#I know it’s probably an awkward translation of the textbook | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scuttling · 3 years ago

Text

Lavender

Fandom: Criminal Minds Pairings: Aaron Hotchner/Female Reader Word Count: 9,244 Tags: 18+, NSFW, Dad's Best Friend Friend From Work Hotch, Me turning a naughty, smutty story into something way more aka my specialty, Fingering, Unprotected sex, Oral sex, Semi-public sex, Office sex Summary: You absolutely dread going home for vacation, to your sickeningly cheery childhood bedroom and opinionated parents, but meeting your dad's friend from work at a stuffy cocktail party has the potential to make this a vacation you'll never forget.*Requested by anon, severely altered by me 😅 Link to A03 or read below! Most people would jump at the chance for an unexpected two week vacation, but you are not most people. When your boss emailed you to inform you that there had been some kind of glitch in HR’s system and you actually had two weeks of paid vacation that were set to expire, your anxiety had kicked into high gear. There isn’t enough time to coordinate travel with any of your friends, too short notice, and you’re kind of afraid to travel alone, though you’d never admit it, so that’s out.

There’s always the prospect of hanging out at home, catching up on all the shows you started but never had time to finish, doing things you’re always too busy for, like cooking and cleaning out your closet and going to the animal shelter to pet the dogs and cats.

Unfortunately, those dreams are crushed when you accidentally let slip during a call to your parents that you have the time off, and they literally insist you come home, will not let you get off the phone without confirming your plans.

You only live about an hour away from them, but for one reason or another, you rarely visit.

The minute you step into your childhood home, you’re reminded of why you rarely visit.

“There’s my little do-gooder!” Your dad is all but waiting at the door when you arrive, pulls you into a hug despite the fact that your hands are full of luggage. “Let me look at you.” He pulls back, hands on your shoulders, acting like it's possible something has changed about you since you had lunch together a month ago in DC. “Oh, you’ve got that serious lawyer hairstyle now,” he remarks with a chuckle, even though your hair is styled the same way it was at that lunch. He might not mean it to come out this way, but it sounds condescending.

“That would be appropriate, considering I am a lawyer,” you remark, trying to keep the snark out of your tone. You know he always means well. “You look good.” He takes his hands off of you and puts them on his stomach.

“Your mom has me on some kind of greens and beans diet, says it will help me live longer.” You smile, a little awkward, not sure what to say about that—your dad is typically the meat and potatoes type, so you figure some variety can’t hurt, but if you say that you’ll never hear the end of it, and you’ve already got a headache.

“Where is mom, anyway?” You shift your bag on your shoulder, and your dad clues in, takes it from you and starts walking up the staircase.

“Oh, she’s at the gym, then taking care of some last minute things for the party.” You pause at the base of the stairs, sigh softly.

“Party?” You weren’t told about any party. Your dad keeps walking, and you’re forced to follow.

“Yeah, nothing major, just some people from the office and their spouses coming over for drinks tonight. Maybe some of their kids,” he adds innocently, and you can’t help rolling your eyes.

By kids, he means sons: eligible sons to try to set you up with. You wouldn’t mind being in a room full of hot, single men vying for your attention any other time—in fact, it’s been a little while, and your most recent hookup was lackluster, so you’re a bit more tightly wound than usual—but the kinds of men your parents bring around aren’t your type at all. You’re career driven yourself, but all they want to talk about is how they plan to be the youngest partner at their firm, or the clubs they can get into, or worst of all, money. Your potentially somewhat relaxing vacation just went to shit in no time at all.

“I didn’t bring anything to wear to a cocktail party.”

“I think mom got you a dress, honey. Check your closet after you get unpacked.” He pushes the door to your former bedroom open, and you’re assaulted by the color lavender; somehow you’d actually forgotten how purple it is. “You’ll look beautiful no matter what you wear.” He sets your bag on the bed—oh god, the frilly purple comforter, you may have actually repressed that memory—and you drop your other luggage there too. “I’ll give you some time to get settled in, maybe order some lunch for us? Vesuvios?”

As irritated as you are about the party, it’s sweet that he remembers your favorite restaurant. You went there for dinner after you graduated from high school, college, and law school, so there are lots of great memories associated with the place.

“Do they adhere to the greens and beans diet?” you ask with a grin, and he puts his finger up to his lips to silence you.

“What mom doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?” You shake your head fondly, and he slips out of your room and leaves you to it.

You start unloading your clothes into the empty dresser, hanging them in the closet that holds things like your prom dresses, graduation gowns, old cheerleading and volleyball uniforms. Every touch of silky fabric is a memory, and at this point in your life most of them are good, even if they weren’t at the time. It’s kind of nice to remember where you came from, when where you are now can be so hectic, so fast-paced you don’t see the forest for the trees.

Feeling nostalgic, you walk over to your desk, where you spent so much time with your face crammed into textbooks it’s not even funny, and flip through your old stationary set—what teenager had her own stationery? You were a total nerd—and photos you’d taken off the mirror but left sitting in a pile to be packed away eventually.

You snap out of the past after that, finish putting your toiletries away, setting up your laptop and chargers where you want them, then shove your empty suitcases in the closet and grab your phone to head downstairs.

You meet up with your dad in the kitchen, where he is opening steaming takeout containers full of Italian food. You grab some plates from the overhead cabinet and lean against the counter, look over the offerings to decide what you’ll have.

“So how are things at the ACLU?” he asks with a bit of a teasing tone. You’re well aware of the fact that he thinks you could be doing more—translation: making more—in private practice, or working for the government like he does, but neither of those things interest you and he is well aware of that.

“They’re really good, actually. We’re working on a disability rights case now that will probably make national news if we win.” It’s been forever since you had penne arrabbiata, since it’s not very easy to eat at your desk without running the risk of staining your blouse with spicy red sauce, so you load up your plate with it, add wilted spinach for color, a piece of garlic bread because it’s garlic bread. You lick your thumb, and your dad points a finger in your direction in that way that means he’s about to give you life advice.

“When you win; if you’re not confident about your capabilities, no one else will be.” You roll your eyes good-naturedly, nod, because that’s a pro tip you’ve heard time and time again. “If you came to work at the bureau, you’d win more of your cases; Constitutional law isn’t easy.” He says that like you don’t already know, like you haven’t been working in your current department for more than a year. You sigh.

“I’m not really the bureau type, dad.” You take your plate over to the breakfast table, sit down and start to pick at your food. Arguing about your chosen career path is enough to make you lose your appetite, even for your favorite dish. Your dad follows, sits across from you.

“You’re so smart, honey, you could be if you wanted to.” He takes a bite of fettuccine alfredo, points his fork at you. “Hey, maybe you could talk to Jim from the Office of General Counsel tonight—or maybe Aaron. You’d be really interested in the work his team does.”

“Who’s Aaron again?” You don’t recognize the name, so he’s probably not one of the attorneys on your dad’s team, but he works closely with so many departments you might have heard it before and missed it.

“Friend from work. He’s the unit chief at the Behavioral Analysis Unit. They’re criminal psychologists or something. Profilers,” he says, snapping his fingers. “That’s what they call them. They get into criminals’ heads, analyze them and interrogate them. I know you minored in psychology, I bet he could get you an internship.” You laugh at that, because he always gives you advice about furthering your career, but that’s a step backward for you and he can't be so dense not to realize it.

“An internship? I’m a little old for that, don't you think? Not to mention I have a job that I love.” You stab at your food, more than a little agitated by the current conversation.

“Never too late to get your foot in the door, sweetie. It’d be great to see you more, that’s all I’m saying,” he adds, ending on a gentler note, and you sigh. Your mom does it too, but your dad is an expert into guilting you into doing what he thinks is best. Unfortunately, you’ve never handled guilt very well.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him, if it means that much to you,” you promise, and you both smile and make easy small talk for the rest of the meal. The dress your mom bought for you for the party is a black, sleeveless, designer cocktail dress, something more form fitting than you would normally wear—she is evidently trying very hard to find you an eligible bachelor tonight. You pair it with your favorite jewelry, simple heels, and when you head downstairs your mom acts like it’s prom night all over again.

“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful!” She puts her hands on your arms, spins you around. “You’re looking too thin—must be eating a lot of salads on that paralegal salary,” she throws over her shoulder to your dad, and they both laugh. You wish life were a documentary so there was a camera you could look into with an unimpressed expression.

“I’m a staff attorney actually. Fully accredited,” you add, but it’s no use. If you don’t follow in your dad’s footsteps, you will always be seen as living beneath your potential, and therefore always the butt of these types of jokes.

You love them, really, and you know they love you, but they are not the most supportive pair by a long shot. They made sure you got into a great college, let you follow your law school dreams—and you’re grateful, won’t deny their money is a privilege so many other people in your position do not possess—but that was only because those were their dreams as well. As soon as you told them about taking the position at the ACLU, it was like the tables were turned, and instead of your accomplishments, all they saw was wasted potential.

It’s enough to keep you away most of the time, which sucks, but it is what it is. It’s easier to love them from afar, so that’s what you do.

At the party, you shake hands, talk about the weather, introduce yourself to so many middle aged white guys and their sons that their faces all start to blur together. After half an hour you excuse yourself, head to the bar for a drink, and come to stand next to a middle aged white guy you have not introduced yourself to—this one, you’d have remembered, because he is tall, broad, serious looking, and very handsome.

If you were a dog, he’d have your ears perking up, no doubt about that. Instead, your heart just races a little.

“I have to say, these FBI parties are even less fun than I thought they’d be,” you comment as you wait for your drink. The man lifts the corner of his mouth in a slight smile.

“Get a bunch of men who are past their prime in one room, and all you hear about are the glory days. Can’t get a word in edgewise.” The bartender hands you your glass, and you turn to fully face the stranger.

“Why aren’t you talking about your glory days?” You immediately kind of want to slap yourself. Your social skills have been exhausted tonight, apparently. “I’m sorry, that was rude; I didn’t mean to insinuate that you’re… past your prime.” You give him a brief once over, because he deserves it, is even more gorgeous up close than you’d initially assessed; he chuckles softly, sips on his own drink.

“It wasn’t rude, it was… shrewd.” His own gaze lingers on your face, maybe the neckline of your dress, just a little. “Your father’s really happy you’re here, wouldn’t stop talking about it.”

“Yeah, he's one of the most ambitious people I know; he gets an idea in his head and won’t rest until he’s seen it through.” It’s a quality that sounds good on paper, but when it’s constantly being applied to your life, it’s more tiring than anything. “Right now he’s trying to get me to bully one of these poor guys into giving me an internship, as if I’m not twenty-nine years old with a career of my own.” He wets his lips, laughs again.

“I think I’m the poor guy—Aaron Hotchner. I’m the unit chief overseeing the BAU.” Wow, 0 for 2. This guy’s got to think you’re a complete idiot. He extends a hand and you shake it firmly, melt a little because his palm is so broad, his fingers so thick.

“Right, I’m so sorry. Feel free to tell me right now that I’m not the right fit, and I’ll slink off and hide in a corner somewhere for the rest of the night.”

“No need for that. You strike me as someone who would be a great fit for my team, if that was something you actually wanted.”

You aren’t looking for a career change in the slightest, but you can’t deny it would be tempting to report to this man every day.

“It’s not that I’m not curious about what you do; my dad told me a little, and it sounds really intriguing. I just have a lot on my plate right now. If the offer had come up before I started my current job, I would be all over it.” You smile, shrug. “Unless you could have me intern for the next two weeks I’ll be on vacation, I’ll have to politely decline the offer you haven't actually made me.” You smile, and so does he.

“Now who’s ambitious?” he asks with a raised eyebrow; the way he says it, like he finds it charming, makes your face heat a little. You’ve never connected like this at one of your dad’s FBI events, and even though there’s no way it ends well—if anything even starts—you feel the need to see how far you can go. Even if it’s just a little flirting. Even if it’s just tonight.

“Have you ever been here before tonight?” you ask after a beat. You take a sip of your drink, and he mirrors you. You lean in a little closer.

“Once, briefly. I didn’t get a grand tour, or anything.” You smile—bingo—and reach out to place a hand on his arm.

“Oh, I’d be happy to give you one, if you like. Usually my dad is all about it, but he looks occupied.” You both glance across the room at where he is in the middle of a group of men—still discussing their glory days, no doubt—and Aaron looks at you again, nods.

“Sure, I’d love one.” You show him around downstairs, the backyard, the garage—he doesn’t seem to care about the cars at all—and then go upstairs, show him guest rooms, the master bath your mother recently remodeled; he gets a little closer as you go, and you smile more, flirt a bit. You stop outside the door to your room, block it with your body while you talk about the art hanging in the hall; he’s very good at reading your body language, apparently, because he leans closer to you, puts his hand on the doorknob next to your hip.

“What’s this room?” he asks, feigning innocence, and you put your arm over his.

“Oh, no, we’re not going in there. That’s my old bedroom.” He smiles, and you grimace.

“You mean the room I most want to see now? Come on.” He turns the knob, hears it click, and you cover your face with your hand, sigh.

“This is going to be really embarrassing. It’s exactly the way it looked when I went to college, and that was over ten years ago.” You push the door open with your hand, walk in and flick on the light. Aaron follows, chuckles.

“It’s... purple. Cute.” He makes toward the bed, touches one of the frills on the comforter with his big, broad hand. The juxtaposition of your innocent lavender bedding being stroked by the fingers you can’t stop staring at is a very interesting one.

“No, it’s not cute, it’s horrifying,” you say, and when he walks toward the open closet, you begin to regret this little tour. He pulls out your prom dress, your cheerleading uniform.

“Cheerleader, huh? You don’t seem the type.” He looks over at you, and you push it back into the closet, lead him away from it with your hands on his arms.

“I’m not. It was important to my mom.” The two of you are by your dresser now, and he leans in to look in the mirror, at you standing behind him and not his own reflection.

“I see. Do you always put other people's needs before your own?” You sidle up next to him, and he turns to face you.

“This is what you do, right? You… deduce for a living? Like Sherlock?” That makes him laugh, which in turn makes you smile.

“It’s called profiling, but that’s accurate enough.” You feel a challenge brewing inside you, take a step closer to him.

“Okay… What can you tell me about myself by looking around the room? Remember, this stuff is from ten years ago; a lot could have changed.” He crosses his arms, nods.

“You’re right, but your core values wouldn’t have.”

Slowly, he walks around the room, taking things in, touching things, looking back at you briefly and then rifling through parts of your past. It’s a few minutes before he speaks again.

“I think your father wants you to work at the bureau, and you don’t want to because you’ve always felt like you’d live in his shadow if you followed the same career path. You want to blaze your own trail, do what fulfills you, not let his last name be what moves you up the ladder.”

That’s all scarily true, so you nod, cross your arms, lean your butt against your desk.

“I think you’re afraid of commitment because you don’t think any relationship you’re in will ever measure up to what your parents have.” That stings a little, but he’s not wrong. He points to a flyer stuck to a cork board, something about a charity project you’d worked on that revolved around recycling. “Environmentally conscious: I bet you drive a hybrid, and if your dad bought it for you, it’s a... BMW.”

He glances back, and you encourage him to go on. He points to a copy of your Georgetown diploma hanging on the wall, then picks up a cheerleading trophy on your dresser.

“You were a cheerleader to please your mom, went to Georgetown to please your dad, excelled at both; you’re an only child, so you felt you couldn’t let them down. My question is,” he says, looking up at you curiously, “what pleases you?” The words make your heart beat fast; you lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Not much.” He comes closer, arms crossed again.

“Why?” God, that’s a loaded question for a Friday night, for the first day of your vacation. You absently wonder if he’s going to bill you for this impromptu therapy session.

“I find it difficult to ask for what I want,” you ultimately say, and he moves even closer. His stare is probing, and you speculate that he may have been a lawyer before the FBI. The look on his face is the same one you’ve seen in many courtrooms over your short career.

“Of course you do. You’ve never done it before. You've spent your whole life asking other people what they want from you.”

You feel very seen, and you kind of hate it, but you also kind of like it—that he’s able to dissect you like this is a huge turn on. What that says about you, you’re not entirely sure; maybe that you enjoy being seen for who you are—for all that you are—instead of who you know, or who you could have been, for a change.

“I think you didn’t lose your virginity until college—your second year.” It feels like bringing that up is a bold move for him; he doesn’t meet your eyes when he says it. “I would guess you got drunk for the first time around then, too. Your first year you were trying to navigate the feeling of not being under anyone’s thumb anymore; your second year, you finally felt like your own woman, you wanted to try new things, but it made you feel out of control and you don’t like that. Even now you only drink socially, never to get drunk.” He is directly in front of you now, and he reaches out a hand, brushes it over your cheek. “I also think you gravitate toward men you find inappropriate and unattainable so you don’t have to worry about being the reason your relationships fail.”

He looks into your eyes with a questioning gaze. It’s a painfully accurate take, but he softens the blow with the gentle touch.

“Wow, you’re kind of an asshole,” you breathe, but you smile, and he laughs low.

“Maybe. But am I wrong?” You nod your head, and his face falls a little, so you narrow your eyes to mess with him a bit.

“Only about one thing: I actually drive a Kia hybrid. And I bought it myself, for your information.” He smiles, and you press your hands against his chest; it’s crazy how quickly he drops back into the serious expression you first saw him wearing by the bar. “Are you unattainable and inappropriate?”

“I work with your father; we’re the same age. We play golf together sometimes.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable, doesn’t back away or remove your hands. You slide them down his body, over his stomach, stop at his belt, and he looks the way you feel: tightly wound, aroused, a little breathless.

“That doesn’t really answer my question, Aaron. May I do some profiling of my own?” You look up at him, curious, and he nods.

“Be my guest,” he murmurs, and you lean back. You rake your eyes over his body slowly—there’s no mistaking your appraisal for what it is. “No ring on your finger, but there’s no way you haven’t been married before. My guess is you’re divorced, and it wasn’t your idea.” You look up at his face, smile softly. “Sorry. You weren’t exactly pulling punches either.” He huffs a laugh.

“You’re right: I wasn’t pulling punches. You’re right about the divorce, too. Go on.” You nod, hum.

“Okay. You have a strong moral compass; you always do what’s right, even when it’s difficult. It’s what makes you such a great leader for your team. You like to go by the book, you’re a Fed through and through—but when it comes down to the bureau or the people you care about, you’ll fight the establishment with all you have. You aren’t a blind believer in the government; you have your criticisms, and you aren’t shy about voicing them.”

“Unlike your father,” he says, and you sigh. “You don’t have an appreciation for his work.”

“No, I really don’t.” Your dad specializes in Freedom of Information Act litigation—he does his best to keep the FBI from actually living up to its commitment to be transparent with the American people, and it doesn’t sit right with you, never has. You may both be attorneys, but you could not be more different if you tried. “But I’m profiling you, remember?”

“Right. Please continue.”

“This might be going out on a limb, but I think you went to law school. The way you speak, and the way you looked at me earlier? It was a little like cross-examination. Am I right about that?” His answering smile actually looks pleased.

“You are. I was a prosecutor for a number of years before joining the FBI. I think it’s something you don’t ever really lose.”

“For better or worse,” you say with a smile of your own. Happy with your assessment, you move a little closer again. “One more thing. I don’t think you’re the kind of man who would normally let a woman take you into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing her. Childhood or otherwise.” You smooth your hands down either side of his tie, over his firm chest and solid midsection. “Maybe you saw something in me you liked?”

“I was... dreading coming here tonight.” He brings his hands up to cover yours, but doesn’t pull them away, just holds them. “If you’ve been to one of these parties, you’ve been to them all—no offense to your father—and I was contemplating a good excuse to leave early, if I’m being honest. Then you showed up at my side—my friend’s mysterious daughter that I’ve heard so much about—and you’re funny, and charming. Insightful. Vulnerable.” He squeezes your hands, presses them closer to his chest. “Beautiful. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at someone and felt an instant connection. Do you feel it?” His voice is just above a whisper, and you nod lightly.

You aren’t the type of woman to take a man into her bedroom after less than an hour of knowing him, childhood or otherwise, but he makes you want so badly you’re almost ravenous—you’ve felt this way before, maybe twice in your life, but neither of those experiences ended with you getting what you wanted. You really hope this time might be different.

“Kiss me?” He takes a breath and then presses his lips together.

“I shouldn’t.”

“I know. But will you?” After a beat, he does, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, moving his hands to your face as he deepens it.

It’s not a hard kiss, but rough around the edges, your noses pressed together, mouths seeking contact even as you pull apart for breath. He kisses like he needs it, tastes like bourbon, feels like heaven; it’s steamy, wet, makes your chest heave and your pussy throb. When he walks you backward, gently presses your body against your desk, you hop up onto it easily and pull him closer, between your spread knees.

“Aaron,” you sigh over his lips, and his hands move to your thighs, pushing up your dress so he can get closer to you. You glide your fingers through his hair, plant a hand on the desk, then feel something tip over, hear the soft sound of paper sliding over the edge.

Aaron looks down, picks up a lavender envelope; he holds it up with a question in his eye and an enamored look on his face.

“‘From the desk of…’ You had personalized stationery at eighteen?” His mouth is a little red from the kiss still, and he’s teasing you, perfect; you smile, can’t believe this is happening.

“I liked to write to my congressman… and Ruth Bader Ginsburg,” you pant. He chuckles, kisses you a little softer than before, then moves down your throat, sweeps his tongue over your pulse. “Mmm. Right there.”

He pauses to look up at you, hair mussed from your fingers, and you push his jacket off his shoulders; he shifts to full height, helps you take it off, and you drape it over your desk chair, work the knot of his tie loose.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as your fingers slip down the front of his shirt, freeing his buttons. You unclasp his belt, open his pants, and stretch up for a kiss, touching his face; you nod when you pull back.

“Absolutely. Are you?” He nods too, all serious eyebrows you want to kiss, mouth you want back on yours, on your throat, anywhere.

“Absolutely.” You step down off the desk, run your hands over his arms, then kick off your shoes and walk over to the door, close and lock it; when you pass him again, you guide him to the bed and sit in his lap, clutch at his shoulders and kiss him with as much desperation as he showed you before. There’s a lot of heavy breathing, sighing, moans from you both, and if just kissing is this good, you can’t imagine what he’ll be like inside of you.

When you can find it in yourself to stop kissing him, you pull back and climb out of his lap, present the back of your dress so he can ease down the zipper. He pushes it off, large, warm hands gliding over your body until it hits the floor in a heap unbecoming of the designer label. Your mother would lose her mind.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” Aaron says as he moves his hands to your hips, sliding your panties down and leaning in to press his lips to your stomach. You sigh, press a hand to the back of his head while his mouth explores you where you’re soft and sensitive. You’d like it lower, but there may not be time for that tonight. “What do you want with an old man like me?”

“None of that.” You sweep your hands over his shoulders, sink down onto his lap again, and his hands fall to your bare hips, squeezing you softly; you close your eyes for a moment, so overwhelmed by just the simplest touch. “Like you said: I feel a connection.” Your fingers move to push his shirt open, to lift his undershirt so you can get your hands on bare skin and soft body and hair. He groans, and you kiss him, deep and slow, hands moving to take off both shirts and add them to his jacket on your chair. You take a deep breath, reach out to touch his cheek. “Connect with me.”

He takes your hand, brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, then drags it down so your fingers slide over his lips; you swallow hard, can feel wetness pooling between your legs, so you slide off of him and onto the bed—however sexy it may be to leave your mark on him, you do both have to return to the party at some point.

Sitting up beside him, you touch his body, ease his pants and boxers down; he takes them off along with his shoes, and you pull the comforter out from under you, push it to the side, let yourself lay back and bask in the look and feel of him as he settles between your knees, leans in for a kiss.

It’s even more intense than before, somehow, his thighs against yours, strong arms supporting him, and you drag your nails lightly up his body, tip your head back and sigh when his lips trail from the base of your throat to your jaw.

He moves a hand low, rubs his fingers between your lips and presses one finger inside you, slowly glides it in and out so you’re moaning, sighing his name.

“That feels so good,” you breathe, and he moves his mouth to yours again, soft and wet, the slide of his tongue sinfully delicious. He adds a second finger, earns more gasping moans, then a third; with the help of a capable thumb stroking over your clit, you come, and he kisses the praise right out of your mouth and then pushes inside you.

His mouth doesn’t leave yours, keeps you close as he thrusts inside, gradually lowering his weight onto you until you feel him everywhere: chest soft against yours, stomachs pressing together as you both work your hips, as your hands grasp his back to keep him close, heavy. Connected.

“You’re perfect. You feel incredible, baby,” he speaks against your lips in a rare moment apart, and you hitch your knees up higher, press the heels of your feet against his ass.

You thought he looked turned on before, but now he looks like he’s being consumed by it, like he wants to thrust deeper into you, make a home in your body and never leave; you would be more than okay with that, to spend the next two weeks beneath him, holding him close, sharing breath and sweat and pleasure so complete it changes you profoundly.

He moves a hand behind your head, cradles it, and sucks wet kisses against your throat—nothing so deep as to leave a mark, but that doesn’t mean you’re not panting, whimpering, begging for more.

“Aaron. Hmm, oh. You’re so gorgeous, I—everything about you.” He pulls away from your neck, peers down at you, and you’re sure you’re a sight to behold in your desperation; your palms smooth down his back, to his sides, and you hug him close, squeeze him hard when he comes, panting your name against your throat and pumping roughly inside.

