only Anakin has ever rewarded him for. “He says you’re jealous.”

Ahsoka’s eyes flash in the low light as she takes a step closer. She’d been about to retake her spot at the front, the guard dog of Vader’s mob. “What.”

Obi-Wan steps down until he’s only one step higher than her. It makes them almost the same height. “He says you’re jealous,” he repeats. “Ani does.”

Obi-Wan never calls Anakin Ani, not unless he’s been told to by the man in scenarios where it helps both of them with their covers: Anakin as someone to underestimate. Obi-Wan as someone to write off. It works now too for a vastly different reason. The only one allowed to call Anakin by his first name is Obi-Wan himself. Not even Ahsoka, his apprentice, can.

“I’m not,” Ahsoka snaps. She grips the bannister so hard that her knuckles turn white.

“Really?” Obi-Wan asks. “Because, well. I was an undercover cop, he caught me, he still kept me, and then I slashed his face, I ran away, and when I came back he still welcomed me with open arms. But you—he broke your finger for bungling the shipment I told Windu about. I’d be jealous too, in your place.”

Ahsoka tries to take a second step up, be on level with Obi-Wan, but he stops her with a hand raised and placed on her neck. “Now, now,” he says. “Vader wants to see me.”

Anakin’s apprentice snarls but lets him go. She always has to let him go because Anakin loves him. Anakin wants him.

“One day, someone’s going to show you your place, Ben,” Ahsoka takes a step back, a strategic retreat.

“I know my place, ma’am,” Obi-Wan says in Ben’s accent, soft and unassuming, framed and workshopped off of Vader’s own speech patterns because the linguist the police hired had thought it would breed familiarity. “Similar to yours, it’s beneath Anakin. Mine just comes with more perks.”

He loves me for one, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t particularly want to shove a crowbar into Anakin’s relationship with his apprentice. Not because he doesn’t think Anakin would forgive him for it, but because it sounds more complicated than it’s worth. Ahsoka will adjust. Anakin will make sure of it.

He doesn’t love you, an unwelcome voice murmurs in the back of his head. The memory is fresh. Mace Windu, senior detective, had said that not even an hour ago, clutching Obi-Wan’s resignation letter tightly in both hands. Parting words that had landed like a grenade in his mind, even as he tried to shake it off.

Has anyone ever? He’d shot back, eyes drawn without his express permission to stare heavily at the sheriff’s closed door. Qui-Gon had refused to see him. His own father—he makes one choice he doesn’t approve of, slips and stumbles in a situation his father sent him into, and suddenly Qui-Gon Jinn never adopted a boy.

He’d left the station soon after, but not before Detective Windu hda fired a parting shot: I’d hate to see you spend the rest of your life catering to your daddy issues.

Obi-Wan hadn’t even really thought about the words, what they meant, not until he’s walking through the open doors of the second floor to see Anakin lounging in a firm chair at the head of a table. The table is laid heavy with food: fruit, cold meats, cheeses, pasta, salads, oysters.

All of it untouched. Some of it Obi-Wan had admitted to never trying, some of it he’d told him were his favorittes.

Anakin smiles when he sees him, dropping the knife he’d been spinning around in his fingers to hold out a hand as he shifts his body, readjusts to rest his chin on his fist. “Welcome home, baby. Happy retirement.”

Obi-Wan gets halfway from the entrance of the room to Anakin before he stops. He doesn’t mean to. He’d been ready and willing and eager to climb into the older man’s lap, kiss him dirty, lick down the pink scar over his eye that Obi-Wan had given him. But—he can’t shake Mace Windu’s words. Men like Skywalker can’t love. You’ve found yourself in the eye of a hurricane, but storms move quick.

It had been his mentor’s last piece of advice for him, before his feelings and disappointment had turned his words into insults and petty blows.

Men like Skywalker can’t love.

“Baby?” Anakin sits up straight, head cocked slightly as he studies him. “Did they give you trouble? Quitting a job isn’t illegal. You gave them two weeks and everything. Well, I did. But you were there. You were quite…enthusiastic.”

Obi-Wan swallows and can feel a blush burn down his face and across his cheeks. He remembers the terms of which Anakin had called into the police department, asked to speak to Obi-Wan’s supervisor, and smugly told them that as Obi-Wan’s new employer, he was phoning to let them know that Obi-Wan was giving a two-weeks notice, but that they had talked about it, and Anakin would allow him to finish up on any current assignment he was working on.

The assignment Obi-Wan had been working on was, of course, infiltrating Anakin’s criminal organization while undercover as a lackey from out of town named Ben.

Obi-Wan had, at the time of the call, been on his knees beneath Anakin’s desk.

“Come here, Benny,” Anakin purrs. Obi-Wan has never liked that nickname, not since the very first time the mobster had called him it, and he thinks he probably knows.

He’d studied Anakin, right, before he’d gone under. He knows that Anakin still sometimes calls him Ben on purpose because Obi-Wan can never stop the flash of guilt he feels at having started a relationship with Anakin before the older man knew who he really was. He knows Anakin uses it against him. He knows Aanakin probably can’t even help it.

It still stings. Many things do, in their relationship. But Anakin kisses the hurts better every time. He’s the only person who has ever said he loved Obi-Wan and then—then actually tried to make good on the promise.

Obi-Wan’s mouth is dry, but he has to ask. “You—you love me, right?”

Anakin blinks at him and lounges back in his seat to look at him consideringly. His hand drops down onto his thigh. Like this, the man looks more Vader than Anakin, and it makes Obi-Wan shiver. No one in the precinct actually, really thought Anakin Skywalker had dual personalities, and perhaps Obi-Wan should know better than everyone else. But he doesn’t.

Sometimes Anakin looks at him and all he can see is Vader in his eyes, the way his hands are rougher on Obi-Wan’s form, the short staccato sentences and the resting frown that even Obi-Wan cannot kiss away. Vader is…territorial. There has never been a single meeting that Obi-Wan has attended where Anakin looks like Vader that he has not attended in the man’s lap. It’s not as if Anakin is lightyears better or anything, still as possessive, jealous, but sweeter too.

Obi-Wan doesn’t know what these differences mean. He isn’t sure Anakin would elaborate if asked.

And a part of Obi-Wan—a part of Obi-Wan simply does not care. Not if both—one—either—whatever—not if Anakin, whoever Anakin is at any given moment, wants him. Loves him.

“Do I love you?” Anakin repeats. It’s an embarrassing question, all things considered. It reeks of every insecurity Obi-Wan has ever harbored in his soul. And even though most of them have been teased out by the man in front of him, dissected and examined, the words still bruise to hear spoken so lowly in the air. “Come here, Obi-Wan.”

This time, Obi-Wan goes, closing the distance between them quickly. Before he can scramble into his lover’s arms, the man stands up so that their fronts brush against each other.

It feels far too close and not close enough, and Anakin must agree because his arm brushes against the backs of his thighs and pushes up in the universal sign to jump. Obi-Wan does, wrapping his arms around his neck for further balance.

Anakin catches him with ease. Obi-Wan’s only twenty-three, not yet grown into his shoulders, so he’s fairly light to carry, but it helps that Anakin is almost forty, all broad shoulders and height and muscle put on from a life of fighting.

“Why else would I have taken such an interest in you, sweet baby Ben?” Anakin croons as he lays him down on a couch meant for reclining with after-dinner drinks. Mostly the couch is where Anakin fucks him if he doesn’t want to wait to get back to his apartments. “Take you in, off the streets, a stripper who punched my best friend in the face because he was flirting with a girl?”

“She was half his age,” Obi-Wan mutters, turning his face up and away. He’s never going to apologize for it, even if it hadn’t been how he was supposed to make contact with Anakin’s mob in the first place.

Anakin hums and catches his jaw. “Hm. Point is, baby, why else would I have let you get so close to me, wearing all my pretty things, ignoring all the alarms in my head saying you knew me too well, too fast, if I didn’t love you?” His hand tightens and Obi-Wan gasps out.

He’d read the files on Anakin. He’d read every Business Insider article. He’d read everything he could get his hands on. Of course he’d known so many things about the man. That had been his only job. Get close to Anakin Skywalker.

Task succeeded.

Anakin Skywalker’s lips trail from his cheekbone down and then up again, to the edge of his temple. Obi-Wan knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “Why else would I let you into my bed, if I didn’t love you? Why would you be the only person allowed to see the twins whenever you want if I didn’t love you? Why else would I be so terribly upset to find you in this very room, in this very position with one of my men, if I didn’t love you?”

Obi-Wan tries to move, to thrash and shiver and run his hands over Anakin in return but somewhere between laying him down and now, the man has caught his wrists in one of his big hands while the other runs up and down Obi-Wan’s torso.

The man—Maul—had followed Obi-Wan one night to a meeting with Detective Secura. He’d overheard everything, had known Ben to be a rat, but he hadn’t confronted him about it for two days. He’d waited until he could get him alone, in this room. Obi-Wan had been sitting at the table, sipping water, knowing he couldn’t eat until Anakin returned from his drop-off.

Maul had threatened him. Threatened to tell the mob, threatened to tell Anakin. Obi-Wan had been confronted with the thought of losing Anakin or losing his cover and he hadn’t reacted well. He’d known exactly how long it would take Anakin to get back, so he’d stalled until the last minute before offering himself to Maul in exchange for his silence.

He’d seen the looks. He’d known he wouldn’t be turned down.

He’d also known Anakin would kill Maul if he found him on top of him. Which he had. To both.

“Why would I forgive you after, if I didn’t love you, sweet thing?” Anakin murmurs, mouth still pressed to his temple. “Why would I forgive you for trying to fuck another man into silence, for lying to me about your name, for hurting me and leaving me, if I didn’t love you?”

Obi-Wan whimpers. Anakin’s hand has migrated to his throat and he’s putting so much pressure on it. He’s hurting him. He’ll probably never hurt him as much as Obi-Wan hurt him. Maul had managed to accuse Obi-Wan as being a rat before he’d died. Anakin, fearsome and covered in blood, had turned to him with one golden eyebrow raised.

Obi-Wan had tried to flee. For some reason, that had been the moment Anakin had become enraged. He’d tackled Obi-Wan to the floor. They’d fought, Obi-Wan has a scar on his palm still, long and deep. He’d grabbed the knife Anakin had slit Maul’s throat with with his open palm flipped it to his other hand, and cut out at Anakin’s face. The move had gotten him off him, just long enough for him to run.

“If I didn’t love you, baby, why would I have gone to find you? Why would I have made it so very clear that your place was by my side? Why would I have given you the choice to come back or stay away forever? Do you think I often give rats those sorts of choices?”

Obi-Wan shakes his head. It hadn’t taken him long. Anakin, that is. He’d found him hiding in his apartment—Obi-Wan’s, not Ben’s. Obi-Wan had come home from a shift to see Anakin lounging on his sofa, reading through one of his favorite books, skin around his right eye carefully bandaged.

It hadn’t taken Obi-Wan long either, to decide. Anakin hadn’t even gotten out of the building before Obi-Wan had made his choice. He hadn’t—he hadn’t wanted to leave Anakin. The man had said he loved him. He hadn’t—he hadn’t wanted to be without his love again, he’d do whatever necessary.

“I’m not a rat,” Obi-Wan gasps, and the hand around his neck loosens as Anakin takes his hand away to look down at him in interest.

“Oh?” he asks. “What are you then?”

“Your baby,” he breathes, eyes falling to half-lids as he adjusts their bodies so that they’re as close together as possible.

“Mm,” Anakin agrees, leaning down to bite gently at the skin of Obi-Wan’s bottom lip before letting go. “Guess I’m just wondering then. I think the real question should be…does my baby love me?”

Obi-Wan lets his eyes fall completely shut as he tilts his head up in silent demand for a proper kiss.

After all, Anakin has a point. The answer should be obvious.

#asks #prompt fill #obikin #dark fic #also absolutely anakin knew from like almost the very beginning #like obi-wan gets taken to see him and he's just too 'recently trained and aware of the peopel around him'#to really be ben from his cover story #so he's fascinated but suspicous and he finds out fairly quickly #but wants to know how he can twist and bend this young and desperate to be loved and desperate to please man #he really does love him in his own way #but he also really enjoys playing mind games with him #and he will always keep the upper hand #i think the most interesting thing between pbatmb and this #is the anakin/vader split that is sort of there but not really but not NOT #and of course baby obi-wan vs baby anakin is just worlds apart #this obi-wan wuld never really take pleasure in the direct killing #but he was ready to engineer a sittuation to make anakin kill maul #idk i obviously need a tag for this i just typed 2.4k but idk what to call it rip #vaderwan #i guess #playmaker au

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thepenismightierandallthat · 3 years ago

Text

Look At Me (Part 2)

Part 1

Part 3

I didn’t intend for this to be more than 2 parts but I got a little too invested in this.

She’d never really given much thought as to where Benedict lived, she’d never really thought about what Benedict did when he wasn’t at Bridgerton house really. She knew that he had his own house fairly close to Bridgerton house and that was about at much detail her thoughts had gone into on the matter.

It was nice. A lot nicer than she thought bachelor’s lodgings would be. It was airy with lots of windows and natural light. It was one of those places that felt homey as soon as you entered, she supposed that must be how Bridgerton’s lived, his mothers house was the same way. It was like being greeted with a warm hug and smile, being ushered in and told to make yourself at home.

Benedict’s butler had taken her to the drawing room while he fetched him. It was late afternoon, slowly pouring into evening. The warm swash of pink in the sky painted a lovely filter over the room, the blue sofas looking almost purple. This house was at the perfect angle for viewing a sunset she thought. Probably even better for painting one.

She had just sunk down into the sofa her face turned towards the warming light and skirts tucked neatly around her when Benedict entered the room.

“You know I was half expecting you to change your mind.” He smiled at her a touch of nervousness pulling at his lips too.

At least that made two of them.

“Mr Bridgerton you’ve known me for a fair few years now. Surely you realise I can’t turn from this now. Eloise would be disappointed if she knew I’d backed down from something I wanted.” She raised an eyebrow, trying to make herself give off an air of easiness. If he knew she was positively vibrating with anxiety, excited anxiety mind you but anxiety nonetheless, he would send her home in one of his carriages immediately and their conversation never to be brought up again.

Benedict ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging at his chestnut brown locks that all the bridgertons were known for. I wonder what that would feel like. She swallowed down the idea, her eyes widening at her own trail of thought. That was not why she was here.

“Do you have a studio?”

“Do i what?” For some reason the question caught him off guard, he was caught up in the anticipation of where the evening was heading.

“Have a studio? Where do you paint? It’s obviously not in this room unless you are exceptionally careful with the mess” She gestured with her arms wide to the pristine room they were currently in.

Benedict cleared his throat. “Yes of course. Follow me.”

He led her up a small staircase, nothing as grand as the house he had grown up. She trailed behind him, fingers running over the bannister.

“There is a ball tonight, I told my mother I was spending the night with Eloise as I know she is home feeling a little under the weather. I don’t much like using your sister like that but she would never have let me come here alone.”

Of course her mother wouldn’t. She wouldn’t leave her daughter, who had only a year prior had come out to society, alone with an unmarried man. She was an upstanding member of the ton. She was supposed to be looking for a match, dancing with gentleman after gentleman at the ball being held tonight. Instead she was here, alone in his house, about to let him paint her completely bare. It sent a delicious heat through his bones that she’d chosen this. Followed closely by something close to guilt.

“You are sure about this? I am a gentleman and I’m not about to make you do something you’re not fully agreed to.” He stopped before they entered the room. It felt like something would change as soon as they passed the threshold.

She placed her hands on her hips, nose turned up. She’d already told him this was what she wanted, she wasn’t going to be dissuaded no matter how much her blood pounded in her ears. “I assure you I wouldn’t have turned up at your door had I not been sure”

“My devilishly good looks haven’t confused you?” Benedict could always lighten the mood, his humour was one of the reasons she most enjoyed finding the bridgertons at every social event she attended.

“My delicate female brain isn’t so easily swayed I’m afraid” She smoothed her hands down her dress, hands fidgeting restlessly. “how does this work Mr Bridgerton”

“I think, considering what we are about to do, you may call me Benedict.”

“Please explain to me what you would like me to do Benedict.” His name felt comfortable in her mouth, at home sliding across her lips.

Benedict placed his hands on his hips, copying her earlier stance, trying to grin at how nice it felt to hear his name from her. “Are you going to be able to get out of your dress yourself?“

She made her way to the far corner of the room. “Getting out is fine, getting in is always the hassle”

He began rolling up his sleeves as she disappeared behind the dressing screen he’d had brought in. When he heard the soft rustle of fabric and found himself wishing he was the one helping slide her dress from her shoulders he busied himself with setting out the paints on his pallet. He’d seen naked women hundreds of times at this point in his life, it wouldn’t do to start getting nervous now.

She poked her head around the side of the screen her hair had been let down from its intricate style, a soft blush warming her checks and upper chest. “Where would you like me?“

Everywhere. Anywhere.

Benedict gestured to the sofa he’d had moved to the centre of the room and laden with pillows and cushions. He didn’t trust his voice at the moment.

With a deep breath to steady herself, she stepped out from behind the screen that had been keeping her hidden. With careful slow steps she made her way to the centre of the room, her eyes never leaving the floor.

Beautiful.

Benedict’s hands went limp at his sides, his eyes following her every move with a rapt attention he didn’t realise he was capable of. She was incredible. She was soft in all the right places, an enticing mixture of curves and sharp lines. Her nipples were pinched and hard, pulling her breasts to attention. He didn’t dare drop his eyes lower for the moment, a familiar ache between his own legs warned him against that.

He needed to translate her to canvas, immortalise this heavenly being before him. Everyone deserved to marvel at her she was ethereal, otherworldly in this moment.

“I want you to lie down on your side turn your head away-“ she manoeuvred herself into the position he had requested, still not brave enough yet to make eye contact with him. She was probably nothing compared to the women he had painted, a little too much here, maybe not enough there, but she trusted Benedict. More then she realised she did really.

She was so lost in racing thoughts she didn’t notice him approach. He reached forward, his touch feather light, and nudged her arm to drape over her side and against her stomach. He then reached for her face, tipped away from him as he’d asked. “Look at me” he murmured. “We can stop whenever you like.”

She shook her head, a small smile pulling at her mouth as she looked into his eyes. That familiar comfortableness she had begun feeling around him settled around her like a blanket and suddenly she wasn’t so worried about the fact she had no clothes on.

Benedict gave her a lopsided grin back and carefully moved her head back into her previous position. As much as he wanted anyone who saw this painting to know it was her, to bask in her glory, he knew it would ruin her in society if they did.

He moved back to his easel and picked up his paintbrush.

No turning back now.

#benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict x reader #benedict bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton

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newtonsheffield · 3 years ago

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Can we pleeease see the awkward hilarious breakfast the day after Simon’s party?

The mirror. The sneaking. The teasing. It will be hilarious.

I love Benophie and Kanthony dynamics in Good Girls! They’re hilarious together 🧡

Together, this Benophie and Kathony, could rule the world tbh, if they weren't so busy getting caught up in the chaos

Sophie was never quite sure what she'd find when she entered the Bridgerton house. It could be Hyacinth being chased after by Anthony, Gregory sliding down the bannister with a lightsaber held aloft, or, once, Anthony dry humping Kate on the staircase. The latter never as embarrassed as she should be. She had thought she'd just about seen it all, until she walked in after another of Simon Basset's parties, Benedict having left her in bed in the early hours of this morning to sneak back in at home, and found and entirely different kind of chaos.

She popped her head into the kitchen first, Ben's Mum standing at the stove already flipping pancakes just like every Saturday morning, Gregory and Hyacinth already waiting eagerly.

"Hi, Violet, Is Ben up yet?"

Violet smiled turning towards her, "I'm not sure, Sweetheart, he had a bit of a late night. Go on and see him."

That was odd, it almost sounded pointed, but she brushed it off, heading upstairs high fiving Gregory who hooted happily his yoda slippers swinging under the table, only to find Ben on the landing signing furiously at Anthony, Kate tucked into his arm still wearing the clothes from last night. She kissed his cheek.

What's going on?

Benedict turned towards her with an exasperated sigh, Kate got me caught by Mum last night.

Sophie's eyebrows raised as Kate Scoffed signing with her words, "You got me caught. I didn't realise Nike made cement shoes. Violet saw my tits!"

For the last time, Why were you not already wearing your sweater?!Ben signed furiously.

"To be fair, Kate, We've all seen your tits." Sophie smirked as Anthony grinned in response.

"Yeah we have!" He held his hand up.

"Anthony I'm not high fiving you because I went bra shopping with your girlfriend once." Kate looked a little appalled and Sophie Continued. "You'e very confident, it's nice!"

Ben interrupted clearing his throat. The fact remains I'm a fucking Ninja, and lead foot Sharma made sure Mum found me sneaking back in.

Kate's eyes widened, "Ben, I heard you coming a fucking Mile away! We all know you sneak back in all the time!

I didn't hear anything Ben said a little primly and Sophie couldn't help but laugh at the expression on Kate's face.

Are you serious? Are you really gonna make me say it?

Ben smirked, Say it!

"I actually don't care that you got caught. Meant that I got good Morning sex as well." Anthony was looking a little too smug, his arm around Kate's waist.

"Again, No, I will not high five you for fucking my best friend." Sophie said dryly. "Ben, Babe, you do sound like a heard of elephants sometimes, now let's go eat."

By the time they finally got downstairs Greg and Hyacinth had run off into the living room, Violet still bustling around the Kitchen dropping plates of food in front of all of them. Ben caught her attention.

Mum, What happened to the mirror in my room? Did it break.

Anthony and Kate let out matching choked noises, Anthony's ears turning just a little red, Kate's eyes flickering down embarrassedly almost imperceptibly, but Sophie saw it. She nudged Kate.

"You watched yourself fuck in Ben's Mirror last night didn't you?" She hissed

Kate did look a little abashed to be fair, murmuring, "In my defence, I didn't know it was Ben's! Anthony just appeared with it, and I like to watch his muscles flex. Sue me."

Sophie let out a disgusted noise, "You two have no boundaries!"

Kate's eyebrows raised, "Honestly, you should try it, it's nice."

"I might not use the same mirror, thanks."

She caught Ben's attention just as Violet finished saying I don't think so, Why?

Ben, Anthony and Kate are going to get you a new one.

His Face fell. They watched themselves fuck in it didn't they?

Kate hissed, gesturing at his mother Ben!

Violet shrugged, signing with her words, "You're an adult, Kate, I don't care what you do. What I do care about is sleep, so the both of you," She gestured between Kate and Sophie with her spatula, "Either stay here, or stay at your own houses, just stop waking me up! And make sure these boys wrap it up! I want grandbabies but not quite yet, and I know how accidents happen around the Bridgerton boys. Why do you think there are eight of them?"

Sophie doesn't return to the Bridgerton house for three days. She's too mortified.

#good girls au #benophie #benedict x sophie #kathony #anthony x kate #sophie beckett #benedict bridgerton #anthony bridgerton #kate sharma #kate sheffield #molly's asks and answers

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jackrrabbit · 5 years ago

Text

be a little bad /// Hawks x f!Reader (18+)

Summary: College AU 🍺 Frat boy Keigo pours you your first drink and decides he’s going to help himself to more of your firsts.

A/N: Hawks just makes so much sense as a frat bro 🤧 @koiibito thank you for working through ideas w/ me…& remember when I told you this was going to be short?? whoops 🤡

Tags/warnings: dubcon/coercion, inexperienced reader, fuckboy Hawks, overstimulation, alcohol, inebriated sex, problematic frat culture stuff, idk what to call it but peer pressure? to drink etc., all characters are adults

How long have you been sitting here?

You feel like there’s some kind of immense weight holding you down, making it impossible for you to stand up off this ugly couch that’s been crammed into the corner of the room to make space for the dance floor. You and this couch have become good friends over what you think has been the past hour—at first you occupied yourself by looking at the people playing beer pong, but after the fourth time you had to decline one of the players’ offers to join, you decided to stop making eye contact. So you sit on the couch, you stare at your phone, and you wish you were back at your dorm—or, better yet, back in your hometown with all your high school friends.

But you’re not. You’re here, multiple time zones away from anywhere you can call home, and all of your high school friends are asleep. And the one person—the one person you’ve managed to make friends with since orientation is the one who dragged you to this freaking frat party and then proceeded to abandon you. Apparently he didn’t feel the need to tell you that as a new pledge of this frat, he’s going to be on “door duty” checking ratios and giving sardonic responsibility talks for the next two hours.

Which leaves you here, sitting on the couch and trying to avoid the more questionable stains that you can barely make out in the seizure-inducing strobe lights. There’s a can of beer icing down your palms and you adjust your grip so it doesn’t leave a damp spot of condensation in your lap. It was your friend who gave it to you before he disappeared (“you don’t even have to drink it,” he’d said, “just hold it and no one else will pressure you to get another drink”).

It smells foul. You’ve had sips of beer before, and you can never understand why people drink it voluntarily. But maybe…maybe now that you’re in college, maybe now that you’re an adult, you’ll enjoy the taste. You raise the can to your lips and chug down a heavy gulp.

Ugh. Still gross. You wince and wipe your mouth.

“Not a fan of natty, huh? Good taste.” A hand appears out of nowhere to pluck the can away from you and you jump, nearly smacking your forehead against the stranger’s chin. He pulls back. “Whoa! Careful there.”

“…That’s mine,” you say half-heartedly as the guy tilts up the beer—your beer, your decoy drink—and takes a long draught.

“You’re not missing out. This stuff is piss,” he says, grinning down at you.

He’s not the first guy to hit on you at this party (what is it about lost-looking girls that draws frat boys in like moths to a flame?), but he is the best-looking. Long, swept-back blond hair; equally long eyelashes; a hint of scruff on his chin—he’s pretty and masculine at the same time. You let him take the seat next to you and lure you into a conversation, and he’s nice, too—laughing with you about how bad the beer tastes and sympathizing with your criticisms of your first experience at a frat party. You fall over yourself apologizing when he lets slip that he’s a brother (“social chair, actually, so if the party sucks it’s on me”) but he tells you it’s okay, that no one likes going to parties alone, not at first.

His name is Keigo Takami. He’s a junior, a marketing major, and he joined the frat in his first semester. According to him, the fraternity is a great group of guys (“I mean, they’re a bunch of jackasses, sure, but they’re well-meaning jackasses for the most part”) and all the rumors about frat parties are overblown.

“Seriously, you’d be having fun if you were drinking,” Keigo tells you. “These parties aren’t intended for a sober audience.”

“Sure,” you scoff, but it’s not serious. You are having fun, talking to him.

He gasps, mock-offended. “Don’t believe me? I’ll prove it to you. Stay right here, okay—don’t move a muscle.”

When he gets up, the dense crowd on the makeshift dance floor parts to let him through to the stairs leading into the upper floors. It’s kind of amazing. Everyone else (yourself included) has to wade through, pushing and shoving past the teeming throng to get anywhere, but for Keigo it’s effortless.

He’s back in just a few minutes, holding—oh god, how typical—a red plastic cup filled with a kool-aid red liquid that smells sickly sweet. Is it actually kool-aid? You take a whiff and can’t detect the tell-tale bitter alcohol fumes. “Is this…?”

“Mm, that’s jungle juice. The frat’s secret recipe. It’s good, try it.”

You raise the cup but hesitate. Is this really a good idea? You’ve been warned about stuff like this so many times. You don’t have to do it just because everyone else is.

Keigo catches your hesitation and frowns. “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing, I just…haven’t…”

“Hm? Don’t tell me this is your first drink? Aww, little freshman baby.” He’s mocking you, looking down on you, and you hate it. You’re not a baby. You can play with the boys.

You make eye contact with him before you tip back the cup and gulp down the juice, letting the full contents slosh down your throat. It’s syrupy-sweet and tastes like fruit punch and oranges so it goes down easy, a lot easier than you thought it would. A drop slides out of the corner of your mouth but you lick it up when it runs over your lip.

Keigo whistles. “Damn, down the hatch. That was…that was kinda hot.”

If you’re blushing, you hope he thinks it’s because of the drink.

He’s faster when he gets you the second cup. It doesn’t even taste like alcohol. Keigo won’t tell you what’s in it or how much (“secret recipe’s gotta stay a secret, y’know? It’s in the bylaws”). Halfway into the second cup you start to feel dizzy, which Keigo says means it’s working. He pulls you up off what you’ve semi-affectionately begun to think of as your couch and guides you onto the dance floor. The music is heavy and blaring loud, thudding through the speakers and making the walls shake, making you shake as it travels through the sticky floor up into your body. You sway haphazardly but Keigo’s got you by the arms, pulling you out of the way of the crowd, pulling you into him.

“Looking a little unsteady there, baby,” he says, and—and, you hear him, you do, but he’s talking to you from underwater (or, no, that’s just what it sounds like? or—) um. Beaming his voice into your brain or something?

Keigo laughs and you giggle and it feels good. “Better finish that or you’re gonna spill it,” he says, putting his warm hot hand over yours, guiding the cup back up to your face so you can finish off.

You’re in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by writhing bodies so it shouldn’t surprise you when someone’s elbow smacks into your back and jostles you so the jungle juice spills, spills out of your mouth dripping down your chin onto the dress. You process the interruption a second too late and the sticky red liquid is already staining your skin. …Feels good, you think first, because the drink is cool and refreshing and it’s so hot in here, steamy warm, everyone pressed up against everyone else like you’re pressed into Keigo, and then oh no—oh no your dress—but at least it’s a dark color, at least the stain won’t show—

“What did I tell you about spilling?” you sort of hear Keigo say, and then you sort of feel the weight of his hand wiping away the juice from your mouth, and then he sticks his face up close to yours and oh my god oh my god he’s kissing you.

There’s something indescribably weird about it, his tongue thrashing over yours like he’s trying to lick the juice out of your mouth while you try not to flinch back from the taste of the beer he was drinking earlier. But he’s so solid, so steady, the only still thing in a room full of movement—when your eyes move away from him into the twisting mass of bodies and flashing lights you feel dizzy, so you keep your gaze locked firmly on him. He wraps his arm around your back and you instantly feel better and lean into him, lean into the kiss.

You’re drooling by the time he stops kissing you. “So sweet,” Keigo says, wiping a pearl of saliva off his mouth. “Little sloppy, but I can work with that.”

You don’t get it. You don’t even know if you would get it if you were sober. What you do get is Keigo’s hand wrapped around your upper arm, pulling you through the crowd to the staircase. Once again the people move aside for him, like the Red Sea for Moses, you think with a little laugh and he looks back at you and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

You stop, halting at the base of the stairs and squinting up at the bright yellow light in the stairwell, so invasive and clinical after the strobing darkness of the bottom floor. There’s something hard pressing into your side when you try to lean on the wall. There’s a name for that thing, isn’t there? B…ban…bannister, right? You grip the bannister with one hand to hold yourself still and resist Keigo tugging you higher up the stairs.

“W-Where’re we going?” you ask. It’s weird—your voice doesn’t sound like drunk people in movies. It’s not slurred or unintelligible. To your own ears, it just sounds high, and fast, and…nervous.

“Going upstairs,” Keigo says patiently, still pulling gently at your arm. “Gonna get some air, ‘kay? I’ll show you something cool.”

“O-Okay…” Something cool? You want to see something cool, even if you’re practically tripping over the stairs trying to stumble up them.

One of the brothers is guarding the entrance to the upper floors (no doubt ensuring that wayward attendees don’t try to take the party upstairs into the personal bedrooms). He nods at Keigo when he passes, but when he catches sight of you—you with your hair mussed, lipstick smeared, flushed cheeks and wobbly steps—his eyes narrow. “She good?”

Even in your boozy haze, it doesn’t escape you that the question isn’t directed toward you. He’s asking Keigo.

“Her? She’s fine, she’s fine.” Keigo throws his arm over your shoulders like you’re old buddies. “I’m taking her to my room, it’s so fucking hot down there I can’t breathe.”

“Yeah…” the other guy says, gaze still focused on you, but he doesn’t move to the side to let you through.

“Oh, come on.” Keigo steps up onto the same stair as him so he can look him in the eye. “I said she’s fine, didn’t I? She’s having fun. Aren’t you? Tell him you’re having fun, (Y/N).”

His tone isn’t any less sociable than before, but—are you imagining it?—he’s not really asking, is he? “Um, I’m having—having fun?”

Oh. Oh no. Why did that sound like a question?

The brother waits a moment, and then shrugs and steps aside. “Whatever, bro.”

Keigo’s bedroom is on the third and highest floor of the sprawling mansion where the fraternity makes its home. Flags are pinned to the walls—one with the colors of your university and one with the fraternity crest—and on top of his desk there are trophies lined up in meticulous rows: track and field, swimming, cross country, fencing. The bedroom is a rare single, one of only a few in the crowded house, which Keigo explains is because he earned it as a member of leadership when he was elected social chair (“it was unanimous—well, almost, a couple of the douchebags voted for themselves but—“)

You’re trying to listen, you really are. But your head is spinning. Now that you’re out of the feverish swampy heat of the dance floor downstairs, you feel marginally more sober—and also more aware that you’re inebriated. Keigo’s voice is steady and soothing like the rest of him. The timbre, the intonations, the casual lilt and dip of his speaking make more sense to you than the words themselves.

“Here, have this. It’s rum. Tell me what it smells like…” Keigo puts something in your hand—a tiny little cup, a plastic shot glass—and you have to use all your concentration to hold it still enough to let him fill it with red-brown liquid out of an unlabeled bottle.

When you carefully lift it up to your face, you can smell the alcohol. It smells sweet, too—like vanilla, vanilla and something fruity and heavy. Bananas?

But mostly it smells like alcohol.

“It smells like banana bread, doesn’t it?” Keigo asks, pouring himself a shot too. “Try it.”

You take a tentative sip but even that meager amount is sickeningly bitter in your mouth. You hold it on your tongue for a second trying to taste the ‘banana bread’ and then swallow a few moments too late, hoping you don’t look as disgusted as you feel.

“Not like that,” Keigo laughs, tipping his own shot back and downing it in a single go. “Like this. Your turn.”

“…Keigo…” You’re not sure what you want to say. You don’t want the shot, it tastes bad and you’re already drunk. You’re a smart girl, a careful girl. You should know better. You do know better. But it feels like—it feels like, even though he’s not making you do anything, somehow it’s too late to say no.

“C’mon, (Y/N). It’s just a little shot.” He taps his empty glass against your almost-full one. “And look, if you don’t want to, I’ll just take you back downstairs…is that what you want?”

Back downstairs. Back to sitting by yourself and waiting for your friend and turning down offers. Is that what you want?

Keigo’s gaze dips down to the ground and he shifts a step forward. “Now…maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think you want that. ‘Cause when I saw you sitting on that couch, you didn’t look like you were having such a good time, hm? Am I right?”

“…um, I guess?”

“Yeah…you looked so sad and lost and lonely I couldn’t leave you alone. Admit it...” He reaches up and tucks a wayward lock of hair behind your ear. “You were waiting for someone to catch your interest. You were wishing a guy like me would come rescue you. If I’m wrong, I’ll take you right back downstairs and leave you by yourself for the rest of the night, okay? But if I’m right…”

You can smell his hot breath on your face—vanilla and sugar and bananas and rum.

“…take the shot.”

It’s not so bad the second time. You’re quicker and you don’t bother holding it in your mouth. The liquor sears your throat clean and when you get over the unpleasantness, it really does taste kind of like banana bread.

“Ohhhh… Not so bad, is it?” Keigo takes the glass from you. “God, you—you complain, but you really take it down like a champ.”

“Alcohol tastes nasty,” you reply, wrinkling your nose. “Why’d people do this for fun?”

“It’s not about the taste, not at first,” Keigo laughs. Weird. It’s like he’s always laughing.

“Then what?” At your next exhale, you squeeze your eyes shut and reopen them. Ah. Ah. The room is moving again, spinning, contracting and dilating. There’s something relaxing about it, like you’re being rocked on gentle waves in the ocean. You feel floaty, comfortable, pleased.

“Well…it’s nice, isn’t it? Isn’t this nice? Helps you not think so much, not worry about the consequences.” Keigo’s arms are wrapping around you again, anchoring you in place. His torso is warm and hard against yours. “Lets you be bad.”

“Mmm…” You blink up at Keigo, admire his jawline and his lashes and his pretty gold eyes. He looks like a boy you would’ve had a crush on in high school, an older boy who never would’ve given you the time of day.

His hand is rubbing circles over your back, shifting the fabric of your dress along with his palm. “So what do you say?” he murmurs. “Wanna be a little bad?”

You do. You want to be bad and naughty and reckless. You want to make dumb, drunken decisions that you’ll laugh about with your friends in a few years. You want to do things you’ll regret, because you’d rather regret the things you had the guts to do than the ones you were too scared to try.

You inch your arms up past Keigo’s shoulders and tangle them in his fluffy hair, tugging gently at the different strands until you work up the nerve to pull his head to your level and kiss him. Even though you initiated it, he immediately takes the lead and the force of his mouth writhing against yours has your neck twisting back to accommodate. His tongue pushes against yours again but you don’t mind it this time. Your spine is arched and you’d probably be falling backward if his hand wasn’t bracing your lower back before sliding down to grab your ass.

“God—“ he breaks the kiss— “goddamn, look at you.” He’s gripping your dress, lifting it, pulling the fabric up over your hips and up to your waist at the same time as he showers kisses over your cheeks and your jawline and your neck.

You lift your chin (how strange that you’ve never done this before and still it feels so natural) to let him bite and suck scarlet marks onto the thin skin of your throat. “Keigo—“

“Baby,” he sighs, his breath stirring the hair falling over your neck. “You’re gonna be a killer, I can tell… You’re sweet now, but fuck, you’ve got no idea.” His hands are under the hem of your dress giving your ass another squeeze before he pulls the skirt up.

“Killer? What do you...” He’s backing you onto the bed, kicking off his shoes, and you do the same.

“Shh, that’s for me to know and you to find out. Arms up,” he tells you, and you slowly comply, letting him take the dress off your shivering body to leave you in your panties—no bra, not in this dress. Keigo holds the dress in his hands for a second before he drops it to the floor. “This—you know what, this is how I knew you were a virgin, this little dress, who the hell wears a dress to a frat party—“

“A virgin?” Hearing him say the word hits some kind of trigger in you and your eyes go wide. Without thinking, you fold your arms over your breasts and pull your legs up to your chest.

“Not a virgin virgin, it’s just what we call freshie girls who’ve never been to a party before—“ Keigo starts to clarify, but when he catches your reaction (your overreaction), his eyes narrow and he sits on the bed over you, knees straddling your legs. “Wait. Are you—you’re not actually a virgin, are you?”

You look to the side, cheeks hot, wanting to deny it but knowing there’s no way you’ve got the mental fortitude to really convince him.

“Fuuuck,” Keigo breathes, leaning over you and framing your face with his hands. “Baby. You just keep getting sweeter, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you whine, covering your face with your hands. “’s embarrassing…”

“You should be glad I asked, or you’d be…like crying and bleeding and stuff, right? God, it’s been a while since I had a virgin.” He scratches his forehead and then his hand comes down to absently stroke the soft inside of your thigh.

It tickles. It tickles and you feel goosebumps rising to attention on your leg and a silly little laugh bubbles out of your throat. An involuntary shiver passes through you.

Keigo smirks and ducks down to kiss the skin of your inner thigh. It’s light—it’s nothing—but the rough stubble on his chin scratches over your skin and you giggle again. He nudges up higher on your body, so close you can feel the heat of his breath through your panties, and his hands grip around your waist to keep you in place.

Everything’s moving so quickly. You wonder in the back of your mind, the tiny part that still has a decent grasp on sobriety, if you’re ready for all of this. Then you wonder if anyone’s ever ready. How are you supposed to know? When it’s the right time, are you not supposed to be nervous? You are nervous, but the liquor is taking the edge off, making you more comfortable, maybe even keeping your mouth shut when the sober version of you would’ve stopped this a long time ago. You don’t know.

But what you do know—what you do know is that Keigo is easing your panties down off your legs and then nosing back in to kiss up your thighs and latch his mouth over your pussy.

“Mm—oh, fuck—“ What are you saying? You’re not a moaner, you don’t even say ‘fuck’. You’ve always been able to keep quiet when you’re by yourself. It’s like Keigo’s tongue flicking over your clit is pulling the voice out of you.

He wriggles the tip of his tongue over that sweet spot and the breath falls out of your lungs in what is undeniably a whimper. You feel so tense with the effort of keeping still, blood rushing to your pussy, and your thigh spasms where it’s nestled next to Keigo’s cheek. “You ever done this before?” he hums between licks.

“N-No…ah!”

“Ever cum?” His tongue returns, licking you up and down in lazy strokes, spreading your juices all over your dripping cunt.

“…hahhh, yesss…” Yes, you’ve had an orgasm before, in your own bed on your own fingers. When you do it to yourself it’s detached and methodical, a means to an end. You keep your mouth closed and you barely move and you get it over with. It’s not like this, wet and sloppy and out of your control, teasing, giving you almost exactly what you want but not quite.

You’re moaning. You’re moaning. You can still hear the throbbing music of the party downstairs, and you’re moaning your little heart out, whimpering, crying with little ah-ah-ah’s that anyone who can hear would recognize immediately.

When you do it yourself, it’s not like this. It’s never like this. Keigo moves from slow to quick unpredictably, always pulling you down right when you feel that pressure building in your core. It feels good enough that you’re annoyed—no, not annoyed, downright pissed when he sits back up on his heels and licks the wetness off his own lips.

“What’re you—I was, I was gonna—“ you start, trying to organize your thoughts. It had felt good. You’d wanted it, wanted more, and now your pussy feels all warm and wet and needy, pulsating with the lust he stirred up in you.

“Gonna cum?” Keigo leans down and kisses you, long and slow. “Sorry…but I’m selfish. When you cum, I wanna feel it.”

His arms flex in the yellow lamplight as he pulls the collar of his shirt over his head. You’re sprawled over the sheets on your back, not sure what you can say so you just watch. It helps that there’s plenty to look at—the hard planes of his abdomen forming the tell-tale dips of a six-pack, perfectly-formed lean muscle (all those sports trophies, you think to yourself), and the V of his hipbones disappearing under the hem of his pants…which he’s currently taking off as well. There’s something to be said for the benefits of spending more time at the gym than you do at the library.

Every part of Keigo Takami is impressive—he’s a work of art in human form. And when he pulls down his boxer briefs and his cock springs out to bob against his stomach, you’ve gotta admit that that is pretty impressive too.

Impressive…and intimidating. You bite your lip looking at it. Keigo pumps himself up and down, and every time his fist moves down to expose the thick pink head, you wonder the same thing: how is that supposed to fit!?

Keigo must see the sudden anxiety on your face, because he smiles (reassuringly? arrogantly? or is he just delighting in your discomfort?) and lifts you like a kitten with his hands under your armpits. “Up, up, on your knees, legs together—perfect. Now turn and put your hands on the wall.”

It’s so much easier to follow his instructions than try to consider what would happen if you said no. His callused hands petting over your waist make you feel like you’re doing the right thing. But—still—the nagging anxiety of having something so big in your pussy doesn’t go away.

You hear a drawer opening, and you turn away from the wall to see Keigo squeezing a clear liquid from a bottle in his hand and spreading it meticulously down the shaft of his cock. Lube? That’s good, you’ve heard from your more experienced female friends that it’s good to be extra wet the first time…but there’s something else, something you’re missing, isn’t there?

You try to think, try to ground yourself and understand, really understand what’s happening to you. What are you missing? The bed is squishy and soft under your knees, the air is windy somehow (is there a fan on? you hadn’t noticed), and the music downstairs is so loud you can feel the vibrations through the wall you’re pushed up against. And. And. You try to think. What are you forgetting that you’re not allowed to forget?

You can feel his cock, too. Keigo’s hands grip the flesh of your hips and he leans his chest into your back, brushing your hair over your shoulders so the two of you can touch skin to skin. The head of his cock bumps against your mound, raw and hard and heavy. Skin to skin.