You meet his every thrust, dig your nails into his hips, and he leans forward, covers your mouth with his and grinds against you until your second blissful orgasm shudders through your limbs. You clench tight around him, moan, then slowly sag back against the mattress, more thoroughly satisfied than you’ve ever been in your life.

He shifts, half on top of you and half off, his kisses gradually slowing, his hands sweeping over your shoulders, your face, your arms. When you’re calm, content, you sigh, kiss his hands and cheeks and lips; you’re warm, and you curl around him, overheated skin on skin, and never want to leave.

“Mmm,” he rumbles against your shoulder, mouthing at it, and you sigh, scrape your nails through his hair.

“Mm hmm. Think I can die happy now,” you murmur, and he shifts up to look at you, a smile curving softly from the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t die on me, now.” You smile too, scoot closer for slow kisses. You’re both happy to lay there, quietly kissing, but eventually it’s clear you need to return to the party in order to avoid suspicion—not that you think anyone would ever guess what just occurred.

You dress side by side, turning to have him fix your zipper, reaching up to help him with his tie. When you’re both technically decent enough to head downstairs, you plan to give him a head start, but the two of you get caught up in one more deeply sensual kiss that almost makes you want to just say screw it and take his clothes off again. He can tell, has the barest hint of a smirk on his face when the kiss breaks, and he punctuates it with a soft press of lips before walking out the door.

With your spare few minutes, you look around the room—and at your rumpled, frilly, lavender bed, on which you just had super hot sex with one of your dad’s friends, it’s still kind of sinking in—and wonder what the rest of your vacation could possibly bring that could top this night. At breakfast the next morning, you find out.

You and your parents are discussing the party, who got too drunk to function, who left with the wrong wife, which of your dad’s friend’s sons you got along with most, and then he drops the bomb on you.

“And see, honey, I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial.” You choke on a bite of scrambled eggs, try to wash it down with a sip of juice; your mom pats you on the back until the moment passes.

“What?” you ask, voice barely a squeak. You clear your throat and try again. “What about Aaron, dad?” He flips the newspaper he’s holding to the next page and peers over it at you.

“I told you talking to Aaron would be beneficial. Before he left last night, he told me all about the internship—it’s nice of him to set it up for the two weeks you’re here, so you can get some experience under your belt.” You briefly think about your experience under Aaron’s belt, but it’s really not the time.

He really set you up with an internship—one he knows you aren’t interested in—based on the offhand comment you’d made about squeezing it into your two week vacation. You’d be kind of irritated at him for making the plans on your behalf, but if it means the next two weeks are anything like last night, he’s going to make it well worth your while.

The internship excites both of your parents, and your mom declares it a girls day, takes you out for some new clothes, since you didn’t bring any workwear, for a manicure and pedicure and then drinks. She talks about what a great opportunity this will be for you, and you don’t have the heart—or maybe you just don’t care anymore—to argue about what great opportunities you’ve already made possible for yourself.

Sunday is for relaxing, and not internally panicking about seeing Aaron again. Friday night was incredible, but you didn’t think it would turn into anything, considering he is your dad’s friend, and you’re only here for a couple weeks.

You have to hand it to him, though: if he enjoyed himself as much as you did, and this internship is his way of getting to spend more time with you, he has managed to do what you haven’t been able for twenty-nine years—find a way to please your parents while finally pleasing yourself. Monday morning, you show up at the BAU office to receive a photo ID badge and fill out some paperwork. You don’t actually get to meet anyone from the BAU until after lunch, and when you do, Aaron is nowhere to be seen.

“Hi, I’m looking for Unit Chief Hotchner?” you say to a fair-skinned woman with long blonde hair and a kind smile. “I’m interning for the next couple weeks.” There is a man with her, Black, tall, bald, with very expressive eyebrows; the eyebrows don’t look like they think very highly of you.

“You’re an intern? A little old, aren’t you?” After a beat, his face breaks into a smile, and you roll your eyes, huff a laugh.

“Charmer. Yes, I’m definitely too old to be an intern; do you have overbearing parents by chance?” He raises his hands, palms up, and takes a step back.

“No, but enough said.” The blonde woman laughs, and he nods in your direction. “I’m Derek Morgan, this is JJ Jareau. Come with me, I’ll take you to Hotch.”

You thank him, follow as he leads you across the room and up some stairs.

“So what’s he like, Agent Hotchner?” you ask, wanting someone else’s opinion of Aaron as a boss, a coworker—anything other than the one night stand that wasn’t. You really know so little about him.

“He’s a good guy; smart, fair, great at what he does. A little tightly wound; could stand to live a little.” He looks back at you with a grin. “He’ll probably remind you a little of your dad.”

God. It almost makes you throw up in your mouth a little.

“You know, I doubt it, but thanks for the warning.” He knocks on a closed door at the end of the hall, and a moment later, Aaron answers it. His expression doesn’t change as Derek introduces you, and when he walks away with a friendly pat on your shoulder, Aaron gestures you in. He closes the door behind you and looks carefully over your face.

“Hi,” he says, and you see that hint of a smirk on his face again. You take a moment to appraise the room—there’s a window with blinds that are closed, a desk and chairs, bookcases, a printer, more windows on the far side, a loveseat. You look back at Aaron with a raised brow.

“Hi. What am I doing here?” His expression gets serious, like he can’t tell if you’re pleased or upset with him for the surprise. You sit down on the loveseat, set your bag down, and he sits down next to you.

“I know you wanted to get your father off your back, and you did say if I could squeeze an internship into two weeks that you’d be interested.” You smile a little, because you did say that. “I thought it might be nice to see you a little more, too. You’re under no obligation to stay,” he assures you, briefly looking down, and then he takes your hand. “But surely there are worse ways to spend your vacation?”

You give him an uncertain look, like you’re really trying to decide what you’d like to do, and then you push up your skirt and swiftly straddle his thighs, press your hands against his shoulders. His mouth falls open a little, and you lean in to catch it with yours.

“I have been thinking about you all weekend,” he mutters into the kiss, wraps his arms around your back. “Have you thought about me?”

“Only every night.” He groans at your words, lets his head fall back a little, and you press your lips to the column of his throat, nip softly with your teeth. “Every morning. Every minute.” You bite at the shell of his ear, kiss it, card your fingers through his hair. “Do I have an actual job to do here?” You pull back, and he raises his eyebrows; you can’t help the grin that takes over your expression. “Because if not, I’m going to focus on making this the best two weeks of your life.”

He pulls you in for another kiss, a little rougher than before, deeper, and you tug on his hair, pant against his cheek when you separate.

“In that case, no. You don’t have a job to do here.” You tilt your head, and he smiles a little. “I'm the boss, I make the rules.” That kind of thing has never done it for you before, but you have to admit it’s making you feel some type of way right now. You sweep your hands inside his jacket, squeeze his sides.

“Mmm, yes you do. Hey, do you think there’s enough room for me to fit under your desk?” He wets his lips, and you climb off of him, walk around to check it out for yourself, bending over his desk in your tight black skirt to peek beneath it. You look up to see Aaron is not shy about taking in the view, and you grin. “Spacious.”

He walks toward you, and when he’s closer, his eyes look dark with need; his hands look like they ache to reach out and touch. You step forward, let yourself be caged in against the desk by his arms, and you arch your back a little, open his belt slowly.

“I didn’t set this up so you would feel obligated to do this.” You sigh, lean up to catch his lips in a soft kiss.

“I know you didn’t. But if I want to?” You tug down his zipper, slip your hand inside his underwear, feel him hot and stiff in your palm. “And you want to?” He nods tightly and you kiss him again, squeeze him softly, sweep your tongue between his lips. “Then let’s.”

You take a step back, push his chair far enough out of the way that you can crawl under the desk, come up on your knees; he exhales deeply, then sinks down into his chair, stretches his long legs so they rest on either side of your body, holds his pants open for you. You look up at him, hope he sees how ridiculously eager you are to do this, and you take his dick out, stroke it a couple times, and cover it with your mouth.

“My god,” he sighs, head resting back against his seat. You hold him with both hands, suck deep and wet, moan a little when he spreads his legs further apart. “Your mouth feels so good, baby. Does this make you wet?” You pull off, move one hand to slide up his stomach, clutch his shirt there.

“Very, but I’m patient. Want to make you come.” He wets his lips, sighs, and you dip your head, lick up the length of him before sucking him back down.

He is all perfect, desperate noises, soft grunts and moans, gently palming your head as he gets closer, and you’re pretty sure he’s about to get off when there’s a knock at the door. He mutters a curse, and you squeeze his stomach, determined to make him come in the next five seconds. He looks like he’s going to lose his mind.

“Just a minute,” he manages, his voice strained, and he puts his hands on your arms, but you stroke and suck him quickly, actually sigh in relief when he spills in your mouth; your only regret is that he couldn’t be louder.

As soon as he’s through coming, you duck under the desk to wipe your mouth, and he hurries to fix his fly, to close his belt. There’s another knock, and he exhales, calls for whoever is on the other side to come in.

He accidentally bangs his knee off the desk, winces, and you lean back against it, panting, your heart racing.

“Aaron!”

Your eyes snap closed. What are the actual chances of this? You don’t know enough about karma to have an opinion on it, but you come to the sudden realization that you must have done something wrong in a past life.

“Hey, what are you doing in our neck of the woods?” Aaron asks, managing to sound like he is in fact not talking to the father of the woman who just swallowed his come.

“Looking for my little girl, of course. Had to see what she was getting up to on her first day at the FBI.”

“She’s actually… downstairs. In the mailroom. Interns start at the bottom and work their way up.” You stifle a laugh, because despite your compromising position, that’s kind of funny.

“Oh, okay. Agent Morgan thought she was up here, but I guess she must have snuck by him. Would you tell her I stopped by?”

“Absolutely. She’ll be happy to hear it,” he says, and you think you might be out of the woods, but you hear your dad’s voice again.

“Hey I almost forgot to mention: Monday Night Football tonight, got a bunch of guys coming over to watch the game. You interested?”

“You know, that would be great. You can text me the details. Thanks for the invitation.”

“Sure, of course. I really appreciate you taking care of my girl.” You have to bite your lip this time, and Aaron taps his foot against your hip.

“It’s my pleasure. She’s really wonderful. You should be proud.”

“I am. I’ll text you the details,” he says, and then the door closes and Aaron pulls back, looks down at you beneath the desk. You kind of just stare at each other for a minute.

“Close call?” you say with a shrug, and he helps you to your feet, then lifts you up and sets your ass on the edge of his desk. He grabs your face for a messy kiss, and you cling to him, breathless when he pulls back.

“What does it say about me that I’m turned on again?” he asks, and you shake your head, pull him close for another kiss.

“I don’t know, but I’m really turned on, too. Can you—” That’s as far as you get before he strides over to the door, flips the lock, and comes back to push your skirt up, tug your panties down to your knees so quickly it makes you gasp. He gets on his knees slowly, looks up at your face, and puts his hands on your hips, takes a few deep, thorough licks of your pussy. “Oh, my god.” You put your hand on the back of his head, drop your ass harder against the desk and press your other palm against it for support.

He is as enthusiastic as you were for him, slipping his tongue between your lips, gliding rhythmically over your opening but not pressing in, the tease. It feels insanely good, so much but not quite enough.

“Aaron. Oh, mmm—please. Please.” You sigh, dig your fingers into his hair, and he puts his hands under your ass and tilts you back on the desk, dives lower to start thrusting inside you with his tongue. “Yes, yeah, right there,” you murmur, and you rock your hips a little; your hand slips, sending you further back on the desk so that you’re almost laying back on it, and it makes you feel so deliciously dirty that you groan, grab at the collar of his jacket at the back of his neck.

“You okay?” he asks, pulling back to look up at you, and you nod, frantic; he licks his lips, lifts your legs and puts them over his shoulders, then dips down to stroke his tongue inside you, to press a finger inside alongside it.

“Holy—oh, yes.” You toss your head back, whine, and come around his finger while his tongue flicks in and out until you’re left breathless, spent.

You press yourself up to sitting, and Aaron stands, kisses you deeply, hands on your face while you’re still slick on his tongue. After a couple of minutes, he helps you get cleaned and straightened up, his kisses soft presses of lips this time.

“I should try to get some work done,” he says, but he doesn’t sound like he wants to; after that, you can’t really blame him.

“That’s okay; I brought my laptop, so I can work on some stuff too, if you don’t mind.” He doesn’t of course, and you get set up at the other end of his desk. You’re both plugging away at your work when you’re reminded of something from earlier; you close the lid of your computer and look over at Aaron, head tilted. “I didn’t take you for someone who likes football.” He smiles, taps his pen against his chin.

“I don’t. But I figured you’ll be there.” You smile back.

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Maybe I’ll see if my old cheerleading uniform still fits—you know, just to go with the theme.” You open your computer back up, but the look on Aaron’s face out of the corner of your eye is very, very promising. “Mmh, that feels good,” you murmur, one hand on Aaron’s shoulder and the other on his thigh; he is propped up against your pillows, massaging your bare breast and your clit while you roll your hips in his lap. Your cheerleading skirt fits, mostly, but you couldn’t zip it all the way; still, it’s the only thing you’re wearing, and you can’t deny the whole situation is so hot it hurts.

“You feel so incredible. Taking me so well.” He can’t kiss you in this position, and you can tell he wants to—you really want him to—so you feel a little like a tease as you work your ass and thighs atop him. “You know you’re beautiful, but I can’t stop saying it. You’re perfect, baby—in this little skirt?” He moves the hand from your breast to your hip under the skirt, squeezes you there. “So sexy. Do you remember any cheers for me?”

You groan, roll your eyes.

“Not worth the orgasm to embarrass myself,” you say, and he lifts his hips, slams up into you hard. “Mmh. Okay, almost worth the orgasm, but not going to do it.” He lifts an eyebrow, pumps his hips up again.

“Really? Not even if I…” He lunges forward, lifting you out of his lap and making you laugh, then maneuvers you onto your stomach, gets on his knees behind you, flips up the skirt.

“God, Aaron,” you sigh, and he presses his thighs right up against your ass, slides inside, pumps slow and steady while squeezing your cheeks, pulling you back toward him. Your fingers dig into the stupid, frilly bedspread, which will probably turn you on for the rest of your life, now, and you move back against his thrusts, moan.

“Worth it now?” he asks, filling you so completely, and you pant, hum.

“Wouldn’t you rather I just moan your name?” He leans forward at that, hands planted up under your arms, and leans in to speak into your ear; the way he’s pressed against you, the angle is perfect, and you’re right on the edge when his lips brush your throat.

“Yeah, why don’t you do that instead.” It takes about two seconds for you to come, and you aren’t shy about it, let his name fall from your lips in an endless string of praise. He hammers against your ass, the roughest he’s been—and god, does it feel good—then comes inside you murmuring your name.

He pulls out, rolls you over, and you finally kiss, make it count; it’s like the first night, how you can’t get enough of each other, messy, desperate, curling tongues and soft, eager lips, but you know you can’t keep it up forever, because his presence downstairs will be missed much sooner than Friday’s party.

You help him get dressed—in jeans and a blue polo, maybe the only time in your life a polo has made you wet—and then throw on a t-shirt and jeans of your own, head downstairs. You detour for the kitchen to grab a couple beers while he heads into the living room, and then you plop down next to him on the couch and hand him one like you weren’t just defiling your childhood bedroom yet again.

“There you are,” your dad says when he registers your presence—it’s impossible to get him to look away from the tv when a good game is on. “So how was your first day at the office? Think you’re going to like it there?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why I was resistant for so long.” You shift, put your leg under your butt, and take a sip of your beer. “It’s not going to be a career for me, but I have a really good feeling about the next two weeks.”

Taglist ❤️: @thaddeusly @arsonhotchner @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie @sleepyreaderreads @mintphoenix @meghannnnnn @disgruntledchowchow @azenpal @g-l-pierce @my-rosegold-soul @ssamorganhotchner @heliotropehotch @angelhotchner @qtip-blog @gspenc @wishuhadstayed @averyhotchner @hotforhotchner11 @itsmytimetoodream

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfic #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x female reader #hotch x female reader #hotch x reader #ask answered #anon #prompt

485 notes · View notes

imaslutforremusandsirius · 4 years ago

Text

Mutual longing

It’s 03:43 and I missed writing James, uf i love this one

Warning: 18+

---

Oh, James is a breathtaking sight. With his dark hair and twinkling eyes, his tall toned body and charming smile. His smooth voice and irresistible accent. He is the whole package.

Lost in thought you imagined him fucking you against the wall, his big hand over your mouth to contain your moans as he pounded you aggressively-

„Hey“ Lily chirped, leaning over the table to give you a friendly hug, „Sorry I‘m late, head girl shit.“

You hugged her back, acting as if you didn‘t just imagine getting absolutely railed by the fellow head boy.

„Don‘t worry ‘bout it. Haven‘t been long anyway.“

Lily rolled her eyes and gave you a teasing smile.

„Knowing you, you probably showed up fifteen minutes early to be polite. You can give me shit you know, I deserve it.“

You laughed lightly before you furrowed your brows dramatically and held up a finger much like Professor McGonagall when she lectured the marauders again.

„Lily Evans you little shit. Hopefully you will have a long dreadful nightmare for the shit you put me through!“

Lily smirked at you and nodded, impressed with your choice of words.

„That would be James trying to hug me again, so no thank you.“ She clapped her hands. „Right, lets start.“

You couldn‘t help but think of just how fucking hot it would be to be in James‘ strong arm. Breathless moans and impatient hands tugging down your skirt. His hands all over your body, slowly moving down towards your-

Fuck.

---

Sometime during your meetup Remus appeared and sat down with you. Then came Peter. With him Sirius and of course James.

„I swear Black if you don‘t shut the fuck up“ Lily said forcefully, very close to yelling, „I‘m gonna beat your stupid face with this book!“

Sirius’ wand fell from between his clenched jaw, he was trying to impersonate a growling dog, and he rolled his eyes.

„Calm down, Evans. Besides, Remus would totally not appreciate that, considering my face is number one in his list of“, he cleared his throat theatrically, „Reasons why Sirius Black is the most enchanting being I‘ve ever fucked.“

Remus, already used to Sirius‘ crude remarks, just continued to read his book, his index finger tracing shapes on Sirius‘ palm absentmindedly.

„I agree“ Remus mumbled, missing the way Sirius blushed and melted with his next words, „Sirius is enchanting.“

Sirius, content with the attention he got, leaned his head against his boyfriends shoulder and finally shut his mouth. Lily smiled gratefully at Remus, who send her a wink, the corner of his lips pulling up slightly to show that he had said it on purpose. Not that they needed to know just how accurate Sirius had been with the list.

You threw a glance at James and saw him engrossed with his potions textbook, lips moving silently as he read through the pages. Taking the time to admire him from up close, you watched how his brows would furrow and ease up whenever he worked out a problem, how he would bite his lip in concentration or scratch his nose and push up his glasses when they slipped down his nose.

Truly handsome. Sex on legs.

Fuck why can‘t he just touch you already.

For someone who flirts on the daily he sure was oblivious to girls who were actually interested in him. And not gay, unlike Lily, who literally had a pin on her bag with the lesbian flag on it.

Might get a pin with “Fuck me James“ printed on it. Maybe then he‘ll know, you thought bitterly.

You had already planned a whole color scheme for the pins when a foot nudged your shin under the table and forced you out of your head.

„Need help“ James whispered and slid his worksheet over to you, „Please?“

Oh hell yes. No need to beg, Potter.

„Sure“ You said, congratulating yourself for sounding confident, „Give me a min.“

Reading through the question your took a moment to think about the answer, scribbling it down yourself instead of telling him. You weren‘t sure how long you could gaze into his eyes and act like you didn‘t have wet dreams about him.

Satisfied you looked back up and noticed him already looking at you, or more specifically your mouth.

A devilish idea crossed your mind. Oh, yes.

Acting as if you were still thinking, you bit your lip softly, tracing your bottom lip with your tongue to leave it glistening pink. James swallowed, hand loosening his tie and he lowered his head with blushing cheeks.

„Here“ You smiled, gently sliding the paper back to him and shivered a little when your fingertips touched.

His fingers had to business being so close to the top of the sheet, considering he was sitting across from you and could have just grabbed the bottom part. Hope flared in your chest when you saw him just as taken aback by the touch and you basked in the radiant grin he shot you from under his mop of hair.

Your stomach swarmed with butterflies and you let out a small breath, thighs clenching.

Oh James.

„I should get going“ You said after a while, not in the mood to study anymore.

James‘ head whipped up and he got up as well, packing his bag in time with you. Your eyes widened in surprise, but you refrained from making your excitement too obvious.

„Yeah me too, I‘m tired. Goodnight.“ James rushed and gently pulled you along by the strap of your bag.

The others just grumbled in response, Sirius fast asleep and drooling while Remus waved his hand dismissively. Lily muttered a quick, „I‘ll join in a few minutes“, which actually translates to hours.

Since the others aren‘t here I could have some alone time with James.

Oh shit, there goes your brain. It was really creative when it came to imagening James‘ moans, considering you never heard them before. Or his dick. Fuck.

You silently made your way upstairs and sadly it was an awkward one. Frankly you blamed James for being so hot that you literally had no clue what to say, not knowing that he thought the exact same thing. Sure he is all for, „Everyone can wear what they bloody want“ and he had proven that point by wearing skirts multiple times, but fuck-

You in that skirt has to be criminal by some kind of law right? Has to be a sin in some kind of religion? And don‘t get him started on your lips-

James shook his head to get rid of the mental images and focused on his breathing. Praying that you wouldn’t see his boner.

Somehow you had made it to the empty common room and turned to each other at the same time to say goodnight. Both of you had not considered the distance between your faces, which proved to be extremely short with your noses bumping painfully.

„I‘m so-“

Your words died down when James kissed you hard, his big hands - oh those big, callous hands you‘ve been dreaming about for weeks finally touching your cheeks to pull you impossibly close.

Stunned by his sudden desire to kiss you, you pulled your head away to look into his face and what you saw made you smash your lips on his and his back against the wall.

His quiet, absolutely submissive noises shot straight into your blood and you press your hips against his to hear more of it. His arms were wrapped around your neck, hands buried in your hair as he opened your legs with his knee to press his thigh between your legs.

The rough fabric of his pants made you shudder and your hands slid down his upper body until you got to his cock. James head sank against the wall with a dirty moan as you put your hand in his pants to touch him. Shit, his skin was so soft and hot and he already has precum on the tip.

James lips met yours sloppily as he pushed you backwards onto the couch and sank down between you legs on the ground, moving your feet to rest on the cushion. He clearly didn‘t have any more patience in him and made quick work of pushing your panties aside to rub his fingers against your soaking entrance.

„Come on, James“ You moaned, bucking against him when he finally pushed two fingers inside.

„Mmm look at you“ James groaned out, leaving kisses along your inner thighs and let out wanton sound when your cunt clenched around him.

You didn‘t care about anything but his fingers fucking you at this point, whining when the cool metal of his ring pressed against your clit. You jerked at the hot sensation of his tongue curling around your clit, greedily sucking your pussy lips into his mouth.

„Oh James!“ You whimpered breathlessly, pulling his face so close that his nose was smushed against your lower belly, feeling the vibrations of every moan he let out shoot directly to your cunt.

Pulling him up by his hair you kissed him again, panting into his open mouth when he kept pistoning his fingers into your cunt.

„Please let me fuck you“ James begged needily, brows pinched in longing to feel you around his throbbing cock, „Please I can‘t wait anymore!“

Instead of answering, you pushed his pants down with your heels and trapped him between your legs. James hissed in relief when he felt some kind of friction on his cock and eased himself inside.

„Oh“ James let out a broken whimper, head thrown back in sheer bliss, „Feel so good.“

You couldn’t answer, way to enamored with the way he stretched you open so deliciously, watching his cock push into your body. Oh fuck, the sight was so dirty and crass and yet you couldn‘t take your eyes off him.

„James“ You gasped with difficulty, „James please ‘m‘gonna cum!“

James bend your legs so they were over his shoulders and pounded you harshly, face screwed up in ecstasy with the way you cried out his name. Your moans cut off only to be replaced by sobs when the tip of his cock hit your g-spot over and over again.

„Yes yes yes“ James chanted, pressing his forehead on yours to stare at your dazed expression, „tell me how you feel!“

Your shook your head quickly, signaling him that you couldn‘t possibly form a coherent sentence, but his persisted.

„Tell me how you feel!“ James hissed, thumb suddenly on your clit and you broke.

„Good good so fucking good“ You cried, latching on his body to encourage him to fuck you harder.

„Prove it“ James moaned brokenly, „Cum for me!“

His other hand wrapped around your delicate throat and squeezed firmly, making you tip over the edge and cry out your release. James‘ orgasm made him tremble so violently that he couldn‘t hold himself up anymore, collapsing on your chest with a deep throaty whimper as he filled your cunt with his hot cum.

„Fuck yes“ James ground out, hips still pushing in and out of you, like he couldn’t bear the thought of stopping. He raised his head to watch you, his pupils still dilated, pink lips quivering with aftershocks.

James looked absolutely wrecked and satisfied. He stared at you as if staring at a goddess, nuzzling close to hear your heartbeat.

„You okay?“ James asked quietly and tucked himself back in to help you clean up.

„Yeah, perfect.“ You grinned, letting him help you up and pull you towards his dorm.

He gave you a playful smile, but you saw the slight nervousness in his eyes.

„Stay?“

God, yes. Finally. Fuck those pins, who needs them.

„Yes.“

#james potter x you #james potter smut #marauders smut #james potter x reader #james potter x y/n

482 notes · View notes

panda-noosh · 4 years ago

Text

lost in translation {draco malfoy x reader}

words: 11.8k

summary: draco finds a notebook filled with beautiful, painful words. he keeps it for himself. he promises he’ll give it back to the rightful owner when he eventually finds them.

genre: angst

notes: support my writing or ask about commissions! - masterlist - i literally don’t know what plot is any more okay. also i listened to i love you by billie eilish on loop whilst writing this so feel free to put that on if you want.

---

draco sees the words every time he closes his eyes.

repeated stanzas, never leaving him alone. a mouthful of words no mind should ever be able to conjure. a haunting imagination capable of driving even the sanest people out of sanity.

he found the book on a winters day at hogwarts. christmas time was just round the corner, meaning most of his friends had already fled the castle in favour of homes, somewhere out in the muggle world, where they could spend the holidays with families who cared for them as families often cared for each other.

draco decided to stay at hogwarts.

he didn’t want to - not really. his father was just being difficult, and he wanted to face the man even less than he wanted to spend the holidays with people like potter and teachers who didn’t like him because of his family name.

he is entirely on his own this holiday season, and it depresses him more than he would ever be willing to let on.

because, you see, the thing with draco malfoy is, weakness has been a taboo subject amongst his family for as long as he can remember. his father drilled into his conscience that malfoys always have their heads held high, that they must be able to cope entirely on their own in any circumstance, because that’s what strength is. needing no one. fending only for yourself. living life to get what you want without worrying about anybody else.

this is why draco doesn’t sit with the other students during the christmas feast. instead, he finds himself traipsing through the library, poking at spines of books so old the writing has been smudged and worn, the contents made up of words once spoken in england, now lost to time.

the place smells dusty. it makes him sneeze, and he grimaces when he pulls his finger away from a shelf to see it coated in a thick layer of dust which he hastily wipes on his already gravy-stained robes. his stomach grumbles with the reminder of the christmas feast waiting downstairs for him - all he needs to do is pull a chair up and dig in. none of the teachers will mind. the students might be a bit iffy, but when has draco ever cared about what they think?

instead, he slumps against the wall, pulls a book into his lap and starts to read.

he’s so engrossed in the old text that he doesn’t hear the library door opening. he doesn’t hear peeve’s taunting cackles until they’re right over his head, peeves pointed toes very nearly scraping his slicked back hair.

draco’s head snaps up. above him, the poltergeist laughs, throwing his head back.

“peeves!” draco scrambles to his feet, swatting at the poltergeist. “oh, for christ’s sake, do you ever give it a rest?”

“all alone for christmas, are you, malfoy?” the poltergeist taunts. “surely daddy can afford you a way home with all that money the dark lord’s been shovelling into his pockets!”

draco’s face burns. “go away, you annoying little roach, before i get the hoover!”

peeves only laughs harder. “what a threat that was! wait till i tell the headmaster about that one.” and before draco can say anything else, peeves has grabbed a single, tiny book from the edge of a bookshelf and dropped it on draco’s head.

it crashes against the crown of his skull and bounces to the floor unceremoniously, flipping open upon the carpet. draco makes to yell, his fury bubbling over, but his voice is lost to the sudden emptiness of the room as peeves does what peeves does best and disappears.

draco groans through gritted teeth, rubbing the spot the book bounced from. it aches a little bit, which is surprising considering the size of the book. not a textbook. not really anything any of his teachers would ask him to check out of the library. instead, it’s spiral bound, the words not typed, but handwritten in sloppy scrawl, like the author was in a rush when transferring their thoughts onto paper.

draco frowns; why should a book such as this be in the schools library?

he picks it up by the corner, as if afraid the book might bite him - it certainly wouldn’t be the first time. the book, however, makes no strange movements. draco feels no strange, magical pull coming from the pages. in fact, if he were to use his common sense, he would believe the book to be straight from the muggle world.

that alone should have been enough to deter him, but his father isn’t here, so he opens it and starts reading.

the first few pages are awkward poetry. awkward essays, a person’s thoughts and opinions filtered with the fear of someone reading over their shoulder, perhaps. draco can tell the author was holding back, but the further he flips, the looser said author seems to become. they start using words. just words, so beautiful and magical and heartfelt that draco finds himself enraptured with every one. he struggles to put the book down, curling into his tiny corner in the library, enamoured by such language. he wonders for the brief moment he is able to take his eyes off the page if perhaps the book has been cast under a spell, if perhaps there is a spell in this world that puts heaven and hell into words and has transferred it to the very book he holds in his hands.

draco has spent so long getting lost in the talents of wizards that he sometimes forgets muggles have talents and hobbies, too. there are creatives in the world who can create emotions from such small things. there are people outside the world of magic and wizardry who can do magical things, too.

he has the evidence in his hand.

---

he keeps the evidence in his hand all throughout the year.

he comes back to it after particularly stressful classes to remind himself that not all is bad; that’s the magic these poems and essays have on him. he could probably recite each one word for word, but he never does, because they belong to him now. he’s claimed them as a comfort blanket, something he needs to get through the day. he’s found an addiction within these words that he can’t let go of, not just yet, not until he figures out who wrote them.

and that’s really all it boils down to - he wants to put a face to the mind that created the world he so desperately wants to share.

it’s a tuesday afternoon in feburary when blaise asks him about the book.

“are you ever gonna share what’s in that notebook you keep carrying around?”

the question startles draco. he thought he was being so subtle. he hardly ever brings the notebook out to face the light of day, only ever reading it behind the curtains of his poster bed in the dorms.

nonetheless, he doesn’t deny it’s existence. he doesn’t want to sound stupid.

he pokes at the vegetables on his plate and, without looking up, mumbles, “not really any of your business, is it?”

blaise scoffs. “alright, be like that then. you carry that thing around like a little girl and her secret diary.”

“are you trying to tease me, blaise? because you just sound stupid.”

blaise rolls his eyes; he’s one of the few people that don’t get properly offended when malfoy fails to bite his tongue.

“and anyway,” draco continues, “i don’t carry it around. it stays in my bed.”

“oh, really?”

“yes, and that’s where it’s staying.”

“so is it yours, or did you take it from someone?”

draco pauses. “it’s mine.”

“i’ve never seen you write in a notebook before. not even in class.”

draco shrugs; he hasn’t got a very good answer to that, because the statement is true. he tends to get others to write his notes for him when he can get away with it.

blaise sighs. he leans back in his seat, folding his skinny arms across his chest. “so are you a poet now? some kind of shakespeare?”

draco raises a brow. “some kind of what?”

blaise waves a dismissive hand. “it’s a muggle thing. just answer the part you understood.”

“i’m not a poet,” draco grumbles. “the poems in the book aren’t even mine. i found it when i was in the library a few months back, and thought it was interesting.” he shrugs like it’s no big deal, like this notebook has always just been a background prop in his everyday life. “it’s stupid, really. muggle stuff.”

“so why are you so obsessed with it?”

“i’m not obsessed!” draco’s grip tightens on the edge of his chair; he’s tired after a long day of quidditch practice, and honestly, he doesn’t want to deal with his friends bullshit any longer than he has to. “now, blaise, can you start minding your own business before we have some issues?”

that shuts blaise right up. together, they eat the remainders of their dinners before draco excuses himself and leaves the table. his mind is reeling, heart thumping both with embarrassment and annoyance; he knows he’s popular amongst the slytherins. in a way, he asked to be centre of attention when he started mouthing off about the importance of the malfoy household all those years back, but it’s frustrating that he can’t even do a bit of light reading without getting asked about it. he thought he was being so subtle, keeping the curtains closed every time he read, never taking the notebook from the confines of the dorms, never uttering a word about it to-

his shoulder crashes into yours.

“shit.”

draco stumbles back, catching himself on the wall. he’s too dazed to say anything, but his anger is rising, and he’s prepared to start yelling-

but then he opens his eyes and sees you there, fumbling with a pile of posters that have spilled across the glossy corridor floor. draco blinks, glancing from you to the posters and back again.

“i’m so sorry,” you mumble. “so sorry. i knew the pile was too high, but hermione had to go to-”

“why don’t you just-” draco flicks his wand. immediately, the posters gather in a whirlwind and fly into his outstretched arms, a neat little stack, good as new.

you look up, dazed. your eyes are gorgeous, plagued with evidence of exhaustion, but riveting nonetheless. draco recognises you only vaguely, and the few memories he has of these quick glimpses have never left him dissatisfied.

“oh,” you say after a moment. “right. spells. magic. i forgot about that.”

draco narrows his eyes.

you stumble to your feet, wiping trembling hands on your robes. it leaves a streak of dirt against the black, and that’s when draco sees the red and gold lining of house gryffindor.

“sorry,” you repeat. “i mean, thank you, for - like - helping me. i completely forgot i could just-” you swish your hands in a mock gesture of wand-movement before laughing awkwardly. “weird, right? that i would - uh - forget that in a school of magic. when i’m a wizard. ha ha.”

draco nods, because he really has nothing to say. he can’t keep his eyes off you, your awkward movements, the way you don’t even flinch at the sight of him. most gryffindor’s would be hurling insults at him by now - hell, he would be hurling insults at the gryffindor’s, too, but his words are caught in his throat and he can’t even properly function.

so he looks down at the pile of posters in his arms.

“CREATIVE WRITING 101!”

you snatch the first poster off the pile as if that will stop draco from reading it. “it’s nothing. something stupid, really.”

he looks at you again. “you like creative writing?”

you shrug.

“that’s such a muggle hobby to have. where’s the fun in it?”

and for the first time this entire meeting, you scowl. you hastily snatch the posters out of draco’s arms, struggling to keep them neat and tidy in your own, but when draco raises his wand to help you out a second time, you swat his hand away and say, “i don’t need your help.”

“you’re going to drop them again-”

you’re already backing away. “you don’t need to come, you know. me dropping these in front of you wasn’t a bloody invite.”

draco blinks. “i didn’t mean it like-”

you run a hand through your hair, nearly stumbling over your own shoes yet again. draco lunges forward in his attempts to catch you, but you yell something incoherent in his direction, apologise profusely to a first year you nearly elbow in the nose before you turn on your heel and head back the way you came.

draco stares at your retreating form, unable to fully comprehend what he did wrong. he doesn’t think he said anything offensive, let alone anything that would prompt you to nearly wipe yourself out in your attempts to get away.

but then again, he isn’t really sure why he cares.

----

it’s weird how - after one brief meeting - you suddenly appear at every corner draco takes.

he never noticed you in his potion’s class before, but now he can’t avoid you. you sit at the back, a pen lodged between your teeth, brows furrowed together; despite your eventful meeting with draco only a few days prior, you don’t seem to have nearly as much interest in his sudden presence as he has with yours. he keeps glancing at you, not-so-subtly turning in his chair every now and then just to make sure you’re not some kind of illusion. nobody in the classroom is acting like anything is out of place, so maybe you have been his classmate for a while, and he just never noticed.

he finds that a little hard to believe, but he has to take reality as it comes to him, or else he’ll go insane.

he doesn’t talk to you for nearly a week, because he’s a little afraid of what you’ll have to say. he’s a little afraid you’ll say nothing at all, that you might have forgotten who he is entirely.

it’s you who makes the first move.

it startles draco nearly out of his skin. he’s packing up his stuff, ignoring goyle’s ramblings to his left, when you slip your hand in his robe pocket. he jumps, spinning around just enough to dislodge your grappling fingers, and he’s seconds away from whipping out his wand to hex you when he freezes, eyes meeting your own, heart immediately plummeting into his stomach.

you smile, wide and polite. “hello, old friend.”

“can you get out of my pockets?” draco hisses, swatting your hand away when you make another attempt to dive into his robes. “what do you want?”

“a pen,” you reply. “i broke mine.”

“i don’t have a pen.” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his quill. “i have a quill.”

“aaaah, my bad.” you snatch the instrument from him before grabbing his hand. he yelps, stumbling a little bit. he beams bright red when the noise he just made actually registers in his head, and he makes a mental note to scold goyle for snickering behind him.

“what are you doing?” draco demands. he tries not to get too flustered at the height difference between you - your head could very easily rest in the crook of his neck, and he hates that he kind of wants to experience what that feels like.

you scribble words into his palm. “this is the time and place for the creative writing clubs first meeting.”

draco blinks. “what?”

“time and place for the-”

“why do you want me to go?”

you scowl, not once looking up from the jagged lines of draco’s palm. “i don’t, but hermione’s asked me to gather as many people as i can find, and i think you kind of owe me one after being so rude the other day in the hallway.”

draco falters; so you remember.

“i wasn’t being rude at all,” he grumbles. “you’re just sensitive.”

“maybe.” you drop his palm and shove his quill back in his pocket. “if you want to come, be my guest; it’s going to be a lot of fun. lots of - uh - writing and stuff, i can assure you.”

draco scowls. “i won’t be going.”

“okay.”

“so this entire conversation was pointless.”

you fold your arms over your chest, as if challenging him. “okay, draco. i’m not forcing you to come if you don’t want to, but - you know - i’ll save you a seat or whatever.”

and draco doesn’t understand why that is the promise that tears him down, why that is the thing that makes his mind up for him. even as he gives you no solid answer, he knows he now has plans automatically built into his schedule to see you again, no matter how much he dreads the thought of it.

he looks down at the writing on his palm, and his heart stops.

just for a second. a brief moment of death, before life is pushed back into him when his brain kicks into overdrive and he’s certain he’s going to pass away for real with how fast his heart is suddenly beating.

he blinks rapidly. goyle is saying something, and the students are filtering out, but draco is lost, lost, spiralling as he recognises the messy scrawl, smudged even though it shouldn’t be, messy but coherent, familiar and amazing.

he’s read heaven written in this exact same handwriting. he’s read heaven, and hell, and earth, and space, and the moon, and the stars, and he’s experienced an entire new existence written in this very handwriting. it’s the same handwriting that covers every single page of his sacred notebook, hidden in his pillow case back at the dorms. it’s the same handwriting that gives a form to the aches and pains and anxieties of the person who has just walked away from him, the person who’s brain draco has lived in since christmas.

----

“you’re actually going?”

“it’s the least i can do.” draco fixes the collar of his robes, ruffles his hair a little bit. “i did nearly wipe them out in the hallway a few days ago.”

“that was an accident.” pansy throws herself across draco’s bed, as she often does when she wants the attention he has never given her. he simply glares at her reflection through the mirror, silently willing her to get up and leave so he can set off for the history of magic classroom in which the creative writing club is meeting tonight.

pansy, however, doesn’t take the hint.

“i just think this y/n person is trying to get in your head,” she continues. “your head, your bed, all of the above...”

draco’s face warms. “you can think whatever you want, pansy, but i’m going whether you like it or not. in case you’ve forgotten, you have absolutely no say in the way i live my life.”

pansy rolls onto her stomach, tugs on the back of draco’s robes. “oh, you’ve made that very clear, malfoy. don’t come running back to me when you show up to this stupid muggle club and get ostracised for being who you are.”

draco clenches his jaw, stepping out of pansy’s reach all without turning round. he knows she’s right, of course - there is no doubt in his mind that he is going to show up tonight, only to be met by the usual hostile glares he gets from everybody outside the slytherin house. he brought it upon himself, and he knows that - but he’s trying to fix it. he’s trying to prove himself as a good person to you.

to the world. not just you.

he swallows and turns. pansy stares up at him, hands curled beneath her chin, that sleezy little smile on her face. draco grimaces, points to the door and says, “the girls dorms are up the other staircase.”

pansy’s smile falls. she scowls, stands up and leaves without another word. draco doesn’t care that he’s pissed her off - pansy, in recent months, has become a little bit too much. he’s given her the most wiggle room he can provide, and she has done nothing but bombard him further.

he shakes the thought of his friend from his mind as he walks over to his bed and digs around in his pillow case. inside, he finds the poetry book he so desperately cares for, flicking to a page he has marked; he’s highlighted a few passages, and he reads them over as he steadies his breathing. this is such new territory for him. if his father finds out what he’s up to right now, he’ll be getting a very stern speaking to, possibly even a back-hand to the face if his father is in a particularly bad mood.

but then draco remembers your expression, your hand digging around in his pocket, your stumbled words that somehow manage to pull together so beautifully when you want to express yourself.

he has to see you tonight, whether it’s in a creative writing club or not. he’ll take just running into you in the hallway again, but to reach that point, he has to actually leave the dorms.

he stuffs the book back into his pillow case, flattens a particularly frustrating strand of hair, and walks out the door.

---

the history of magic classroom is dimly lit.

draco has seen pictures of muggle poetry readings before; they kind of remind him a little bit of exorcisms, and the set-up he’s currently walking into is no exception.

there’s candles lit upon every desk, the lights dimmed to create some kind of ambience that draco doesn’t understand. people are sat in a circle - people in every colour of robe, though draco is the only slytherin, it seems. this makes him a little nervous, and he hovers in the doorway, eyes tracing the scene in desperate search of you.

he spots you in a matter of seconds. you’re leaning over a candle, frowning into the flame like you can’t quite understand why it’s flickering like that.

draco makes a b-line for you.

you look up only when he’s by your side, and immediately your expression brightens. those eyes of yours widen a little bit, a smile adorning your face. you straighten up, grab draco’s arm, and he’s certain he’s going to explode.

“you made it!” you exclaim. “i can’t believe you actually came, mate; full of surprises, you are.”

draco frowns, feigning frustration, like this is something he went out of his way to attend. “why are you staring at the flame so intensely?”

“i’m staring at the flame so intensely-” you put on a pompous british accent, just to tease him, and draco doesn’t mind, “-because apparently you can turn the flames a different colour with the right spell, but it’s not working for me. watch.”

you elbow draco in the side, prompting him to shuffle over and give you more room. draco folds his arms over his chest, watching as you kneel down until your cheek is very nearly pressed against the desk. you point your wand at the flames and wave it, just once, but nothing happens. the flames barely even flicker.

you blow it out in frustration. “fuck that.”

draco laughs. he doesn’t know where it comes from, but it’s bursting out of him at the sight of your furrowed brows, and your pouting lips. you scowl at him, and it startles him how unsurprised you are to hear such a noise escape a man like draco malfoy.

draco shakes his head and nudges you to the side. “watch.”

you grab his wrist. “no. nope. absolutely not.”

“what? i’m gonna-”

“you’re gonna show me up, is what you’re gonna do, and i didn’t ask for it.” you pluck his wand from his fingers and stuff it back in his robes. draco has to fight the urge to shudder, your fingertips tracing across his ribcage as you fumble for his inside pocket.

you pull away then, shaking your head. “it doesn’t even matter, anyway; you show me up in every other class we have together.”

draco scoffs. “and i can assume you’re going to show me up tonight, so we’re even.”

you grin, because draco is right, and you both know he is right.

you make a bit more idle chat before the final people make an appearance, and you’re finally asked to sit down. draco is confused to see hermione granger being the leader of this group of creatives, as he’s almost certain he’s never read anything more beautiful than your work; surely you should be up at the front, guiding people through the craft of writing, a craft you have so brilliantly perfected.

draco sits beside you and says nothing. he fiddles with his fingers, coughing into his fist, rolling his eyes anytime someone makes a stupid suggestion. honestly, granger can talk forever, and draco is starting to get bored within the first ten minutes. all he wants is to hear you recite something, or for you to just. . . say anything about any of your pieces; draco could probably do it for you if that didn’t look creepy and uncalled for. he could stand at the front of this group and recite whatever piece of poetry he wanted from the notebook he took so long ago, and then maybe you’d get the recognition you deserve. maybe then you’d be able to share your potential instead of just sitting by draco’s side in a circle of poet-wanna-be’s.

finally, hermione turns her attention on you, however.

“y/n,” granger chirps. you jump, fumble with your wand, let it drop on the floor to roll beneath draco’s chair. he rolls his eyes and picks it up for you as you struggle to respond to hermione’s summons.

“uh, y-yeah? yes? did you ask me something?”

hermione’s brows furrow. “do you ever pay attention to anything i’m saying?”

“sometimes,” you reply, sheepishly. “definitely sometimes.”

hermione rolls her eyes. “anyway - i was just wondering if you’ve done any writing recently that you’d like to share.”

draco tenses. he flicks his eyes to his left to see you awkwardly ringing your hands in your lap, biting your lower lip.

“uh....”

“none?” hermione demands, eyes popping. “but i thought-”

“i’ve been a bit busy,” you grumble. “it’s not that big of a bloody deal, hermione, goodness me.”

“well, yes, i - i know that, but-” hermione gestures vaguely. “this is a creative writing club. i asked all of you to bring something with you. do you not even have an old piece of writing you could share with us?”

“nope.”

draco’s heart leaps. “what?”

and suddenly, all eyes are on him.

he slouches in his seat, but keeps his gaze on you. you stare back at him, eyes wide, clearly shocked at his contribution.

“you’ve got nothing?” he prompts.

you can’t even reply. you just stare, and draco knows he’s being confusing, is aware that maybe he should just shut his mouth. or, better yet, do everyone a favour and walk out before he says any more stupid things that will do nothing but embarrass both you and him.

“okay,” he grumbles, folding his arms over his chest. “okay, fine. that’s fine.” he looks up, meets hermione’s eyes. “you know what, granger, i don’t think this little club is my cup of tea. i’m going to head back to bed.”

hermione blinks. no one says anything when draco stands and walks out, but he expected nothing less. he wasn’t welcome there in the first place. he should never have even made an appearance. he should have stayed in bed and let his feelings fester until he fell asleep.

feelings are stupid anyway.

----

he ignores you.

in fact, he starts treating you how he treats everybody else - like they’re beneath him. a habit he once wanted to escape from has yet again become his comfort blanket, the thing shielding him from talking to you. every time you try making conversation, he sneers and walks off, barely even giving you the time of day.

in truth, he knows what happened is no big deal. everyone probably forgot about it as soon as he left the room, getting absorbed in their own works of poetry. however, draco knows you want to discuss it, that you probably want answers he is far too afraid to give you. if he starts explaining why he said what he said, he’ll have to talk about the notebook, and then you might ask for it back, and draco is selfish because he doesn’t think he can give it back just yet. it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

and so, he just ignores you.

he sits in potions and pretends you don’t exist. he walks past you at lunch and doesn’t even give you a smile. he looks over your head every time you stand to wave at him. he doesn’t want to risk any inkling of conversation trickling in between you.

pansy notices this, of course, but draco isn’t surprised. with how closely pansy has taken to watching over you and him, it would be more surprising to think she hadn’t caught on to the situation.

she sits beside him at lunch, slamming her tray of greens down just loud enough that a few heads turn - including your own. draco quickly snaps his eyes down to his plate, trying to pretend he wasn’t just staring at the back of your head.

“so,” pansy begins.

draco licks the stuffing from his fork.

pansy leans in, elbow hitting against his. “so. how did it go?”

“how did what go?”

“your little date with y/n! you never updated me on it!”

draco scowls. “that was days ago, pansy.”

“exactly. so now that i’ve got you trapped, you can fill me in on all the details.” she leans even closer, if that is possible. draco can smell the old woman’s perfume wafting from her robes and has to take a glass of water to quell the itch it summons to his throat. “y/n doesn’t look too happy with you, i’ll say that much. i sit behind them in care of magical creatures, and they’ve been awfully quiet since the club meeting; care to explain?”

“why is it any of your business?”

pansy grins. “because i told you someone like y/n wasn’t worth the trouble; a gryffindor, draco, really? were the robes not a big enough red flag for you?”

draco scowls. “first of all, pansy, y/n and i are just friends, and have always been just friends. i’m not doing anything to impress them.”

pansy scoffs, finally moving away to start spearing at her dinner with her fork. “how stupid do you think i am? how stupid do you think we all are? goyle doesn’t keep your little infatuation a secret, you know. he told us all about how close you and y/n get in potions together.”

draco’s grip tightens on his fork. “close isn’t really the right word.”

“the bickering? the way they make you laugh? the way you help them with their potions when they’re struggling so snape won’t tell them off? that sounds awful close to me, draco.”

he has no answer to that. his chest aches, memories of such delightful times flooding his mind and making him crave it all again. he remembers those times when he would glance over his shoulder to see you running your hands through your hair, struggling to comprehend what on earth snape has just ordered you to do; if it was anyone else, draco wouldn’t have given them the light of day, but seeing the fear in your eyes every time snape gave you even the briefest flicker of attention saw draco abandoning goyle to come save the day at your desk.

“so what went wrong?” pansy continues. “a lovers tiff?”

draco closes his eyes. “it was nothing, pansy; just me being an idiot again.”

pansy gasps, eyebrows shooting up her forehead. “you? being an idiot? and you’re openly admitting to it! goodness me, y/n must be a lot more skilled at magic than they let on, huh?”