Skin to skin.

It hits you in a wave of panic and you whip your head around and push desperately back at Keigo’s solid shoulder. “Wait! Wait, Keigo—the condom? Are you wearing a condom?”

His hand wraps around your wrist and pins it back against the wall, and he bows down to nip a a little spot on the crook of your neck. “Calm down, we don’t need one.”

“No, we—we need it, I need it!” you squeak out, trying to push away from Keigo but he’s got you sandwiched between him and the wall and those perfect muscles you were admiring earlier are definitely not just for show.

“I said calm down. I’m not gonna go inside.”

“…What?”

He rocks his hips forward and his dick bumps up under your pussy again. “Ever heard of thighfucking?”

No, you’ve never heard of thighfucking, but you’re an intelligent girl and you might be drunk but you’re not so drunk that you can’t piece together what he means. Your interpretation is reinforced when you feel Keigo slathering liquid—lubricant—over the lips of your pussy and between the tops of your thighs. It feels cold and weird—slippery slick, like lotion—but even the barest second of his fingers brushing over your clit reignites the need from when he ate you out and you shudder.

“Keep those knees together for me, baby,” Keigo says, and with no further delay he pushes his cock in between your thighs, aiming it perfectly to slide between your pussy lips so the head will bump up on your clit.

“…ahh, Keigo, wait—oh!” The full weight of Keigo’s body shoves against your back every time he thrusts. You’re too weak for this, too delicate to stay in position. Your elbows buckle under the pressure and your face is about to smack directly into the wall until Keigo laces his fingers in your loose hair and yanks you back from it.

He’s got no trouble holding you down, keeping you perfectly posed with your soft thighs molded tightly around the cock driving between them. Your head is craned back from his hold on your hair and he lays hungry kisses over your mouth, your cheek, your neck, anywhere he can reach. He’s right—he is selfish, and you know that this position is about him, not you, so it takes you by surprise that the longer he fucks his cock between your thighs and your dripping slit, the more heat you feel rising up in your cunt.

It’s not right. It’s not supposed to be like this. Your first time doing anything with a boy isn’t supposed to end up with him using you like he’s humping a pillow, thrusting his slippery cock into your thighs and groaning in your ear. It’s all wrong, and it’s definitely wrong that you’re getting off to it.

But now you know why he ate you out and left you high and dry (well, not dry) without making you cum—because the heat and the friction and the feeling of every ridged vein sliding over your clit, his hips smacking with a wet slap against yours, the smooth head grinding over your pussy—all of it is making your thoughts swirl like your brains are sloshing around in your head, and not just because of the alcohol.

“Fuck,” Keigo purrs, ducking forward to bite the shell of your ear and then running a soothing tongue over it. “Fuck, baby, you like that? Is that virgin pussy getting all wet on my dick? You’re twitching, I can feel you…”

“…Mmph, ah, I, I—please—” You can’t really talk, not when he’s knocking the breath out of you with every thrust. But you need more. It’s not fair, having to make do with the uncontrolled jerks of his cock over your upper thighs and the outside of your pussy. He’s fucking you like he couldn’t care less about whether you get to cum—which, if you had the ability to think about it, he probably doesn’t. Certainly not as much as he cares about your soft, lubed-up skin squeezing so deliciously on his cock.

You grind your hips down a little, sticking your ass back toward him to get a better angle and—ugh, ugh it works, the pressure on your clit increases, and you keen desperately, begging him to fuck your thighs faster harder deeper. He yanks on your hair, snapping your head back so your whimper chokes up into a squeal, and—god, are you imagining it?—but you swear you feel the stiff length of his cock throb in between your legs with the head nudging on your belly.

“Uhnn…baby, baby, baby,” Keigo chants in your ear. His voice is heavier and jagged with the puffs of breath that are coming out in time with the roll of his hips into yours. It sounds…needy, almost. “G-Good girl, keep those legs tight, just—just like that…my good little sweetheart, angel, virgin. Gonna make me cum? Yeah? Make me cum with these pretty fucking thighs?”

“—Keigo, I’m—mm!” You can’t say it, even the thought of announcing you’re cumming like some kind of pornstar makes you cringe, but even if you don’t say it, there’s no way he doesn’t feel the electric shock that passes through you, sending tremors through your body.

You’re crying out, loud, louder than the music downstairs maybe (or at least it feels like it). There’s nothing you can grip for purchase so one hand just scrabbles against the bare expanse of the wall while you curl the other into a fist and dig your fingernails into your palms.

Fuck, is it the alcohol? Is it the liquor that’s making it feel like this, so overwhelming and heady you don’t even know where you are? You vaguely try to remember how you got here (something about blond hair, an easy laugh, and sugar-sweet liquid coating your tongue), but it’s not important, who fucking cares when the cock pistoning between your thighs is still rubbing up on your clit, still stimulating you, still sending sparks of heat up through your spine and making it impossible for you to breathe without moaning, much less think.

“Keigo…Keigo I came, please ahh—it, it hurts,” you whimper, trying to shift your hips up off his cock to relieve the pressure on your sensitive clit—but he won’t let you.

Keigo’s grip on your ass digs in deeper, harder so he’s probably leaving bruises, and the hand in your hair pulls your head back toward his. His voice is a growl, so low and scratchy that it sends a chill up through your body. “Don’t move. Don’t you—don’t you fucking move. Stay right fucking there.”

It scares you.

It scares you, but his dick is rocking over your pussy, making you crazy, making you lose your grip on whatever other physical sensations you can still feel. You’re limp except for your thighs pressed into one another as tightly as you can manage, letting Keigo hold you up. It doesn’t hurt, not really—but it’s horrible, it’s too much, it’s like you’re trapped on the edge, cumming and cumming and cumming and cumming while you squeal like you’re being tortured, and you are, you are, you are, you are—

—it's torture.

But not pain. It doesn’t hurt. It’s mind-bending, oppressive, awful, you want it to stop but—oh god oh god—you’re helpless and you don’t get to make it stop, you don’t get to make that decision, it’s up to him. He decides, Keigo decides, and Keigo decides to keep fucking into your thighs, keep spreading your pussy lips apart and teasing your clit, so you just roll your head back and stop trying to convince yourself it doesn’t feel incredible.

You barely notice him speeding up—you probably wouldn’t notice at all if you couldn’t hear the beat of your moans, paced in time with his body slamming yours against the wall, increasing in frequency. He releases your hair (you swear you can feel blood rush back into your head when you’re finally able to lean forward) and his hands go back to your hips, guiding you to rock yourself back on him so his last few rabid thrusts finish with the head of his cock rubbing firmly against your stomach.

“Ugh, goddamnit fuck, baby, yesss, stay still, stay right there,” Keigo groans, and you’re so blissed out from the overstimulation that you barely even feel the twitching of his cock between your legs and the spurt of thick, hot liquid on your stomach.

Oh.

Oh god.

When Keigo finally picks his hands off their bruising grip on your ass, you drop directly onto the bed, barely remembering at the last second to roll over onto your back so his semen (his semen, which is spread over your lower belly like a Jackson Pollock painting) doesn’t stain his sheets.

You stare at the ceiling and what do you know, there is a ceiling fan, blades spinning in lazy circles that make you sick when you try to follow them. So you close your eyes.

What are you feeling? What are you supposed to be feeling?

Anger, probably. Fear? Well, you won’t deny that there are hints of both of those emotions swimming underneath the hazy surface of your drunken psyche, but they’re overshadowed by what you’re really feeling, which is relief, relief that the stimulation is over, relief that it felt good, relief. And—since you’re too out of it to stop yourself from admitting it—satisfaction.

There’s a rustling, paper slipping against paper, and then you can feel Keigo wiping his cum off your bare stomach with a tissue and then dabbing at the smears of wetness between your legs. When he’s satisfied that you’re clean, the bed creaks as he lays down next to you. He’s panting.

Reluctantly you open your eyes and roll onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow so you can look down at him: golden hair spread out in a halo around his head, pale lashes and brows, a healthy glow of sweat over his forehead. You hadn’t seen it before, but there’s a tattoo curling over his biceps from where it must originate on his back—red feathers, wings, inked permanently into his skin.

Angel, Keigo called you earlier. But really, between the two of you…he’s the angel. In appearance, if nothing else.

His eyes drift open and the corner of his mouth tilts up, pleased to see you inspecting him. “How was that? Did you have fun being naughty?”

You and him both know exactly how much fun you had, and if you said it you’d just be stroking his ego. “You’re not a good guy, are you,” you say instead.

“Never said I was.”

“Then why didn’t you…have sex with me? For real?” you ask after a beat. The question’s been weighing on you.

“Don’t tell me you’re complaining.” A hand comes up to comb through your mussed hair unhurriedly.

“I’m not…” You still want to know, though.

“Mmm…baby. You didn’t want this to be your first time. Believe me, you’re not supposed to lose your virginity to a guy like me. No—don’t pout, come on. Your first time is supposed to be, like, soft and special and romantic, right?”

The girl you were one month ago, before you moved away from your hometown to come to college, she would have agreed. But you’re not that girl. You’ve been to your first college frat party, you’ve had your first drink and your first shot, you’ve kissed a stranger and you’ve done…sexual things with a man for the first time. And you’re okay with it. So you roll your eyes. “I’m not some fourteen-year-old drawing hearts in my notebook. I don’t need soft,” you tell him, hoping you sound bold and sarcastic.

Keigo chuckles and pats you on the head. “Don’t knock soft fucking, it’s got a time and a place like everything. I just couldn’t do it. Not when I saw you sitting there looking so lonely—you were like, hmm…like a rabbit in a den of wolves. You looked delicious.”

Oh god, you’re blushing again. This isn’t good for the nonchalant cool girl persona you’re trying to cultivate for yourself.

He cups your chin and runs his thumb over your lower lip. “I don’t think I could’ve been soft with you if I tried.”

A sharp rap on the door has both of you tensing, and Keigo only has a second to yank a blanket up from the foot of the bed over your naked bodies before the door is slammed open so hard that it bangs against the adjacent wall. “Jesus, get the fuck out!” he barks to the intruder, and it’s weird to hear the authoritative note in his voice reminding you that within this house, he’s someone who commands respect.

You tuck your face into Keigo’s chest and hope wildly that the person who just walked in 1) didn’t see anything and 2) isn’t the friend who brought you to the party, because if word gets around that you’re the girl who ‘slept’ with an older frat boy at the first party of freshman year, you’ll never live it down. Regardless of your own sexual liberation or whatever, you’re well aware that this isn’t the kind of reputation you want to start your college career out with.

“Sorry Kei! But we need you downstairs, we’re out of alc and the music stopped and no one knows how to fix the speakers!” the brother says, shielding his eyes with his hand, but he doesn’t leave the room. At least it’s not your friend—you breathe a sigh of relief and Keigo automatically smooths a hand down the back of your head in response.

“I’m kind of busy,” he seethes, and—you’ve gotta admit, there’s something marginally funny about seeing him caught off guard like this. You bite down on a laugh and he looks at you curiously, one thick eyebrow quirked.

“I’m really sorry, man, but the President said you’ll be on puke clean-up duty tomorrow if you don’t get your ass down there. His words, not mine.”

“Tomura, of-fucking-course…shitty incel has it out for me…” Keigo curses under his breath. “Give me five minutes.”

As soon as the door is closed, you’ve got your feet on the floor, groping around the discarded articles of clothing for your dress. You smooth down your hair with your hands and hope you look like any other tipsy freshman instead of a girl who just got pseudo-fucked. Keigo winks at you and taps his cheeks under his eyes; you take the hint and wipe away the smudges of mascara and eyeliner that migrated out of place during your…activities.

Your phone is safely in the pocket of your dress and you’re all but ready to leave the room (hopefully there won’t be anyone in the hallway to see you) when Keigo, still pulling on his pants, tugs you back by your wrist.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” you reply uncertainly.

“Aren’t you going to give me your number?”

What? Really? You’ve heard plenty about how frat guys like him operate, and nothing Keigo’s done (except the whole ‘no penetrative sex’ thing) has led you to believe he doesn’t fit the stereotype. And the stereotype doesn’t involve sleeping with the same girl twice, especially if that girl is an awkward freshman who is apparently too innocent for him to get his dick wet with. “What do you want my number for?” you ask.

“Do I have to spell it out to you?” Keigo’s fingers lace with yours and you stumble forward into him so he can kiss you.

It’s light, chaste even, but it’s not fair because he knows, of course he knows—a kiss like that is going to leave you wanting more. “Yes,” you tell him, just to be contrary.

Keigo laughs again, and you do your best to memorize the sound of it. “It’s so the next time you decide you want to be a bad girl…you know where to find me.”

#Hawks x reader #takami keigo x reader #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #hawks #takami keigo #bnha #boku no hero academia #boku no hero academia x reader #boku no hero academia imagines #mha #mha x reader #mha imagines #my hero academia #my hero academia x reader #my hero academia imagines #smut #BNHA college AU #tw dubcon

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snipsnsnailsnwerewolftales · 4 years ago

Text

Blue Moon - Part 1

A/N: See masterlist for prompts used. (And the list of amazing people who have helped me with this.)

I do not own Teen Wolf or it’s characters. Sadly.

Warnings: See Masterlist

Word count: 2,746

Xxx

“So what’s it like living with a Hale?” Stiles asked, turning away from your locker after you shut it. Both of you fell into step with Scott as you made your way to your next class.

You must have grimaced or made some face with a slight slant of your eyebrows only a Stilinski could read, because Stiles let out a snort. “That bad?”

You shrugged, sighing. “I mean, it’s not like I expected it to be a walk in the park, it is Derek Hale after all.” Scott chuckled with a gentle shake of his head, making you smile before you continued. “But I didn’t expect it to be this…. easy….. either.”

“Easy?” Scott questioned, making the same face you must have initially as Stiles let out another snort of laughter.

“Yeah, I mean, the first few days were awkward. If we weren’t training we weren’t doing anything. The man is silent, had no TV, or any of that-”

“Wait, ‘had’?” Stiles held out his hand, effectively cutting off your sentence and your steps, your shoes screeching on the floor at the sudden stop.

“Yes, had. He now has a TV, streaming services- yes, Stiles, services as in plural, if you keep your eyebrows that high they may stick that way, and it’s not the best look for you…”

“So at least there is something to fill the silence at least.” Scott resumed walking, you followed a few steps behind, Stiles lagging, jaw still dropped in shock.

“Well, yeah,” you agreed with Scott, and this time you felt your eyebrows making the face.

“But….?” Scott’s prodding was gentle, but his face held a smirk.

“But somewhere along the way we went from off handed comments during a news broadcast, or some show we were watching, to actually pausing it to have some discussion, or referencing some situation later and asking if the other had had something similar happen, or just opening up about random experiences and stuff. It’s…”

“Weird?” This time Stiles prodded, earning a glare and gentle whack on the arm from Scott.

“Well, maybe it’s because you’re…. new.” Scott opted for a more discrete word for ‘werewolf’ in the crowded hallways. “He may feel like opening up more because of the pack mentality and all.”

“No, it’s not because she’s…. new.” Stiles raised one eyebrow on the word as he addressed Scott, earning a sigh and eye roll from the young Beta. “The man is a brooding wall of leather and growls.” You chuckled at the description, making Stiles grin. “I think we finally found our miracle cure for our Sourwolf!”

“Woah, woah, woah, hold up.” You held up your hands as if to physically stop their words. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. We know you two like each other. It’s so obvious.” Stiles immediately closed his mouth, his lips a tight line, eyes wide and eyebrows in his hairline in his signature “I was not supposed to say that” face.

“What?” you deadpanned to your friend.

The bell rang, and Scott, wide eyed and smiling too broadly, gave Stiles a shove on the shoulder in the opposite direction of your next class as Stiles muttered, “Oh, look. The bell.” They both began to walk quickly the opposite way.

“Guys!” you yelled. “This is not over! But I am not responsible for you guys missing another class, what does that make, like fifteen already this semester?”

Your two friends stilled and turned on their heels, ushering past you quickly, avoiding your glare, Stiles looking at Scott and muttering, “See, Scott? I told you our class with Miss Blake was this way.”

“Ugh,” you mumbled under your breath. The sour expression stayed on your face even after you sat at your desk in the back of the class.

Chuckling, Stiles chanced a glance your way from beside you, hoping to change the subject from his ultimate fail in the hallway. “You still don’t like her?”

“I still don’t like her.” You overlapped his last few words, matching his gentle nod with one of your own as you stared straight ahead at the teacher’s still vacant desk.

“What is it about her you don’t like?”

“I just have a really bad feeling whenever I see her. Something just isn’t right.”

Scott chuckled, opening his book to the proper page. “You’re just mad that she gives you a little bit of a harder time.”

“You mean she gives me ‘more attention’?” you asked, your words rising to a ridiculous octave as they repeated Jennifer’s words she had used when she assigned you some extra credit to help raise your grade so you could stay on the lacrosse team. Your friends chuckled at your words. “I’m sorry, not everyone can be amazing at everything, being a wer-” you stopped yourself, clearing your throat before continuing- “new-” you looked at Scott pointedly, earning you a glare and Stiles’ laughter on your other side- “doesn’t allow for a whole lot of extra studying time.”

“Oh, come on, Y/N. I know you feel that way now, but it will pass,” Scott said with a smile as Miss Blake walked in, setting things on her desk, and he chuckled as you glared at her. “This is all ephemeral.”

You looked at Stiles, your face blank, voice a deadpan. “You ever buy him a word of the day subscription thing again, and I will rip your throat out.” You flickered your yellow eyes at him discreetly. “With my teeth.”

“With your teeth,” Stiles mumbled, overlapping your words, both of you nodding in agreement again. “I asked what it’s like living with a Hale, and now I got my answer.” He looked at you, shaking his head mockingly. “You’re becoming one of them. It’s contagious. We’ll call it ‘Sourwolf Syndrome’.”

Xxx

Due to your parents’ professions taking them all over the place constantly, like Allison, you were actually a year older than your friends, having to repeat a year a few grades back. But you wouldn’t change it for anything, because that’s how you met your best friends.

It helped that your parents were away on business most of the time, so no one questioned your staying at Derek’s loft for so long. You stopped by every few days to get the mail and check on the plants around the house, packing some new clothes if needed, Derek sitting outside in his car the first few times, but lately he had taken to coming in and helping you do the few things you had to do.

You told yourself it was just because of the increased threat that he wanted to be closer to his newest Beta. He didn’t have too many of those these days, you thought bitterly, smirking to yourself. You stared blankly as you rinsed out your coffee cup in the sink, and a wave of sadness washed over you as you thought of Erica, her absence still fresh and raw. The two of you had never really been close; just acquaintances at school, then pack members briefly, before she was gone.

Boyd had really withdrawn himself after that, and you didn’t blame him. You knew he probably felt how you did times ten. When Cora had been here briefly she mentioned losing a pack member was like losing a limb, and she hadn’t been wrong.

Then Derek had kicked both Cora and Isaac out of the loft, claiming it wasn’t safe with the Alpha Pack around. Isaac was staying with Scott, but you didn’t know where Cora had disappeared to. Peter was a wild card, so you didn’t even try to factor him in, and Scott outright refused to be a member of Derek’s pack. He was an Alpha with Beta eyes, and an enigma for another time.

The point was, Derek was running low in the Beta department lately.

The only reason Derek had you staying at the loft and followed you around the house when you had to go was because you were the newest, or so he said. Deep down you knew he just didn’t want to be responsible if something happened to you. He wanted to control the situation as much as possible which, you guessed, you were kind of glad, being new to this whole werewolf thing, and admittedly not wanting to stay home alone again, human or werewolf.

At least at the loft, even in the times before Derek brought home the TV and stuff, the silence had been comfortable. You’d never admit it to anyone, but just being in the presence of another living, breathing being, even one as brooding and somewhat annoying as Derek Hale, was nice.

And you sure as hell weren’t going to think about how he had helped you with your homework sometimes, especially with that English extra credit. He had a side he didn’t share often, and you were glad you got to see it. It was like a rare spotting of a mythological creature.

You smiled to yourself, watching the water in the cup filling clear now, the mug long clean, and you let your feelings wash away down the drain with the water as you turned it off.

Setting the mug in the sink, you took a deep breath, letting the feelings whirling around you fully roll off your back, rolling your shoulders back as they did.

Stepping into the doorway to the living room you saw him delicately watering some houseplant your mom babied. The first few times he had just poured water at its base, and you had to stop him, showing him how it had to be done, otherwise he’d over water it. And since then, though he had said initially that it was stupid under his breath, he took meticulous care to check if it even needed watering, and then watered it properly, like you showed him, even bringing books home to the loft about how to care for the various types of plants your mom had around the house. You found it endearing.

Smiling softly, you gently shook your head. One second you were bitter towards him, the next finding little things that made him amazing. “I’m going to go grab some clothes, my stuff got torn to hell last week when we dealt with what’s his face,” you said offhandedly, starting up the stairs. So many baddies came through this town, you got them all confused.

Derek chuckled. “Okay. You know you can always borrow some of my clothes if you need to.”

You stopped midstep on the staircase, each foot on a different step, and your grip on the bannister tightened, your knuckles turning white.

This.

This is why you had such conflicting emotions about this man. Wolf. Wolfman.

“Are you sure?” You kept your voice even, smiling softly.

He shrugged. “Yeah, I mean, makes more sense then driving all the way over here.” His voice tried to be neutral, but it was evident he was trying to cover up something he had let slip before really thinking about it.

“Thanks. I’ll remember that next time.” You nodded once to each other before you took two steps calmly and then practically ran up the rest of them to your room.

Holding a hand to your chest, taking deep breaths to try and stabilize your heartbeat, you slumped against the door after you closed it, sighing.

You tried not to over analyze what he said, but failed.

You knew he probably was making some underhanded comment about your abilities, “coming all the way over here”, really he wanted to say, “you suck at being a werewolf, you’re always getting hurt and your clothes destroyed in the process”.

“You too, wolfman. You too,” you mumbled under your breath as you angrily rifled through one of your drawers, grabbing a few things.

You chuckled a dark laugh. “But I’m an Alpha, Y/N. I’ll heal faster.” You mocked his deep tone, your search in your drawer turning into an aimless activity, the contents totally mixed up now.

He had never been around whenever you had gotten in a hit or takedown on the baddies you guys had encountered so far in your short time in this world. For some reasons you ended up on opposite sides of the battle fields, and he never said it directly, but you knew he probably thought you sucked. How else does one end up with torn shirts from claw marks and blood being covered by your jacket?

Everyone else had called you a badass, but Derek had yet to compliment or even comment on your fighting ability. But maybe, since he trained you, that spoke more to his ability and not yours, you thought with a smirk. Satisfied with the thought, you grabbed a few clothes out of the drawer before snapping it shut.

After a few steps toward the door, you slowed to a stop, absently staring at the clothes in your hand as your thoughts cleared a little from your earlier anger.

If it was a reflection on how he thought he was, that was kind of sad. Did he really think so lowly of himself and his abilities?

You had only been in this world a short time now, but even you had to admit he was a good Alpha. A good wolfm- werewolf. A good man. He was a great person to have at your back in a fight and in mundane things like math, which was also a fight, but that was a thought for another day. He was a good friend to have, period.

Shaking your head and chuckling gently at yourself, you wondered why your thoughts were everywhere. Glancing at your calendar on the wall, you saw the full moon was coming up soon and rolled your eyes. Of course.

This would pass. This was ephemeral. You groaned softly as you made your way back down the stairs. Stiles was going to pay.

Derek met your eyes when you made it to the last step, hopping the last few inches to the first floor. He set down the watering can softly.

“Do I really sound like that?” His lips twitched upward slightly.

Screwing up your face in confusion it took you a second to realize he had heard your mutterings as you disorganized the contents of your drawer upstairs. Realization crossed your face before your palm slapped to your forehead, the groan passing your lips before you could stop it.

Derek laughed, and you looked at him apologetically, to which he motioned with his hand as if waving it away and smiled at the floor where his gaze was focused. “Don’t worry about it. I just always thought my voice was deeper than that.”

He chuckled even more as you swatted his arm, laughing gently yourself. He grabbed your wrist playfully before you could withdraw your hand, and you found yourself pulled closer to him, almost toe to toe and having to crane your neck to look up and meet his eyes that looked down at you with some emotion you couldn’t decipher.

That comfortable silence hung around you two like a blanket… Until his phone rang.

As he fished it out of his pocket, you softly cleared your throat and took a small step back, feeling Derek’s gaze on you the whole time.

“Hello?” His voice was gruff and annoyed, and he was still staring at you. It almost seemed like he was upset at whoever was on the other end for interrupting his moment with you.

But that thought quickly evaporated.

“Jennifer!” He said it with a broad smile on his face, his voice a total about face from his greeting, and his eyes moving from you to the wall behind you.

It couldn’t be who you thought. There was no way. That would be too much of a coincidence.

“No, I’m not busy,” he said, turning to the door.

Grabbing his arm to stop him, he turned to look at you, eyebrows raised in question and, if you weren’t mistaken, slight annoyance.

“What?” he mouthed.

“Who is that?” you whispered.

“A friend,” he hissed.

“Who is it?” you hissed back at him.

“Your English teacher, Jennifer Blake.” He shrugged out of your grip and out your front door, motioning you to the car.

You seethed as you turned off the lights, grabbing your bag of clothes, and locking the door after you.

Reason number five hundred and sixty two to hate Miss Jennifer Blake.

Xxx

Tags: @mayahart02, @palaiasaurus64, @shydinosaurcandy, @lucyqueenofthestars, @c-breanne1999, @l4life, @ethereallysimple, @teenwolffan-with-nolife, @bellabadacadabra What’s This?

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fruitcoops · 4 years ago

Note

OHHHH WE NED SOME OREO SMUT!!! PLLLEEEEAAASSEEEE !!!!

Anon 1: Could u do Cap fucking Loops? Pretty pls with a cherry on top! 🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒🍒

Anon 2: Pls do one with Regulus walking in on coops lmao

Ask and ye shall receive! We haven’t done smut in a while...

Side note: I LOVE the term Oreo smut and would like to clarify for folks that this is the evening/ night after Jules left in the babysitting fics series! Coops certainly earned their Oreos! Sweater Weather credit goes to @lumosinlove!

TW for smut, praise kink, showering together

They barely made it to the couch. Remus’ mind was too foggy already to even consider the living room windows—he whined when Sirius broke away to reach up and close the blinds, and pinned his shoulders back down as soon as the sunlight dimmed. “Come on, come here,” he panted between biting kisses, cupping Sirius’ jaw in his hands and grinding down until he made him moan. “There you are.”

“God—fuck—Re, I want you.” Sirius’ hands pressed hard into the muscle of his back and he shivered as a wave of tingles washed over him. Three weeks and they had only managed a single rushed blowjob before their game. It was a miracle neither of them had popped a blood vessel.

“Lube’s upstairs.” Remus hitched the hem of Sirius’ shirt up and threw it to the side, immediately running his palms down the warm, smooth skin. He bent down to bite along Sirius’ collarbone.

“Off, off.” Sirius had his shirt halfway over his head before Remus could blink and he reached back to tug it away, drawing a harsh exhale from Sirius’ chest.

“What?”

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” A broad hand closed around the back of his neck and pulled him back down as Sirius wrapped his other arm around his waist and rolled his hips, making them both gasp. “Sweetheart, please.”

The nickname raised a million goosebumps across his whole body and he nodded, fumbling Sirius’ belt off before attempting to get his button undone with clumsy fingers. “I’m so horny I can barely think right now, holy fuck.”

Finally, the button came free, and he yanked Sirius’ jeans down his thighs as two warm palms slid down the back of his pants to cup his ass. “I missed you.”

“That’s so not fair.” His grip tightened and Remus arched into the feeling; the front of Sirius’ boxers was already turning dark with his arousal and the clear outline of his dick pressed against the tight fabric. “I love you so fucking—”

The front door flew open and someone stumbled in. “Am I late—oh, shit!”

All three of them shouted in alarm; in a flash, Remus was on the floor, disoriented and wincing as his tailbone smarted with pain. “Regulus, fuck off!” Sirius spluttered as he held the knit blanket over his entire front.

“What the hell are you doing here? Close the fucking door!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Regulus didn’t take his hand off his eyes as he stumbled backward and shut the front door. “I promised I’d say goodbye to Jules, but my interview ran long and—”

“Get out!” Sirius and Remus shouted at the same time.

“Sorry!” He blindly felt for the doorknob and ended up bumping into the end table, which he apologized to as well.

With an infuriated huff, Sirius stood up and grabbed the back of Regulus’ shirt collar, wrenching the door open and carefully guiding him onto the porch without showing the entire neighborhood his underwear. “I love you, Reg, but I’m confiscating your key if you don’t learn how to knock.”

“I did knock!”

“Knock louder!”

“Jules already left, I assume?”

Sirius closed the door and locked it. “Uncover your eyes before you walk down the steps, they’re slippery!” he called through the wood.

“Thanks!” came Regulus’ muffled reply.

Sirius trudged back to the couch and flopped facedown into the pillows with a groan. “I love you, but I’m going to murder your little brother,” Remus said from the floor as he stared at the ceiling.

“Be my guest.”

“Are you still horny? Please tell me you’re still horny.”

Instead of responding, Sirius stood up and grabbed Remus’ hand, hauling him upright into a bruising kiss that turned his knees to jelly. “Upstairs. Right now.”

Remus stuck his lower lip out and rubbed his tailbone. “My ass hurts.”

“I can fix that.” Sirius reached down and swept him off his feet into a cradlehold. “Voila.”

“Careful, I might get used to this,” Remus teased, draping his arms around Sirius’ shoulders and leaving lovebites on his neck as he walked up the stairs; they both winced when his shin hit the bannister and Sirius carefully maneuvered them through the bedroom door before dropping Remus unceremoniously on the bed.

“Distracting me while I’m carrying you up a staircase may not have been the best idea, mon coeur,” he said as he pressed his mouth to Remus’ sternum and worked his pants down his legs.

Remus smiled and stretched his arms over his head. “I’ve got faith in you.”

“For someone who was just scolding me for fairness—” A quick squeeze of his hipbones made him gasp. “—I would hope you’d be less hypocritical.”

“Lucky for me you like it, hmm?”

“I guess so.” Warm weight pressed Remus into the sheets as Sirius finally reached his face, pulling him closer until their noses bumped. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

“How’s your ass?”

Remus shrugged. “I mean, nowhere near as great as yours, but—”

“I meant are you okay?” Sirius laughed, pinching his ribs lightly. “You hit the floor pretty hard.”

“I’ll live,” Remus assured him with a brief kiss, licking into his mouth a bit. “Now hurry up, handsome.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows and propped himself on his elbows, just out of kissing range. “Hurry up? After three weeks of chastity? Hell no, sweetheart, I’m taking my time with you.”

A thrill raced through Remus’ belly and he ran his hands down Sirius’ sides. “Okay.”

“Yeah, you like the sound of that.” He grinned, leaning down to suck a hickey on the hinge of his jaw. “Want me to take my time? Go nice and slow?”

Remus angled his chin upward, but Sirius pulled away and he made a grumpy noise. “Not that slow.”

“Turn over.”

Captain voice!!! A small portion of his brain began throwing confetti and whooping, and he slowly turned onto his stomach, pillowing his head on his arms. Sirius waited there for a moment, straddling Remus’ waist and tracing patterns over his back; can’t make it too easy for him, he thought as he ground his hips upward.

Sirius smacked his thigh lightly. “Hey.”

“What?”

“You know what you did.”

“Do I?” Remus craned his neck to look over his shoulder and Sirius rolled his eyes.

“You always know what you’re doing. Are you going to be a brat today?”

Remus quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

His gaze darkened into tarnished silver and he snapped the band of Remus’ briefs before sliding them off and dragging open kisses down his spine, vanishing from his sightline. Remus gasped as his hand dug into one side of his ass and his teeth sank into the other. “You’ve got a bruise on your tailbone.”

“Sirius,” he warned.

“I know.” The light bite turned into a gentle kiss. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I won’t. Just relax.”

Relax. I can do that. Remus settled his shoulders back into the pillow and exhaled slowly as Sirius littered his back with kisses and small bites, rubbing his thumbs in the divots on his lower back. “We haven’t been like this in a while,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

He felt Sirius smile against his shoulder blade. “We haven’t. I still want to see you, though.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Good boy.” The unexpected praise sent a jolt down Remus’ entire body and he shuddered; Sirius’ chest hitched. “That was fun.”

Remus definitely did not whine, and anyone who tried to claim otherwise had no proof. “Come on, baby.”

“I’m savoring the moment, sweetheart,” Sirius said with a smile in his voice as his breath ghosted past Remus’ ear and made his eyes fall shut. “Are you going to melt on me that quick?”

“I might.”

“Then turn over, I want to see how pretty you are.”

“I love it when you call me pretty,” Remus sighed, stretching his back as he rolled over again. His knees bracketed Sirius’ hips and he gave him a playful squeeze. “Nobody else has done that before.”

“Then everybody else is missing out.” Sirius took a deep breath as Remus drummed his fingers on his ribs and ran a palm down to slip under the elastic waistband of his underwear.

“These have been on too long. Off.”

Sirius gave him a look, but removed them all the same. “Who’s in charge here again?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out.” From the look in his eye, Remus could tell Sirius knew he was messing with him. He pushed upward in challenge, as if he was going to flip their positions, and Sirius firmly pressed his hip back down.

“It’s me.”

“Yes, Captain.” Remus bit his lower lip and saw Sirius’ eyes track the movement with a steady stare.

“You have done so much these past couple weeks while your family was here,” he said while he retrieved the lube from their nightstand. “And you were amazing with Jules, as always.”

Remus reached up and tucked a stray curl into its proper place. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Maybe. But right now, your only job is to lay there and relax, alright?”

“So I get to be a pillow princess tonight?” he laughed.

“A pillow prince,” Sirius corrected as a grin tugged at the side of his mouth. “A pillow lord. I’ll get you a crown if you want one.”

“But I like doing things for you.” Remus ran his thumb under Sirius’ eye, and he leaned into the touch, kissing his wrist. “And doing things to you.”

Sirius hummed in thought, settling onto his elbows as he uncapped the lube. “Let me rephrase, then. Your only job is to lay there and take it like a good boy for me. Think you can manage that?”

Remus tilted his head back and swallowed down a moan. “Yes.”

“You don’t have to be quiet for me,” he said, making his way down the column of Remus’ throat; his hands gently guided Remus’ thighs apart and first finger slid in after a moment of resistance. Teeth scraped against the long scar on his shoulder. “Just like that, sweetheart, you’re doing so well.”

“Yeah?” Remus breathed.

“Yeah. You can get a little melty if you want, I don’t mind.” Sirius moved his finger slowly, crooking it only once before resuming his steady presses. Remus almost missed the second and pushed back into it with a low noise of approval. The heavy warmth faded from his torso and neck as Sirius sat up—one of his palms wrapped partway around Remus’ thigh, pushing it back toward his chest and using his side as a brace to keep it there.

Remus’ eyes flashed open and he gasped; his hand flew over his head to grab the headboard as his other twisted in the sheets at the new angle. Sirius added a third finger and, after a minute of adjustment, began prepping him in earnest. “Fuck, that’s good,” Remus groaned, pushing back onto his fingers.

“Easy, sweetheart, no need to rush.”

“But I want to.” Remus pried his fingers off the headboard and pulled on Sirius’ shoulder. “Come on, fuck me already.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“Please, baby?” He made eye contact with Sirius and pouted his lower lip a bit; not enough to be true puppy eyes, but just on the right side of needy that it would catch his attention.

“You’re adorable.”

“And you’re drop-dead gorgeous.” A lazy smile spread across his face when Sirius hit his sweet spot and he arched into it, pressing his knee into the side of Sirius’ ribs. Thank god for flexibility, he thought. “Yeah, like that.”

“Like that?” Sirius pushed a little higher and Remus’ jaw went slack with a huff. He nodded, feeling desperation seep in, and Sirius’ lips twitched up. “Ready?”

“Been ready for fifteen minutes, but—oh.” Remus gripped Sirius’ forearms as he began to push in; between the lube and his special talent that still drove Remus half out of his mind, the glide was smooth. “Oh, fuck, I missed this.”

“Remember to breathe, mon coeur.” Sirius’ voice sounded tight and Remus took a shaky breath that turned into a whimper when he pulled out again.

“Wait, no, come back.”

Sirius laughed, a little strained as he dropped to his elbows and pressed their foreheads together. Remus wove his hands in the soft locks on pure reflex. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s so good with you every time.” The last few words came on a punched-out exhale as Sirius’ dick grazed his prostate; his leg spasmed at the feeling and he wrapped it around Sirius’ mid-back, doing his best to keep the other from sliding up as well.

“Are you sure?”

“Every time,” Remus said, firmer. “Every time, because it’s you oh my god keep doing that.”

“This?” Sirius pressed the pads of his fingers into the muscle of Remus’ lower back and ground into him, pulling a soft cry from his throat. “Good job. And you kept your leg up, too?” Remus nodded, breathless. “You’re doing so well. Remember, sweetheart, all you have to do is take it. That’s it.”

“Useful,” Remus panted. “Wanna be—wanna be good for you.”

“You don’t have to be useful to be good for me,” Sirius said softly, guiding one of his hands out of his hair to kiss his pulse point. “I always think you’re good.”

Remus gave him a playfully skeptical look. “Always?”

“Most of the time.” Sirius smiled and laced their fingers together, pressing his hand into the mattress by his head. “But you do that on purpose.”

“Looks like you’ve got me figured out.” He turned his head to the side as the next thrust made his vision speckle with black. “Need to get some new tricks.”

“Hmm.”

The pressure on his palm increased as Sirius transferred his weight and wrapped his hand around Remus’ shaft, giving him a quick tug that drew a strangled noise of surprise form him. His straight leg kicked out and nearly connected with Sirius’ ankle. “Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to.”

“It’s alright, I know you didn’t.” How the fuck does he keep his voice so even? Remus shuddered and squeezed Sirius’ waist between his thighs. “God, you’re strong now.”

“ ‘m I hurting you?”

“Nope.” Sirius kissed him, gentle in contrast to literally everything else he was doing that made the bed creak and Remus unravel. “I like it. I love you.”

The words made Remus feel all syrupy, like molasses replaced the blood in his veins. “I love you, too.”

“We’re getting married in five months, sweetheart.” Sirius mouthed along his neck and jaw, paying special attention to the edges of his scars and the freckles that had mostly faded throughout the winter. “Do you know what the best part of that is?”

“Huh?”

“I’ll get to tell everyone how amazing my husband is. How pretty, and strong, and talented, and wonderful.” Remus’ chest prickled with a blush and Sirius shushed him softly, skimming his thumb over the crown of his dick until he whined. “It’s the truth, mon coeur. You always get so flustered, it’s so cute.”

“Sirius—Sirius, baby, I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.” Remus gripped his hand and slid his thigh along his side, unable to stop the trembling in his torso. Sirius’ hand was tight and quick around him and the pressure—fuck, the pressure—was deep enough that Remus could practically feel it in his throat. “Sirius, Sirius, please.”

“Any time you want, Re,” Sirius said, though his voice had become breathier. “Any time. You deserve it.”

Remus came with a gasping moan, pressing the side of his face into the pillows and flexing his fingers around Sirius’ as he arched his back. Sirius stroked him through it like the absolute sweetheart he was, and after taking a moment to collect his scattered thoughts, Remus pushed him onto his back.

His hip was a bit sore from holding his leg up for so long, but not so sore that he couldn’t ride out the aftershocks and bring Sirius over the edge as well. He ground down slowly, bringing one of Sirius’ hands up to kiss his wrist between heavy breaths. “You with me yet?” he asked into the sweat-salted skin. He pulled off his dick and laid on top of Sirius’ chest, running a hand through his hair.

Sirius muttered something unintelligible and draped his arms over Remus’ back, pulling him close enough to hug. “We rocked parenting this week,” he said after a few heartbeats of comfortable quiet.

“Damn right we did.”

“We totally deserved the last…” He cracked an eye open to glance at the bedside clock. “Hour of activity.”

“Except Regulus.”

“Except fucking Regulus, mon dieu,” Sirius laughed. “I really am going to take away his house key.”

“I think he’s going to need therapy,” Remus snorted and tossed the lube into the drawer again.

“He didn’t see anything terrible, it’s fine.” Sirius closed his eyes with a smile and tucked his face into Remus’ neck. “Hmmm, goodnight.”

“Oh, no, no, no, we’re showering.” A truly spectacular pout made him laugh. “At least, I’m showering, and you’re welcome to join me.”

The pout disappeared into a puppylike grin and Remus clambered out of bed, pulling his ridiculous fiancé along by the hand as they stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the water.

“We’ll need to buy more lube soon. We’re almost out,” Sirius said, snagging Remus’ shampoo off the bathtub ledge.

“You know that’s mine, right?”

“Yup. Turn around.”

“Every now and then I get a little bit nervous, that the best of all the years have gone by,” Remus sang under his breath as Sirius’ carefully ran a hand through his hair.

“Turn around.”

“Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, and then I see the look in your eyes!”

“Turn around!”

“Every now and then I fall apart!” they half-sang, half-shouted together.

Remus closed his eyes as shampoo began running down his forehead. “And I need you here tonight!” he belted with far more drama than strictly necessary. “And I need you more than ever!”

“And if you only hold me forever…?” Sirius trailed off slightly.

“It’s ‘and if you only hold me tight’,” Remus said, mock-exasperated. “God, Sirius, it’s like you don’t even want to be Bonnie Tyler.”

“My bad,” he laughed, kissing the back of Remus’ shoulder. “Ugh, I got soap in my mouth.”

“Thanks for washing my hair.”

“Thanks for correcting my lyrics.”

“Anything for you, love.” Remus leaned in for a kiss, making sure to keep his face out of the shower spray. He was pleasantly sore and absolutely exhausted—a good night’s sleep sounded like well-deserved perfection right about now.

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captains-writing-desk · 4 years ago

Text

From Heaven and Hell

Universe: Harry Potter

Character: Severus Snape

Type: F!Reader insert

Words: 2,724

Prompt: Dude, Dude- I love your Snape works! ❤❤ Could you please do a Snape x Prof Reader where she is the hot new teacher and everyone gossips about her or sum? She's like a major flirt too so she flirts with Snape a lot. Eventually with the gossip and flirting he finally admits he likes her? Can end smutty or fluffy- surprise us! Thank you! Keep being awesome!

Note: I’ve done my best to research locations, layouts etc. But I’ve discovered a lot of contradictory information, so this is all going to go how I want it to go. No nit picking please

Guys. I’ve been gone for so long. I’m in such a rut, I feel so uninspired all the time. Sorry for the LONG wait. 💔

Something was happening and if anyone could find out, it would be one Professor Severus Snape. He had a nose for sniffing out trouble like a bloodhound and boy what a nose it was. He made a sweep of all the corridors on his lunch time stroll but everything seemed to be in relative order until he noticed the regular bustling noise that filled the corridors and the sound of the outdoors seemed to dissipate and compress into whispers. Then he noticed students had started to lean over the sides of the stone bannisters and other students on the grounds were looking in the same direction. How curious. He tried to peer over their heads but he was unsuccessful so headed to one of the sets of steps down to the grounds. He made it precisely 2.3 steps down when his purposeful stride immediately dissipated and the last 0.7 steps was spent holding onto the stone wall to balance himself as his body somewhat stuttered and moved itself to one side.

“Thank you.” You smiled and brushed lightly against him as you ascended the steps he had just taken. Severus’ gaze followed you lazily until you disappeared up the corridor, then his body snapped into action and went to catch up with you which proved more difficult with students blocking his path after they cleared space for you.

When he finally had caught up to you, you were being ushered away by Minerva and he had to leave it at that for now. Though he could not see you anymore, you certainly were fresh in his mind and did a good job occupying it for the rest of the day and apparently most of the students’ too. Severus had to interrupt no end of conversations and gossip about who this mysterious stranger was and how ‘easy on the eyes’ you were.