“i don’t know what to do.”

it’s a plea. draco knows it’s a plea. in his heart, the cracks are beginning to form, and he can’t pretend any longer. he watches the back of your head - has been watching the back of your head since the meeting, because that’s the only glimpse of you he will let himself have. it hurts to see you laughing, smiling, slapping ron weasley on the arm. it shows you’re healing, moving on from your attempts to get draco to listen.

he’s ruined everything.

pansy leans forward. her voice is softer now, surprisingly kind. “draco, are you serious about this? i know i’ve been teasing, but do you actually like y/n in that way?”

draco bites the inside of his cheek. he remembers the times he had with you, how he used to laugh so freely with little care as to who heard. you teased him and made him feel normal, and he isn’t sure when his appreciation for you went past the poetry you wrote and emerged into you as a human being, but it’s happened, and he’s nodding to pansy’s question before he can think better of it.

pansy draws back, letting out a shaky breath. “wow, okay. . . this is definitely new territory for me. for you. i’m not sure how to go about it.”

“i took their notebook from them,” he mumbles.

pansy raises a brow. “their - their notebook?”

“y/n writes,” he explains. “beautiful things. addictive things, and i found their notebook in the library over christmas and i kept it for myself. i only found out it was theirs a few days ago, but. . . i never told them i have it. i got scared to.”

pansy pauses. draco’s never used that word in a sentence before. it sounds fake, like he’s made it up and just thrown it at the end of his sentence for the fun of it.

“well, that would be a good place to start, i think.”

his eyes snap up. “what?”

“give them their notebook back.” she says this like it’s obvious, raising her brows. “it’s a good way to start a conversation, and once the conversation’s been breached, you can go on to explain everything else - it’s pretty simple when you get your head around it, draco.”

he blinks. it does make sense, but again, there comes that burning protectiveness he can’t seem to shake.

selfish, selfish, selfish.

he glances over at the gryffindor table. you’ve got your head thrown back again, laughing so loudly and so carefree that draco’s heart trembles because he isn’t the one making you laugh like that. it’s ron. it’s harry. it’s everyone who thinks he’s an awful human being, bringing joy to the one person who’s ever seen him as decent. they’ve probably told you a joke about how draco’s scum, how he’ll never amount of anything, how he claimed his spot at the top purely because of his father.

fury pools in the pit of draco’s stomach. he spears his food with his fork, pushes away from the table and walks out of the dining hall before giving pansy an answer as to whether he simple plan is one he’ll actually take into consideration.

but now that he’s storming through the halls towards the slytherin common room, he knows it’s not something he can just consider. he can never move on with you with your notebook stuffed in his pillow case. he needs to be honest, and he needs to apologise, and these are all things he struggles with greatly, but all things he needs to learn before he loses you for good.

---

the notebook hasn’t seen the light of day past draco’s dorm since christmas.

it feels weird carrying it so freely now, slowly making his way through the halls with it pressed against his chest, the spirals digging into his lower arm. people look at him, but nobody bats an eye at the notebook, and why would they? it’s not suspicious. most of them probably think it’s nothing more than a school notebook, used for taking notes in classes.

still, his anxiety runs at a million miles per hour. he wants to yell at anyone who even glimpses the tiny square peeking from over his arms. he wants to tell them it’s none of their business.

but he doesn’t. he keeps walking until he’s reached the gryffindor common room.

it’s just his luck that ron weasley is the one stood outside. the ginger lad spots draco immediately, and it’s reflex when draco scowls and says, “got nothing better to do, weasley?”

ron glares. “what are you doing here, malfoy? the slytherin common room is back the way you came.”

“good thing i’m not going to the slytherin common room.” he nods towards the portrait hole. “is y/n in there?”

ron pauses. “what do you want with y/n?”

“i need to talk to them.” he swallows before gently unravelling the notebook from his arms. “i accidentally grabbed this in potions - i need to give it to them.”

“right, give it here then.” ron reaches for it, and draco stumbles back. he stumbles, not even bothering to swat ron’s hand away as pure panic seizes him. ron pulls back hastily, eyes widening at draco’s response.

draco, through gritted teeth, says, “just go get y/n for me, will you?”

ron stares at him a second longer before turning on his heel and walking back into the gryffindor common room. draco tries calming himself down in the minutes it takes for ron to reappear with you at his side.

the attempts are futile.

the minute he lays eyes on you, his heart starts thundering in a way that confuses him to no ends; he shouldn’t feel like this over someone so ordinary, and in truth, that’s what you are. you’re a student, just like him, struggling through school life, just like him. you go about your day in almost the exact same way as he does, and yet he’s never before felt so intrigued by another individual.

when your eyes meet his, you don’t smile. you don’t even look surprised. you grip the front of your night gown, glaring at him, not saying a word in greeting; draco’s mouth has gone dry, however, and saying anything is the absolute last thing on his mind when you’re standing in front of him, hair a mess, more beautiful and casual than he’s ever seen you.

ron is the one who has to break the silence. “he said he’s got a notebook for you.”

draco inhales sharply, suddenly remembering the artefact clutched in his hands. your eyes drift to it, and for a moment, you look puzzled. your eyebrows scrunch together, head tilting a little before you say, “that’s mine?”

draco thrusts it in your direction. “please take it.” he turns to ron. “and you - please leave.”

ron looks offended, looking at you for back-up, but your eyes are peeled on the notebook, not paying even the slightest bit of attention to ron. in the end, the weasley man rolls his eyes and stalks back into the gryffindor common room, leaving the corridor empty besides you and draco.

and draco feels every sliver of tension like it’s been injected into his bone marrow. flashes of his behaviour play on loop in his brain, the way he ignored you, the amount of times he scowled at you every time you tried speaking to him; he never meant any of it, of course, considering you’re the most fascinating person he’s ever come across, but he did it anyway, and that’s what he has to patch up.

somehow, he has to patch this up.

he looks to the floor, tucking the notebook back against his chest when you don’t take it from his hands. the silence is crushing, but draco has absolutely no idea what to say to fill it in - pansy made this all sound so easy; he would hand you the notebook, and a conversation would immediately stem from that.

but no. draco’s mind has gone completely blank, and you still look furious, and neither of you are doing anything to resolve the mess he has made.

finally, however, draco can’t take it any more. “i found your notebook.”

“yeah. ron said.” you pluck it out of his arms. “where did you even find this? it’s so old.”

“in the library.”

“the library? what was it doing there?”

draco shrugs. “how would i know that?”

“considering you’re the one who stole it-”

“i didn’t steal it. i just didn’t know who it belonged to.” a lie. he shouldn’t be lying. that’s a bad way to go about things. “i mean, i took it back to my dorm with me, kept it safe, but - like - i was of course going to give it back once i figured out who the owner was.”

you hum. “i’m sure you were.” you flick open the pages, immediately spotting a passage draco has highlighted in bright orange pen. “you tabbed it?”

he shrugs. “sometimes i read it when i got bored.”

“i should be angry at you for that, you know - that’s a big invasion of privacy.”

“yeah. you should be.” he looks up sheepishly. “are you?”

you pause, eyes continuing to drift over the pages of your own work, work you haven’t seen or reread since at least christmas time. you don’t look impressed, or angry, or anything at all, really. you just read the lines and nod, as if taking inventory.

then, you look up and say, “i’m more angry at the way you’ve been treating me this past week.”

draco wilts. he knew it was coming, that this was the main source of hostility for the both of you, but he really thought the presence of the notebook would somehow buy him some time, maybe make this conversation a bit easier.

you snap the notebook closed, shoving it into the pocket of your night gown. “you didn’t even tell me what i did wrong!”

“you didn’t do anything wrong!”

“then why were you acting like that? why couldn’t you just talk to me?”

draco squeezes his eyes closed, trails his hands through his hair, tries to calm down before he says something he’ll immediately regret. “you know, it’s a lot more complicated than you’re making it out to be.”

you pull back, puzzled. “how is it complicated? you’re nearly eighteen years old, draco! it shouldn’t be complicated to talk to someone when you’re mad at them!”

“ i wasn’t mad at you! i thought you were mad at me!”

you throw your head back and laugh, and this is the very noise draco has been craving for days, but he doesn’t want to hear it now, not here, not in this context. you’re not taking him seriously. you’re not listening.

“this is the stupidest thing i’ve ever heard,” you cackle. “is this about the fucking club meeting? you think i gave a shit about what you said?”

draco shakes his head. “again, love, it’s not as simple as that.”

“then explain it to me. explain to me what the hell was going through your head to make that switch flip so suddenly.”

something inside draco snaps, a string he didn’t even realise was being pulled so taut.

“do you wanna know what’s been going through my head recently?” his voice drops, your expression faltering. “it’s that fucking notebook of yours. it’s been all i can think about for weeks, because i can’t wrap my head around the idea of you being the author of those poems.”

you blink. “w-what?”

“you’re so carefree. you’re so. . . so you, y/n, and it seems impossible to me - unfathomable! - that you could be thinking such harrowing thoughts and not a single person has picked up on it besides me - and i’ve only done so by complete accident.” he inhales, runs a hand through his hair. “i’ve read your poems a thousand times over, and even though i know they came from you, i still can’t put your face to the words. i still can’t figure out how on earth you and that notebook are related in any way, and it’s been driving me insane. i want to help you, and it’s driving me insane.”

again, you blink. the corridor goes quiet. draco’s breathing slows, stabilises, and he has no idea what he’s just said, or if any of it makes sense, but there is a weight off his chest that provides such a great amount of relief he wants to cry.

finally, you swallow. your knuckles protrude from your hand with how tight your grip on the notebook is. your eyes stray to the ground, throat bobbing, mouth opening for just a second before you seem to think better of it and go silent again.

draco takes a step back. “look, you can have it back,” he says. “i don’t want it any more. i don’t - i don’t need it any more. but i just want you to know i’m sorry, and i never wanted to hurt your feelings. i was just. . . feeling things, and it wasn’t normal for me, and i got scared.” he raises his hands in mock surrender, taking another step back. “feel free to never talk to me again. i’ll understand.”

he waits for another second. hope springs to his chest, hope that you will tell him not to go, that you’ll forgive him on the spot and the two of you can live happily ever after, but it doesn’t work that way. you meet his eyes and nod, before turning on your heel and heading back into the gryffindor common room.

---

“how did you mess that up again?”

draco presses his knuckles into his eyes, as if pushing goyle’s words out of his brain. he should never have told the other slytherin about his encounter with you, but goyle was the first person on the scene, and malfoy just lost control; he needed to rant to someone. he needed to get it off his chest.

and it seems now goyle has suddenly developed a perfect memory, as two days after the meeting in the corridor, he has not let the subject drop.

the two sit together in defence against the dark arts; their teacher has long since left the classroom in search of some more work sheets for them to get cracking with, and the class has erupted into an expected chorus of conversations. draco wants nothing more than to put his head on the table and ignore the world, take this break as a chance to catch up on some of the sleep he has been robbed of these past few weeks, but goyle doesn’t let him go that easily.

the bigger boy leans over and taps draco on the back of the head. “come on, man, talk to me. there’s got to be something we can do.”

“there is nothing,” draco barks through gritted teeth. “and i’m sick of repeating myself, goyle, so shut your trap before i shut it for you.”

goyle sighs, leaning back in his seat. “so y/n just. . . didn’t even say anything? they just walked off without a word?”

“they did, which i took as a clear sign they never want to see me again.”

“do you not think you might be looking too deeply into that reaction?”

draco glares, eyes bloodshot, probably more terrifying than they have ever been. “tell me where on earth i could have looked too deeply.”

goyle shrugs. “well, you did admit to spilling this massive, emotional speech over them in the middle of the night - maybe they just didn’t know what to say at the time. i bet if you go up to them now and ask for a follow-up conversation, they’d be more than willing to sit down and discuss everything.”

“there’s nothing to discuss. i said everything i wanted to say, and y/n rejected me - i’m man enough to take it at face value and move on.”

a lie, of course, but draco just wants goyle to shut up. he wants to continue sulking on his own, because that’s what he does best. he doesn’t need friends patting him on the back, trying to cheer him up. he knows he’s messed up, and he’s willing to suffer in solitude for his stupidity.

“i’ve just never seen you act like this around anyone.”

draco’s head snaps up. “what do you mean?”

but he knows exactly what goyle means, because goyle is telling the truth. nobody has ever made draco this stupid. nobody has ever plagued his mind like this, and it’s driving him insane.

goyle folds his beefy arms across his chest. “i’m not saying it’s a bad thing, draco; sometimes it’s nice to see you unravel a little bit. god knows you’ve had a stick rammed up your ass for long enough.”

draco rolls his eyes. “well, there’s no point in dwelling on it; nothing is going to happen. whatever friendship y/n and i had is gone, and i’m just gonna have to accept it.”

goyle scowls, but draco pays him no attention. instead, he goes back to idly tapping his pen against his bottom lip, trying desperately to put his own words into play. he just needs to get over you. he needs to go back to the cold hearted, uncaring wizard he was raised to be, because that was the only version of himself that never got hurt. he never let himself get hurt. it’s strange how you walk into his life, and suddenly that entire side of him is being stripped away, replaced by this oversensitive, overthinking, annoying piece of shit who suddenly relies on someone else to get them through the day.

draco hates it, but he hates the idea of not having that even more.

----

“so are you going to tell me why y/n won’t talk about you?”

draco looks up, his scowl a reflex when he makes eye contact with ron weasley. he stands over him, arms folded over his chest, wearing a set of school robes with little burn marks pecked into the material; draco has half a mind to tease him for it, before finding he has absolutely no energy to do such a thing right now.

instead, he leans back against the tree he has been sat under, gazing at the sky as mountains of homework piles up in his dormitory - piles of homework he has yet to touch, because every time he tries focusing his mind on a single task, it veers off and he can’t do anything.

ron raises a brow at draco’s silence. “no? you’re both gonna keep your mouths shut?”

“i don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

“no, of course you don’t.” and then, ron does the most surprising thing - he slumps down next to draco, their shoulders clicking. “i’m gonna take a wild guess and say you fucked things up again.”

draco swallows, closing his eyes. “again, none of your business, weasley.”

“good answer. it makes perfect sense now.” ron nudges his arm. “what happened?”

and draco knows it’s out of character. of all the people he could rant to, ron weasley should - and always has been - the absolute last on his list, but he looks at ron and he’s reminded that he is your friend, that ron makes you laugh, and he’s probably cheered you on during this uncomfortable time with draco. with that knowledge comes a sense of warmth, a gratefulness he’s never felt before, one he doesn’t completely understand.

but he leans into it, because he’s too tired to fight it off. with his cheek pressed against his knees, he tells ron the whole story, from start to finish. he goes back as far as christmas, that god-forsaken day in the library when he wanted nothing more than to enjoy a nice bit of light reading whilst he ignored the rest of the students downstairs, how peeves had dropped that notebook on his head, and he’d grown attached to it, rereading the poems every day until the day he had to surrender it back to you.

“sounds quite stalkerish,” ron comments.

draco scoffs. “it does, doesn’t it?”

ron sighs, shifting slightly. in the distance, a group of first years run screaming away from the whomping willow. a stone gargoyle shakes its winds atop the astronomy tower. such beautiful sights, and yet draco can’t feel a thing.

“okay, look,” ron says. “don’t get any of this twisted, alright? i still hate you. more than i thought humanly possible.”

“cheers.”

“but, i care about y/n. a whole lot. they’re like family to me. they’ve been miserable these past few days, and it’s starting to take a toll on me. so, i’m here to give you a bit of advice.” he turns, leans in, lowers his voice. “don’t give up so easily.”

draco jerks away. ron snickers, leaning back against the tree, gazing out at the green grass without a care in the world; draco, however, is stunned, heart racing though he doesn’t even know why. those words just hold so much hope, a hope he hasn’t let himself feel since it happened. he was slowly coming to terms with the idea of never talking to you again, and here ron weasley walks into the scene, ruining everything - like always.

draco splutters, swallows, pulls himself together. “w-why do you say that?”

“i thought it was obvious, mate,” ron replies. “y/n clearly has a soft spot for you. god only knows why, but that’s neither here nor there. all i care about right now is the fact they’ve been moping around for days, not even laughing at my jokes or anything. it’s getting exhausting when all you need to do is talk, and this entire thing could be resolved.”

“it’s not as easy as that.”

ron raises a brow. “oh? and why not?”

draco opens his mouth to respond, because he’s certain he has one. however, when he thinks about it, there really isn’t a decent answer to that question; he’s young, dumb, embarrassed. he stole your notebook, gave it back, confessed his feelings and then fled the scene - the only reason he hasn’t spoken to you since that fateful day is because he doesn’t want to bring up his own embarrassing gestures ever again. the quicker he buries them, the better.

but at the cost of you? maybe he should rethink it.

ron laughs. he stares at the side of draco’s face, pure amusement dancing across his features. draco scowls, because that’s what draco always does when he sees even the slightest flicker of joy on the weasley boys face; it’s become routine by now, even if he doesn’t feel the same contempt he’s so used to.

“it’s bizarre, isn’t it, that i’d be the one giving you relationship advice,” he says.

“it’s bizarre you’re helping me out at all, to be honest.”

“i’m not as heartless as you like to think i am, malfoy.” he stands, wiping his hands down his robes, smearing muck on the already dirty cloth. “if anyone asks, we were arguing and i won.”

draco blinks. “thank you, weasley. i mean it.”

ron rolls his eyes. “i’m sure you do. now never speak to me again.” he turns on his heel and strolls back down the hill without a second glance in draco’s direction.

----

draco’s heart is going to burst from his chest.

he’s been in this state far too often these past few weeks. he wants it to stop. he wants to go back to a life where he didn’t have a care in the world, where he owned this school, where he had the confidence that has carried his family name for decades.

the only way he’s going to reach that point again is by sorting things out with you.

or at least letting you know how he feels, because he can’t deny any of it any more. he can’t go around pretending you mean nothing to him. no, he still can’t explain where these feelings came from, if they started with the poetry and grew, or if they started that very day he laid eyes on you in first year and thought you were the prettiest one of his lousy classmates. he can’t explain any of it, but he doesn’t need to try. he doesn’t need to go as far back at that. all he needs to do is talk to you, let you know that you have changed him in very scary ways, and then he can move on. no matter your reaction, he can move on.

at least, that’s what he tells himself as he walks through the school corridors in search of you. it’s already getting dark, the january days lasting what seems like only a handful of minutes. students are flooding from their last classes of the day, and it’s only when draco spots a gryffindor bustling through the crowd does he stop.

he grabs the unsuspecting student by the arm, not even surprised nor offended by his look of pure disgust. draco simply grins, because that’s reflex for him, before saying, “have you seen y/n l/n anywhere?”

the boy furrows his brows. “i saw them talking to filch when i was walking to class. what do you want with them?”

draco raises a brow; talking to filch? what could you possibly want with argus filch of all people?

draco shoves the gryffindor away, thanking him with a nod before he turns and starts towards the caretakers office. he’s never been there before, mainly because he’s never wasted his time trying to hold a decent conversation with the caretaker, but he finds it in good enough time - an ordinary brown door, decorated only with the name ‘argus filch’ written across it in what looks like normal, muggle sharpie pen.

draco racks his knuckles against it, uncertain if he’s doing any of this right. in all his years at hogwarts, he’s seen filch in his office only a handful of times, and even if he just happens to be in his office now, what will draco even ask him? what he was talking to you about? if he somehow knows where you went after the conversation was over?

he waits there, however, because he has no other leads, and he needs to talk to you. he needs to get this over with, or else he won’t be able to sleep, and he can’t afford to be groggy during quiddith practice; he’s been performing bad enough these past few weeks, and if he can just get this off his chest-

the door swings open.

it isn’t filch.

“argus, i promise i’ll be done in-”

you pause. your eyes widen. your mouth snaps closed, grip tightening on the door frame, and draco is certain he’s going to explode at any moment.

“y/n.”

your name is a whisper, barely audible over the sound of his racing heartbeat. he doesn’t even know if he said it, or maybe it was just a thought. at this moment in time, the two things are interchangeable.

“draco.” you swallow, shuffle awkwardly, look to the floor in a rare look of timidity. “w-what are you doing here?”

“i was looking for you.” he speaks fast, like he’s running out of time, and maybe he is. maybe you’re only giving him a few seconds before the memories flood back and you slam the door on his face, ruining his chances once and for all. maybe you think his attempts are idiotic, embarrassing, and you’re only letting him talk out of pity.

but you don’t slam the door on his face. not at all. you stand there, looking more beautiful than draco has ever seen you, even though nothing has really changed.

draco swallows, curling his fingers into fists. “someone told me you - you were in here.”

your eyes snap up. “i didn’t tell anyone where i was. that was kind of the whole point.”

draco nods like he understands, because part of him kind of does - hiding away, pretending you are the only person to exist. it’s a comfort sometimes.

“what do you want, draco?”

and just like that, everything he wanted to say is swept from his brain.

you fold your arms over your chest, one foot tapping rapidly against the floor. “d-did you have anything to say to me?”

you almost sound hopeful.

“ron told me not to give up so easily.”

you pause.

draco rushes on, because he knows he hasn’t done this right. he’s gone so far off script, and he hasn’t even got to the main point of his argument.

“i don’t listen to weasley - ever. quite frankly, his advice is usually more detrimental than helpful, but - but he told me earlier to come find you. he told me you weren’t doing so good-”

“ron-”

“and i don’t know if that’s true on your end, but it’s true for me.”

you blink.

draco exhales shakily, running a ringed hand through his hair. “i’m not doing so good, y/n. i don’t like the way we left things. i don’t like the fact that we left things at all. i should have explained myself a bit better, or come to you sooner, but you know how i am. god, you know how i am better than anyone else in the world, so please, please understand that i’m trying so hard to put my dignity aside to let you know how much i care about you.”

there is a silence. a silence so heavy that draco feels crippled beneath it, unable to do anything but wait in anticipation for a response he might not even deserve. he’s done so many things wrong - not just with you, but with life in general. he is a bad person, and he knows this, and he’s trying to change, because you don’t deserve a bad person.

you swallow. he watches your throat bob.

“i don’t know if i believe you.”

your words are a whisper, but they shatter everything around him like they were screamed at the top of your lungs.

he shakes his head dumbly, like that is answer enough. he wants to say something to argue his case, but his tongue feels heavy and a cloud has passed over his brain.

“draco, i don’t know if i believe you,” you correct, sounding almost desperate. “y-you treated me like shit for no reason. you took my notebook and didn’t give it back. you’re a dick to my friends-”

“i know,” he bursts through gritted teeth, like he is in physical pain. “y/n, i know. i know, and i’ve been beating myself up over it for weeks. but that’s what i do - that’s what i’ve always done. i play the victim card and blame everybody else for my wrongdoings, and it’s childish. i’m trying to stop. i’m really, really trying.”

you open your mouth to respond, but draco takes one look at the tears in your eyes and barrels on, suddenly desperate to dig himself further into the dirt.

“you know what? i don’t even know why i’m here. i’m sorry. i should just - i should just leave you alone and let you get on with your life. you and i were never meant to be together, and i just need to accept that and move on.” he can’t stop talking. he can’t stop hating himself. “i’m sorry, though. for everything i did to upset you. for every stupid thing i said or did - know i didn’t mean it. from the bottom of my heart, y/n, i would never hurt you. never. so that’s why i’m gonna go. i’m gonna leave you alone. i’m g-gonna support you in whatever you want to do in the future. as long as you’re happy.”

he tries for a smile, because that’s the way you’re meant to end these things, isn’t it? you smile, and you shake their hand or something, but draco can’t bring himself to do that, so he turns on his heel instead. he turns away from you, knowing this will be the last time, that there is absolutely no going back, no matter what horrible advice ron weasley gives him. he needs to get over you. he needs to let you go once and-

“draco.”

you grab his wrist and he stumbles. he stumbles because of your grip, but he stumbles, too, because his name on your lips will never get old. it’s music to him, music he never listens to because his father always said it was a waste of time. he basks in it, spinning around to meet your eyes, and his heart crumbles at the tears now rolling down your cheeks.

his own eyes widen. “y/n-”

“you’re so stupid,” you sob. “so fucking stupid, do you know that?” you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him in for a desperate hug. you sob into his shoulder, and draco is frozen, hands hovering over the small of your back, unsure how to take this reaction. “you’re literally the most idiotic person i’ve ever met in my life. how is it you? how is it always you?”

draco blinks. “how is what always me?”

“everything!” you wail, hugging him tighter. “it’s just always you, draco. always.”

and draco still has no idea what you mean, but he’s learning to understand that maybe he doesn’t need to know what you mean all the time. maybe he just needs to be there for you to yell and cry and make no sense, and that will be enough.

he wraps his arms around your waist, nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck. he’s never been any good at hugs, but he’s melting into this one.

“idiot,” you whisper into his neck. “thinking i’m just gonna let you leave like that. . . thinking i don’t like you back. . . thinking i’ve stopped thinking about you for even a second these past few days. . .”

draco holds you tighter.

you pull away after a moment, quickly swiping your hand beneath your eyes. they are puffy now, red-rimmed, and draco knows he will have to explain this to ron in some way or the other without giving ron the benefit of knowing his advice might have actually been beneficial for once.

“i think we both messed up a little bit,” you mumble through sniffles, wiping your nose on your sleeve. “my reaction wasn’t exactly very helpful, was it?”

“well. . . no, but-” draco exhales. “i meant what i said, y/n; i never meant to hurt you. i would never do that.”

your smile trembles. draco has only a second to smile back before you’re throwing your arms around him again, pulling him in for a hug that he is getting strangely fond of.