Severus had lost his train of thought so much that day that it never even crossed his mind that you were the new Arithmancy professor until the headmaster was announcing it to the students. He stared for a moment with his mouth slightly agape and clapped slowly, off beat with anybody else’s applause. He despised the fact that you had him stumbling over himself, well before even knowing your name.

Once dinner was over he watched you leave the hall before making his own move. The eyes that followed you did not go unnoticed by him either as he grit his teeth and walked faster, despite wanting to make sure you left first so he would not encounter you again.

“..No, no. It’s not important to our studies, just a preference but it can’t be helped!” He heard your voice then the headmaster bidding you goodnight as he approached the large doors out to the entrance hall. He peered around the frame and all seemed clear so he confidently strode to the dungeons entrance only he came to pause at the top of the steps and felt the need to look up the stairs, something was different which made his eyes narrow instinctively as he crept quietly to the bottom of the ascending stairs. He almost jumped when your own narrowed eyes appeared from the darkness.

“You.” He stated in no particular manner which amused you a little.

“It is me, yes.” You folded your arms and leant against the wall for a moment, “..and you are?”

“Severus Snape.” He remained fairly neutral in expression and tone until you started descending towards him, then he seemed a little startled as you held your hand out to him, repeating the name he had already committed to memory.

“So, Severus. You’re the reason I can’t have the dungeons for myself.” You resumed your stance leaning on the wall again.

“I suppose I am.” He responded in a more Snape friendly tone as the edge had been taken off.

“I was rather looking forwards to all the devilish little things I could get away with down there. Dancing with the devil perhaps.” Severus was too busy processing what any of that could insinuate to respond. “Well, I’ll try not to bother you too much but I may need some local knowledge from you at some point. Feel free to visit me in heaven sometime.” You winked then laughed at yourself, a terrible joke really but the tease of it worked enough.

“Of course.” He raised his brow, wondering what was with all the biblical crap, though judging by the smirk on your face, his expression had meant something else to.

“I look forward to your visit, Goodnight for now, Severus.” Shit. It meant acceptance of the invitation.

“Good night.” He mumbled back and watched you disappear up the stairs as you lit your way with your wand. He couldn’t help but notice how literal your heaven and hell joke seemed as he watched the white light fade, then glanced down his own set of steps before him, taking in the reddish hue of candles and torches. He shook himself from his thoughts and descended the steps to hell.

The next morning after breakfast, Severus found himself once again stood at the bottom of your stairs just being captivated by you and the conversation you were both having.

“Sir-” one of his students attempted to speak to him as they walked by but was cut off by the famous glare.

“Wait downstairs.” He instructed and returned to you with a softer gaze.

“Have I distracted you?” You laughed at his little interaction.

“I wouldn’t say so. I’ll be on time.” He reassured himself more than anyone.

“I shall try harder next time then.” You raised a brow suggestively then bid him a good morning and left him to go to his class.

Your little chats happened on a daily basis now, making good on your word to try harder to distract him and in the evenings they would run at great lengths and would always end when you asked if he wanted to come up rather than just sit around in the stairwell but he would always decline and retreat to his little cave. You wanted to make it your mission to get him into your room or vice versa, mainly for comfort but also it was just a more intimate setting but you weren’t going to force it. You enjoyed flirting with him and he never told you to stop or that he was uncomfortable but you weren’t just going to push through his boundaries like that.

Unbeknownst to you, he was rather hoping you would push his boundaries, although he didn’t quite realise that himself either, he would soon though. He would tell himself that you initiated everything and he merely listened and tolerated your company but he would now come face to face with the reality of the part he played.

It was after dinner one evening when you both walked back to those fateful stairs and he leant against the wall, preparing for a long conversation but you took a step up the stairs and turned to him.

“I’m afraid I’ve got a student coming in a moment so I can’t stay and chat tonight, you can always come knocking later if you want a late night chat though.” You winked at him, briefly noticing the disappointment in his eyes, then a glint of something like panic before he mumbled that it was alright and that he would speak to you soon then he left. The panic was very odd, but the rest was a sign to you that he enjoyed your company at least.

Once he got back to the dungeons he sat himself at his desk and thought for a moment. He had panicked a little when he had left but it wasn’t necessarily bad but it was certainly new. The reason being was that he realised you had both been speaking for weeks, almost never missing a day but only for things you were both required to attend. As a result he hadn’t given any detentions or anything which was fairly unusual for him. No, it must be that the students finally learned how to behave. That’s what he told himself anyway but his students were going to make him think again the next day.

He was running late after talking to you that morning, not that he would admit to it but he took his time getting to his classroom, especially when he heard the mention of your name from inside so he paused to listen.

“Merlin, what I wouldn’t do for that woman!” He heard one student say.

“Arithmancy is easy-ish right? I could get into that class.” Another asked but was scoffed at and told it wasn’t exactly easy.

“You seen the way she flirts with Snape? Not only is she stunning but she flirts- albeit questionable- with Snape which keeps him out of our hair.”

“You’re right! None of us have had detention in weeks, he’s the late one now AND if you ask me, I think he doesn’t want to give us detention because he wants his evening free for her. I bet you anything that those two are fuc-“ That conversation came to an abrupt end when Severus practically flew into the room which stunned everyone into silence. He had to put an end to what he was hearing for his own sake but he was too embarrassed about it to confront them so went about his lesson but he knew as soon as it was over he had a lot of mulling over to do. In fact, he barely left his room all day which didn’t worry you but it wasn’t half boring without him to talk to all day.

Almost a week it had lasted. His little phase of barely leaving his room and any chats you usually had had come to a stop. Maybe you’d pushed him too far, or perhaps he had come to realise he couldn’t be bothered to put up with your incessant chatting anymore.

You watched one morning as he walked in front of you yet again rather than beside you then disappeared down into his dungeons, You sighed and went to ascend your own staircase.

“Professor.” The voice of a student behind you interrupted your thoughts rather abruptly, he was no student of yours.

“Yes?” You smiled welcomingly, opening yourself up to any conversation this child wanted to have with you as they shifted nervously before you.

“Do you think you could start talking to Professor Snape again? I know I’m out of line here but he isn’t the same and when you did speak to him he was much nicer than before but now he just seems... off. It’s unsettling to tell you the truth.” You almost laughed at the cheek of the child but they said it so innocently and with genuine concern that you stifled a laugh and chuckled lightly instead.

“I’ll do my best. Now hurry along or you’ll be late.” You continued chuckling to yourself as you carried on up the stairs, wondering if you should take his advice.

Later that evening you stood at the top of the stairs, staring down into the darkness before forcing yourself down them. You reached his door and knocked before you could even contemplate doing it. You waited longer than you should have before trying again after there was no response but once again, nothing. You turned to leave and thought perhaps you should wait for him for a few minutes in case he was preoccupied somewhere else for a moment so you made yourself comfortable on the bottom step.

Still, he never returned and you gave up, thinking you would try again tomorrow. Walking back up you were consumed with just how boring everything was without him to help occupy your time. Sure, you had things to get on with but there were little gaps in the day now that felt so empty. Just before you reached the ground between the two staircases, purgatory if you were to run with the biblical themes you had going on for some reason, he came into view. He was coming down from the tower you resided in and for a moment, you both just stared at eachother, frozen.

“Just the man I was looking for.” You broke silence first, opting for your usual flirtatious inflection.

“I am?” He forced in a innocence to his tone.

“Yes. What were you doing up there?” You addressed the elephant in the room.

“I was looking for you. I waited a little while. What were you looking for me for?” He folded his arms and raised his brows, pushing the interrogation back onto you.

“Well,” So he wanted to play that game huh, “I’ve been awfully bored as of recent and you’ve been avoiding me all week. So, I thought why not entertain myself with bothering you for a while.” Alright, that was the real elephant in the room and he knew it.

“Ah,” His eyes were downcast for a moment as he briefly contemplated, “Why don’t you come down with me then and bother me for the evening.” He closed the gap between you and paused just before you with his arm gesturing down the stairs as an invitation.

“I just bloody climbed these stairs.” You groaned but turned around and started walking anyway.

Once inside, he got you both a drink and sat with you to have one of those conversations he was so used to having with you but before that could start, you had to know whether he even wanted to.

“Severus.”

“Yes?” He shifted uncomfortably at the seriousness of your tone.

“Don’t misunderstand me when I say I do enjoy bothering you and talking to you but do you tolerate my babbling or do you actually enjoy my company?” You found yourself unable to look at him as he took a moment to think, despite how direct the question was.

“I suppose I tolerate your babbling BECAUSE I enjoy your company. Although I wouldn’t call it babbling really.” That was a start.

“So you’ve just been busy this week and I’ve foolishly thought I’d done something?” You looked at him now, apologetically with what you had insinuated.

“Well, I’ve been busy thinking about something you’ve done.” He put a great deal of thought into what he was saying and it still came out like that? Your eyes narrowed.

“You’re being very cryptic.” You stated plainly and he sighed lightly.

“Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about you. You’ve managed to keep this hold over me which I’m not totally unfamiliar with but it’s still new to me, especially with the way it affects me. It’s been... difficult to come to terms with.” He took a shaky breath and waited for your response as he stared at your hands. He watched them reach out to his own hands before looking you in the eye.

“I know exactly how you feel.” You smiled reassuringly.

“However, I do need to take things slow. In regards to processing what it all is.” He was still on edge.

“It doesn’t have to be anything you know, just see what happens.” You offered.

“I know, but it is something. I’m just in unfamiliar territory.” He had colour in his cheeks now as he waited for your delayed response.

“So no dancing with the devil yet then?” You cocked your brow and he visibly relaxed.

“Well.. I wouldn’t say that.”

#reader insert #severus x reader #severus snape x reader #snape x reader #severus snape #harry potter #request

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khaleesiofalicante · 4 years ago

Text

LIGHTWOOD BANES WEEK - MAX & RAFE

“There he is!” Max grabbed Rafael and started running towards the balcony.

It was a Christmas party so there were too many people. All of them too tall and too loud. But it didn’t matter. Max and Rafe were on a mission today – a mission that cannot fail.

The two children zigzagged through the crowded banquet hall and made their way to the balcony – which was empty except for two people.

Max ran straight to the man and hugged his leg tightly. The man was startled for a second but quickly pulled up the boy with one arm.

“What are you doing, you little monkey?” he demanded.

“We need help,” Max said, giggling while hanging off the man’s bicep like a little monkey indeed. “We have a mission.”

The man peered down to notice the other boy, this one much quieter, but his brown eyes carefully observing the surrounding.

“Oh, they are both so cute,” the woman standing next to him cooed. “Who are they?”

“This is my nephew Max,” the man pointed at Max, who grinned at the red haired lady. “I’m not really sure who the other one is.”

“This is Rafe,” Max introduced as the man dropped him to the floor carefully. “I am love him.”

“Hello, Rafe,” the man ruffled the boy’s hair – or tried to. Rafe didn’t much appreciated people messing up his hair. His Bapa spent a lot of time styling it after all.

“This is Uncle Jace,” Max introduced proudly. “And that’s Cwawy. Uncle Jace has a crush on Cwawy.”

Uncle Jace, who had seemed smooth until then choked on his champagne.

The red headed woman peered at him with sudden interest. “Is that right?”

“Max, that was a secret!” Uncle Jace complained. “You are a worse wing man than your dad!”

“Stop blaming the child,” Clary – or Cwawy – laughed. “What can we help you with? Are you hungry? Can you reach the banquet table?”

“We can reach the banquet table,” Rafael replied indignantly.

Well, Rafe might have had to carry Max on his shoulders to reach the cupcakes. But this woman didn’t need to know that.

“What do you need, little man?” Uncle Jace asked. “You okay?”

Max pulled the man down by his jacket. “How to kiss someone?”

“How to what now?” Uncle Jace blinked.

“How do you kiss someone?” Rafael asked, seemingly impatient.

“Why do you want to know?” Clary raised a suspicious eyebrow.

“Aunt Izzy said kissing means you love them,” Max pointed out seriously.

“Well, not always,” Uncle Jace replied.

“Oh no,” Max’s face dropped.

“Well, I mean people can kiss sometimes when they are in love but-”

“Oh yeah!” Max’s face beamed.

“What’s with all the questions?” Jace laughed. “Who are you going to kiss?”

“Not me,” Max giggled. “Dad.”

“Who is your dad going to kiss?” Clary asked curiously.

“My Bapa,” Rafe said proudly.

“Ohhhh,” Jace and Clary said in unison.

“So, how do people kiss?” Rafael asked again.

“Well, you can’t force people to kiss,” Uncle Jace pointed out carefully. “They should kiss only if they want to.”

“Oh?” Max asked.

“Yes, that’s very important,” Uncle Jace nodded seriously.

“Unless they are standing under a mistletoe,” Clary said into her glass.

Uncle Jace looked up at the mistletoe hanging on the threshold and started blushing. “I didn’t mean-That’s not what I-”

“Seems like your Uncle Jace doesn’t want to kiss me,” the lady with the red hair grinned.

“What! I never said tha-”

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the kids jumped up and down.

“But only if you want,” Max pointed out seriously.

Uncle Jace smiled at that. “Just a peck?

Clary smiled back. “Just a peck.”

Uncle Jace gave a quick peck to her lips and drew back. “Oh boy.”

“Are you in love now?” Rafael asked, his eyes hopeful.

“Okaaaay, that’s enough inquiring for one night,” Uncle Jace told the kids, blushing more furiously now. “Off you go, you lil ducklings!”

“Good luck with your mission,” Clary waved at the kids.

Max and Rafe ran back to the main hall. All the other kids were gathered around the tree or sneaking snacks from the dessert table. But their mission was important.

“My Bapa is talking to Uncle Ragnor,” Rafe pointed out.

“Daddy is with Aunt Maia,” Max reported back.

“We need a miss…missli-” Rafael struggled. “We need the thing!”

“Yes!” Max nodded. “Let’s ask Uncle Jace again.”

They ran back to the balcony. But Uncle Jace and the lady were not talking anymore...

“Gross,” Rafe made a face.

“Hehehe,” Max giggled. “Uncle Jace is in loooove.”

Rafael grabbed Max by the arm and ran back to the banquet hall again.

“We still need miss..li,” Rafael struggled again. “How do you say that?”

“Miss lily toes,” Max told his friend. “That’s what Uncle Jace said.”

“Are you sure?” Rafe asked skeptically.

“Yes! Yes!” Max nodded vehemently. “We need miss lily toes!”

“Where do we find them?” Rafe asked worriedly. “The party will be over soon.”

“I know where to find them,” Max grinned and they ran towards the garden.

Rafe ran after him. When Max found the woman, he pulled at her skirt.

“Hello, sweety!” the lady in black pinched Max’s cheeks.

“Aunt Lily,” Max quickly told Rafe.

“Miss Lily!” Rafe gasped.

“Oh wow, you’re polite,” Miss Lily laughed. “Where is your dad?”

Rafe shrugged off the question. “We need your toes!”

“My what?”

“Your toes!” Rafel insisted.

“Max, is your friend okay?” Lily asked.

“Yes!” Max replied. “We need your toes!!!”

“My toes?” Lily laughed again. “For what?”

“To make our dads kiss,” Rafe explained.

“Your dad-” Lily’s eyes glimmered in realization. “But why my toes? What kind of voodoo nonse-”

“Uncle Jace said people have to kiss under Miss Lily Toes,” Max explained. “So, we need your toes. Pwease!”

Lily laughed harder now. “Do you mean a mistletoe?”

“Ohhhh,” the boys said together. “Yes. That! Missile Two!”

“Let’s go find you one,” she grabbed their hands and walked back to the big house.

“There!” Rafe pointed at one near the window.

“Nah, that’s just a from a tree outside,” Lily chuckled.

“Then why is Aunt Izzy kissing that boy with the glasses?” Max asked.

“Those two kiss everywhere,” Lily chuckled.

The boys giggled.

“There is one!” Lily pointed and quickly plucked it from the threshold before anyone started making out under it. “Here you go!”

“Thank you, Miss Lily!” Rafael beamed.

“We’ll invite you to the wedding,” Max winked with both eyes. “Byeeeee!”

They ran back to the banquet hall and spotted their fathers.

“Okay, let’s meet near the staircase,” Rafe said and they both ran in opposite directions.

They found each other in exactly five minutes.

“Max, stop pulling on my trousers!” Alec complained. “I’ve told you not do that! Didn’t you learn your lesson last Christmas?”

“Uncle Jace wears superman underwear,” Max giggled.

“What’s so urg-” Alec stopped talking abruptly. “Magnus, what are you doing here?”

“I have no idea,” Magnus said. “My son just dragged me here.”

“Mine too!” Alec pointed out.

“What mischief have you two been up to?” Magnus asked.

“Hold on,” Rafael said calmly and pulled out a mistletoe from his pocket like doing a magic trick. “Ta-da!”

“Where did you get that?” Magnus chuckled.

“Santa,” Rafe snickered. “Now kiss!”

“Now what?” Alec blinked.

“Kiss!” Max yelled. “Uncle Jace said people kiss-”

“Uncle Jace said what?” Alec demanded. “Where is he? I’m going-”

“He is kissing girl with red hair,” Rafe pointed out.

“About time,” Magnus snickered now.

“Aunt Izzy is kissing too!” Max squealed. “Now you!!”

“Max!” Alec chastised. “You can’t just ask people to kiss like that!”

Max frowned and Rafe didn’t seem to like that one bit.

“Why don’t you want to kiss my Bapa?” Rafe demanded, hands on hips and all.

“Yes, Alexander,” Magnus asked, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. “Why don’t you want to kiss his Bapa?”

“Because!” Alec blushed scarlet. “This is highly…It’s not ok…We are not even under a mistletoe, Goddamnit!”

“Alexander, no swearing in front of the kids!” Magnus chastised.

“I was just tr-”

“Hold on,” Rafael said and started climbing the bannister like little acrobat and held up the mistletoe. “Okay now?”

Alec gaped at the boys.

“Well?” Magnus asked.

“I…Um,” Alec scratched behind his ear. “I don’t k-”

“Kiss, Goddamnit!” Max demanded.

“Max Michael!” Alec gasped.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the started chanting, jumping up and down. The two men worried soon they might get a viewing party.

“Only if you want to, daddy,” Max hugged his leg and let go before chanting again.

“For the kids?” Magnus asked.

“Um,” Alec said, his pale cheekbones now painted in pink. “Yeah okay. For the kids.”

Magnus grinned before pulling the other man by the tie and kissing him. He was about to let go when Alec pulled him back by the jacket and kept kissing him.

“How long do people kiss?” Rafe whispered to Max.

“I don’t know,” Max whispered back. “This is too long.”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Max pulled his father back by the trouser.

“Now, fall in love!” Rafe demanded.

“Rafael, that’s rude!” Magnus scolded gently.

“Fall in love, please?” Rafael asked nicely.

Alec laughed at that. “He is cheeky. Like you.”

“And he is cute,” Magnus pointed at Max. “Like you.”

“Maybe…” Alec blushed. “Maybe we can talk about them a little bit more over coffee?”

“I’d like that,” Magnus grinned.

“What’s happening?” Max whispered to Rafe.

“I don’t know,” Rafe whispered back as he took Max’s hand. “But I like it.”

“I like it too,” Max grinned and squeezed Rafe’s hand.

#I dont what kind of crack fic this is but here have it lol #lightwood bane family #max and rafe #lightwood banes week #dani writes stuff

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laurensprentiss · 4 years ago

Text

Jouska [Hotch x Reader]

Chapter 11:

Gif Credit: @dudeitiskarev

A/N: I told you shit was going to kick tf off! Poor Hotch is not having a good day today.

Warnings: Explicit details of injury, strong language.

———

“Each meeting occurs at the precise moment for which it was meant. Usually, when it will have the greatest impact on our lives.” - Nadia Scrieva

———

‘Fitzgerald House’ sits in white letters on an antique black board at the gateway entrance. Hotch turns over the engine and peers over at the notebook in McCall’s hand, squinting at the gated estate in front of him.

They’re buzzed in by a security guard, and as they drive up, the estate expands. A pillared terrace is framed by dark brick, neatly trimmed shrubs line the circle driveway and encase a grand fountain. Behind it, a set of antique double doors are framed by more huge pillars and blossom trees umbrella the pathway.

“Are you sure this is the right address, Aaron?” Mccall asks.

He nods. “Fitzgerald House. This is it.”

They step out of the car simultaneously, looking around them, the estate more intimidating up close. There’s something cold about this place, a familiarity he identifies with all too well.

“This seem like the kind of place a twenty-something lives in?” McCall asks in disbelief.

Hotch scoffs, air leaving his nose in an exhale. “Senator Fitzgerald’s twenty-something.”

Hotch is light on his feet, feels as though he’s dirtying the kept tile pathway just by walking on it. Truth is, he’d grown up in a home like this - or spent his summers there at least. He’d felt just as uncomfortable then as he does now. He knows what kind of people are on the other side of those doors, and knows the kind of people that live here. Cold, calculating, drenched in privilege, toxicity and unbearable expectations.

Borderline abusive.

He was raised by them.

He pulls his credentials from his inside pocket and reaches for the doorbell. They take a minute or so and when there’s no answer, he makes a fist and bangs on the door with the side of it.

“Open up, FBI.”

A woman finally pulls open one of the double doors, straining almost with the weight of it, the oak creaking. She’s around 40 years old, stands at 5’4 and she’s thin, dark hair pulled back into a tight bun, greying slightly towards her hairline. A black and white apron completes her uniform.

“FBI? Can I help you?” She speaks with an accent, a thick lilt to her words. Eastern European, maybe, Hotch thinks.

“I’m Agent Hotchner, this is Agent McCall. We’re with the FBI.” They flip their credentials to show the lady, her eyes squint to read the writing on them. “And you are?”

“I’m the housekeeper. Carolina.” She says.

“Hello, Carolina. We’re looking for a Jordan Fitzgerald?” Hotch inquires with a smile.

“Oh.” She stutters and glances behind her, frozen in place.

“May we come in?”

“Yes, yes, sorry. Please, come in, I think Mr. Fitzgerald is still in bed. Just a second.”

They step into the foyer of the home, taking in the room - it’s bright and airy, a white marble staircase leading up and off into both directions sits in the middle, framed by a dark bannister. The refined marble floor, and white walls make the both of them feel uncomfortable, uneasy. Tight-lipped family portraits and oil paintings of numerous well to do ancestors line the walls, casting a disapproving eye.

To the right, is a drawing room, where Carolina seats the two men, plush leather sofas are carefully placed in front of a massive window with a view of the front garden. An oversized antique ceramic vase sits in the corner of the room, perfectly polished and buffed.

Hotch swallows uneasily, his eyes scanning the room.

They both sit tentatively, careful not to scuff the antique rug that lays below them. McCall glances at his watch and mutters to Hotch, taking care to look around so nobody hears him.

“Bed? It’s noon.”

Hotch scoffs, raising his eyebrows sarcastically. He pulls his phone out of his pocket, sees some missed calls from Haley that he skips over, shooting off a quick text to you.

Hey. Good luck with your dad today.

Talking to you is fast becoming one of the best parts of his day - he feels a little like a teenager again. His phone buzzes and he hopes it’s your name on the screen, he has a spring in his step whenever he’s on duty and he doesn’t have as much trouble waking up in the morning, knowing that you’re waiting for him.

He’s suddenly ripped from his thoughts when giggles erupt from the top of the stairs, and two sets of footsteps approach. Hotch cranes his head in unison with McCall as a blonde woman with dishevelled blonde hair and smudged eyeliner stumbles down the stairs, shirt buttons done unevenly and skirt askew.

She carries her shoes in her hands and has a purse tucked under her arm - Hotch concludes that she was probably drunk last night, the effects of which she’s still feeling now if her stumbling is any indication.

Who he assumes is Jordan, trails behind her with a grin on his face. He’s undressed with only a pair of boxer shorts covering him and a dressing gown that lays open. Hotch and McCall shoot each other a wordless look and Aaron has to fight to stop himself from rolling his eyes.

Jordan surprisingly has the decency to walk his unnamed friend to the front door, who turns and plants what looks like a messy and unpleasant kiss on his mouth.

This is Jordan?

Nice.

He’s tall but still stands a couple of inches shorter than Hotch, he’s broad with brown hair and matching eyes and has a tattoo across his clavicle, which he covers up when he pulls his dressing gown closed. McCall clears his throat when the unnamed friend releases herself from Jordan’s grip and turns to leaves after having Jordan swat her ass crudely.

Jordan turns his attention then to the agents in his drawing room, padding towards them as they both stand in unison to introduce themselves. He glances at Hotch, eyes narrow, a miniscule flash of recognition appearing on his face. He subconsciously squares his shoulders and stands up a little straighter, gaze falling to the FBI badge Hotch has pinned on his lapel.

“Mr. Fitzgerald? We’re with the FBI.” McCall tells him with an outstretched hand.

Jordan takes it warmly, plastering a smile on his face. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

McCall tells him that they’re here in connection with an ongoing case regarding you, to which Jordan has surprisingly little reaction, Hotch notes.

Instead, he turns his attention to Hotch. “FBI huh?” He places his hands in his hips, an obvious attempt at trying to assert his dominance, and Hotch sees right through him. “Impressive,” he continues. “How old are you anyway, man?” His words drip with sarcasm and do nothing to veil the obvious insecurity he feels.

He unsuccessfully tries to level with Hotch, subtly tiptoeing.

Hotch’s jaw clenches as he looks down at Jordan. “24.”

He repeats Hotch’s words slowly, ignoring McCall - who finds himself frozen in place, uneasy with the almost confrontational atmosphere between his partner and Jordan.

“Wow. Someone’s ambitious. Got a lot to prove-” he flicks his badge. “Hotchner?”

Hotch finds the words on the tip of his tongue, wants to chew this asshole out for being a sleazy piece of shit, difficult and lazy. But the thing that really bothers him, the thing that makes Hotch want to give him a black eye, is the fact that at one point, you were his - and his own actions sent you running back into Jordan’s arms.

That thought makes his stomach drop, because it’s a feeling he’s wholly unfamiliar with.

Jealousy.

And he finds that most disconcerting of all.

He’s used to being able to do his job with a degree of separation and compartmentalisation, to keep his emotions in check - but he finds himself in a predicament now, one that’s becoming alarmingly clear. The lines are blurred and he knows it, no matter how hard he tries to push it down.

But he tries anyway.

He takes a deep breath and goes on. “You mind putting some clothes on, bud? We have some questions for you?” His tone is biting, condescension masked with amiability, similar to the way he would speak to a child. He tacks on the ‘Bud’ to purposely get a rise out of Jordan.

If there’s one thing he learned from his parents growing up, it was how to get under people’s skin with a smile plastered on his face, and he knew people like Jordan.

He used to be a Jordan.

Jordan steps towards Hotch, his eyes narrow, a slew of expletives on the tip of his tongue no doubt until McCall subtly steps between them. He stops in his tracks, eyes still focused on Hotch standing behind McCall.

His demeanour changes completely and suddenly, the animosity melting away to make way for his initial warm manner.

He takes a deep breath and plasters an unnerving smile on his face.

With a tilt of his head, he says, “I actually have back to back appointments today, may I come into your offices tomorrow?” His cadence sounds eloquent, polite, the way Hotch knows he was probably raised to speak.

He frowns at the rapid 180.

McCall subsequently agrees to let Jordan come into the office to keep the peace but Hotch knows better. The only appointments he would have would be with a few lines of coke and a bottle of scotch if his jaw movements and body odour were anything to go by.

Still, Ben hands him a business card and tells him to come by at around 3pm for a few questions and bids him a quick goodbye.

Hotch’s phone buzzes on his way out, a message from you telling him that you’re on your way to your father’s with Emily.

‘Oh and like three MPD officers.’’ You add. ‘One’s new I think? How’s it going with Jordan?’

A small smile creeps its way onto his face while his attention is diverted and his eyes are glued to his phone.

Jordan watches Hotch and McCall walk back down the pathway and into the car. His eyes narrow from the doorway as he gives a cursory glance to the business card he holds between his index and middle finger, and he flicks it onto the ground outside.

McCall clears his throat once they’re in the car, but Hotch’s attention is still directed at his phone. He clears his throat again, a little louder this time.

Hotch’s eyes dart up as he looks at McCall. “What?” He asks innocently, slipping the phone into the centre console.

“That who I think it is?”

“Yeah, I just checked in to see if everything was alright.” He rubs the back of his neck, a dead giveaway gesture to anyone who knew him well enough.

“Yeah? Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what-”

Without warning, McCall reaches over and pulls down the driver’s seat visor, sliding the mirror cover over. Hotch’s face is flushed, a ghost of a smile on his face, akin to a smug teenager. His guilty reflection stares back at him and stops him in his tracks. He didn’t realise he looked like that when he was thinking about you and he’s alarmed at how transparent he is.

No, he thinks. So what? It’s warm, it’s even warmer in this car.

It’s fine.

Still, he sighs, rolls his eyes. “What?” Hotch says, insistent as he turns a little in his seat.

McCall sighs deeply next to him, hesitant. “Just. Be careful.” He says, head tilting to motion to his phone.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Aaron.” He says, his voice low. “I see the way you look at her. And what about that little display inside? Why were you so confrontational with Fitzgerald?”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh come on. You gotta be kidding me! You saw the way he was antagonising me-”

“-Yeah and your job is to stay calm no matter what. You’re not supposed to let people get a rise out of you, especially not if you want a place at the BAU one day. Gideon got word of you, he thinks you’re good. Prove him right.”

He sounds like an older brother lecturing him, but he has a point, Hotch thinks. Why was he so bothered by Jordan?

He knows why. He doesn’t know how much longer he can deny it.

The feelings he’d tried so hard to bury deep inside were quickly rising to the surface, faster than even he could get a handle on them. Maybe all he could do at this point was to relax his body and let the water carry him - sink or swim. The possibility of what could be, maybe it was too big to keep fighting.

He has feelings for you.

He has feelings for you despite the numerous conflicts of interest, despite the moral implications and the danger to your investigation.

He swallows dryly.

“You have feelings for her.” McCall says, mirroring his conscience.

He doesn’t know what to say back, but he certainly can’t bring himself to deny it. He’s not that good of a liar. Yet.

He just stares back at McCall whose face is etched in concern for his partner.

He has feelings for you.

———

It’s dark when you hug your father goodbye. You hadn’t realised just how homesick you’d been for him until you’d visited today, more so now as you’re about to leave.

You stand in the dreary rain and apologise again for not telling him about the restaurant incident, reassuringly rubbing his hand as you tell him you’re going to be okay.

“Really, truly.” You tell him over the patter of the rain. “I’m going to be absolutely fine. I have Emily watching over me now.”

He nods and places a kiss on your forehead. “Yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still worry.” He sighs. “Bye, baby.”

You wave to him one last time, pulling your coat closer to your body before you and Emily drive away, MPD leading the way. You glare at her, watching her avoid your looks. She grips the wheel a little tighter, and keeps glancing in the rear view mirror despite there being nothing there.

After a minute or so, she grits between her teeth, “What? I can feel you staring at me.”

“You told Dad?” You hiss. “I specifically told you not to, and you still told him?”

“I’m sorry! He asked me outright if anything had happened, what was I supposed to do? Lie?”

“Yes!” You squeal. “Yes! You’re supposed to lie if I ask you to!”

“Come on, that’s bullshit and you know it. He deserves to know that you’re okay. Think about it, what if it had been him? You’d wanna know.”

In your attempts to not worry him, you’d forgotten that you were all he had, too. Maybe he was right for holding on so tight.

“I am sorry, though. I should’ve let you tell him.” Emily whispers, glancing at you.

“No.” You shake your head and apologise too. “You were right.”

“Does he fly out tomorrow?”

“Uh, no. Tonight. Some trip that’s been scheduled for months,” you reply distracted, watching the officers in front of you.

The MPD car turns its hazard lights on, signalling to pull over on the side of the quiet road. You peer at the vehicle in front of you, confused, checking with Emily who shrugs. A text from one of the officers reads,

‘Reports of a disturbance ahead, assessing alternate route.’

“Better settle in.” You show Emily the text and relax into your seat a little better now, leaning your head against the headrest and resting your eyes as the heater runs in the background. The rain slows to a drizzle now.

She unbuckles her seatbelt to turn her seat. “Can I ask you a question?” Emily says after a while.

“Sure.” You reply, eyes remaining closed.

“You have feelings for him, don’t you?” She whispers.

“Who?” You frown.

“Hotch.”

You all but jump out of your skin. “What?!” You squeak.

Emily rolls her eyes now, embarrassed that you’re even trying to deny it. “Come on. It’s me. Don’t lie.”

Your mouth opens and closes, trying to find the words but your cheeks burn. It’s not entirely unexpected, Emily’s always been somewhat of an inner voice, a mirror that holds you accountable but you’d been quietly trying to work out your issues, the feelings you’d been having for Hotch, internally.

Had you made it that obvious? Had you made yourself look stupid and naive, pining after a guy who was so much older and settled in life?

“No of course I don’t, where is this coming from?” Your cheeks grow even hotter and you try to keep your voice even.

She rolls her eyes. “Everyone can see it.”

“See what? There’s nothing to see!”

You groan and bury your face in your hands in mortification. If everyone could see it, that meant that Hotch could too, he was on his way to being a profiler for God’s sake. He was probably just humouring you, sparing your feelings.

Oh God.

“I mean the way you look at him?” Emily says.

“-Please stop, this is so embarrassing-”

“-The way he looks at you?”

You freeze. “What?” You turn to look at her now and you find her smirking.

“Come on, you’re seriously telling me you haven’t noticed? I noticed the day I met him, so you’re either blind or in denial, and I know you’re not blind. Even McCall knows it.”

“What? No. He has a girlfriend and he wouldn’t-”

“Yeah that might be true, and I can’t speak to that. But it doesn’t change the way he looks at you. Even the way he held you that day? You don’t hold a friend like that.”

Your chest feels fuzzy, warmth spreading to your bones, stomach flipping.

“So?” Emily laughs next to you as she watches your expression. You try your best to stop the smile making its way onto your face. “I’ll take that as a yes,” She pauses. “He does too, y’know?”

“What?”

“Have feelings for you.” She replies coyly.

“Shut up.” You reply, rolling your eyes.

Your smile reaches your ears now, cheeks aching from the strain. Still, you shake your head, and blow her off, instead turning your attention to the other side of the road. You chew on the inside of your lip, mulling over whether to let what you just heard go ignored or if you wanted to act on it.

You turn back to confide in Emily but before you can, you see her squinting in the rear view mirror.

“What the hell?” She mutters. You follow her gaze and see a car with beaming headlights, driving towards you, showing no signs of slowing down as it approaches. She sits up straight in her seat suddenly, as the car increases its speed and barrels towards you.

The colour on her face drains as she fumbles with the gear stick and pedal, panic taking over as she attempts to move out of the way. You both flinch when the MPD car’s tail lights switch on, the engine revving and reversing.

Both of your faces fall. “Emily...” You pant.

“Oh God.”

It’s over in a couple of seconds.

The headlights get closer and brighter, both cars barrelling towards you. You squeeze your eyes shut and brace yourselves for impact, your hand clasping hers as both cars ram into you, the seatbelt searing the neck of your skin. The airbags pummel your body from the front and side and your insides feel like they're turning upside down.

Your neck snaps forward with the impact, glass shattering and piercing the skin on your face and arms as the blood pools slowly from your forehead. A high-pitched whine penetrates your skull as you look over to a barely conscious Emily, and then to the side mirror, a dark silhouette approaching the car. Your breathing is rapid, chest rising and falling as you hyperventilate before you finally black out with the taste of metal in your mouth.

———

Hotch throws his keys haphazardly on to the table that sits next to the front door, loosens his tie and shrugs his blazer off. He finally breathes a sigh of semi-relief, feeling exhausted. He doesn’t bother calling out to the empty space to let Haley know he’s home, instead decides to just make his way upstairs and get a shower before turning in for the night.

His shirt is unbuttoned and his socks are in his hands when he turns his attention towards the laundry basket in the corner of their bedroom. He goes to throw them in the hamper when he frowns, some stray fabric catching his attention behind the basket.

Haley strolls into the room then, rubbing lotion into her hands as Hotch moves the basket to get a better view of the fabric behind it. She double takes when her eyes fall to what he’s doing, spotting what he’s reaching for. The colour drains from her face.

She’s too late.

Hotch pinches the fabric between his index finger and thumb and inspects it in front of him, frowning, Haley swallows dryly, going lightheaded.

A pair of boxers.

He frowns. They’re not his, but he swears he’s seen some like them before.

“Hey, where did these-”

He barely gets through the whole sentence before Haley’s face gives her away entirely. Her lips are pursed and she’s breathing hard, wringing her hands.

His face falls and he blinks at her, stuck in denial.

Surely not. She couldn’t have-

She averts her gaze, looking instead at the carpet on the floor, cheeks hot when the boxers are thrown at her feet. She flinches.

“Explain.” He demands.

She opens her mouth but no words come, her head hangs in shame.

“How long?” He asks. “How. Long?!” His voice booms.

“It happened when I left for those two weeks.” Her voice barely registers above a whisper.

Anger bubbles in his chest when he does the math, “You’ve been cheating on me for two months? Two months?! Was that him this morning?” His nostrils are flared and he knows he’s getting louder now, but he doesn’t care.

She nods.

“Use your words, was it him?” He hisses.

She sobs, “Yes.”

His mind runs rampant with fury and humiliation, he’d spent the last four months trying to make sure he put her first, had tried to balance his personal and work life and instead of meeting him in the middle, she had betrayed him in such a humiliating way.

He paces the length of their bedroom now, head scrambling at the proverbial slap he’s just received . The cold familiarity of where he’d seen the fabric before suddenly dawns on him, creeping up his spine.

He stops dead in his tracks, turning to face her, asking the question he doesn’t want the answer to. “What’s his name?” He asks evenly.

“Jordan - Fitzgerald.”

He’d always thought the phrase, blood turning to ice, was just a saying but when Haley says those two words, he feels as though the floor has been pulled out from under him and his stomach sinks. He tries to piece together all of the moving parts, tries to connect the dots - he knows what this is, but his brain is still playing catch up.

He’s in a daze when he answers a call from McCall, his voice even. “I’m on my way to you, there’s been an accident.”

“An accident?” That pulls him out of his daze, a cold harsh push back into reality. Haley’s head whips up when she hears the words, tears streaming down her face. “Where?” He asks.

McCall pauses. “It’s her.”

Hotch can already feel what’s coming next, dread settling into his bones, his stomach churning when he remembers you’d planned to have dinner with your father. A violent shiver runs down his spine and he swallows down the bile that threatens to spill out.

“Status?” He whispers.

“Missing.”

———

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#aaron hotchner #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch fluff #hotch smut #cm fanfic #cm fic #cm fic rec #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds

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headaching · 3 years ago

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august chapter three excerpt because i feel like i'm never gonna finish this fic oh my god

At the foot of the staircase, Zuko began walking, but Sokka stayed motionless. Zuko turned around and asked, “What’s wrong?” as he looked down on Sokka.

Sokka shook his head through a soft smile and replied, “When I came up here earlier, I barely made it.”

Zuko frowned and reached for Sokka’s hands to lace their fingers together, enticing Sokka to step up until they were level. “Why?” Zuko asked.

“I thought about all the times we raced up these stairs,” Sokka answered, and Zuko breathed a quiet, somber laugh accompanied by a nod. “It made me sad,” Sokka added solemnly, Zuko tightened his grip on his hands.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice tight, “I get that.”

Sokka sighed and pulled a hand away to trace his fingers along Zuko’s forehead, the hollow of his cheek, and finally the base of his neck. “It must have been hard for you, to be reminded all the time. I'm sorry,” he apologized, and Zuko shook his head.

“Don’t be,” he replied, then exhaled a content breath. “Hey,” he said inquisitively, his eyes abandoning Sokka’s for the top of the stairs, “who do you think won the most?”

Sokka scoffed. How was that even a question? “Me, obviously.”

Zuko mocked, “You, obviously?” and let go of Sokka’s hand to willfully fold his arms over his chest. With Sokka’s lower body supported by the bannister, Zuko stood a couple inches taller than him, and he craned his neck upward to give the appearance of even more height.

“Well, I guess there’s only one way to settle this,” Sokka replied, and stepped forward into Zuko’s space. He matched his position with crossed arms and determined eyes staring straight ahead.

“I guess so,” Zuko agreed, then broke away and prepared a racing stance.

“Wait,” Sokka paused as nostalgia engulfed him, though this time, it felt just as it should have. “Promise to shush me if I get too loud?” he asked, and Zuko’s grin was overjoyed.

“Only if you promise to get too loud,” Zuko answered, and Sokka matched his smile.

Sokka said, “Sounds like a deal,” and held out his hand.

Zuko grabbed Sokka’s forearm and shook it firmly, but didn’t let go as he replied, “May the best man win.”

Sokka nodded and said, “On three. One, two…”

He let go of Zuko’s hand, then Zuko took off in a sprint up the stairs. “Three!” he yelled, and Sokka bounded forward to catch up.

“Zuko!” he reprimanded, hardly audible over their rumbling feet

Zuko’s head snapped backward and he flashed a mischievous grin, but Sokka closed in on him. He grabbed Zuko’s hips just as they reached the landing at the midpoint of the staircase. Sokka stopped running and effectively halted Zuko as well.

“Cheater!” Sokka yelled as he hurled Zuko into the bannister.

Zuko’s smirk was poorly disguised and his murmur of, “Sokka, shh,” was borderline threatening. Sokka shook his head at him, then glanced at Zuko’s lips, and enjoyed a smug moment when Zuko’s triumph wavered.

Sokka waited patiently for Zuko’s eyes to flutter closed, and when they did, he bounded up the stairs once more. “Gotcha!” Sokka yelled, and laughed at the muffled, “Fuck you,” that followed him.

With the top of the staircase approaching and victory in sight, Sokka’s breath was knocked out of his lungs when a hand curled around his leg and rendered him immobile. He fell face first onto the stairs, and even though Zuko crawled on top of him toward the top, Sokka was determined to win.

One of Sokka’s hands attempted to pry Zuko off him, while the other stretched its way toward the plateau of the top of the stairs. Zuko’s palm closed around the back of Sokka’s hand, and together their fingers inched onto the carpeted level floor.

“Not— fair—” Sokka wheezed between constrained breaths.

A voice belonging to neither of them supplied, “I’d call it a tie,” and Zuko and Sokka looked up simultaneously to find the two Kyoshi guards from earlier standing at the top of the stairs. The shorter of the two was hiding a laugh beneath her hand, while the other grinned and flitted her eyes between them.

“Feeling better?” she asked Sokka, and he looked up at the ceiling shyly.

“Oh, yeah,” he mumbled, then offered them a sheepish grin. “Quite better.” If Sokka’s hands hadn’t been occupied, he would have hidden his face in them.

Sokka accepted the women’s laughter, but he was appalled to hear Zuko snickering above his head. Sokka took advantage of his idle arm and jabbed Zuko in the side with his elbow.

Zuko cleared his throat, and the guards returned their expressions to stoicism. “As you were,” he said diplomatically, and they both nodded, then began their descent down the stairs. Their hushed giggles were immediately audible after they passed Sokka and Zuko, but Sokka ignored them.

He let go of Zuko’s hand and turned around so he was laying with his back against the stairs. “What’s wrong with you?” Sokka huffed, and wished he had the space to cross his arms.

“What’s wrong with me?” Zuko asked with a smile that was somehow both patronizing and affectionate.

“Why didn’t you get up? That was so embarrassing,” Sokka whined.

Zuko’s smile widened, and Sokka glared at his bared teeth. “That was embarrassing?” he asked, then dipped his head forward as he did. Sokka bit his lip and rolled his eyes, all he could seem to manage. Zuko was barely able to contain a laugh as he mimicked, “‘Quite better.’”