----

your pen scratches against the paper. draco can’t sleep; he doesn’t really want to sleep, despite the hours of classes and quiddith practice he has to endure in a few hours time.

you never sleep. not really. draco is convinced you live entirely off caffeine and words, staying up into the early hours of the morning with that notebook of yours, your muggle pen darting back and forth over the pages. he scolds you for it sometimes, but he’s always smiling, and you always roll your eyes in response.

now, however, he has one arm thrown over your shoulders, watching you work. it’s already three in the morning, but he’s too enamoured to bother falling asleep; he’d rather stay up and watch you work.

“bic,” he says out of nowhere, shattering the hours of silence the two of you had collected.

you pause, looking up. your eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. draco smiles.

“what?”

“bic.” he nods at the pen in your hand. “that’s the name of your fancy muggle quill, isn’t it?”

you frown, taking another second to catch onto what he means, despite the clear explanation he has just given. however, it eventually dawns on you, and you frown even more.

“oh, right. yeah. bic. that’s the brand name.” you place it in draco’s hand. he holds it close to his face, squinting to read the tiny letters written in the plastic. “the best pens in the world, i’d say; much more practical than those bloody quills we have to use in class.”

“nothing wrong with our quills,” draco says, tilting the pen back and forth, examining every inch of it. “mine cost me a good lot of money.”

you scoff, snatching the pen back. “i’m sure it did. waste of a good lot of money, too, when you could have just bought a pack of twelve bic pens for a fiver.”

draco furrows his brows. “a fiver? what’s that in real money?”

you roll your eyes, smiling fondly, and it’s that very smile that has draco leaning forward to peck you on the lips. it takes you out of your work, which he knows will frustrate you in the morning when you wake up to see you didn’t get as much done as you might have liked, but for now, he doesn’t really care. not when you’re melting against him, dropping your dumb bic pen into the crease of your notebook so you can cling to him with both hands.

there are some days when draco thinks you love him only out of pity. he was the boy who lost himself to his feelings for you. he was the boy who came crawling back, the boy who was lost when he didn’t have you by his side. some days, draco has to ask you if you really want to be part of this relationship.

but then you go and kiss him like this, and he is left with no doubt that you’ve meant every single “i love you.” then you go and hold his hand at the gryffindor table, smile fondly at him as he bickers with your friends, and he knows this relationship is not a chore for you. maybe, if he lets himself hope, he can convince himself that you love him as much as he loves you.

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy fanfic #draco malfoy fic #draco malfoy fanfiction #malfoy #malfoy fic #malfoy fanfic #malfoy fanfiction #draco fic #draco fanfic #draco fanfiction #draco #harry potter #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fic

271 notes · View notes

beewolfwrites · 4 years ago

Text

An Iron Box - Perfect Portrait

On the off-chance anyone’s still reading this series, I hope you enjoy this update.

It may be shorter, but it’s a scene between Chishiya and MC/Reader that was in my mind but I never put it into the original fic :)

You can also find it here on AO3.

If you haven’t read the original, you can find it either pinned to my Tumblr or on AO3 here.

Thanks so much for reading. It means the world <3

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

People were so predictable. Even in a world where you can’t trust anyone, they still look for someone to connect with.

It seemed that saving (name) from that awkward situation at the bar did the trick, as afterwards, she clung to Kuina’s side – and by extension, my own. However, there was a slyness in her eyes whenever she looked at me. A calculating curiosity that revealed her distrust for me.

And yet, it didn’t keep her from seeking me out.

One morning, several days later, I headed downstairs earlier than usual, hoping to enjoy the rare quiet as I ate breakfast.

While the bread from supermarkets was inedible, flour and yeast were perfectly intact, and with the Beach’s over-abundance of electricity, making bread was a favourite pastime for the former-chefs and bakers living here. And so, grabbing two slices of toast from the kitchen, I took a seat at a table in the far corner of what would have been the hotel’s restaurant.

Soon enough, people would filter down from their rooms and the usual circus would begin. But for now, it was silent. Peaceful. I lifted a piece of toast.

‘一緒に朝ご飯食をべないか.’ Do you want to eat breakfast together?

Typical.

I put the toast down. ‘You’re leaving too big a gap between words. It sounds unnatural.’

Something brushed against my hood as she hovered behind my chair. ‘Teach me to sound natural then.’

‘No.’

‘どうして.’ How come?

Perhaps she would leave soon. If I waited until she disappeared, I might actually be able to enjoy my breakfast in peace.

It’ll be cold by then.

Weighing up the options, I gave in and took a bite of my toast. ‘Because you’ll only learn by speaking it more,’ I said, swallowing. ‘And also because I don’t want to. You should practise on Kuina instead.’

She circled around the table, holding a small bowl of dried fruit in one hand. There was a screech as she pulled out the chair opposite and sat down. I turned away, looking out of the window instead, but in the corner of my eye I could see her watching me, fingers playing with the bowl of fruit. She was still wearing my hoodie.

‘Kuina doesn’t speak English as well as you do.’ She huffed. ‘And if I make a mistake, she doesn’t tell me what’s wrong. I think it’s a Japanese thing. Everyone here is so polite, and nobody wants to correct you if you have bad grammar.’ She paused. ‘But you will.’

So I’m rude enough to correct her, hm?

She wasn’t wrong. But this still wasn’t enough of a reason to make me want to waste my time teaching her a language that she would pick up eventually.

‘You do have terrible grammar,’ I said. ‘You sound like a textbook.’

When she shifted her chair closer, I instinctively leaned away. ‘I know. I probably have a foreigner’s accent too. But I need you to tell me how I can get better.’

She did have an accent, strong yet not unpleasant. And surprisingly, I didn’t mind it. I knew I had an accent whenever I spoke English, but it was only normal. As for not sounding like a cardboard character in a language textbook? Well... she was clever enough to figure it out by herself.

Picking up my second piece of toast, I began to take a bite when a set of fingers wrapped around my forearm.

And there it was again.

That warmth

It was just like in the pharmacy when her knee had touched mine. That same warmth seeped into my skin, humming under the surface. A shiver ran through my body, and I yanked my wrist away, severing all contact.

For the first time this morning, I looked at her fully, seeing the briefest flicker of astonishment in her expression before it relaxed into idle curiosity. If she was surprised by my reaction, she didn’t comment on it.

Instead, she shifted in her seat, chewing uncomfortably on her dried fruit. ‘By the way, you never told me how you learned English? Did you study abroad?’

The question took me back a few years, to those nights spent in my bedroom as a child, pouring over language textbooks. The one-sided conversations with myself, the books I had spent hours picking apart and translating until the early hours of the morning.

‘I was bored as a child, so I taught myself a language.’

Her eyes widened. ‘When you say you were a child...’

‘I was seven when I started learning.’

I was seven when I gave the housekeeper some of my pocket money and asked her to buy me an English language dictionary. And even when she asked my father if it was alright, he didn’t once turn to look.

(Name) shook her head in disbelief, and muttered under her breath, ‘that’s insane.’

By now, we were no longer alone. People were filtering in regularly, filling the tables as they chatted with friends about their recent games. I put my headphones in, hoping that she would take a hint and find someone else to have breakfast with. Only, she remained seated, munching on a dried apricot.

‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but if a seven-year-old can do better than you, maybe I made a mistake in bringing you here.��

She pulled a face and boldly took one of my headphones out. ‘Maybe you should convince Hatter to let me leave.’

I glanced down at my earbud twirled between her fingers, before meeting that wide-eyed stare. ‘Maybe I don’t want to.’

Maybe you’re too valuable to let go.

There was a moment of quiet where neither of us looked away. She was close enough that I could see the variation of colours in her eyes, and the slight hint of pink washing over her cheeks. So that’s what she was thinking of. How very amusing.

If she had feelings for me, it would certainly be easier to convince her to go into the royal suite. But then again, she would cling to me in that annoying way.

And I don’t have the patience for that.

Breaking eye contact, I retrieved my headphone from her fingers. ‘Don’t get the wrong idea. You’re useful to have here at the Beach. It would be a shame to let you go.’

‘I’d be more useful if you helped me learn Japanese.’

‘No.’

At this, she turned away. For a long moment, neither of us spoke and I was just starting to enjoy the silence when she mumbled, ‘has it occurred to you that you’re the only one I can actually talk to?’

Ch... that’s a lie.

She had Kuina. The two of them got along rather nicely, and (name) was still blissfully unaware that none of it was real.

Ignoring her comment, I left to take my plate back to the kitchen, but when I re-entered the restaurant area, I noticed that every table was full. That was, except ours. Elbow on the tablecloth, (name’s) hand rested over her mouth, the smallest hint of a frown tugging at the corners. She was staring vacantly at the tiny bowl of half-eaten dried fruit.

‘Has it occurred to you that you’re the only one I can actually talk to?’

Understanding dawned on me. She stuck out like a sore thumb, alone on a table for four.

The other Beach members were avoiding her, probably because they knew only high school English and assumed she wouldn’t be able to speak Japanese. Even when talking to Kuina, I had seen her mixing up the two languages, sometimes struggling to understand small miscommunications.

Her expression reminded me of the Mona Lisa, those trips to the Louvre where I was made to tag along on my parents’ business trips, only to be left in the hands of his uninterested assistant. (Name) wasn’t smiling, but there was something hiding beneath the slight pull of her lips that echoed DaVinci’s painting. It was something uniquely human that I couldn’t seem to read.

It was enigmatic.

But it was also a perfect portrait of isolation. Everyone wants someone to understand them, to be seen for who they really are. And she was no exception.

The thought pulled at me, persistent, but I pushed it well away. If she was isolated, it would come in handy later on. So long as Kuina and I were the only people she could comfortably talk to, she would be more easily swayed into relying on us.

And when I do send her into the Royal Suite, she’ll have no reason not to trust me.

With that thought, I left her there alone in the hotel restaurant.

Later that night, it wasn’t until the clock ticked into the early hours of the morning that the hotel finally fell into a slumber. And it was then that I slipped out into the empty hallways.

The meeting room was lit only by the faint yellow glow of the patio’s outdoor lights. It wasn’t much against the darkness of an empty Tokyo, but it was enough to illuminate the pinboard propped up against the far wall. Names and numbers had been tacked on, all split into groups of four or five in preparation for tomorrow’s games.

My eyes scanned over the board, narrowing down on the one name that stood out in katakana, Niragi’s kanji right beside it.

But it was only when I switched Niragi’s name with my own, that her enigmatic frown appeared behind my eyes once more. That same portrait of isolation that haunted the back of my mind.

#alice in borderland #aib #imawa no kuni no arisu #chishiya #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya x oc #chishiya x reader #chishiya alice in borderland

60 notes · View notes

flyingcookierambles · 3 years ago

Text

sadness over a3! eng i guess

oof just on my 700th day.....

kinda sad because of the announcement about A3! ENG server shutting down soon due to financial difficulties at LIBER/CYBIRD in the past two years (covid-19 related, etc.). according to a rather in depth reddit comment that had links to LIBER's publicly available financial reports + some financial reports from LIBER's parent company, Aeria, in english, covid-19 really hit LIBER hard since they had to cancel many money making events, from pop-up shops for the typical anime merch trinkets (keychains, plushes, pins, etc.) to the huge in-person events (voice actor meetups, the stage plays of MANKAI LIVE, etc.). due to shrinking player base on the ENG server + major loss of profits on both JPN and ENG servers, LIBER had to choose one or the other and they chose the JPN one, which i totally understand since it's way bigger there and the JPN fanbase will continue to give the franchise money more often. also, another person found a financial report/estimate from the google play store or something, and A3! ENG only made ~$20K to ~$10K in the past few months, which i guess is not enough to keep a server and localization company afloat.

i got pretty attached to the characters and it was a great game to help get by during college. and honestly, while i am very sad about this, again, i understand why LIBER did this, looking at their financial report from 2020. I would LIBER save the entire franchise rather than shut all the servers down, making us all unable to see our favorite actors ever again, even if it means that we ENG fans will have to go thru the extra steps of finding/reading fan translations, wikis, etc., to read any further stories from where A3! ENG left off. still, A3! ENG's localization was something special. i'm saying this as a TKRB JPN player who read the wiki for all the character voice lines and then had to see the official TKRB ENG localization make Yamabushi Kunihiro a rapper for some reason? lol. it was....weird.... meanwhile, all the memes and slang in A3! ENG didn't seem out of place and all fit their personalities because 3/4 of the troupes were all high school to college age and 3 of them were ~Gamers~. Out of all the gachas i've played, i feel like the only other F2P gacha game that had this incredibly smooth, all cultural jokes/puns translated in a way that still makes sense/fits the character/doesn't require a galaxy brain and some TL note to understand, is probably dragalia lost and that's only because it has frickin Nintendo localizing/publishing it globally for CyGames. Nintendo. i'll eventually read the fan translations of A3!'s Act 3 on the wiki, but it won't be the same without Kazunari's super high-energy influencer slang of "'whoa fam! that's totes 'blammable, gotta take a pic!" or Itaru's gremlin Gamer speak of "lol get rekt noobs" or Tsuzuru's tired dying breath of "that ain't it chief." the appropriate slang and relatable meme speak of the localization really helped humanize these characters as people of their respective ages, rather than just a typical formal speak or some directly translated JPN slang -> ENG that turns out super awkward that can be found in bad localizations.

going back to the reddit comment too, the death of A3! ENG servers could have bad repercussions in the future for other joseimuke games. josei, if you for some reason have been in the anime fandom but still don't know this term, is basically the genre of stories/video games/media/etc aimed at women. it's the mature adult counterpart to seinen, media aimed at adult men. basically shoujo/shonen = elementary/middle school/high school aimed while josei/seinen = high school/college/adult aimed if that helps. Joseimuke is a part of josei that is not specifically romance. while some josei/joseimuke can overlap with otome, aka female aimed dating sims/romance media, they have many things about them that make these all separate genres. one of the official A3! ENG translators and a known fan translator of another joseimuke gacha, Mahou Yaku/Wizard’s Promise, minami, goes more in depth with this in a twitter thread.

A3! was an actor raising game, and a big part of it was found family and relationships that were platonic. yet it got advertised as an otome, which has more connotations with dating sims and brings to mind other shoujo/otome games and anime where the cast is all high schoolers and the setting is most often in a high school. but, other than some characters making flirty jokes or implied to have crushes on Izumi/player character, many character relationships with Izumi are platonic and not romantic at all. Spring Troupe in the game also jokingly calls themself a family. the entire Mankai Company is basically found family. plus, since the game actually has time passing in story and the characters age with each year, half of the characters aren’t even in high school anymore. a large majority of them are in college or are graduated by now, with only a few still in high school. i’m not surprised if a reason that some people left the game was due to feeling bored with the slice of life/not romantic story, feeling that they were lied to about it being an otome, which was falsely advertised since it is a game meant for the older teens/adults demographic of josei/joseimuke.

i’m worried that other japanese companies will look at this shut down as a “josei/joseimuke doesn’t work well in the west” and never localize other josei/joseimuke gacha games like Mahou Yaku, EnStars, Twisted Wonderland, Helios, etc.

while i like otome and shoujo, i, as a 23/soon to be 24 year old college graduate and now tax paying adult, want more stories that have more mature themes and characters that are more my age so i don’t have to feel awkward when i’m playing some dating sim and i, a literal 23 year old adult, and trying to woo a 16 year old. it’s...a little awkward to say the least. i would gladly welcome more mature media that is categorized as josei/joseimuke.

sorry if this is all over the place, but overall im just sad that A3! ENG is shutting down. i don’t know if i’ll join the JPN server yet. i’m def going to read the Act 3 story via fan translators on the wiki, but A3! gameplay was...boring lmao. as much as i love A3!, im sure that the constant event grind/burnout and boring rng gameplay turned people off too and i dont blame them. i felt the burnout bad since i participated in basically every event since day 1. it. is. rough. i’m not joining the hellish thunderdome that is the JPN server and im not ranking anymore as a F2P player lmao. literally had to play almost every waking free moment to get into the 30%-20% bracket as a F2P person and i never got to top 20%-10%, much less top 1% lmao. i’m don’t whale enough lol.

i feel like i should probably just. crack open my genki 2 textbook and uhhh totally legal pdf copy of tobira. so i can just. get the JPN version of games in the first place so i don’t have to worry about getting shafted since overseas fans are often considered expendable.

i wish that, when any games that are online end, gacha or mmo or anything, anything online, companies will let fans archive things. or like. release a book that is just the story text or something. like. CYBIRD is letting us still technically play the game and have the story and all, but what if they eventually later shut everything down? why not just release a pdf/ebook that’s just the text of the eng localization for some money? i’d buy it. for nostalgia and rereads and all and also archiving purposes. i think i’ll try to help with any english localization archive projects if i can so that the hilarious and incredible localization that was a work of love from the translation team doesn’t just disappear forever.

well.

that’s it for now. as i said, guess i’ll head to the app for one of the last times to read the last unread stories and mini stories i have left, then the wiki for Act 3, and then i guess i’ll crack open genki 2 and bunpo.....

some fun random links for you to think about!

random ffxi article that came to mind (if ffxiv ever shuts down in the next 20 years or whatever i’d be cool to get a statue of my character at the end)

and death of a game playlist by NerdSlayer Studios on Youtube that has me thinking a lot about game preservation and losing MMOs and games

the lost media wiki and blameitonjorge’s lost media iceberg

other gacha games i’ve played that have shut down that i think about sometimes because the loss of A3! ENG isn’t my first rodeo:

terra battle & terra battle 2 (1)

AFTERL!FE

(related kitsu post link for archive reasons)

#rambles #games n junk #sad over a3! eng loss #a3!

13 notes · View notes

utterlyinevitable · 4 years ago

Note

I’m bored and you’re headcanons are honestly so quality omfg but anyways write a headcanon of ethan and MC having a high school, slow burn love/not love (angsty ✨✨✨ kinda like us with our muses 💀 I’m not sure if Ethan ends up coming out as gay at the end tho-honestly if he did I’m living for it) love you lots! 💖 your tumblr niece

AHAHAHAHHAAHHAHAH no no nope Ethan will not come out as gay 🤣 But I am going to take full on creative liberty with this and you’re just gonna have to deal 😘

Ethan and Becca Meet in High School

Ethan Ramsey was 26 years old and a TA for the school’s science department. He took the part time role on a year’s contract to help pay off some of his student loans before he started residency.

At 17 years old, Becca was a senior at a small-town high school.

Becca was an interesting student - very quiet but intelligent. She surrounded herself with the strangest group boys. Those boys were her lab bench mates, and were incredibly subpar.

More than once Ethan caught the three boys playing games on their laptops and scrolling their feeds instead of paying attention.

He watched her carry them all on her back through the course. And ask for nothing in return.

It made his blood boil - they were clearly taking advantage of their friend.

The next week Ethan persuaded Ms. Cook changed up the seating arrangements.

Ethan took great pleasure in marking the boys Cs instead of the B+ they were used to getting with Becca’s help.

Second Semester, AP Bio was kicking Becca’s ass. She needed help preparing to get the 5 she needed on the exam in order to rank Top 15 in her class before graduation.

So she attended Ms. Cook’s after school sessions.

It seemed half the class needed extra help, so they were split up into groups. Half with Cook and half with Ramsey. Becca was assigned to Ramsey.

As the days and weeks progressed, the after school group dwindled.

After a choose-your-partner lab that day, Becca ended up with the same group of useless individuals.

At study group that afternoon, Ethan confronted her about it: “I don’t know why you let them take credit for your work. Be proud of your accomplishments.” “Being proud gets you enemies.” “You’d rather have friends and compromise your integrity, than showing everyone what you’re capable of?”

That made her think.

“I’d rather come out of high school unscathed.” “You can’t make everyone love you. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you’ll come into your own.” “And who are you, Dr. Ramsey?” “Someone who took every opportunity I could. I advise you do the same.”

Over the next few weeks they got to know one another better. Ethan becoming her somewhat mentor and encouraging her to speak up more and assert herself.

She took all his words to heart.

He was proud and a little taken aback when she found a fallacy in one of their labs and called Ms. Cook out on it. It resulted in it being postponed to fix the errors.

Being a high school senior meant having to choose what college to go to.

She was getting acceptance letters left and right but she had absolutely no clue what she wanted to to with her life.

“Did you always want to be a doctor?” she asked one afternoon. “No. But it’s what I’m good at.” “How did you know it’s what you wanted to pursue?” “As much as I regret saying this, it felt like a calling.” “Hmph. Okay.” “You don’t agree with the notion?” “I don’t know what I want to do. I’ve applied to so many schools and different programs. How do I know which one’s right?”

They talked about what she’s passionate about and what makes her happiest and what careers she thinks she could pursue.

That got her to think. Think long and hard and over a few days.

She had a new outlook on life - she was on a new quest to find her eternal happiness.

May came around and she took her AP exam. She got a perfect score. _

Becca has eyes. She notices how attractive Dr. Ramsey is. Tbh everyone notices - he’s the thirst of the school district. Her girl friends even ask her about him multiple times a week. All she does is roll her eyes and say he’s too old for them.

Becca had been all but dating Bryce Lahela for the last year and a half.

They were friends.

Friends who kissed and touched and spent almost every Friday and Saturday night together with the gang.

It wasn’t a secret that Bryce was completely enamored by her.

He wanted her. Officially. And he was tried of waiting.

One day after school, Bryce was waiting outside Ms. Cook’s classroom for her.

He nodded at and dodged every student that passed him as he waited. She was the last one to leave.

“Hey,” he gave his megawatt smile. “Hey, what’re you doing here? Don’t you have practice?” “Ended early.”

They exchanged small talk and Bryce finally began to lay everything out in a young, round about way. He kissed her to butter her up.

“Be my girlfriend?” “What’s wrong with what we already have?” “C’mon, Becks,” he pulled her in closer by her beltloop. “No.” “No?” “What’s the point? We’re just going to break up before college.” “You don’t know that.”

She rattled off all her reasons why: they aren’t going to the same school, they’re young, she doesn’t want to resent him, she doesn’t want to fall in love with him just for it to end badly.

Bryce went to fight for her but was interrupted by the slam of a door. The two looked up and saw Dr. Ramsey and Ms. Cook locking up for the evening.

She pulled away from him and turned on her heels.

At the bus stop, Becca sat with her head in her hands.

Ethan came up next to her. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision. You’re going to change immensely over the next few years.” “I know,” she grumbled into her palms. “It just hurts.” _

Becca went to Stony Brook and double majored in Chemistry and Biology.

She then attended Med School at UCLA.

Her second year, a familiar name stared back at her from her required internal medicine textbook: Dr. Ethan Ramsey.

Becca couldn’t help the smile as she remembered him. She’d almost forgot about the TA that impacted her life more than she could ever know.

Out of curiosity she consumed all his research. And when she finished everything, she found his direct email at Edenbrook.

She spent an entire weekend wondering if she should email him - Ask if he remembered her and that she followed his advice. She found her calling and it was helping people, just like him. She thought about throwing a joke in there but figured it had been too many years and it probably wouldn’t translate.

When residency came, she only had applied to Edenbrook.

And that’s when she emailed him.

She hadn’t gotten a response for months.

Actually, she didn’t hear anything until her decision letter came.

That same evening she found an email from him at the top of her inbox: Glad to see you’ve found your voice. We look forward to welcoming you to the team.

Ethan vaguely remembered Becca.

Honestly, he blocked the whole TA part of his life out.

Though, once he received her email, he personally vetted her application. And he was blown away. She wasn’t some naïve teenager.

Becca started working at Edenbrook and wanted nothing more than to learn from Ethan himself.

But he was different - jaded and cynical and not as approachable as she remembered.

He pushed her to reach her potential and she pushed his buttons.

They grew closer, especially with Naveen’s case. Basically the slow burn in canon happens.

These two get together, officially, once their jobs at the new Bloombrook Diagnostics Hospital were instated and they were definitely both staying in Boston for the foreseeable future. _

Becca didn’t particularly want to go to her 10-year high school reunion. She went because she was being recognized for her accomplishments with a few other alum.

She brought her boyfriend Ethan with her. “If I have to sit through this, so do you.” “I can honestly say I’ve never been to a reunion.” “Well, you’re my excuse to leave early. Gotta put the old man to bed,” she winked.

She was grateful for him playing along instead of taking another shift at work, and it would be nice to just be a couple for once. Without expectations hanging over them as the heads of their respective departments at work.

They had been in the ballroom for less than 15 minutes before they heard the loud whispers circulating.

Seems like Becca wasn’t the only one who remember the sexiest TA in all of high school history and of teenage dreams.

There were a bunch of intrusive questions being thrown at them and people coming up to them for the low down.

They tried not to be rude in their admonishments but the whole situation was awkward as fuck. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to bring him with her....

But there was no going back now.

And then Bryce sauntered over.

They hadn’t spoken to one another since senior prom when he took her best friend as a date and then hooked up with someone else at the after party.

“Rebecca, you look amazing,” he came in for a hug. “Thank you, Bryce.”

They had awkward catch ups at one side of the table as Ethan sat at the other end fending off questions from other girls and a select group of boys that remembered him.

Bryce and Becca talked about what they’ve been up to, how he’s now a surgeon and what brought him back home.

They lamented about how it’s strange they’re both in medicine and never spoke of that as a career path way back when.

In their long, flowing and unawkward conversation, they settled that it was best they went their separate ways.

They settled on the agreement that they didn’t think they’d end up at the schools they went to if they did date. They assumed love would reign and they’d choose to stay close by, and New York and California were not close by.

With all the long awaited closure finally out of the way, Bryce motioned towards Ethan; “So, you and that guy? How’d that happen?”

She knew what he was thinking and was quick to squash any rumors from starting.

“We work together. Didn’t mean for it to happen, it just kind of fell together.” “You look happy.” “I am.”

Bryce was bold in his next assumption. Knowing Becca as the girl who always spoke about never getting married and being a free bird as her main reasons for never committing to a boy, he wanted to catch her of guard: “Is it love?”

He wasn’t prepared for her answer.

“Yes.”

People change and are allowed to evolve. But it’s hard to imagine someone you once loved as anything other than who they were. And it’s even harder to see them in love with someone else.

#love you the mostest #open heart #open heart headcanons #hc #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #bryce lahela #asked #you weren't expecting this and i wasn't expecting to write this #what did i just write????#Anonymous #bryce x mc

57 notes · View notes

saviorsbookcafe · 4 years ago

Text

The Savior’s Book Café in Another World: Chapter 4

INDEX || PREVIOUS || NEXT

Chapter 4: Interaction

Translated by: sydney Proofread by: Necro

My first customer, a man named Ill, came back to my café the next day at the same time.

Unlike yesterday, when he arrived seeming very tense, today he seems very excited.

As another person who loves books, I know that feeling well.

“Welcome.”

“Excuse me, could I borrow the book you were holding for me again?”

“Yes, of course. Here you are.”

After I handed him the book I had been holding onto, he sat at the same table as yesterday.

I explained that there’s also a private room, and he hesitated for a moment before saying he’d move if someone else came.

The seat he’s sitting at is near the fire, and is in a very good place for getting new books from the shelves, so he probably likes that seat.

I hand him the menu, and after looking at it for a short time, he orders several things, all of which are more filling items.

Maybe he just wasn’t very hungry yesterday.

Maybe it’s because he’s a man, but he’s also part of the Knights, meaning he would probably be fighting a lot.

I wonder if he’s training, since he seems to be in good shape, or maybe he’s just the type to eat a lot.

I bring him enough things to bury the small one-person table, and after eating the main meal, he begins reading while eating the last things with one hand.

It makes me glad to see him take one bite and be surprised before continuing to eat with a smile.

As someone who enjoys cooking, it makes me very happy when people enjoy eating what I’ve made for them.

I look away so I don’t disturb his reading, and open my own book.

From then on, he came almost every day.

He always comes to the café around the same time, once it gets to evening, after he’s finished working for the day.

He leaves at different times, but he always seems to want to stay as long as possible.

It was over a month later of him coming to the café, around the time when we had begun talking more and more.

Recently, while I’m making his order, he’ll sometimes come to the counter and talk with me.

We always talk about books, telling each other which ones are interesting or which ones we’d recommend, things along those lines.

Every book he’s introduced me to has been interesting, and every time I stock new books, he always says they’re books he’s wanted to read.

It’s peaceful, and while I thought that once customers started coming I would lose time for reading, getting excited about books with someone with the same taste as me is only fun.

“The books you stock always look interesting, every time I come I spend a long time deciding which one to read next.”

“Me too. All of the books you’ve told me about have been so interesting, once I get them in, I can’t decide where to start.”

“I know that if I start reading while I’m worried, I can only read so much.”

“It’s difficult, isn’t it? Although the time spent worrying is still enjoyable.”

I’ve never had someone I could talk to like this before, so spending time talking with him has become another thing I look forward to recently.

Most of my friends from my old world weren’t the type to read much.

It was as I was talking with him and was putting the finishing touches on his food.

Even as I focused on putting the last touches on, we didn’t stop talking.

“The new book you got the other day was very interesting. I was surprised when everything turned around at the last part.”

“Right, I know! No one could have predicted that!” I replied enthusiastically, before frantically covering my mouth with my hands.

He looks at me with a slightly surprised expression, and I break out into a cold sweat, thinking, Now I’ve done it.

I was focused on cooking, but I was also so excited that he felt the same that I started talking to him like we were close friends.

“I-I’m sorry. I haven’t had anyone else to be excited with about books like this before. I was just happy that someone else felt the same way when reading the same part of the same book...,” I frantically apologized, and his expression changed to a gentle smile.

And then in the somewhat awkward atmosphere, he opened his mouth.

“It’s okay, I don’t mind. I haven’t had anyone to talk to about books like this before either. Um...if it’s okay, I’d be happy if you wanted to be more like friends, sort of like reading companions.”

“Huh?”

From his personality, I didn’t think that he would be angry, but I didn’t expect him to say that.

Not that it doesn’t make me happy.

“Um, are you sure?”

“Yeah. Even though I’ve been teased for being a bookworm, I’ve never had the chance to talk with anyone who likes reading as much as I do. And there’s the benefit of it being easier to stay here longer if you became friends with me.”

He smiles, his reply serious but with a joke thrown in as well.

I unconsciously let out a breath at his words, and then look him in the eyes and smile.

“That would be nice.... I’d like that.”

“I’m happy to hear that.”

I stopped using the polite language I had been using towards him, and he started speaking with me more informally as well.

Somehow, it seems that not only did I get my ideal café in this other world, but I got my ideal friend.

Immediately after, he introduced himself properly to me, and I was surprised to learn that he’s the Knight Captain in this country.

Apparently ‘Ill’ is a nickname, and his actual name is ‘Soeil.’

Ever since I found out about this country’s information notices, or rather, the pamphlets where the planned monster subjugations are written that are passed out periodically, I’ve read it every day, and the mentioned Knight Captain’s name was the same.

Since it’s always the two of us in the café, I don’t need to use his name when we talk, so I never noticed.

He told me just to call him ‘Ill,’ but it felt like I’d become friends with a really amazing person.

But now I can probably talk about books without holding back.

It seems he was thinking the same, as from that day on he sat at the counter and we had deeper conversations than before.

A short while after we became friends, we became comfortable talking to each other without holding back, and before I knew it, it felt like we were rapidly becoming closer.

It’s fun, knowing that even if I talked enough to make the average person draw back, I would get even more in response.

I never thought it would make me this happy to find someone who I could talk about something I love with from the bottom of my heart.

As it seemed that he was always looking forward to coming here, I began looking forward to opening the café door for him.

And precisely because we became friends, there was one thing that I began to worry about.

More accurately, I was worried about it before as well, but I couldn’t well bother a customer about it, so I tried to simply ignore it.

He looked forward to coming to the café, but as soon as he entered, he would let out a big sigh that seemed to be of relief.

There were always faint bags under his almond-shaped eyes, and while he would seem to be enjoying himself when reading, when he was leaving the café, he would let out another sigh, this one seeming to be of depression, as he left.

Both of these sighs seemed somehow subconscious.

Since it doesn’t seem like he dislikes the café, maybe there’s something he doesn’t like before and after coming here.

I watched as he rode away after sighing as he left again today, and closed up the café. Before I go to sleep, I think while looking at the book in front of me.

Being a Knight Captain must be stressful sometimes, so maybe he’s just sighing because he’s stressed or tired?

Like me, he relieves stress by reading, so maybe it would help to stock some new books, I think, returning my gaze to the open book in front of me.

My current lifestyle includes spending the morning reading, then in the afternoon I work on new developments for the menu or otherwise organizing the café, and once Ill arrives, I spend that time either reading or studying magic.

I spend most of my time reading by far, but the book on my lap today is a magic textbook.

This book has quite the variety of spells, including several that seem useful for using around the café.

As I’m flipping through the pages, one spell stands out to me, and I carefully read its description.

“...this is it.”

A type of fatigue restoration magic that you cast on food or drinks.

In other words, it’s as if a health food took effect immediately, and it doesn’t seem to have any negative effects on the consumer’s body.

It’s a spell that helps you recover from fatigue and simultaneously accelerates recovery from injuries.

“‘After using the spell to recover once, you can take a slightly weaker version daily to reduce fatigue in general....’”

It seems like this spell is usually used in restaurants or hospitals, and it falls under the class of advanced magic.

Enchanted items tend to jump up in price based on the magic used, and it says using this magic without changing the flavor of the food consumes a considerable amount of magic.

‘At famous high-class restaurants, they sometimes have a specialist exclusively for casting these spells’?

A good sense for handling magic is required is also written in red letters to stand out, so it seems that by nature this isn’t the kind of magic that would be used in a personal café like mine.

“The amount of magic it costs isn’t a problem, and I have no need to raise my prices. All that’s left is to see if I can actually use it properly.”

This way, Ill won’t think anything is strange, so I decide to try it out and brew a cup of tea for myself.

I followed the book’s instructions and casted the spell.

It doesn’t look any different, and it doesn’t taste any different either.

I get the feeling that my shoulders are suddenly lighter, but it could just be my imagination, so I decide to test out for certain whether or not this magic worked.

“Umm, in order to see for certain whether or not this recovery magic works, I’m supposed to cast a light offensive spell.... Offensive spell....”

After a moment of thinking, I face my cup of tea and try to cast an offensive spell.

The flame in my hand made a pathetic fizzling sound, barely making a ripple on the cup of tea upon impact.

This is terrible, even a child could cast a better offensive spell.

The cup of tea sparkled brightly, indicating that the magic is working, so it seems like at least the restoration spell itself was fine.

“...I can light the fireplace, so why?”

Even the spells I can normally cast, as soon as I try to imagine them as offensive spells, they turn into pathetic knock-offs.

No matter what type, they all turn into the same thing, so I suppose even if I learn offensive spells I won’t be able to use them.

If that’s the case, I’ll master defensive magic to protect myself, I decided.

The recovery magic seems to have been a success, so my goal is accomplished.

“I wonder if it won’t recover all at once. But it said it has a strong effect...oh, it says, ‘It may be difficult to feel the effects at first, but once you go to sleep, you will recover immediately.’“

If I wake up tomorrow and feel fine, then I’ll put restoration magic on Ill’s food without saying anything about it.

He’s already asked me if the café’s prices are really alright.

If I talk about the restoration magic, then it might make him worry about it more.

If we were just café owner and customer, this might be a little much, but as reading companions, I think it’ll be okay.

He isn’t the type of person to hate this, and we don’t have a shallow friendship where this would be inappropriate.

“I hope that with this, he’ll feel even just a little better.”

The day after I learned that new spell, I woke up feeling amazing.

“My body, it feels so light!” I say without thinking, sitting up in my bed.

I can’t feel any of the stiffness in my shoulders that comes from reading so much, nor do I feel the slightest bit tired from having just woken up.

I almost wanted to go for a run right now, my body felt so good.

Of course, with the snow piled up outside, I have no intention of actually doing that.

“It isn’t called ‘Advanced Magic’ for nothing.”

Grateful that part of being a Savior means having such strong magic, I stand up and open the window to look outside.

As usual, the snow is piled up, but today the sun is out, so it looks like good weather.

With my body feeling light and the warm sun outside, wearing thicker clothes and spending my morning reading on the veranda today might be nice.

I bring a warm cup of tea and cookies, and open my book on my lap on the veranda outside.

It’s the start of a worthwhile day.

It’s not like I had been feeling particularly tired until now, but of course when your body is lighter your mood is better.

I finished all of the work I had actually planned to divide among several days, and came up with a new menu.

I was working all day, but my body didn’t get tired.

If it didn’t cost any more than one cup of tea to get this effect then it should be fine if I give it to Ill as well.

He’ll probably come in the evening today too, so if he can recover from his fatigue then he should be a little more relaxed mentally as well.

Speaking of which, it’s about the time he normally comes.

When I looked at the horse paddock earlier, the grass seemed to be diminishing considerably, so I’ll grow some more, I think, putting aside the book on my lap and standing up.

I’ve only ever seen Ill inside the café, so I’ve never seen his horse.

I like animals, so I wonder if Ill would let me pet his horse, I think, opening the door outside.

As soon as the door is open, I feel a cold wind blowing, as expected since it’s getting close to evening.

It was warm this morning, but this is a snow country.

“It’s so cold, I’m glad this country is peaceful, but if it’s snowing all year round.... I have the feeling it’ll take awhile before I get used to this.”

The roads that people use are fundamentally enchanted so the snow doesn’t pile up on them, but that doesn’t change how cold it is, and lately I’ve been missing having four seasons.

Although it sounds like the other large countries each have one season, spring, summer, or fall, all year long as well.

At least in winter I can manage by wearing extra clothes to keep warm, so it’s better than a summer country.

I hurry to the stable and open the door.

Thankfully the barrier keeps it warm, but the grass that should have been growing in the corner of the paddock is almost completely gone.

Maybe I should’ve cast a spell to make it grow automatically to an extent.

“Horses eat quite a bit. If anyone aside from Ill had started coming, I definitely wouldn’t have had enough.”

Speaking of which, don’t horses eat things aside from grass, like fruit or carrots?

I have horse feed prepared, but I kind of want to try offering fresh vegetables.

If they’re different from the horses in my old world, that wouldn’t work, so I’ll ask Ill if it’s okay to let his horse eat some.

Checking that he hasn’t come yet, I use my pendant to search for some apples and carrots and summon them.

I summoned them pre-cut and in a bowl, so that holding onto them like this wouldn’t be strange.

Carrying the bowl in my arms, I moved to the corner with the grass.

Even though I’ve already passed thirty, using magic is more fun than it should be.

If I lightly concentrate on a spell for growing grass, a magic circle appears and I could feel my spirits lift.

Then, if I use more of my magic, the magic circle expands, and grass grows where the magic circle touches.

Yeah, this is fun.

“...I think that’s good.”

Just as the area expands a little more, I stop using my magic and turn back to face the entrance only to meet eyes with Ill, who’s standing with a slightly surprised expression.

“Oh, welcome! Sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was just thinking I would add more grass to the paddock before you came.”

“Oh, uh, sorry, I didn’t say anything. I came a little earlier today.”

Next to Ill, who showed up out of nowhere, stood a pure white horse.

It’s much bigger than any of the horses at the farms in my old world, so I suppose this is what a war horse looks like.

It feels even bigger from up close, I notice as I walk towards it.

“You’re so big! It’s nice to meet you,” I say, looking up at it from below.

The horse seemed to take interest as well, moving its head down so I can get a better look at its face.

“Wow, you’re so pretty!”

It’s beautiful, even compared to other horses.

Its crisp features seemed to match Ill’s somehow, which I found amusing.

It has calm blue eyes that give it a gentle impression.

Its intrigued eyes widen, and it brings its head further down towards me.

“H-hey!”

Ill’s seemingly panicked voice echoes in the paddock, but his horse pays him no mind as it ducks its head towards me, or rather, the bowl I’m holding.

Its nose pokes at the bowl of vegetables.

“Ahaha, you like them don’t you? I prepared these thinking you’d be able to eat them, but,” I turn to Ill, asking, “is that okay? And is it okay if I pet your horse?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s fine. You can feed her.”

I held a piece of apple out, and she ate it from my hand.

Her eyes widen and sparkle brightly.

“You’re so cute, I’ll leave these in the food box for you and you can eat as much as you want.”

As if understanding me, she neighs happily and comes towards the box.

I’ve never had a horse come so close to me before, but animals are certainly cute.

“She’s so cute, can I pet her?”

“...yeah. She won’t hurt you, so just pet her nose like that.”

I stroke her nose the way Ill says.

Her eyes stayed just as gentle.

After petting her, I move my hand away, and she raises her head.

Unlike before, where her head was lowered for me, I probably wouldn’t be able to reach her nose like this.

“Ahh, animals really soothe me. Thanks for letting me pet her.”

“Oh, I don’t mind that at all. You’re not afraid?”

“Afraid? You mean, of horses?”

“Yeah.”

I never would have seen that question coming.

Certainly, horses are very big, so there are people who would be afraid, but unlike in my old world, horses are an important mode of transportation all over the country.

Not only that, but they’re unlikely to hurt anyone, and out of all of the animals I like, they’re one of my favorites.

For some reason, Ill has a serious expression on his face, which seems strange to me, but I answer his question.

“I’m not afraid, I’ve always liked horses. I think yours is especially pretty and cute.”

I look at her towards the end of my sentence, and she lowers her head for me again.

I pet her nose once more as I look over at Ill.

“The maids at the castle aren’t afraid either, are they? Since the horses are always helping us out.”

Hearing my answer, Ill is surprised for a moment, before looking downwards.

When he looks up again, his expression has changed to a happy smile.

“That’s right.... Thank you for the apples.”

“Of course, thank you for letting me pet her.”

As Ill released the reins, his horse happily ran towards the box I’d put the apples in.

His horse was so pretty that I could fall in love just looking at her.

In the café, there was a window that had a view of the horse paddock, with a curtain that I haven’t opened before, but if it meant I could see Ill’s horse running around I’d open it next time.

After watching his horse eat, her eyes sparkling, I faced Ill again.

“Oh, I got another book that you said you wanted to read.”

“Really?!” he asked, smiling happily and beginning to walk towards the café.

You don’t often see the customer leading the way, huh.

Noticing that his joyful smile looked similar to his horse’s sparkling eyes, I smile to myself.

They say pets take after their owners, but I hadn’t considered that to extend to horses and their riders.

Not only do both Ill and his horse have crisp features, they’ll both light up around the things they like in the exact same way.

I smile to myself again before following Ill into the café.

I hope the new novels I stocked today and the restoration magic help him feel better.

Once Tsukina and I became reading companions, we were able to enjoy reading together even more.

I couldn’t have imagined being able to talk this much with a woman my age almost every day, but since we both enjoy reading, being able to talk so deeply about books is unbelievably fun.

I also got my appetite back, as if it were never gone, and most of the books I’d given up on reading after not being able to get them were in that café.

If all the commotion with the Savior wasn’t going on, I probably could have enjoyed it even more.

As usual, the young Savior girl would not learn magic.

She had apparently seen one of the Knights’ horses out, and we were even ordered to be more careful with them.

The Knights’ irritation was past its peak.

Most of the members had left their horses at their parents’ or with friends, and decided to let the horses exercise there, far away from the castle.

Beork was continuing to work with the Princess to find a time and place.

It really is good that I found that café.

I can let my horse run around there, and I feel like going there immediately relieves me of my stress.

At any rate, even if the horses are big, what’s frightening about seeing them from far away?

Are they scary to women...to Tsukina too?

That concern was resolved by none other than Tsukina herself.

Watching Tsukina pet my beloved horse with a smile on her face was relieving.

At first I thought I’d made a mistake.

In any case, I’d wanted to get away from the young Savior girl, so I left the castle faster than usual which was bad.

I was relieved to arrive at the café, and I opened up the gate to the horse paddock without checking inside first, which was careless of me.

In the paddock that I thought was empty, Tsukina was using some kind of magic in the corner.

In the middle of the growing magic circle, grass begins to grow from the ground.

Growing plants is a considerably advanced type of creation magic, and growing them from nothing even more so.

Along with how well the barrier worked, and the magic in the café in even the smallest places, I’m impressed at how amazing her magic and magic control are.

I began thinking in the back of my mind about how nice it would be if she were a Savior.

Watching her turn around and her expression change to one of surprise, I immediately forget about those thoughts.

Next to me is my beloved horse, a huge horse, one that the Savior fears upon simply seeing.

She might be afraid of them too, I realize as I straighten my back, afraid of what might happen.

This is my beloved horse that I’ve left my life in the hands of, so if Tsukina, who I’ve built up a good relationship with, rejects her....

But it seems that was also an unnecessary worry.

She tells my horse It’s nice to meet you with the same cheerful smile she always wears, and compliments her.

My horse is happy to be complimented.

Even when she sticks her nose in the bowl Tsukina’s holding, Tsukina doesn’t get upset, offering her an apple and coming closer to pet her with a happy smile.

“The maids at the castle aren’t afraid either, are they?” she asked, making me realize I’ve forgotten about that.

I detested that at some point, the Savior girl had become the standard in my mind, but I was wholly relieved that Tsukina didn’t reject me.

Tsukina follows that up by telling me that she had gotten a book I wanted to read in, and I quickly head towards the café.

There may be a lot going on at the castle, but at least once I finish work I’m able to come here.

A place I can relax with my favorite books and delicious food.

When I find books I want to talk about, I can talk about them with her.

When I open the door and she meets me with a gentle smile, I finally feel like I can breathe.

The times I can’t go because of work are unbearably disappointing.

Before, once I finished work, I would go directly back to my room and read, but lately I’ve felt like I can relax better in this café than in my own room.

The several months since finding this café, I’ve come here every day so long as I didn’t have something I absolutely couldn’t get out of.

I step into the café I know so well now, and Tsukina follows with a cheerful smile.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s nothing. What do you want today?”

“I had tea yesterday, so today I’ll have coffee. Can I order something to eat later?”

“Yes, that’s fine. I’ll have the coffee out in a minute.”

I watch her head towards the counter, and choose a book before moving to my usual seat.

There is quite a variety of drinks, so I’ve been ordering something different every day, and they’re all delicious.

Maybe I’ll ask if she would sell me some tea leaves or coffee beans, I thought, opening my book.

After some time, she brings me the coffee I asked for.

Just like always, it’s delicious, and I let out an impressed sound at the feeling of it going down my throat.

Whether it’s because of sitting in a place I like drinking a warm drink, my body suddenly feels lighter.

The sound of quiet music, the crackling fire, and Tsukina and myself flipping pages of our books.

The sounds of the café when it’s just Tsukina and me are gentle and make me relax even more.

So much that I’d almost rather live here.

Which is exactly why it’s unbearably depressing to leave.

Turning away from Tsukina, who watches me leave with a smile, I leave the café, sighing again.

I wonder if the Savior will cause even more problems tomorrow.

With that depressing thought, I fell into my bed and the next day came.

Recently, even immediately after I wake up, I’ve been feeling somewhat tired.

But this morning I sit up and stare at my hands.

My body feels so light, it’s like the fogginess in my mind has cleared up.

It isn’t that my disgust of the Savior has gone away, but I feel somewhat refreshed.

I stand up from my bed and take a few steps before stopping in place.

On top of having to do a lot of paperwork, swinging a sword around leads to a chronic pain in my shoulders that’s now gone away.

I wonder if this is because being at the café yesterday was very relaxing.

But I’ve never felt this well in all the months of going there.

“Well, there’s nothing better than being able to move.”

Today I promised Beork I’d spar with him in the morning.

Once I’m dressed, I head to the training grounds.

Beork had already arrived and was waving to me, and I gripped my sword as I waved back.

After several rounds of sparring, we decide to take a break, and I drink some water.

Although I have the higher position, there is little difference between Beork’s and my capabilities.

Having fought seriously, we were both out of breath.

“Aren’t you stronger today?”

“I’ve been feeling good today. It’s easy to move.”

“You definitely look well. Did something good happen?”

Something good..., I think, suddenly picturing Tsukina’s smile in my head.

Since I found that café, and since I met her, the days have been far more enjoyable than before.

Every day, I can’t wait to be done with work for the day.

I’m sure she’ll greet me with a smile again today.

Thinking of her smile makes my own lips pull into a smile.

“I suppose so, something good did happen.”

“Did you find a book you wanted? If you can’t find any time to read, I can take your horse out for a run for you, you know.”

“I’m fine right now, thanks. Anyways, make sure to find some time with the Princess. I hope you know she’s the one protecting the maids from the Savior.”

“Of course. Usually once work ends, I spend time with her. Today, not just because of the horse grounds, we’re planning to take my horse for a ride.”

“I see, I hope you get to spend some time together. The Princess can probably relax better away from the castle too.”

For some reason, I’d rather not bring up Tsukina, so I keep my words vague.

Maybe when the commotion with the Savior is under control, I can introduce her to Beork.

Well, there’s not really any problem with introducing her now.

But for a little longer, I want to have that place to myself to relax.

That warm space, and her friendship.

I smile wryly, thinking about how even though I’m an adult, wanting to keep that place to myself almost feels like I’ve become a child again.

Translation Notes:

“I started talking to him like we were close friends”: in Japanese culture, there is polite language (language used when speaking to people you don’t know well) and casual language (language used when speaking to people close to you); in this scene, Tsukina suddenly started using casual language towards Ill, which can be considered offensive, especially considering that he’s a customer at her café, which is why she was so horrified when she realized

“reading companions”: this is a literal translation of the Japanese term, as they’re not really “friends” friends yet, but are more than acquaintances, and this means they’re able to act more friendly with each other; in Japanese culture and the term “friend” indicates a stronger relationship than in English

“he started speaking with me more informally as well”: in this instance the Japanese actually says “he stopped using “you” (あなた anata) and started using “you” (君・きみ kimi) to me instead,” but I changed it to make it flow better. But if you’re interested in learning about Japanese second person pronouns (ways to say “you”), I’ve written a Twitter thread here about this topic, and you can find info on the nuances between あなた anata and 君・きみ kimi there

#savior's book cafe #savior's book cafe translation #bookcafenovel #chapter 4 #interaction #translation notes

26 notes · View notes

translations-by-aiimee · 4 years ago

Text

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 14

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 14 - Lecture

For most people, it was just like any regular Monday afternoon. The temperature was high and there hadn't been any rain in over a week. A black Audi stopped at the entrance of the school's auditorium and really stood out. In the distance, he saw a big red banner at the entrance of the building: "A warm welcome to Professor Chen XX, appraisal researcher from the Palace Museum, for holding a cultural relic appraisal lecture in our school."