Sokka grasped Zuko’s face on either side of his mouth and squished his cheeks so he couldn’t speak. Zuko scowled, and it made him even cuter, so Sokka surrendered his losing battle of appearing angry.

#i wanna finish it this month so bad but. idk yall idk #the month is almost over wtf happened #the chapter already has 10k words but i have quite a bit i still want to say #ughhgx;lgkfhld #regardless i hope you enjoy this i hate them sm <3 #zukka #my work

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harrysweasleys · 4 years ago

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all to myself // f.w

summary: it’s fred’s birthday and he only wants to spend it with you

warnings: implied smut

word count: 2.4k

a/n: ok so here’s the deal. this was actually supposed to be a fred fic that involved the yule ball and then i realized i already wrote that one. so that was a brain fart. anyways, i replaced it with another fred fic but this was a non-requested idea!!! either way, enjoy! x

—————————

“Freddie, we’ve gotta get going,” you giggled, your skin erupting in goosebumps under his delicate touch, sloppy kisses being placed up and down your neck.

“Why don’t we skip dinner?” he mumbled against your skin, his soft hands slowly beginning to slide up under your shirt and grazing your skin with his fingers, “Much rather spend it alone here with you.”

You feebly attempted to push him off of you, not really wanting to lose the contact but knowing you had places to be, “Because we promised your mum. Also, it’s George’s birthday too, incase you’ve forgotten.”

He chuckled against your skin, “Y’know, darling, we could just say you’re sick.”

“Fred,” you groaned, successfully sliding out from under him and sitting upright on the bed, pulling your loose shirt back down from where he had hitched it up, “I need to get ready. We have to be there shortly. Then, after we return, you can have me all night.”

His eyebrows shot up and he smirked at you, “All night, you say? Quite tempting, I must admit.”

You gave him a quick wink and stood up off the bed, walking over to the dresser where your dress was hanging, smoothed out and ready to go. You had bought it nearly two years ago when shopping with Ginny, but had never found an occasion to wear it. Tonight felt like the right time.

You took it off the hanger and glanced at it. It was quite a lovely dress. You hoped Fred would like it. After all, there’s no one in the world you’d rather impress.

“I guess I should go get changed too, then,” Fred threw himself back onto the bed, groaning and sighing dramatically, arms spread out as he watched you walk with your dress in your hands.

You laughed at him, entering the bathroom, “Yes, go get changed. I’ll be ready in a few.”

Closing the door behind you and ignoring his antics, you stripped down and put on the dress, admiring yourself in the mirror. Even you had to admit, it was quite beautiful. It hugged your body perfectly, the silky smooth material shining under the bathroom lights. You grabbed your wand — which you had in the waistband of the sweats you were previously wearing — and brought it up to your hair, flicking it with a quick enchantment and having your hair fall straight over your shoulders. Although Fred loved you in your natural state, you knew he also loved it when you dressed up. Especially if it was for him.

Within five minutes, your makeup was done and you stepped outside of the bathroom, breath catching in your throat when you saw Fred sitting on the edge of the bed looking mighty fine.

His eyes widened immediately once they landed on you, scanning you up and down with his mouth slightly open, “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you? You’re actually trying to murder me.”

You blushed furiously, thankful for the makeup you had applied for hiding it. He stood up and walked over to you, letting you see his outfit fully.

“You look pretty good yourself, handsome,” you grinned as his arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you into his body. He was wearing a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows — he knew exactly how to rile you up and you’d be damned if you said it wasn’t working.

“I’m regretting agreeing to this dinner,” he mumbled, leaning over to place a kiss to your temple, arms tightening around you, “Not gonna be able to control myself.”

Your body felt like it was on fire as he leaned down once more, placing his lips against your neck and causing you to shiver. The idea of skipping dinner and staying in bed with him was incredibly tempting, even you had to admit that.

“C’mon, love,” you mumbled, subconsciously tilting your head once more even though every part of you knew you had to get going, “Your family’s waiting for us.”

“Let them wait,” he said softly against your skin, his hands sliding down the back of your dress further and further until you grabbed his arms and brought them up again, pulling away from him and raising an eyebrow.

“No more games, let’s go,” you grinned, locking your hand with his and walking towards the living room, “Just gonna grab the keys and we can apparate.” He groaned, pouting like a toddler who had been told they can’t have what they wanted. Although, this was how Fred behaved most days. He really was needy for your attention and touch — about as needy as you were for him.

“Why’d you need keys if we’re apparating?” he furrowed his eyebrows, his face no longer pouty as he realized he wasn’t going to get what he wanted just yet.

“Incase something happens,” you shrugged, not sure why the habit of bringing keys never died down even after you learned to apparate, “Now, let’s go.”

He sighed, rolling his eyes and pulling your body close to his, “Fine, fine, let’s go.” He leaned in a pressed a kiss to your lips before pulling his body away and holding your hand in his, the two of you momentarily being engulfed by darkness before appearing in the dining room of the Burrow.

“Oh — bloody hell,” Ron screeched, falling off of his seat and nearly knocking poor Hermione to the ground, his eyes bulging slightly before returning to their normal size, “Y’know you two can use Floo? That way you don’t give anyone — particularly me — a heart attack, thanks.”

You grinned as he stood up, placing his hand over his heart, “Good to see you, Ron. And you, Hermione.” She returned the greeting kindly.

Ron nodded in your direction, mustering up a sarcastic smile, before turning to Fred, “Happy birthday, mate. They’re all in the living room.”

Fred thanked his younger brother, who was now over the fright, and brought Hermione along with him to follow you two into the living room. Upon entering, Fred barely stepped inside before he was engulfed into a massive hug, his mother telling him happy birthday and how much she had missed him these last few weeks.

“Blimey, mum, can’t breathe,” Fred pretended to croak, patting her awkwardly on the back as she was much shorter than he was. You chuckled, Mrs Weasley clearly didn’t mind her son’s sarcasm at the moment.

“Oh!” she pulled away, enveloping you in a tight hug as well, “So nice to see you dear!” Molly Weasley gave, quite possibly, what could be considered the greatest hugs of all time. She was one of the most comforting and accepting people you had ever met and you’d gladly accept hugs from her every hour of the day.

“So lovely to see you too, Mrs Weasley,” you hugged back, smiling kindly as she pulled away before scolding you for not calling her Molly as she had repeatedly told you to do so.

Greetings went on for a while — Fred did have a large family, after all. All of his siblings and their spouses had shown up, crowding the Burrow with their much appreciated presence.

Colourful decorations were hung from the windows and staircase bannister, illuminating the room. Balloons floated around, sparking brightly under the lights. You had been here for multiple Weasley birthdays, hut every time, Mrs Weasley seemed to outdo herself on decorations. It was always lovely to see.

“I’d make a joke about staring into a mirror, but I’m the better looking twin anyways so it wouldn’t work,” Fred grinned as he approached George, the two hugging for a moment before wishing each other a happy birthday, George insisting that he was actually the better looking twin.

You laughed at their bickering before they already dived into business talk, planning their next line of products as you chatted with Hermione and Ginny.

——

The rest of the evening was filled with laughter, butterbeer, a rather incredible four tiered cake that Mrs Weasley had so lovingly made, and of course, a display of fireworks arranged by the birthday twins themselves.

No one celebrated Fred and George Weasley like Fred and George Weasley.

After the fireworks died down and the bugs started to come out, everyone made their way inside and sat around the living room, telling stories that made your stomach and cheeks hurt from laughing so hard.

You were comfortably situated on the soft carpet, resting your back against the couch and between Fred’s legs, who was playing with your hair and running his fingers along the back of your neck every now and then, distracting you from the conversation entirely. He was being incredibly subtle and cheeky, and you knew he was doing it on purpose.

“Could never look at a spider the same way,” everyone in the room laughed as Ron recalled his story of Fred traumatizing him as a child. A story that you had heard countless times but cracked you up nonetheless.

“Doesn’t beat the time George put blue hair dye in my shampoo,” Bill raised his eyebrows as if challenging Ron’s story, a laugh bubbling in your chest as you leaned your head back against Fred’s hand, the soothing feeling of his hands in your hair was causing your head to become heavy. That, and the more physical contact you could get with him, the better.

“Reckon you looked better with blue hair, mate,” Fred piped up, pointing to his twin across the room, “One of Georgie’s best works.”

“Why, thank you,” George placed his hand over his heart, “But I think I outdid myself later that week when I put green hair dye in Ginny’s shampoo. Never seen her as livid.”

You watched in amusement as the siblings around the room argued about old pranks, before sitting up and deciding to take a seat on the couch instead, where you could lean into Fred’s side instead. His arms wrapped around you, placing a quick kiss to your temple before turning his attention back to his family, his hand toying with hem of your dress.

You hummed silently, feeling perfectly at bliss, enjoying the chatter of the family until the party died down.

Bill and Fleur were the first to leave, soon followed by Charlie, then Percy, then Harry and Ginny. You could tell by the way Fred’s hands seemed to linger over your body when no one was looking that he was becoming eager to leave as well.

“Ready?” he mumbled in your ear, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, goosebumps rising on your skin at his touch.

“Fine, we’ll go say bye to your family,” you spun around, tapping him lightly on the nose and grinning at his pleased expression, pulling away and leading the two of you back into the living room after saying by to Ginny and Harry at the door.

“Finally,” he chuckled, “Drivin’ me mad, love.”

Fighting the blush that was threatening to rise, you walked back into the living room where the remainder of his family was sitting around, enjoying each other’s company and conversing in small talk.

As much as you’d love to sit around and continue chatting, the bed at home was calling yours and Fred’s names and you weren’t sure how much longer you could wait.

“We’re gonna head out too,” Fred wrapped his arm around your waist, “she’s got early work tomorrow and isn’t feeling too great.”

You wanted so badly to turn and scowl at him for his ridiculous lie, but you kept a straight face and poked him in the side, out of view of his family. He jumped slightly, a smirk etching his way onto his overly proud face.

“Hope you feel better dear,” Molly Weasley hopped off the couch and made her way towards you, pulling you into a hug and then moving on to Fred, “Happy birthday, Freddie.”

Arthur, George, Ron and Hermione came over to bid you both a goodbye as well, each hugging and wishing to see you both again soon. The whole time you were planning the next get together, Fred’s hand moved lower and lower down your back, showing his impatience.

“Right, goodnight,” Fred said quickly once silence had overcome the room, grabbing your hand and apparating back to your cozy apartment.

You lost your balance at the sudden change in scenery, not expecting him to take you away so soon. You were nearly certain Arthur Weasley was about to say something before you two disappeared.

“Well, you took off rather quickly,” you smirked, removing your shoes and walking over to place them by the front door where Fred was doing the same, quickly undoing the laces as if his shoes were on fire.

Patience was never his strong suit.

“Had other engagements to attend,” he stood up straight after both your shoes had been removed, wrapping his arms around your waist and tossing you over his shoulder, your hair falling loosely and the blood rushing to your head as you laughed.

He quickly took off towards the bedroom, throwing you down on the bed as you continued laughing, clearly enjoying how riled up he was. It was true, you did the love the fact that you had such a strong effect on Fred without even putting that much of an effort. He was putty in your hands, as you were in his.

He unbuttoned his dress shirt, discarding it to the side and leaning over you, lips pressing up against yours with all the passion and lust that had been building up throughout the evening. His hands were warm as the grasped your hips, moving down to play with the hem of your dress, his lips still moving against yours.

Any and all thoughts you had were pushed out of your mind and your entire body was consumed by him — his touch, his kiss, his smell. He was intoxicating in every aspect and you couldn’t get enough.

“You’re too dressed for my liking,” he mumbled against your lips, hands moving up from the hem and sliding up your back, pulling you off the bed so he could reach the zipper and slowly pull it down, the cool air hitting your skin stimulating your senses and speeding up the beating of your heart.

“Impatient, are we?” you smirked, your hands roaming his bare chest and pressing your body up against his, absolutely loving the contact.

“Course. It’s my birthday,” he shrugged, lifting you up and placing you back down on the bed now that your dress was completely forgotten on the door, “Which means tonight, I have you all to myself.”

#fred weasley #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley imagines #fred weasley one shot #fred weasley one shots #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fics #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley reader insert

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rosaliepostsstuff · 4 years ago

Text

Little steps (George Weasley x reader) | pt 5 - Affirmation

Pairing: George Weasley x reader

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4

Word count: 1652

Summary: Y/N visits Grimmauld Place for the weekend and on her last evening she stays up late with George.

warnings: none, fluffy fluff

a/n: We’ve reached the finale, my loves. It’s been nice, I hope you liked it. As always, let me know what you thought I listened to Imagine Dragons - Only; or HUNGER - amused while writing the ending, if that interests anybody 😅

The second gif was made by yours truly

July, 1995

From the very start, you knew these summer holidays were going to be unlike any other. You were still going out with your friends in London – Merlin, you even got back on speaking terms with Matt, after he pulled his head out of his ass. But the night after Voldemort came back Dumbledore assembled the Order of the Phoenix, an organisation that was going to oppose him.

It didn’t mean much to you just yet – all the adults were keeping you and your friends in the dark. Your family, or rather its adult members, were a part of it. That meant they visited the Weasleys, who were now living at the headquarters in London, a few times since July started almost two weeks ago.

You went in and out of there quickly a couple of times – you even managed to convince Molly to let Ron go out with you and your friends. George saw you flash through the staircase opening, but you were gone before you could notice him.

He kept true to his word and wrote to you the day after you parted on King’s Cross. You exchanged owls often, sometimes they carried short and sweet letters, full of innocent pet names; sometimes long tirades – about how damp and dusty his room at Grimmauld Place was, how Ron annoyed him that day, how you were trying to redecorate your room and broke the wardrobe door; sometimes they contained discussions worthy of shower thoughts.

This weekend you were going to stay over, your older brother escorted you and Hermione, who planned to stay the whole summer. From the moment you stepped over the threshold you were a little tense with excitement, your subconscious expecting to see George around every corner.

You had dumped your bag in the room you were going to share with the girls and you were currently laying on the empty bed in Ron’s room, examining the ceiling.

“It’s a dump. A damp and dusty one. And not to mention the cobwebs – have you seen those? Bloody hell, I can’t imagine living in here until September. And mum’s gone crazy with the cleaning!” “Oh come on, Ronald, I’m sure it’s not that bad. The place’s not been lived in for long, it just needs a little work!” “And the house-elf, he’s horrid – he wanders around at night, mumbling about his masters…”

You got up to go use the bathroom. You went out of the room and stepped down the creaky stairs to the floor below. As you followed the narrow corridor, suddenly in front of you -CRACK!- “Bloody hell! Merlin’s beard, do you want to be responsible for my premature passing?!” you eyed the tall redhead standing in front of you as you clutched the bannister for dear life. His grin only widened, “Fancy seeing you here, princess, finally.” You straightened up and tried to fight back the smile at that nickname. He had his hair cut – he mentioned it in one of the first letters, but you didn’t expect it to look this good. He spread his arms and motioned for you to come closer, giving you puppy eyes and an innocent smile. You gave him a hug that lasted far too short. Pulling back, you said “the haircut” and reached for it with your hand. He helped you a little bit, bending down “I like it” you said with a smile, running your fingers through and ruffling it a bit. “Well in that case I might have to go to my mother and take back everything I may or may not have said about it previously.”

That little encounter left you hungry for more and all the small interactions with him you were already used to felt different than at Hogwarts. It wasn’t school anymore, it was a home – perhaps not the Burrow, but still.

You didn’t see him much the next day, busy with Molly, but in the evening you, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Fred and George attempted playing a muggle card game you and Hermione knew. The game was going really slow, but you were having fun. Fred accused you of helping George out, which you – of course – denied, even though it was Ginny who won in the end.

The Sunday evening was much slower, the whole house stayed in the kitchen long after dinner, chatting and exchanging stories over butterbeer. It was getting late now, you rested your cheek on your palm, elbow propped on the table. You got distracted from Arthur’s story by a light tap on your foot. You glanced at George, who was sitting opposite you and he looked up, then to both sides and avoided your gaze. A few seconds after you looked away, another tap. The same thing again, except a smirk was creeping up onto his face. This time you prodded his foot and he finally looked at you, feigning shock. You had to bite your lip to fight a grin.

He picked up his napkin and started folding it up. You watched and figured he was trying to make a shape out of it. He kept glancing at you every once in a while and the napkin still wouldn’t look like anything recognisable.

You picked up your own one and made the one origami shape you knew how – a butterfly. You looked at him in triumph, saw his eyebrows scrunched up looking at your butterfly, then he pretended he was unimpressed.

Molly decided it was time to wrap up and people started heading out, but she must’ve been in a good mood and left without ushering you all to beds.

“D’you wanna hang out a bit longer?” George caught up to you as you were getting up from your seat. “Uh, sure..” you said, looking at Hermione, who tried not to smile when she saw you and then left with everyone else, leaving you two alone.

You swallowed and couldn’t look up at him just yet, feeling your heart start to hammer. You walked to the huge fireplace and George followed you, then sat down in front of it. “So, how are you doing?” he asked and leaned back on his arms. You did the same and answered, “I’m alright.” Both of you watched how the firewood was slowly cracking in front of you. “You’re going home tomorrow, aren’t you?” “Yup. Before lunch.” You said and he nodded slowly.

George’s heart sank a bit, thinking about waiting Merlin knows how long again, writing letters before he would get to barely spend any time with you when you visit again.

“That blows.” You chuckled, looking at him. “Why don’t you just move here? I think that would be the best for everyone” he said very seriously. “Move here?” you laughed, “and help Molly’s cleaning crew every day? I don’t think so. I mean, what would I get out of it?” “My attention?” You blushed a bit, “I got plenty of that the last few months, Georgie, I don’t think I could handle it.” You were silent for a bit, your heartbeat going crazy as he studied your face carefully. “..And how would you feel about getting my full attention?” Your lips parted slightly in shock, you watched him carefully but you didn’t even notice when he moved closer. You were looking for something in his eyes, something that would tell you he wasn’t serious about it, that it didn’t mean what you thought it did. But they were just as sincere as they always have been when he looked at you. Those warm, brown eyes that made you feel so much, that made you feel so welcome that you could look into them forever. “…as my girlfriend..?” he whispered.

You didn’t say anything. Looking at him with all the love you had in you, pushing all the weight off your shoulders, very slowly you leaned in and stopped just as you were about to meet his lips. You felt his breath on yours for just a second, and he closed the distance. Your lips fit perfectly in a soft kiss that felt like nothing before and even better than you could’ve imagined before. A tide of euphoria washed over you. One of his hands rested on your waist and you moved one of yours to the side of his face to deepen the kiss.

“Is that a yes?” George asked after pulling away.

You smiled and kissed him again, with more passion this time, at first slow and tender. He was intoxicating, his smell felt like you’ve always known it and so, so comforting. The warmth from the fire hugged you from the side and mixed with his body warmth. George pulled your body even closer and your hands travelled along his shoulders, the back of his neck and his hair as the kiss became more demanding. The silence of the night broken only by the gentle crackling of firewood and your rapid breathing. When the need for oxygen became too much, you placed last few, slow pecks onto his swollen lips and pulled away.

“Was that affirmative enough?” you asked breathily. “I’ll take it.” he chuckled and he gently pulled you to the floor to lay on top of him. He held you tight against him and you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, cherishing the closeness. You breathed in his smell with a wide smile on your face. His was just the same as he stroked your back up and down and placed a soft, loving kiss on your temple. It was just you and him that mattered, you relished in the feeling of his chest rising and falling with each breath or his heartbeat next to yours.

You stayed up together until your eyes started closing on their own. You made your way upstairs and parted ways in front of the girls’ room, but not before one, last, goodnight kiss. Or a few.

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley imagine #george weasley fanfiction #harry potter imagine #x reader

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longing-and-heartache-and-lust · 3 years ago

Text

the drug, the dark, the light, the flame, Ch.IX.ii

[previous] [next] [Ao3]

A brand new chapter of my work for this year’s @geraskierbigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @gen-syz-art as my artist 💕

Take a look at @gen-syz-art incredible art for this chapter here ✨✨✨ (beware of spoilers)

___________________

Looking for Jaskier takes some time.

The gardens almost seem even bigger than they were last time, and there are so many different scents that Geralt can’t isolate the one he’s looking for from the rest.

He could just ask, for in his search he comes across eight different people, and at least one of them should know where Jaskier is, but Geralt makes a point out of finding him on his own.

It takes him almost an hour to finally come across a willow tree, its long vines falling all the way to the ground like a curtain, and be greeted by Lucio that pokes his nose out of them.

Stepping inside is like stepping into a sanctuary, into a safe place, completely detached from the outside world.

The curtain of vines surrounds the tree from all sides, and the sun that breaks through them makes this hidden little world feel even more magical. There’s enough space to fit quite a few people, the willow old and generous, and Geralt thinks that it’s probably the best place to spend long summer days, hiding from the heat and from the outside world in general.

Jaskier doesn’t notice him at first, too preoccupied with writing something in a notebook he’s got open in his lap, but when Asra perks up to greet the witcher, he raises his head.

“You found my hiding place,” he smiles, bright as the sun.

He pats the empty space beside him, and Geralt comes closer before he even thinks about it, getting down into the grass and resting his back against the tree trunk, as well. He tries to get a look at what Jaskier is writing but the younger man hides the notebook from him as soon as he notices.

“Searched the entire garden,” Geralt chuckles in response.

After an entire day spent in bed and a proper night’s sleep, he feels like himself again, the wounds on his thigh now healing much faster and the pain almost gone. He doesn’t limp as he walks any longer.

“This is one of my favourite places of the entire estate,” Jaskier says, and he’s so torturously-close that Geralt can’t help but lean towards him until their shoulders are pressed together. “If I’m not in the mansion, I’m here.”

He’s got a dark-green chemise on, the sleeves embroidered with gold thread, and every time a ray of the sun catches on it, it shines, and though Geralt himself prefers much more subtle colours and designs, he can’t deny that it looks beautiful.

“I can see why,” he nods. “It’s peaceful here.”

Jaskier hums an affirmation, his eyes closed blissfully. Geralt still can’t quite get used to just how relaxed he is in his presence, how there isn’t even a hint of fear that he is so used to feeling on other people. That almost makes him forget about the world outside the mansion and his role in it.