The auditorium had been recently built in the past few years. The entrance hall was very magnificent, with a light blue dome and wall, and the entire wall near the gate was made of glass. From the outside, he could see the crowds of people in the hall. Different from the usual modern style, the overall layout of the hall was more reminiscent of ancient designs. There were two large vases with impressions of a Ming Dynasty maid enjoying spring peaches. The promotional posters were framed by carved wooden windows. It was almost like walking into an antique shop.

The air-conditioning in the hall was turned too high and Lin Yan rubbed the goosebumps on his arms as he stood in the queue, staring at the posters to pass the time.

The professor on the poster looked like an unopened file folder, and even the reflection on his glasses looked like the transparent plastic wrapping paper on the file folder. Lin Yan was stumped, and then suddenly realized why he thought he looked so familiar. This person is the editor-in-chief of "Research on the History of Ming Dynasty Clothing". You could see his headshot when you turn to the first page of the textbook. It was said that he was quite famous in both professional research and folk antique auctions. He had probably seen him in a treasure appraisal program. Lin Yan recalled that he hadn't met him during the internship. Maybe because he had been an irrelevant excavation member.

On the other hand, why would someone ask him to participate in the excavation of a Ming Dynasty tomb?

"There are still 20 minutes before the doors open. Please wait patiently in the queue. Our staff will provide you with an introduction pamphlet for the event and free drinks." A sweet female voice came from the lobby intercom. Not far in front of Lin Yan, a tall boy who had been playing on a PSP with his head down turned his head and smiled wryly. He said to the person behind him: "The girl's voice is so sweet."

What's peculiar is that this person is wearing a modified Hanfu outfit, tailored to fit his body but with wide sleeves. With his pimples on his face and the PSP in his hand, he looked very strange. Lin Yan glanced around the room and was surprised to find that not only the PSP guy was dressed up, but many others had certain ancient style elements in their outfits. One girl even had her hair curled, and the ebony crested hairpiece swaying down by her sideburns.

Lin Yan stared, bored, outside the glass wall, and a familiar figure in a blue cloth robe caught his eye.

It was the little Daoist priest, squatting by the flowerbed not far away, feeding a lazy big yellow cat with some ham in his hand. The yellow cat curled up with a comfortable look, and his chubby figure resembled a large snail with a lot of privilege.

As soon as the little Daoist looked up, he saw Lin Yan beckoning to him. He threw the rest of the ham to the yellow cat in a hurry and ran into the hall with his schoolbag on his back. Lin Yan stepped out of line, and the cold surrounding him moved with him, although it seemed a little reluctant.

"At least A-Yan is a living person. You don't know how long you've been dead." Lin Yan couldn't help muttering. The series of events such as the exorcism and giving him talismans made Xiao Yu disgusted with this little Daoist priest. Every time in the past week that he had called A-Yan to ask about sending away spirits, well, his reaction was clear.

"Come here and wait." Lin Yan greeted the little Daoist priest who had just rushed into the hall. "It wasn't eating well, so I brought some ham for it." A-Yan was still holding half of the red plastic container in his hand. His face suddenly flushed red and he looked at Lin Yan with bright eyes.

His arm was squeezed by a cold hand and it pulled him away from the little Daoist priest. Lin Yan was already uncomfortably cold by the air conditioner, so he frowned and pushed down Xiao Yu's hand.

The lingering cold leaned against him, and abruptly shook against him. Lin Yan thought he must be really angry. When he looked up, he saw a group of students dressed in ancient costumes coming out of the golden gate of the auditorium. Unlike the people wearing the modified Hanfu costumes, these dozen or so people wore put-together Ming Dynasty outfits. Boys wore blue or white cloth with trimmed edges and silk scarves on their heads. Girls wore outer coats with gold and jade pendants and outer sleeves with beautiful embroidery. Some blouses and moonflower skirts were plainer for everyday Ming women, and some of them dressed as graceful ladies with big red sleeves. They each held a plate. There were small disposable paper cups inside, which the staff brought out to distribute.

Something wasn't right with Xiao Yu. His whole body was trembling against Lin Yan. Lin Yan was startled. He tried not to move his lips too much and asked him in a low voice, "Did you remember something?" Xiao Yu didn't answer, but Lin Yan remembered when he saw the ghost on the computer screen for the first time, he was not wearing a high hat at all, it was a futou.

"I'll take over, you guys go on break," a clear voice rang out. Lin Yan was shocked. A familiar figure stood in the staff's team, with short hair set against the various pieces of brocade. While distributing black tea, she turned around and laughed with her acquaintances. No matter how she changed her style, Lin Yan would never mistake that it was Weiwei.

Lin Yan wanted to lower his head and pretend that he hadn't seen her, but Weiwei had obviously noticed him. After a second of pause, Lin Yan called out and walked straight over to the buffet table. The colours of the rice farmer outfit she wore were interlaced and she was wearing very little makeup. There is a small Hetian seed around her neck, which is kind of chunky and stiff, which made a very natural look.

"Long time no see, are you here alone?" Weiwei smiled and handed a cup of black tea to Lin Yan. "Do you want to join us?"

Straightforward people like Weiwei never took embarrassing memories to heart. Lin Yan couldn’t do it. He always felt that he could never be friends with his past love affairs. Since they broke up, he did his best to avoid any situation where he might run into Weiwei, whether it was class reunions or birthdays, he always went with someone else. Of course, there were times he couldn't escape her, such as right now. Lin Yan reluctantly raised his head, forcing a laugh.

"No, no, I came with A-Yan." Lin Yan's face felt very hot, and he hurriedly pulled the little Daoist priest to hide behind.

Probably because of the little Daoist's strange reputation, Weiwei glanced at A-Yan in surprise. She quickly adjusted her expression, took a cup of black tea from the plate and handed it to A-Yan. She also gave Lin Yan two laminated pamphlets. Shee said: "This is the biggest activity of our club this semester. I have been busy preparing for more than two months. I'm losing my hair from how tired I am."

"Sounds great." Lin Yan's answer was a bit awkward.

"I hope you like it." She grinned.

A team of staff members rushed forward as they called her name. When they saw Weiwei and Lin Yan standing face to face without speaking, they began to mock: "Hey, is this the guy you used to go out with?" Shu Shengfu gave Lin Yan a once-over, shifting their gaze from the plaid shirt with good texture to the CK label on the jeans. He said, "You know how to pick the lookers. Such a nice little boy."

Weiwei didn't get angry. She simply turned around and said calmly: "What kind of look? This was the man I almost married. It doesn't matter what kind of person he is, he will marry into someone else's family." Everyone's face changed into realization in the shift of tone, and there was a wave of awkwardness. Shu Shengfu had a grimace on his face, and he pat Lin Yan on the shoulder. "So that's who you are. You had such an amazing girl get away from you. Too bad we don't have time to catch up" The words were addressed to Lin Yan, but his eyes kept staring at Weiwei.

Lin Yan smiled and said faintly: "If you want to know my methods, it'll be 100 yuan per lesson. Although you should look at my state now to see how it turns out."

There was another burst of laughter. Weiwei was a little embarrassed. She glared at Shu Shengfu and turned her face to Lin Yan and said with a straight face: "Don't pay attention to them, they're just fooling around. By the way, you two don't need to line up here. There are a few rows of seats reserved for the staff. We all have to be on duty at the door and can’t go in. It’ll be a pity for them to be empty, and it doesn't look good for the photos. Go sit there.” She pulled out two blue tickets from the bottom of the pamphlet tray, which were similar to those in Lin Yan's hand, except that there was a small yellow VIP logo in the upper right corner.

Lin Yan instinctively wanted to refuse, but when Weiwei said that there was a question-and-answer session in the lecture, she was too nervous to sit in the front row and talk directly with the professor. He clutched the pamphlet hesitantly but eventually accepted the tickets.

"However. . ." Lin Yan thought for a second: "I need three seats, can I?"

Weiwei glanced sharply at the girl behind Lin Yan. Lin Yan shook his head with a strange expression: "No, my friend hasn't come over yet."

Weiwei asked the girl next to her for a ticket, She seemed reluctant to ask, but she whispered: "Lin Yan, are you. . ."

A large group of well-dressed girls swarmed behind him, and the one who took the lead was surprised when she saw Weiwei, gesturing to the handsome guy that was in front of her. Weiwei glanced at Lin Yan helplessly. She wanted to say something, but Lin Yan suddenly interrupted her: "I'll go now if that's alright. My friends are still waiting for me."

A group of people huddled Weiwei and she continued to hand out drinks. She was a very social person. No matter where she went, people always flocked around her. Lin Yan was the opposite. Although Lin Yan was popular, he felt more at ease alone as opposed to being in the crowd every day. Lin Yan handed the three VIP seat tickets to the little Daoist priest, and the two walked along the red carpet to the staff seats together.

The backstage corridor was completely different from the front hall. The western-style decoration was magnificent. The gilded flowers float across the wall. After staring at them for a while, they seemed to jump off the wall. Lin Yan stroked the wallpaper with a finger, unsure of what to feel. He was a little embarrassed, a little nostalgic, he didn't know what expression he should wear. He wasn't sure what to do with himself.

His life shouldn’t be like this. Lin Yan looked up at the crystal chandelier on the ceiling. He had felt that the world was splitting apart when he and Weiwei broke up half a year ago. In a normal world, he and Weiwei would have been the ideal couple, standing at the door of their home together to welcome their guests. Here, he walked down the corridor alone in a daze, and fell into an abyss behind the main entrance of the lecture hall, falling endlessly to the ground.

The cold fingers touched the back of his hand. He held his wrist a little harder. His thumb slid into the palm of his hand and opened his fist, giving his hand a light squeeze. Lin Yan paused and sighed, his fingers curling back around the other's hand. It was as if holding Xiao Yu's hand was natural. It was cold, firm and slender, like holding a piece of porcelain. Xiao Yu turned around and wrapped Lin Yan's right hand in his palm. He didn't know why he suddenly felt so calm. He thought it was always good for someone to stand by him through the most embarrassing moments, regardless of whether or not that person had been dead for almost 500 years.

#dig a grave to dig out a ghost #chinese bl #chinese novel #english translation #yaoi novel #yaoi #danmei

11 notes · View notes

talesmaniac89 · 5 years ago

Text

The Wingman

Pairing: Sam x Reader

Summary: You worry about Dean Winchester as he’s trying to act like your wingman to hook you up with Sam, unaware that Sam thinks Dean’s his wingman.

Triggers: None, just fluff

Y/N = Your Name | Y/E/C = Your Eye Colour | Y/H/C = Your Hair Colour

—

Reader: For the last few days Dean Winchester, your best friend and the older brother of your secret crush, had been acting kind of… Well, weird as hell. Since you’d moved into the bunker your best friend had always just treated you as one of the boys. Just as ready to prank you or help you out whenever you pretended a cute bartender caught your eye to hide the fact that Sam’s flirting with some other blonde and beautiful perfect 10 was breaking your heart.

Yet, just a few days back. His whole brotherly act had twisted. Everything from little winks to secretive smirks sent your way at random times throughout the day. His very vocal appraisals of every little thing you did or wore… He wasn’t acting like the Dean you knew.

“(Y/N), you look good with your hair up… Doesn’t she look good with her hair up Sammy?”

At first, you’d struggled with the awful feeling of him possibly liking you as more than just a friend. Agonising over how you could turn the hunter, who you loved like a brother, down. Feeling awful that you had to hurt him because of your unrequited feelings for the youngest Winchester. Hell, you’d spent more than one night awake trying to rehearse and rephrase the many imaginary ways you could break it to the hunter with the biggest heart you knew.

Though you didn’t love him like that, you still loved him, and you didn’t want him to be hurt.

But… Just as soon as the agonising fears struck you, the reality of your situation hit like a goddamn freight train. And suddenly you wanted to be the one to hurt the hunter. Of course, it was a relief that your best friend still just saw you as his. Still, Dean wasn’t in love with you, which was a relief, but he knew…

He knew you loved Sam.

How he’d figured it out you didn’t know, but you were 99.9 percent certain. Dean Winchester knew you loved his brother, and he was doing a shitty job of keeping your little secret under wraps.

Sam had been around for every little wink. Usually leaning closer to read a piece of lore over your shoulder or scooting over so you could grab a seat on the couch next to him. For every secretive smirk, there was a matching secret storm of butterflies in your stomach as your pulse rose to dangerous levels at the younger hunter’s proximity.

Even the comments. Every little compliment was followed by Sam’s name. Asking his brother to back up how good your hair looked, how the top you’d just pulled out of the wardrobe was ‘very flattering’ or whatever bullshit he managed to come up with. Hell, he even kept talking about how amazing Sam was, as if you didn’t already know. Probably wanting you to agree to enact some strange form of a “you complimented each other, now kiss”-moment.

Dean knew and, just like he’d done endless times at bars with random strangers, he was trying (and failing) to be your wingman.

So, when the older hunter entered the library where Sam and you were just settling in for a late night of researching for a fellow hunter’s monster of the week, you groaned internally. Knowing you were in for another evening of silent colour commentary about secret feelings, hidden glances and raised heart beats.

---

Sam: Dean had been getting on Sam’s nerves for the last week. Ever since his older brother figured out how Sam felt about you, he hadn’t shut up about it whenever the two brothers were alone. But even that was tolerable next to the way he acted when you were in the room.

Dean’s way of acting like a wingman wasn’t really subtle.

Every time you were in the same room as Sam, and even remotely close to him, Dean would raise his eyebrow at the youngest Winchester. Egging him on with winks and smirks as he struggled with going past just simple greetings and hidden glances. Not that the push from Dean was even going to help…

It wasn’t as if Sam hadn’t tried to tell you. Hell, he’d attempted to get the feelings across for what felt like an eternity. But every time he wanted to say anything, to tell you he loved you, the feelings he wanted to confess just came out as simple hellos, good nights and good mornings. Turning every word he spoke to you into secret confessions of love.

Meanwhile, his older brother had no problem attempting to translate Sam’s unspoken feelings into English. The older hunter would constantly compliment you whenever you walked in the room asking for Sam to back him up.

Teasing out stuttered soliloquies that were only mere fragments of the words Sam’s mind used to describe your absolute beauty and perfection every single day. Making him cringe over his dull little “you look pretty” replies, as his mind added verses upon verses about how your (Y/E/C) eyes caught the light, how the sound of your laughter was what dreams were made of, or how much he loved the way your smile always made him feel better, brighter even on the darkest days.

All of which was left unspoken until he was alone in his room again in the evening. Regretting every one of the day's actions and replaying the moments in his head. Answering his ceiling instead of you with the words he should have said. Words of love and beauty painting his ceiling in an invisible mural of secret feelings, dedicated to you.

Worse yet was Dean’s favourite way of acting like Sam’s wingman, and probably the most transparent. The oldest Winchester’s constant “humble bragging” about his younger brother was textbook wingman behaviour. Though you still hadn’t seemed to catch on… Thankfully. Though Sam couldn’t help to tag a worried “for now” to the end of that chain of thoughts as Dean dropped down in the seat next to you. The younger hunter cringing in anticipation of another attempt to make you turn to face him.

Perfect you, and broken Sam… It wasn’t going to happen, and the only thing his brother was helping Sam with, was ruining what little bond he had with you. Once you realised, things would just get awkward. Maybe it would damage your carefully crafted friendship. Hell, maybe it would scare you away from the bunker forever. Maybe you’d never smile at him again.

No matter what - this whole shitstorm could only end with heartbreak. With Sam’s heart as the unwilling sacrifice.

---

Reader: “Hey (Y/N)?” As Dean spoke up, the innocent words made you flinch from the clearly up-to-no-good smile that followed them.

Waiting for another forced compliment from Sam through Dean, or some other new and creative way to hint at your infatuation with the younger hunter, your hand gripped the old tome in your hands a little harder. Your eyes refocusing back on the words on the page with a noncommittal mumbled noise of acknowledgement. Waiting for whatever new dissection of your feelings would be performed on top of the library table that evening.

Though, for once, Dean surprised you by staying clear of the topic. Choosing instead to focus on the research in front of him. His refreshingly innuendo free question made your tense shoulders instantly relax. Though in the dark suspicious depths of your mind, you still clung to a thread of that wariness.

“Which of these books should I start with?” The older hunter asked, holding up two books for you to glance at out of the corner of your eye. Looking over at the two ancient books you simply nodded towards his right hand, relief clearly evident in your eyes as Dean gave you a boyish, teasing grin. Letting you know that he hadn’t missed the obvious way your body relaxed at the innocent question.

“That one. We’re looking for info about a possible djinn subspecies to help out on a strange case in New York,”

With a silent nod, Dean dropped the other book back onto the library table with a dull thud before hunkering down over the dusty pages of the book you’d pointed out. As his eyes scanned the page, you were rewarded with no more than a few seconds of silence before the older Winchester clearly decided to audition for the role of annoying best friend once more with an overacted sigh.

“This one’s too much for me… Someone smarter should read it,” The hunter groaned out words that were clearly a load of bull. Dean Winchester was one of the smartest men you knew. So, this was clearly a ploy. And you could guess what was coming next. “Hey (Y/N)… Did you know? Sam’s super smart, he even went to Stanford. This book won’t be a problem for him,”

Focusing your full attention on the page in front of you, you burned the words into your eyes to keep from rolling them and rewarding Dean’s obvious ploy and poor acting. Opening your mouth to shut the hunter down you were just a second late as Sam beat you to it.

“Shut up Dean,” The words were no more than a mumble over the top of the book the younger Winchester, and the lead actor in all of your daydreams, was reading. The exasperation those three words were soaked in was the only hint at the expression hiding behind the leather binding as Sam kept his head in the book.

“Yeah, you’re right, we have work to do. You’ve always been the responsible one…” Dean sighed. The book forgotten on the table and his poor acting skills still very much intact even with the less than stellar reception of Act 1. “Sammy’s very responsible, isn’t he (Y/N)?”

“I know Dean... Now please focus on the research,” Your own sigh was very much not an act as you shot daggers at your best friend out of the corner of your eye. Ignoring the bright shiteating grin he gave you in return. As well as the cheeky wink that followed.

“Alright, alright… We’re all serious today,” Dean said with a roll of green eyes as your own (Y/E/C) eyes burned into him. Silently promising him a world of hurt if he didn’t calm the fuck down.

Taking your silent threat seriously, your best friend raised his hands in a quiet surrender. The bunker easily returning to the comfortable silence of rustling paper as Dean picked the book up again. Not adding any further complaints about the complexity of it as he flipped through the pages looking for hints.

---

The silence lasted for half an hour give or take a few minutes.

Though it felt like no time at all had passed as the sound of Dean’s fingers tapping against the wooden table drew you out of a paragraph about Baltic genie myths that could possibly point at a subspecies. The tapping growing increasingly louder as the older hunter made no attempts at hiding how he was trying to get your attention.

Glancing at him from out of the corner of your eye, you watched as your best friend looked from Sam to you and back again. Clearly debating something with his conscience and need for absolute mayhem as green eyes followed the well beaten path between you and your crush.

A pat your own eyes had often taken to cast secretive glances at a certain Sam Winchester. Well, not so secretive it turned out. Since Dean had easily interpreted those glances for exactly what they were.

As the annoyed crease in his brow slowly but surely disappeared, only to be replaced with a smile, you steeled yourself. The confident smirk that replaced the internal round table discussion with the angel and devil on Dean’s shoulders instantly terrifying you. He was up to something, and whatever that something was, it wasn’t good.

The sound of his chair scraping jostled you fully out of the pages of the book as you looked up at him. From across the table you could see Sam flinch and look up at his brother from behind his book as well. Hazel eyes dark with worry as that cute confused crease that always made you feel all tingly made a guest appearance on his brow. Just slightly hidden by the hunter’s soft brown hair. Clearly Sam was seeing the same thing you were. And neither of you trusted the bright gleam in Dean’s eyes as he turned his chair to face you fully.

“Hey… Do I know you?” He asked, the same cocky grin brightening as you looked on confused. Your mind trying, and failing, to figure out where your best friend was going with this one.

“Uhm… Yes, you do Dean…” You hesitated over the words. Unsure what would be the right thing to say to stop whatever train wreck was happening from, well, happening.

“‘Cause you look like my future sister in law,” Dean finished with a flourish and an overacted wink. Clearly choosing to ignore your words completely as he delivered the slightly edited pickup line your way.

“Wha…” Your mind was blank. Dean had taken his little joke too far. Looking from Dean to Sam and back down to your book, you tried to find the words you needed. But Sam beat you to it, his low rumbled voice sounding equal parts embarrassed, confused and outraged.

“Did you just hit on (Y/N)? For me?” Sam’s words were barely above a whisper as he looked at his older brother. There was a quiet anger and something more, something smaller and scared, in his voice as the words trembled across the table. Reaching both you, frozen in place, and the older hunter whose grin was fading slowly when faced with his younger brother’s quiet rage.

Yet, you missed the silent argument that was happening between the two sets of eyes belonging to your best friend and the man you loved. Your mind loud and noisy with the many different creative ways the younger hunter could voice what was basically a direct rejection of your feelings. There was, after all, no way Sam could misunderstand Dean’s words. Not when he practically spelled out your feelings in plain English. Your spiralling mind only breaking free from your early attempt at crushing your own heart before Sam could as Dean’s palms slapped against the table making you jump in your seat.

“Someone had to!” Dean shouted, but there wasn’t actual anger there. More just long pent up frustration as the words echoed across forgotten research books in the library. “I’m sick and tired of this whole will-they-won’t-they thing. I feel like I’m living in a damned chick flick! And, in case you missed the memo, I hate chick flicks!”

Giving neither of you a chance to fight back or deny his words. Dean jumped fully out of his seat; one hand still anchored to the wood of the table as the other one pointed directly at you.

“(Y/N)!” Though you already knew what was coming, you couldn’t help but flinch as Dean called your name. In some twisted forced confession roll call.

“Yeah?” Your voice broke over the one-word reply, knowing he was about to either tell Sam himself, or force you to vocalise your feelings. Yet… What followed was exactly the opposite.

“My brother here is madly in love with you,” Dean said, his hand that had been pointing at you easily swinging across the table to point at his brother instead. Sam barely even took note of the finger pointing at him. His eyes wide and jaw dropped as the big guy was growing both pale and red simultaneously. His heart sending all the blood to his head in an act of a rebellious standoff featuring logic versus emotion.

“Sam…” Dean continued, clearly not done just yet.

“Sam!” Dean barked, a little louder, in an attempt to pull the younger hunter out of his daze as he barely registered the roll call. His wide hazel eyes going back and forth between his brother and you in shock and what seemed to be the early stages of embarrassed relief of finally having the truth out there.

“Sammy!” Dean’s insistent third attempt was just enough to draw a small nod out of the youngest Winchester. Which the older hunter clearly deemed as enough of a reply as he spilled the secret you’d promised yourself to never voice.

“(Y/N)’s obviously been in love with you since… Hell I don’t know, since forever,”

As the words left your best friend like a slow-motion action scene in one of those movies he loved just a little too much, you watched as Sam’s eyes stopped moving between the two of you. Instead choosing to come to a full stop on you as his brother’s words fully sank in.

Those warm brown eyes you loved going from worried and questioning to a cautious warm hope as you sat stunned. Left unable to move or speak through the cottonmouth that followed Dean’s impromptu stolen confession on your behalf.

You were rooted to your seat in shock as your eyes just numbly watched Sam. Your mind reeling as you tried to get your brain to catch up to the lightning fast development orchestrated by your best friend. Dean Winchester had just ousted you to your crush. That and…

Wait.

Did he say Sam was in love with you too?

“Wha…” Sam stopped himself from even attempting to speak through the shock as his voice broke over the very first word. Clearing his throat, his warm hazel eyes instead searched yours across the table. The careful question they asked louder than your own frantic heartbeat, as you forced your body to listen to you again.

Taking a shaky breath, you gave the man you’d been in love with for years a shy smile. The small gesture enough to make the eyes of the man you’d spent countless days, and nights, daydreaming about brighten. His own small, hesitant smile quickly grew as the mixture of your smile and his brother’s words fully sank in. Your own smile just as easily growing to echo it as you finally fully realised it was true.

Sam loved you too.

The few seconds of sweet silence as you just marveled at that fact, were just as rudely interrupted by your best friend as your years of quiet pining had been. The older hunter easily brought your attention back to him from where you’d been getting lost in Sam’s eyes with a fake tired sigh. Though you couldn’t make yourself stay angry at your very own cupid in a ratty AC/DC t-shirt.

“There! You’re both in love and you’re both welcome. Now maybe we can get some work done here huh?” Dean’s cocky smirk and fake scoff made you want to elbow him in the stomach. Yet your body was still not done catching up with you as you simply rolled your eyes at your best friend’s antics. “I guess thank yous are in order huh? To me I mean…”

“Oh, how can we ever repay you,” The sarcastic words that left Sam, underlined and punctuated by a trademark annoyed glare, beat your own by just a fraction of a second. Both of you still only glanced over at the other hunter in the room as you kept getting drawn back to each other. To marvel at the miracle that was mutual feelings.

“You can be my wingman any time,” Dean laughed from somewhere next to you. Though you didn’t turn to look at him, as you instead focused on Sam’s annoyed reaction to the movie quote. The way his brow furrowed and how his hand went up to pinch at the bridge of his nose sending little electric shocks through you. Yeah, you were a goner, anything the younger Winchester did had your heart racing.

“Dean, this isn’t Top Gun... You better not have planned all of this just so you could say that quote,” The younger Winchester shot back, eyeing his brother with slight wary suspicion. The words finally made you tear your eyes off Sam as you turned to throw an incredulous look towards your best friend.

The older hunter answering your suspicions, not in words, but in actions. As he laughed out loud and took the words as his cue to flee the room.

“Really Dean?!”

Your tired outrage mirrored Sam’s as you responded in unison to the quickly retreating back of one Dean Winchester. Though, where you couldn’t help but laugh, Sam was clearly sulking at his brother's antics, which only served to squeeze at your heart a little more.

As Dean retreated and your laughter died down, the library grew silent once more. Both Sam and you unsure where to go from there. Feelings had been voiced, but not from either of you. And so, a part of you was still hesitant to act on what you knew you felt, and now were pretty damn sure Sam felt too.

Clearing your throat, you looked into Sam’s warm brown eyes again. Looking to borrow some courage from one of the bravest men you knew as you readied yourself to speak words you’d never planned on saying out loud to anything but your bedroom ceiling.

“So…” Cursing your own cowardice you simply looked down. Trying to find the words in the palms of your hands and finding nothing but air and shaky fingers.

From somewhere across from you, you heard the tell-tale sign of a chair pulling away from the library table and, within just a few seconds, Sam’s hand was on yours. Placing strength, feelings and a piece of his heart in your hands as he crouched by your chair, looking up at you through your curtain of (Y/H/C) hair.

“You love me…” Sam whispered. The words were not exactly a question, yet not exactly a statement. They fell somewhere in between. Inside that little piece of magic and marvel that was softening the whole moment in cotton candy sweetness.

“I love you,” You said, adding that final layer of truth that brought substance and sincerity to your feelings. Your voice shaking over unexplored emotions as you watched Sam’s eyes grow impossibly bright and warm. The hunter still kneeling by your chair looked as if he was finding the shape of a new religion and some form of worship in your revelation. Awe and wonder making the beautiful man look younger as his eyes crinkled from another wide smile.

“And… You love me,” You added, still slightly hesitant as you watched Sam’s hand raise from his side to gently brush your hair out of your eyes and behind your ear. His fingers lingering against your skin and tracing the shape of your jaw, as if to convince himself you were real.

“I do. I love you,” Sam’s voice was thick with emotion as he straightened up until he was eye level with where you were sitting. His forehead bumping against yours with a wry smile as he drowned in your eyes and you his. “I guess we’re both cowards huh?” He added with a breathy chuckle. His words barely above a whisper yet reaching you easily where you rested your forehead against his.

“Yeah…” You laughed. A careful smile building as you glanced down and took his hand in yours, painting small circles on his palm. Still not used to being that open about your feelings, you hid in the simple pattern as you confessed a little more. “But… I’m too happy to care,”

“Me too,” Sam’s sincere words were a bit louder as he moved to sit on a chair next to you, pulling your chair closer until your knees were between his. “I just can’t believe it… You love me,” He added with a marveled whisper. Looking at you like you were the most precious part of his existence. Like everything, all the bullshit, pain and suffering, had been building up to this. To well-deserved happiness.

His warm smile shifted into something more careful and slightly deeper as he slowly leaned in. Hazel eyes dipping to trace the shape of your lips and his teeth grazed his own. A big hand raised to gently trace the shape of your jaw as he softly angled your lips up towards him. Just seconds away from the kiss you’d been dreaming about since… Well, what felt like forever.

“And, as the music swells, Sam Winchester leans in... Ready to wrap (Y/N) in his warm embrace…” Your best friend and much-loved pain in your side, Dean Winchester, was putting on his best movie trailer voice in a poor attempt at narration. Easily interrupting the sweet moment just as you could feel Sam’s warm breath like the ghost of a kiss to brush against your lips.

Sighing, you felt Sam’s forehead drop against yours again. Both of you shared an annoyed look before you squeezed your eyes shut and called out to the man who was simultaneously the best and the worst wingman in history.

“Dammit Dean!”

----

284 notes · View notes

transxfiles · 4 years ago

Text

Love Like You by two_drama_nerds_in_a_boat | @homeworkforpigeons

“Jane Kirk is sixteen, a sophomore at the Riverside public high school, and she’s never left Iowa. Not really. Visits to Starfleet California with her mom when she was a toddler don’t count, and she doesn’t let herself think about Tarsus at all. To be honest, she’s rather blocked out most of Tarsus - they tell her it’s the Human brain’s reaction to stress, fight-or-flight scenarios. But even though some of her memories might not be great, she knows she’s never met a Vulcan before.

Right now, there’s a Vulcan standing right next to her on the sidewalk.

And God, she’s pretty.”

Word Count: 4210

Find this fic on AO3

The alarm’s ringing again. Loud enough to wake her up.

She doesn't want to wake up. She never wants to wake up.

“Fuck,” she mutters, kicking her covers away and rolling out of bed. She doesn’t really have any reason to be upset, other than being woken up early - but she’s the one who set the alarm, so really, she shouldn’t be that frustrated at all.

“Stupid past me,” she mutters. “Jane Tiberius Kirk of last night, what were you thinking?”

Jane Kirk is sixteen years old. Practically an adult, she thinks, as most teenagers often do. Of course, Jane’s thoughts are a bit more justified, in this department. Raising yourself will do that to you. After your Dad dies on the day of your birth, and your Mom remarries an asshole and then abandons you, and then your brother ditches you on top of it all, you start to make your own breakfast and fold your own socks and make your own deadlines and shit. It happens.

Every day during the school year she wakes up like this, to the pinging of her alarm

She didn’t used to be like this; preferred sleeping in, getting to school an hour or two late. Sometimes not going at all. But a shitty report card gave Frank yet another excuse to call her a waste of space, and was the final tipping point for shipping her away for good.

(Tarsus… wasn’t great. To put it very, very vaguely. She was sent there at fourteen by a stepfather desperate to get rid of her, and she’s determined to never, ever go back. She knows it’s over, now, knows it can’t hurt her. That’s what the therapist told her. But it’s still there.)

It’s not the first day of school today, thank God. Just another mid-year one. A day of no importance. It’s almost insignificant enough that Jane might just consider skipping, except she knows she can’t skip, not after what happened on Tarsus two years ago. So she opens one of her dresser drawers and fishes around for clothes.

Jane Kirk is sixteen. She cuts her own hair with her mom’s bad kitchen scissors (she wouldn’t use Winona’s good ones, wouldn’t do that to her) cuts it short short short like she likes it, and she wears shitty t-shirts old enough to be considered precious artifacts if they weren’t so goddamn ratty. They say things like ‘Beastie Boys’ and ‘Talking Heads' and she even has one that says ‘Nine Inch Nails’. Old bands, from the 20th century or so, that are loud or angry enough to suit her just right, but old enough to be free online.

She gets dressed, grabs her backpack and her school PADD, running out the door and letting it slam behind her. She could technically be driving to school (she’s old enough by now - technically she won’t be able to get her real license until she’s seventeen, but sixteen is old enough for a permit, which could get her to and from school no problem) but Frank told her to fuck off after she kinda sorta drove his precious sports care off a cliff.

She doesn’t even regret it, not really, not even as she finds herself walking alongside the dusty Riverside highway.

It was damn fun to drive that car off a cliff. Fuck Frank.

Jane Kirk is sixteen, a sophomore at the Riverside public high school, and she’s never left Iowa. Not really. Visits to Starfleet California with her mom when she was a toddler don’t count, and she doesn’t let herself think about Tarsus at all. To be honest, she’s rather blocked out most of Tarsus - they tell her it’s the Human brain’s reaction to stress, fight-or-flight scenarios. But even though some of her memories might not be great, she knows she’s never met a Vulcan before.

Right now, there’s a Vulcan standing right next to her on the sidewalk.

And God, she’s pretty.

“‘M Jane,” she says. Trying to make conversation. “You waiting for the bus?”

The Vulcan’s eyes are intelligent, scanning her up and down, noting her backpack and the PADD in her hand, but no response comes. Jane realizes, for the first time, that she might not understand Standard. Which would be a bit odd - most people understand Standard, especially if they plan on visiting some middle-of-nowhere Terran dump like Riverside. But Jane’s never met a Vulcan, doesn’t know much about them. Their culture, their customs. It’s quite possible this girl never learned Standard at all, has never heard it before now (however unlikely that may be).

So Jane tries again.

“You going on the bus?” She asks, again, pointing to the little scrap of metal that’s a lousy excuse for a sign, the only indicator of there being a bus stop here.

The Vulcan girl looks at her. Barely nods - though the nod is there, that small sign of understanding, and Jane’s grateful for that.

“Neat,” says Jane. “I’m, uh, catching a ride to school.”

The girl says something in response, but it comes out awkward and quiet. Jane can’t tell what language it was meant to be, though she has some hunch it was an attempt at Standard. She’s really wishing she’d stolen some translator tech from school, now. She’d thought about it, before, but never had much use for it.

“I’m Jane,” Jane says, again, trying to salvage whatever it is that currently feels like it’s crashing straight into the ground right now. “Dunno if you caught that, before.”

She seems to understand what Jane’s saying, now, at least enough to know the name.

“I am Spock,” she says, Standard broken and heavily accented, pointing to herself.

“Nice to meet you Spock,” Jane says, for some reason unable to stop herself from grinning. “Welcome to hell.”

Spock seems to be around her age, though can’t say for sure - Jane has a hard time understanding specifics through the language barrier problem, and she’s never met a Vulcan before. She doesn’t know how the whole aging thing works with them.

Spock’s tall and wiry and absolutely stunning. She wears too-big sweaters, probably hand-knit by a parent, and bright purplish-blue eye makeup that Jane’s pretty sure doesn’t really fit the Vulcan norm. She seems clever, incredibly clever, which would make sense; Jane’s heard that Vulcans are insanely smart, eidetic memory or something like that. She’s sure it’s true; she can see it in Spock’s eyes. She’s intelligent.

Of course Jane wants to know everything about her.

But Spock doesn’t seem to speak much Standard, and Jane doesn’t know any Vulcan.

She doesn’t understand a word she says.

The bus arrives, they get on it, and when Jane sits down, Spock takes the seat beside her, back completely straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Jane takes it as a good sign, and spends the bus ride to school rambling on and on about new research that’s come out in transporter tech, how they haven’t quite figured out the way to transport people long distances yet but they’re getting better, how she thinks she might know where they’re going wrong and how to fix it, and she tells Spock, and Spock listens, and no one’s listened to Jane in a long, long time.

They get off the bus and they go to school and it turns out that Spock’s in all the advanced classes, which is great, because Jane’s in the advanced classes, too. She wonders what the fuck Spock’s doing here, how she can manage in school when she barely knows the language, why anyone would even want to come to Riverside in the first place. But she doesn’t ask, because she’s not sure how well Spock would understand, anyway, and then it’s evening and Jane’s taking the bus home and she’s on her bed and on her PADD and stealing textbooks off the Internet. It’s not that hard, really; most of the time she doesn’t even have to hack the stuff herself. Someone else has done it for her, a similarly desperate student with no cash and no way to keep up in class without a textbook. Finding one that’ll assist her in this specific area of study proves a bit harder, but eventually she finds a website (passcode protected, membership required) and she gets past all that shit with ease, and she downloads what she’s looking for.

Jane Kirk is sixteen, and she’s smart, damn smart, and she considers herself pretty good with languages. But Vulcan is fucking hard. And for her, it shouldn’t be. She conquered most of Earth’s predominant languages within the span of a year, and she picked up SSL (Standard Sign Language) within a week. She can do Orion (quite a few dialects), Tellaran, even a bit of Klingon (which means she can introduce herself and say dick and fuck off and other such choice phrases). But Vulcan?

Vulcan’s a bitch.

(She means this in the nicest way, of course.)

She picks up her PADD, new textbook just downloaded, and she finds it almost impossible to get through. She can’t even really explain why. Maybe it’s just the general syntax that’s fucking her up. That’s happened before. Could be that the language is just nearly impossible for Human vocal chords to manage, in which case this would all be yet another lost cause. But she digs a bit deeper and finds out that, though broken, she might be able to get out something understandable.

She skips all lessons on written Vulcan; she won’t need that. She’s looking for the more practical uses. Conversational type stuff. She looks into phonetics, watching videos of spoken Vulcan.

She’s up until maybe 3AM, and she realizes she ought to get at least a bit of sleep before the sun rises again. She didn’t even realize the time until she looked to the top of her PADD. She’s never been good at noticing time passing when she’s caught up in something like this. But once she realizes she only has four hours at most to get some sleep in, she turns of her light and tucks her PADD away.

Jane’s sixteen. She’s tired, but she can’t seem to fall asleep. She thinks she’s in love with Spock. She realizes, for the first time, that she has no idea what love is.

They see each other all the time, thanks to school. It’s great. Before Spock, Jane really had no one. If they were down a person in Chem, she’d go without a lab partner. She worked by herself on History presentations, never went to study groups. Arguably never needed study groups, based on some of her recent test scores, but still, the socialization would have been nice. When she really wanted company, she stopped by the local bar. She was technically a minor, yeah, but the town was small and no one cared. It was unhealthy and far from safe, she knows that, but it was where she could go.

But now, she’s got Spock, and she doesn’t really do any of that anymore.

They stick to each other, through the school day, then before and after it. Hanging out under trees or in the wide open spaces between farms that no one really goes anymore. They’re walking through one of the empty fields right now, and Jane has her eyes on a gnarled old tree to climb. Spock doesn’t climb trees, so Jane’ll probably have to go on by herself, but she knows that Spock will be happy to stand and watch, talk maybe. It’s been a few weeks, now; they’ve both been getting better at communicating.

Jane points at the tree in the distance, question in her eyes.

Spock nods, and they begin to walk towards it. As soon as they reach the base of the tree Jane’s climbing, one branch, then another, up and up, glancing down every once and awhile to check that Spock’s still there.

Jane notices that Spock’s wearing one of those sweaters again. Spock’s always wearing sweaters.

“Ko-mekh?” Asks Jane, pointing at the sweater. Mother? She’s been meaning to ask about it, and hopes Spock’s able to understand; Jane’s Vulcan isn’t perfect, but she just finished up the chapter on family and interpersonal relations last night, and she’s feeling pretty good in that area.

Spock nods. “Gift,” she says, in Standard. “Hanukkah.”

“Oh! You’re Jewish!” Jane smiles. “Me too. My family's not really practicing though...” ...because my dad died and my mom's never home, she thinks, but doesn't say it out loud. She reaches for another branch just above her, only to find it the slightest bit out of reach. With a grunt, she jumps, grabbing at it with both hands and swinging herself around until she’s successfully made it up another level. Jane’s grinning, looking down at Spock who’s looking a bit smaller now. “Taller than you,” she says.

The Vulcan’s raising her eyebrow again. “Riyeht.” Incorrect.

“Not when I’m in a tree.”

Spock sighs, says something in Vulcan that probably translates to ‘Silly Human.’ Jane makes a mental note to look that up when she gets back to her house tonight. Figures it’ll be useful to know.

Jane’s sixteen, and tall enough for her age, and strong from working in the fields every summer. Strong enough to hold her own against Frank, even if she can’t really fight back. It’s fine, thought; Frank doesn’t hit her so much, anymore. She doesn’t know why. Might have something to do with Tarsus, or something to do with her getting older. She tries not to think about it. She still keeps her door locked at night.

When she sneaks back into the house this evening, she finds him passed out on the couch. He smells like shit - she plugs her nose as she walks past him, resigning herself to a shower as soon as she gets upstairs, just to get rid of the lingering stench. Done with the shower, she collapses onto her bed wearing the first clean clothes she can find (which in this case is a pair of jeans and a tank top), weary, eyes closed as she fishes around blindly for her PADD. As soon as she finds it, she opens her eyes, and flips through one of the Standard-Vulcan dictionaries she’s been using for reference.

If she’s reading it right, ‘Silly Human’ would be Duh-komihn. She flips a few more pages, but she can’t find a term for ‘Silly Vulcan’. She wants to call Spock now, but Frank could hear; the walls are thinner than they seem. She doesn't want to risk that. She’ll have to bring it up with Spock later. They're doing some project or another together in Chem, and they're meeting up for it tomorrow. She'll ask her about it then.

They’re getting better at communicating with each other.

It's useful for a variety of reasons - for one, Jane can understand Vulcan, and she knows for a fact that Spock isn't making fun of her all the time, which is a bit of a relief. And now Spock knows how much Jane swears, which is probably for the better, because hey, that's important shit to know. Jane asks her what the Vulcan word is for 'Silly Vulcan' after explaining her 'Silly Human' research. Spock tells her that they don't say 'Silly Vulcan' because Vulcans are incapable of being silly (or at least, that's what Jane thinks Spock tells her - she's still not the best at Vulcan, after all). Jane says that she doesn't think that's true, and Spock struggles to maintain her cold Vulcan facade, so so tempted to stick her tongue out at the duh-komihn.

"Vulcans do not lie," Spock mutters.

Jane keeps a list of the new things she’s learned about Spock. Right now, it looks something like this:

Good at chess.

Jewish

Human mother?

(Maybe) exchange student

Could theoretically climb trees but won’t because of ‘Surak’s Teachings’ or something like that.

Meditates

Enjoys ‘Narat do-toh’? NOTE: Vulcan game, like hide-and-seek

Can't lie - but that's obviously a lie. Yeah.

“What you writing?” Spock asks, after catching Jane adding something to the ever-growing list in her school notebook.

“Nirsh apc’koik du,” she says. No business you. She cringes at herself; she definitely butchered that. She was trying to say something along the lines of Not your business but she’s pretty sure she just completely screwed up.

Spock grabs the notebook, eyes skimming the page with superhuman speed. She raises an eyebrow, passing it back to Jane.

“List?”

“Oh quiet you.”

The corner of the Vulcan's mouth twitches in that way that's basically her version of a smirk. "A me list."

Jane's sixteen. She's smart, smarter than most sixteen-year-olds are, though she couldn't explain why. She likes coding (specifically hacking, though she's been told by multiple people that that's not technically legal) and learning languages and even the rare History lesson here or there. But she absolutely despises studying.

“Spock,” Jane whines, throwing herself across the desk. “When’re we gonna go?”

They’ve been cooped up in one of the far corners of the school’s (very, very, small) library for hours now. She’s honestly amazed it hasn’t closed on them yet, especially taking into account the annoyed looks the librarian won't stop shooting them. After her latest stink-eye, Jane thinks that they’re a minutes away from being forcefully booted. Not that it’ll deter Spock; whatever it is she’s currently researching, the Vulcan seems keen to continue until midnight if she must.

“Come on, look at me.” Jane tapped Spock’s shoulder.

Spock’s head snaps up, eyes locking on hers. Vulcans aren’t meant to show emotion, Jane’s heard, but the frustration in Spock’s eyes is clear.

“Listen. The librarian’s gonna kick us out any second now.” Jane’s gaze strays back to the angry woman at the front of the library, and she suddenly remembers every sin she’s committed in its vicinity (pre-Tarsus, of course, but still) and she gets a bit more anxious. “We really should go soon. Soon as in now. And don’t play dumb or anything because I know you’re smart and can read body language and understand at least a tenth of what I’m saying because we’re good at understanding each other.”

Spock runs a hand through her uncharacteristically mussed black hair.

“Ashal-veh…” she sighs, obviously tired. Spock mutters some other words in Vulcan, too, with the odd Standard phrase thrown in (she’s picked up a few of those - full immersion will do that to you). Jane opts not to listen; sleep-deprived ramblings tend not to be the most coherent, and it’s not really worth her trouble, anyway, since she barely speaks the language.

Jane raises an eyebrow. She’s been practicing, working on it in front of a mirror, trying to do it the way Spock can. She knows she’s not nearly as good as Spock, yet, but she’s sure that once she finally gets it down it’ll be hilarious. “You must be more exhausted than I thought. You don’t normally slip into Vulcan when we’re at school.” Jane paused. “Didja get enough sleep last night?”

Spock gives her that look of Stop questioning me or I will kill you.

“So that’s a no.”

Spock mutters something else, but Jane doesn’t catch it.

“Y’know, I’m pretty sure killing people is against Surak’s teachings,” Jane says, hands falling to the pockets of her jeans.

At this, Spock lifts the corner of her mouth ever-so-slightly - the closest Vulcans seemed to get to a smile.

“Now come on, you,” Jane says, tugging at the sleeve of Spock’s sweater. “School’s over. Come on now. Out of the library, we’re getting you home.”

“But-” Spock says, switching back to her accented Standard.

“I.” Says Jane, Vulcan sharp in her mouth as the librarian glares at them once again. Now.

Jane's house is empty today. Frank's gone out somewhere, work, she thinks, not investigating further. So she brings Spock over, because she can, because she wants to.

Jane's sixteen. She's bored. She's in love with her best friend, and and she wants to invite her over.

They go in through the back door, the one with the tattered old screen over it to keep bugs away. It squeaks when it opens, but they never oil the hinges. Jane doesn't have the time and Frank doesn't give a shit, and Winona's never home to hear it, so they leave it be. Jane walks into the kitchen, tile cool beneath her feet (a relief after the outside heat) and Spock follows her silently. Spock's very quiet in the way she moves - almost cat-like, though Jane's never really spent time with cats before. She thinks this is what they're like. She thinks it's a bit funny.

They hurry up the stairs to Jane's room, not wanting to spend time in the rest of the house. Even when Frank's not home something about being in any of the main rooms just feels a bit off. Jane's room is better; cleaner (though the bar for that is so low, it may as well be on the ground) and it smells a bit nicer than the rest of the house, especially when she opens the window, and she has a little old-fashioned radio that she turns on when they walk in the room. She gets a few stations in, up here, mostly the local ones that play mediocre music and report on news and sports and things. She turns the dial until she finds a station that doesn't sound like it's being eaten by static. There's a song playing on the radio, quiet and sweet, the lyrics about love or something like that. Jane's not listening to it too much.

“You ever been dancing, Spock?”

She raises an eyebrow, mutters something in Vulcan, feigns annoyance. But Jane knows her well enough, now, and she knows that Spock's just avoiding the question.

"Okay," Jane says, thinking. "Well, would you like to dance with me?"

Spock considers this for a moment, the same way she thinks through difficult test questions, or how she acts after she's just learned another odd Terran phrase. After a moment's thought, she nods. Jane reaches out to grab her shoulders, and Spock puts her hands on Jane's waste. They don't hold hands; Jane doesn't really know why, yet, but she knows it's not something Spock's too keen on. And then they're dancing, just a little, slowly and a bit awkwardly, the music coming from the radio washing over them, floating out the open window on a breeze.

“Ashel-veh?” Jane whispers, knowing that Spock can hear her.

“You looked up the meaning?” Spock asks. Her Standard’s gotten better, just like Jane’s Vulcan isn’t so bad anymore.

“It was a bit harder to find, I’ll give you that.” Jane’s voice holds amusement, soft and warm and happy. “Not in my textbook, or anything. But eventually I found it in a dictionary.”

“Hm.”

“You called me darling,” Jane says.

“Yes. And you just returned the favor.”

“Yes.”

They're quiet. They listen to the music, soft and sweet in the background. The air is warm and muggy around them. Jane's holding on to Spock, resting her head on her shoulder, and she never ever ever wants to let go.

The grass is soft beneath them, if a bit damp, and the field is wide and open and empty and the sky feels vast and endless. Technically, it is. But it's not something you notice too often, with the tall structures constantly on the horizon and people crowding up every space known to man. Right now, it's just them. They're laying down in the middle of the field. They're young and naive and untouchable. They're looking at the stars.

"Do you have constellations on Vulcan?" Jane asks.

Spock says something about how drawing pictures based on lights in the sky is illogical, even if one does not know that they are simply burning balls of gas in space. Jane laughs, and immediately starts to show Spock all of the constellations she knows, spinning the stories that go with them. Ursa Major and Minor, Leo, The Seven Sisters, Orion...

"Illogical," Spock says once more. It's becoming her favorite word in Standard.

(Jane's favorite Vulcan phrase is 'bath-paik' meaning 'damn you'. She thinks it's funny.)

The stars are bright and stunning out here, where the light pollution can’t touch them. Jane finds herself reaching for Spock’s hand. She’s surprised when Spock offers two fingers to her - her index and middle - and Jane mimics the movement, unsure of what it means, and they’re touching their fingers together.

“I’m gonna be a Captain someday,” she says, quietly. "Like my dad."

It’s the first time she’s ever said it out loud, and it sounds like a promise she’ll forget to keep. But Spock’s here with her, holding her hand, and she feels calm. Calm in a way she can’t quite explain.

Jane’s sixteen, Spock maybe a bit older, though not much. They spend the night watching the sky as stars and starships dance in the darkness. Jane sneaks back into her house later that evening, after she and Spock both realized they had to go home. She falls asleep quickly, feeling content. For the first time in a long time, she looks forward to waking up.

#genderbend #my post #my fanfiction #twodramanerdsinaboat #love like you #the premise #spirk #femslash #star trek femslash #aos #aos fanfiction #star trek fanfiction #fanfiction #fem!kirk #fem!spock #kirk #spock

25 notes · View notes