He thinks, once again, how when he’s with Jaskier, he can be more than just what his mutations make him.

And then, it finally hits him.

It’s not that he wants to return to the mansion.

It’s that he doesn’t want to leave.

***

They spend almost half of the day in Jaskier’s little hiding place.

Jaskier tells him more about his time in the Academy and, when Geralt asks, tells him that though he’s got an honours diploma for all seven liberal arts, his heart and soul have always belonged to poetry and music. When Geralt considers it, he’s almost surprised by just how easy it is to think of Jaskier as a bard.

Can a prince also be a bard? An illegitimate one probably can. It’s a perfect disguise.

Bard.

It’s easy to refer to him by that name in Geralt’s mind.

After Jaskier tells him that, he finally lets the witcher see his notebook, filled with poems, neat lines or runes crossed out and then written again over and over. Geralt doesn’t understand much in poetry but the lines that he reads are filled with such emotions that they pull on the strings deep in his heart.

Once he gets to the unfinished poem that Jaskier was working on when he’d found him, Jaskier snatches the notebook from his hands and refuses to give it back, a beautiful shade of red spilling over his cheeks.

Geralt can’t quite stop himself from reaching out and running his thumb over the soft skin, and before he can pull away, Jaskier intercepts his wrist and tugs him down onto the grass, laughing as Geralt blink in mild confusion, his body suddenly unable to resist, though Jaskier’s strength is nothing compared to his.

They stay lying side by side in the soft grass for what seems like hours, Jaskier reciting poems and ballads by heart, and Geralt just listening. At some point, he lets himself get convinced - somehow - to also recite something, and he entertains the bard with a highly indecent poem about a farmer’s daughter and a knight that he and his brothers used to giggle over when they were still kids in Kaer Morhen.

Jaskier plays courtier, gasping at the crudeness, but then breaks into laughter, unable to keep his act up.

He rolls onto his stomach, propping himself up on both elbows to get a proper look at the witcher, and reaches out to brush a stray silver strand away from his face.

Even if Geralt’s life depended on it, he wouldn't be able to decide whether he likes this quiet comfort or the maddening teasing more.

And though the knowledge of having to leave in a few days is a constant reminder somewhere in the far corner of his mind, he allows himself - if only for a little while - to put it aside.

***

“Do you want to see the sunset?”

The library is painted gold and scarlet with the light of the setting sun, and the colours play beautifully on the silk of Jaskier’s chemise.

Geralt doesn’t necessarily want to move, more than comfortable on the soft settee and with Jaskier half-asleep in his arms, but when in the last two months had he been able to say no to this man?

Jaskier’s eyes light up when Geralt hums an affirmation, and the next moment he’s already up on his feet, alerting the dogs napping peacefully on a chair by the window. They jump down onto the rug, ears perked up and tails wagging, feeling Jaskier excitement in his scent the same way that Geralt feels it.

He lets himself be pulled away from the settee, Jaskier’s warm fingers wrapped around his own, and follows him into the hallway and towards the wide staircase.

“Come on, we’re going to miss it,” Jaskier urges, adorably impatient.

Geralt’s healing thigh gives a little stab of protest as they pick up the pace, nearly running up the stairs, but Geralt’s had much worse, so it barely registers with him.

They make their way up onto the fifth floor and down yet another hallway to the very end of the west wing of the mansion, where Jaskier pushes open the door of a bedroom and they rush inside, towards the balcony doors, the golden light streaming through the glass, nearly blinding.

Jaskier lets go of Geralt’s hand to push down on both door handles, throwing the arches open, and for a second, the view takes Geralt’s breath away.

This high up, they can watch the golden disk of the setting sun as it slowly makes it's way down, touching the treetops of the pines in the forest. In the distance, Geralt can see the glimmering ribbon of the river, and all around the mansion, there are valleys of flowers in full bloom. The scent is sweet and heady, almost intoxicating, and Geralt takes in a deep breath, feeling his lungs expand in his chest.

He steals a look towards Jaskier, who doesn’t seem to notice it, too mesmerised by the golden light. It reflects in his eyes, making them look bottomless. Had their lives been different, Geralt would’ve let himself drown in that depth.

“Oh, isn’t this just gorgeous?” Jaskier asks in a breathy whisper, never taking his eyes off the horizon.

Geralt takes a step closer to him without even fully realising. It’s like in the past two days he’d grown so used to having Jaskier in his arms that he can’t keep a distance between them anymore. His scent, his warmth, the feeling of his skin - everything about him is drawing Geralt in, and he’s helpless against it.

Finally, Jaskier looks away from the setting sun and at Geralt. He keeps their eyes locked for a long moment before his gaze drops to Geralt’s lips, and Geralt can feel his heart skip a beat before picking up its pace. The fire in his chest flares up, so bright that it’s almost painful.

Jaskier takes a step towards him, suddenly so close that all Geralt needs to do is dip his head, and he’ll finally learn what his lips taste like. He holds himself back with all the self-control he’s got but it’s running out fast. He knows that this will make everything worse, that it will make leaving more painful for both of them, but he still desperately hopes that Jaskier would close in that remaining distance between them.

Because then, maybe, it would be easier to justify Geralt’s absolute powerlessness against him.

Without it fully registering with him, Geralt wraps an arm around Jaskier’s waist, holding him close, the bard’s breath ghosting over his lips.

The moment seems to last forever, Geralt’s self-control cracking and breaking like porcelain, but just before he can make the mistake that he so longs for, Jaskier presses his fingers to the witcher’s lips, creating a barrier, and leaves a kiss over them, laughing as he breaks away.

Geralt fails to bite back a low growl, disenchantment curling into a ball in his chest like a small animal, its little claws digging deep into his heart.

And still, despite himself, he cannot hold all these torturous little games against Jaskier.

“Is that blush I see on your cheeks, my darling?” Jaskier murmurs, jumping up to sit on the bannister.

Instinctively, Geralt holds him tighter, unwilling to risk his safety.

“You’ll fall if you’re not careful,” he says flatly, ignoring the question.

They’re still so unbearably close, and Geralt can’t deny himself the pleasure of bringing his other hand up to rest it on Jaskier’s thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh just enough for it to be justified as him making sure the bard is safe.

Jaskier doesn’t make any move to get away from the touch, and when Geralt runs his thumb over the inner side of his thigh, his lips part on a soft little gasp.

It’s impossible not to think about the bed back in the room. About just how easy it would be to lift Jaskier up and carry him to it, lay him down onto the silk and velvet, biting marks into his neck. Impossible not to imagine all the sweet little sounds he would make.

Up on the bannister, Jaskier is higher than him, and when he reaches to tip Geralt’s chin up, there isn’t much he can do but comply.

“What do you want, Witcher?” Jaskier murmurs, his ankles locking behind Geralt’s back to keep him close.

Standing between his spread knees is just more than Geralt can take, and he tightens his grip on the bard’s thigh to keep himself grounded. Knowing that there are going to be bruises left, and Jaskier is going to have his skin painted with them for days, marked and claimed, does absolutely nothing to help the situation.

“I want you to stop putting yourself in danger,” Geralt growls, low and impatient, almost threatening.

He’s referring to much more than just sitting on the bannister, a five-floor drop on the other side, and they both know it very well.

Jaskier’s scent spikes up with sweet, heady notes of arousal even as he hisses at the tight grip on his thigh. Geralt bites his tongue painfully not no lean in and nose at Jaskier’s neck, right under the jaw, where that scent is the strongest. If he does, he won’t be able to hold back anymore.

Jaskier’s eyes light up with a spark of mischief, almost a challenge, and it only takes him one perfectly calculated move to twist out of Geralt’s grip, standing up on the bannister and laughing victoriously.

Geralt’s heart drops at the sight, and he grabs Jaskier’s hand tightly, ensuring his balance. The bannister isn’t necessarily narrow, Jaskier could probably lie down on it if he wanted to, but he could still slip, and that is not a risk that Geralt is willing to take.

The fire in his chest gives way to the rush of adrenaline, and he sighs deeply, calming himself down.

This is going to be the death of him.

“I’m putting myself in danger,” Jaskier grins, walking the length of the bannister in theatrically slow steps, his hand still in Geralt’s tight grip. “What are you going to do about it?”

Oh, there are so many things Geralt could do about it.

In his imagination, he presses Jaskier up against the wall of the balcony, bites into his lips, parting them with his tongue. He sucks marks and bruising kisses into his neck, the skin there so flawlessly smooth that the love-bites stand out like blood-red flowers against it. He leads Jaskier back inside, pulls him down onto the bed, undoing the intricate lacing and buttons of his clothes.

He takes him apart with hands and lips, drinking in every little whimper and moan, until Jaskier is trembling and gasping, and does it all over again.

But none of that can go further than his imagination.

So instead, he just yanks Jaskier towards him, catching him before he falls, and grins to himself at the way that he yelps in surprise. A small but pleasant victory.

“Balcony bannisters are no place for a prince,” Geralt murmurs, and the last word just slips.

He bites his tongue way too late, never having meant to say it out loud, to admit - so incautiously and foolishly - that that is what he’d somehow grow to think of Jaskier as. If it’s not true, then he’s just childish for believing something he’d heard in a nearby town, and if it is true… then I can turn out to bear far worse consequences, for both of them. An illegitimate prince hidden in a giant mansion in the middle of nowhere is unlikely to afford for his identity to be known. And the King certainly doesn’t.

For a long moment, Geralt feels like he can barely breathe, waiting for a reaction, but Jaskier just gives him a long, slightly puzzled look that could mean just about anything, and, finally, gives him a charming smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “It is no place for a prince.”

***

The three days after that go by in relative peace.

They spend most of the time in the gardens or in the library, reading, talking or just being in each other’s presence, even if neither says a word.

Jaskier decides, at one point, to give the cooks a day off and take over the kitchen, entrusting Geralt with the venison brought in by his hunters earlier in the day, while he’s busy with herbs and vegetables. Geralt doesn’t really protest, used to helping out in the kitchen in Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier does look ridiculously good in an apron. He does turn out to be rather bossy in the kitchen but Geralt fails to find it in himself to mind.

They play with the dogs, both Asra and Lucio now used enough to the witcher to trust him, napping with their heads in his lap whenever Jaskier’s is unavailable. They’re just as unafraid of Geralt as their owner, and for Geralt, who is used to animals hissing and growling at him, it’s almost touching.

At night, if the sky is clear, Jaskier lures Geralt out into the gardens to lie down in the grass and watch the endless stars shimmer in the sky. He remembers a lot of astronomy from the Academy, and tells Geralt about the constellations high above, as well as making up his own ones based on what he sees in the sky.

It gets cold at night, and he keeps close to Geralt, safe and warm under their shared cloak. Geralt keeps an arm around him and presses his cold nose to his temple every now and then to make the bard giggle.

Jaskier almost kisses him more times than Geralt would be able to count, but each time he breaks away, laughing and leaving him with nothing. Geralt knows that he’s just waiting for him to break first, and it takes him everything he’s got not to.

A couple of times he comes very close to pushing Jaskier up against the nearest wall, for he never stops his torturous teasing, but on some level, he almost enjoys this inability to have him, because though the fire in his chest can grow painfully hot, no-one’s ever made him feel like this.

It helps, in a way, that Jaskier is always hearing his intricately embroidered shirts with sleeves that cinch in on his wrists and high collars that keep most of his skin hidden, because Geralt isn’t sure that he’d able to think about anything other than the marks that he could leave on that skin had it been any other way.

And that… well, that ends up playing against him.

It’s his sixth morning in the mansion - the second to last, he tells himself repeatedly - when he fails to find Jaskier in any of the places that they would usually spend the morning in.

The first place that Geralt searches through is the downstairs library that seems to be Jaskier's favourite room of the mansion. There are books that they’ve left behind the night before, pieces of parchment all over the table, and Jaskier’s cloak but no sign of the bard himself.

When Geralt doesn't find him there, and then in the gardens, and then in the smaller library upstairs, there is no other place that he can think of other than Jaskier's bedroom. It's still relatively early in the morning, and maybe he's too unwilling to get out of bed just yet, warmed by both Asra and Lucio.

Reluctantly, Geralt makes his way up to the last floor and to the door of Jaskier's bedroom. He'd never been inside, and for some reason, it feels unnerving. All the time that he’d spent in the mansion, he’d only been on the fifth floor twice: first when Jaskier was giving him a general tour, and then when they rushed to the balcony to watch the sunset.

Jaskier’s rooms have remained something almost forbidden, a place where Jaskier would disappear to at night and then leave in the morning. Something private, sealed off to all guests.

After standing outside the door for a few long moments, Geralt knocks, expecting to hear the now-familiar tap-tap-tap of the dogs' claws along the floor because they're always the first ones to check, but gets no answer.

Feeling like he shouldn't be doing this, he tests the door handle, and it turns with no resistance.

The bedroom is just as big as he'd imagined, with a canopy bed lined with wine-red velvet and arch windows that let through the soft morning light. There are large paintings in golden frames hung on the walls, stacks of parchment and books on the table by one of the windows, a chandelier for what must be a hundred candles on the high ceiling.

It’s a gorgeous room.

But right now, Geralt can't quite concentrate on any of that, because all he can look at is the open door to the bathroom in the far end of the room. He can hear water splashing softly and then Jaskier's footsteps that he'd grown to recognise among all others.

His throat suddenly feels very dry, and he can't bring himself to say something, nor can he turn around and leave, giving the younger man his privacy. Instead, he just stands and watches, waiting for... he doesn't even know what, exactly.

Jaskier stays out of his field of vision for some time, murmuring some song under his breath, and when Geralt does finally see him, he's got his back to him, a silk dressing gown flowing down his body in waves.

For reasons that Geralt can only assume to be cruel fate, Jaskier keeps his robe off his shoulders, just a little above the line of his elbows, like a voluminous shawl. It covers his arms below the elbows, his lower back and his legs, providing some modesty, but after only seeing Jaskier in his silk shirts, barely any open skin, Geralt feels like all air had been sucked out of his lungs.

The half-discarded dressing gown provides Geralt with a perfect view of Jaskier's neck and shoulders, drops of water still shining on his beautiful pale skin, of the curve of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades that Geralt wishes he could follow with his lips and fingertips.

He can see the soft outlines of muscles, the little birthmark just above Jaskier’s right shoulder blade, just a few tones darker than his overall pale skin, the thin white scar on the curve of his left shoulder.

And there's something else, too. Something Geralt didn't expect but that looks so elegant on Jaskier's body that it causes little to no resonance in the witcher.

Right between Jaskier's shoulder blades, perfectly centred, his skin is adorned with a delicate, geometric design. It looks like white ink, just brighter, standing out against the skin, almost glowing in the low candlelight of the bathroom, and though Geralt's never seen anything like that before, it looks beautiful.

He'd only seen tattoos on Skellige and in Novigrad, but this one is so starkly different from all of those, so delicate and precise, that it feels like it doesn’t even belong to this realm. Unusual that a member of the royal family - legitimate or not - would have something like this but perhaps this is exactly what marks him as one? Hidden under all that silk, Geralt never would’ve known he had it if he hadn't seen it now. So how can he assume that other members of the ruling family don’t have one?

It’s way too late when it registers with him that he’d crossed the room already and is now only a few steps shy of the open bathroom door, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier.

Jaskier, on the other hand, seems completely aware of his presence.

“Did you want something?” he murmurs, completely unfazed as he brushes past Geralt and into the bedroom.

His hair is still wet from his bath, falling into his face in loose locks, the smell of pomegranate sweet and heady in the air, almost making Geralt’s head spin.

Jaskier’s collarbones are a sharp outline, the delicate skin stretched tight over them, and though Geralt’s always had a thing for it, he can feel a sharp spasm of pure lust somewhere deep in his abdomen from just how bad he wants to bite into them.

Without fully thinking his actions through, he catches Jaskier’s wrist and turns him around, so they’re face to face again. Jaskier gasps but doesn’t resist, his cornflower-blue eyes snapping up to meet Geralt’s.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths, like he’s completely unbothered by the state he’s in, by Geralt seeing him like this.

“I was wondering if you were going to let yourself in if I leave the door unlocked,” he murmurs, taking another step towards the witcher, until there is no more space left between them. “If you came looking for me while I was still in the bath, what would you have done?”

He shifts, pressing his hips to Geralt’s thigh, and it resonates through the witcher’s entire body like lightning when he realises that under the thin silk of the dressing gown, Jaskier is completely naked.

“Would you have helped me with my hair?” the bard goes on, that same intoxicatingly sweet murmur. “Or would you have simply fucked me right there and then?”

And at that, Geralt snaps.

He grabs Jaskier’s thighs, lifting him from the floor, and sits him down impatiently onto a chest of drawers just behind his back, not even trying to bite back a growl when the bard wraps his legs around his hips, knees spread wide apart.

His dressing gown has more than enough fabric to keep him covered even like this, but Geralt’s head reels from knowing that it would only take one brush of his fingers to get it out of the way, letting the heavy silk slip down Jaskier’s thigh.

“You’re killing me,” Geralt growls, low and dangerous, leaning down to Jaskier’s ear, and he shudders in response.

Jaskier keeps his balance with one hand flat on the polished wood of the chest of drawers, but the other one is in Geralt’s hair almost immediately. He leans in unbearably close, his lips brushing over Geralt’s in a feather-light touch as he lets out a shaky breath.

“Then make me pay for it.”

At that moment, there is nothing that Geralt wants more than to kiss him, Jaskier’s lips parted and bite-swollen and right there.

But he’s leaving tomorrow morning.

And so instead of Jaskier’s lips, Geralt bites into his neck. He sinks his teeth into the tender skin right under the sharp of the bard’s jaw, where his scent is the strongest, and sucks a bruising, blood-red mark into it, making Jaskier arch his back and gasp the witcher’s name.

Geralt pulls back, for just a second, his gaze fixed on the fresh love-bite, standing out sharply against Jaskier’s pale, smooth skin, untouched by anything or anyone else. He looks owned, claimed, taken.

But it’s not nearly enough.

Geralt bites another bruising kiss right next to the first one, pressing his tongue to the fresh mark to both soothe the pain and make Jaskier even more sensitive. And then another one. And then another one.

He loses himself in the feeling of Jaskier’s skin, the sound of his voice, his gasps breaking off into soft whimpers when Geralt bites just a little too hard. In the scent of dried herbs and vanilla and pomegranate, only made sweeter by the intoxicating sweetness of lust.

Geralt leaves a scattered pattern of love-bites all the way down Jaskier’s neck, sucks three marks onto his collarbones, growling with pleasure, and he’s more than sure that there are going to be fresh bruises on the bard’s thighs from just how tight he’s still holding him.

Jaskier keeps him close with his ankles clasped behind Geralt’s back, his breathing deep and fast like he can’t get enough air. He looks unbearably gorgeous like this.

Geralt’s mind is hazy with lust and pleasure, his cock hard and throbbing under the now painfully-tight leather of his trousers, and he doesn’t have to look to know that Jaskier is in the same state. His scent tells him everything he needs to know.

And it would be so easy, so fucking easy to just carry Jaskier over to the bed, undo the belt holding his dressing gown closed, and fuck him, tearing more of those beautiful whimpers from his chest.

But that would be a far greater mistake than the one that Geralt has already made.

He takes in as deep of a breath as his lungs allow him, and takes a step back, pressing one last desperate kiss to Jaskier’s neck, now covered in his marks.

Geralt doesn’t have anything to say for himself, but he doesn’t have to, for after just a few seconds of catching his breath, Jaskier grins at him victoriously, like it’s all a part of his little game and he’s not affected by it in the slightest.

“I’ll take that as the answer to the question of whether or not you would’ve fucked me if you’d gotten here a little sooner,” he murmurs.

Geralt doesn’t try to stop him when Jaskier jumps down from the dresser, adjusting the folds of his dressing gown. It’s more than hard to keep a hold on his self-control, and he fears that any touch could send it all to hell.

His heart is beating fast and hard in his chest, and he’s still painfully hard, but it brings him a sense of possessive satisfaction to see Jaskier’s neck and collarbones marked with his teeth. Those love-bites won’t fully fade for more than a week.

“Now, if you don’t have the intention of undressing me, I need to change,” Jaskier says, walking over to the wardrobes in the opposite corner.

Geralt watches his every move, still standing by the chest of drawers, not willing to risk it and close in the distance between them again. He wants to ask about the symbol on Jaskier’s back but it seems unfitting to bring that up now.

Jaskier picks out his clothes and takes them out of the wardrobe, already reaching for the belt on his dressing gown when he seems to notice Geralt’s gaze.

“I’m not giving you easy ways out, Witcher,” he grins, even as the belt starts to slowly give way. “Turn around.”

He clicks his tongue, and from somewhere under the furs and pillows on the bed, emerges Lucio that Geralt had not noticed before. Jaskier whistles to him and, when the dog jumps down from the bed to sit next to him, indicates at Geralt with a move of his head.

“Ambush, Lucio,” he says, never breaking eye contact with Geralt. “He’s a purebred hunting dog, Witcher. If you move as much as a fraction, he will let me know. Now turn around.”

For a lack of a better option, Geralt does.

He can hear the dressing gown fall to the floor in a soft whisper of silk, and knowing that Jaskier is right behind his back, completely naked and covered in his marks is making it hard to breathe. But Geralt can feel Lucio’s razor-sharp attention on him, and he knows that if he tries to get even the smallest look, Jaskier will immediately know about it, and the entire little game is going to be ruined.

No, he stays with his back to Jaskier the entire time he’s changing, forced to listen to his own quickened heartbeat, and it seems like an eternity has passed until Jaskier revokes his command and Lucio loses all interest in the witcher.

When Geralt finally turns around, he finds Jaskier wearing a black chemise with blood-red rose petals embroidered into the sleeves, the colour matching the love-bites on his neck almost perfectly.

Geralt hasn’t told him yet that he’s leaving tomorrow.

But gods, he’s going to miss him.

#the witcher #geraskier #geraskier big bang #geralt/jaskier #geralt x jaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the drug the dark the light the flame #my writing #calton writes

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